К Сэнсом - Dissolution

I went over to the ewer and splashed some warm water on my face, letting it drip down my neck. I felt exhausted; my head was spinning with the kaleidoscope of faces and impressions of the last few hours. I groaned. ‘Thank God we’re alone at last.’ I sat down in the chair. ‘Christ’s wounds, I’m sore.’

Mark looked up at me with concern. ‘Does your back pain you?’

I sighed. ‘It will be better after a night’s rest.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’ He hesitated. ‘There are cloths there, we could make a hot poultice… I could apply it for you.’

‘No!’ I snapped. ‘Will you be told, I’ll be all right!’ I hated anyone looking at my deformed back; only my physician was allowed to do that and then only when it was especially painful. My skin crawled at the thought of Mark’s eyes on it, his pity and perhaps disgust, for why should someone formed as he was not feel disgust? I pulled myself to my feet and went over to the window, looking out over the dark, empty quadrangle. After a few moments I turned round; Mark was looking up at me, resentfulness mixed with anxiety in his face. I raised a hand apologetically.

‘I am sorry, I should not have shouted.’

‘I meant no ill.’

‘I know. I am tired and worried, that is all.’

‘Worried?’

‘Lord Cromwell wants a result quickly and I wonder if I will be able to get one. I had hoped for – I don’t know, some fanatic among the monks who had already been locked up, at least some clear pointer to the culprit. Goodhaps is no help; he’s so scared he’d leap at his own shadow. And these monkish officials do not seem likely to be easily overawed. On top of that we seem to have a mad Carthusian stirring up trouble, and talk of a break-in by practitioners of dark arts from the town. Jesu, it’s a tangle. And that abbot knew his law, I can see why Singleton found him difficult.’

‘You can only do what it is in your power to do, sir.’

‘Lord Cromwell would not see things that way.’ I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually when I began grappling with a new case I would enjoy a sense of pleasurable excitement, but here I could see no thread to guide me through what seemed an enormous labyrinth.

‘This is a gloomy place,’ Mark said. ‘All those dark stone corridors, all those arches. Each one could hide an assassin.’

‘Yes, I remember when I was at school how endless and frightening all the echoing corridors seemed if one was sent on an errand. All the doors one was not allowed to open.’ I tried to be encouraging: ‘But now I have a commission affording me every access. It’s a place like every other, and we’ll soon find our way around.’ There was no reply and the sound of deep breathing told me Mark had fallen asleep. I smiled wryly, closed my eyes for a moment, and the next thing I knew there was a loud knock on the door and an exclamation from Mark as he was jolted awake. I got to my feet, surprisingly refreshed by my unintended sleep, my mind alert once more. I opened the door. Brother Guy stood outside, his candle casting the strangest shadows across his dark troubled face, his eyes serious.

‘Are you ready to view the body, sir?’

‘Ay, as ready as we’ll ever be.’ I reached for my coat.

IN THE INFIRMARY hall the girl brought a lamp for Brother Guy. He donned a thick robe over his habit and led us along a dim, high-ceilinged corridor with vaulted ceilings.

‘It is quickest to cross the cloister yard,’ he said, opening a door into the cold air.

The yard, enclosed on three sides by the buildings where the monks lived and on the fourth by the church, made an unexpectedly pretty picture. Lights flickered at the many windows.

Surrounding the yard was the cloister walk, a covered area supported by elaborate arches. Long ago that would have been where the monks studied, in carrels lining the walk and open to cold and wind; but in these softer times it was a place for walking and talking. Against one pillar stood the lavatorium, an elaborate stone bowl used for washing hands, where a little fountain made a gentle tinkling sound. The soft glow from the stained-glass windows of the church made coloured patterns on the ground. I noticed strange little motes dancing in the light, and was puzzled for a moment before realizing it had started to snow again. The flags of the cloister yard were already speckled with white. Brother Guy led us across.

‘You found the body, I believe?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Alice and I were up tending Brother August, who had a fever and was in much distress. I wanted to give him some warm milk and went to the kitchen to fetch some.’

‘And that door is normally kept locked.’

‘Of course. Otherwise the servants, and I regret also the monks, would help themselves to food whenever they wanted. I have a key because I often need things urgently.’

‘This was at five o’clock?’

‘The clock had struck a little before.’

‘Had Matins begun?’

‘No, Matins is sung late here. Usually towards six.’

‘St Benedict’s rule prescribes midnight.’

He smiled gently. ‘St Benedict wrote his rule for Italians, sir, not people who have to live through English winters. The office is sung and God hears it. We cut through the chapter house now.’

He opened another door and we found ourselves in a large chamber, its walls richly painted with biblical scenes. Stools and cushioned chairs were dotted around, and there was a long table before a roaring fire. The room was warm and musty with body odour. About twenty monks sat around; some were talking, some reading, and half a dozen were playing cards at a table. Each monk had a pretty little crystal glass by his elbow, filled with green liquid from a large bottle of French liqueur that stood on the card-players’ table. I looked round for the Carthusian, but there was no white habit among the black; the straggle-haired sodomite Brother Gabriel and Mortimus the sharp-eyed bursar were also absent.

A thin-faced young monk with a wispy beard had just lost a game, judging by his annoyed expression.

‘That’s a shilling you owe us, Brother,’ a tall, cadaverous monk said cheerfully.

‘You’ll have to wait. I will need an advance from the chamberlain.’

‘No more advances, Brother Athelstan!’ A plump old brother sitting nearby, his face disfigured by a warty growth on one cheek, wagged a finger at him. ‘Brother Edwig says you’ve had so many advances you’re getting your wages before you’ve earned them –’ He broke off, and the monks hastily rose to their feet and bowed to me. One, a young fellow so obese even his shaven head was lined and puckered with fat, knocked his glass to the floor.

‘Septimus, you dolt!’ His neighbour prodded him sharply with his elbow, and he stared round with the vague glance of the simple-minded. The monk with the disfigured face stepped forward, bowing again obsequiously.

‘I am Brother Jude, sir, the pittancer.’

‘Master Matthew Shardlake, the king’s commissioner. I see you are enjoying a convivial evening.’

‘A little relaxation before Vespers. Would you care for some of this fine liqueur, Commissioner? It is from one of our French sister houses.’

I shook my head. ‘I still have work to do,’ I said severely. ‘In the earlier days of your order, the day’s end would have been taken up with the Great Silence.’

Brother Jude hesitated. ‘That was long ago, sir, in the days before the Great Pestilence. Since then the world has fallen further towards its end.’

‘I think the English world does very well under King Henry.’

‘No, no –’ he said hastily. ‘I did not mean –’

The tall thin monk from the card table joined us. ‘Forgive Brother Jude, sir, he speaks without thinking. I am Brother Hugh, the chamberlain. We know we need correction, Commissioner, and we welcome it.’ He glared at his colleague.