К Сэнсом - Dissolution

‘It’s hard to tell without a head,’ Mark said.

‘I met him in court. I remember I had the disadvantage of having to twist my neck to look up at him.’ I made myself go over and look at the head again. ‘And see how the neck is cut straight across. It sits perfectly upright on the stone. If he and his attacker were both standing when he was attacked, which seems most likely, a shorter man would have had to strike upwards at an angle, and the neck would not have been cut straight through.’

Brother Guy nodded. ‘That is true. By Our Lady, sir, you have the eye of a physician.’

‘Thank you. Though I would not wish to spend my days looking on such sights. But I have seen a head severed before. I remember the –’ I sought a word ‘– the mechanics.’ I met the infirmarian’s curious gaze, digging my fingernails into my palms as I remembered a day I wished dearly to forget. ‘And, talking of such matters, observe how clean the blow is, the head sheared off with one strike. That is difficult to achieve even if someone is lying down with his neck on a block.’

Mark looked again at the head lying on its side, and nodded once more. ‘Aye. Axes are difficult to handle. I was told they had to hack away at Thomas More’s neck. But what if he was bending down? To pick something up from the floor? Or perhaps he was made to bend down?’

I thought a moment. ‘Yes. Good point. But if he was bent over as he died the body would have been bent when it was found. Brother Guy will remember.’ I looked at him enquiringly.

‘He lay straight,’ the infirmarian said thoughtfully. ‘The difficulty of striking off someone’s head like that has been in all our minds. You couldn’t do it with a kitchen implement, even the biggest knife. That is why some of the brothers fear witchcraft.’

‘But what weapon could slice the head off a man standing upright?’ I asked. ‘I’d guess not an axe, the blade is too thick. You’d need a very sharp cutting edge, like a sword. In fact I can’t think of anything that would do it but a sword. What do you say, Mark? You’re the swordsman here.’

‘I think you are right.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Only royalty and the nobility have the right to be executed with a sword.’

‘Precisely because a sharp sword blade ensures a swift end.’

‘Like Anne Boleyn,’ Mark said.

Brother Guy crossed himself. ‘The witch queen,’ he said quietly.

‘That is what brought it to mind,’ I said softly. ‘The one beheading I have seen. Just like Anne Boleyn.’

WE WAITED OUTSIDE while Brother Guy locked the crypt. The snow was heavier now, thick flakes swirling down. Already the ground was white.

‘We were lucky to miss this on the road,’ Mark said.

‘We’ll have problems getting back if this goes on. We may have to return by sea.’

Brother Guy joined us. He gave me a serious look. ‘Sir, we would like to bury poor Commissioner Singleton tomorrow. It would make the community easier – and allow his soul to find rest.’

‘Where will you bury him? Here? He had no family.’

‘In the lay cemetery. If you permit.’

I nodded. ‘Very well. I have seen enough, the sight is etched in my mind all too clearly.’

‘You deduced much, sir.’

‘Educated guesswork only.’ Standing close to Brother Guy I noticed a faint odour, like sandalwood. He certainly smelt better than his brethren.

‘I will tell the abbot arrangements can be made for the funeral,’ he said with relief.

The church bell boomed out, making me start. ‘I have never heard such a loud peal. I noticed it earlier.’

‘The bells are really too large for the tower. But they have an interesting history. They originally hung in the ancient cathedral of Toulouse.’

‘Why move them here?’

‘They came a roundabout way. The cathedral was destroyed in an Arab raid eight hundred years ago and the bells taken as a trophy. They were found at Salamanca in Spain when that city was reconquered for Christ, and donated to Scarnsea when the monastery was founded.’

‘I still think you would be better served with smaller bells.’

‘We have become used to them.’

‘I doubt I will.’

He smiled, a quick sad flicker. ‘You must blame my Arab ancestors.’

We reached the cloister just as the monks were leaving the church in procession. The sight made an impression that comes clearly to mind all these years later: almost thirty black-robed Benedictines walking in double file across the old stone cloister, cowls raised and arms folded in their wide sleeves to give protection against the snow, which fell in a silent curtain, coating them as they walked, the whole scene illuminated from the church windows. It was a beautiful scene and despite myself I was moved.

BROTHER GUY took us back to our room, promising to collect us shortly and take us to the refectory. We shook the snow from our coats, then Mark wheeled out his little bed and lowered himself onto it.

‘How do you think a swordsman could have killed Singleton, sir? Waited for him and struck him from behind?’

I began unpacking my pannier, sorting papers and books. ‘Possibly. But what was Singleton doing in the kitchen at four in the morning?’

‘Perhaps he had arranged to meet the monk there, the one he told the gatekeeper about?’

‘Yes, that is the most likely explanation. Someone arranged to meet Singleton in the kitchen, perhaps with a promise of information, and killed him. Executed him, more like. The whole thing has the flavour of an execution. Surely it would have been far easier just to knife him in the back.’

‘He looked a hard man,’ Mark said. ‘Though it was difficult to tell, his head stuck on the floor of that tomb.’ He laughed, a touch shrilly, and I realized he too had been affected by the sight.

‘Robin Singleton was a type of lawyer I detest. He had little law and that ill-digested. He made his way by bullying and bluff, supplemented with gold slipped into the right hand at the right time. But he did not deserve to be killed in that terrible way.’

‘I had forgotten you were at the execution of Queen Anne Boleyn last year, sir,’ Mark said.

‘I wish I could.’

‘At least it served to give you some ideas.’

I nodded sadly, then gave him a wry smile. ‘I remember a teacher we had when I first went to the Inns of Court, Serjeant Hampton. He taught us evidence. He had a saying. “In any investigation, what are the most relevant circumstances? None ,” he would bark in reply. “ All the circumstances are relevant, everything must be examined from every angle!”’

‘Don’t say that, sir. We could be here for ever.’ He stretched himself out with a groan. ‘I could sleep for twelve hours, even on this old board.’

‘Well, we can’t sleep, not yet. I want to meet the community at supper. If we’re to get anywhere, we must know these people. Come, there’s no rest for those called to Lord Cromwell’s service.’ I kicked at the wheeled extension, sending him sliding back under my bed with a yell.

BROTHER GUY led us to the refectory, along dark corridors and up a staircase. It was an impressive chamber, a high ceiling supported by thick pillars with wide vaulting arches. Despite its size, it was lent a comfortable air by the tapestries lining the walls and the thick rattan matting on the floor. A large, beautifully carved lectern stood in one corner. Sconces filled with fat candles cast a warm glow over two tables set with fine plate and cutlery. One, with half a dozen places, stood before the fire and the other, much longer, table was further off. Kitchen servants bustled about, setting out jugs of wine and silver tureens, rich odours escaping from under their lids. I studied the cutlery at the table nearest the fire.