К Сэнсом - Dissolution

‘Only when the congregation is encouraged to worship the building rather than God,’ I said. ‘For that would be idolatry.’

‘I meant nothing of that sort,’ the sacrist replied earnestly. ‘Only that in any great building the eye should be led to rest on exact proportions, unity of line …’

Brother Edwig gave a sarcastic grimace. ‘What my brother means is that to satisfy his aesthetic notions the monastery should b-bankrupt itself importing great blocks of limestone from France. I would be interested to know how he p-p-plans to ferry them across the marsh.’

‘Does the monastery not have ample reserves?’ I asked. ‘I read the revenues from its lands run to £800 a year. And rents are rising all the time now, as the poor know to their cost.’

As I spoke the servants returned, setting out plates on which big carp lay steaming, and tureens of vegetables. I noticed a woman among them, a hook-nosed old crone, and reflected that Alice must be lonely if she had only such as this for female company. I turned back to the bursar. He gave a quick frown.

‘Land has had to be sold recently, f-f-for various reasons. And the amount Brother Gabriel asks for is more than the whole repairs budget for five years. Take one of these fine carp, sir. Caught in our own stewpond this morning.’

‘But surely money could be borrowed against the annual surpluses you must have?’

‘Thank you, sir. Precisely my argument,’ Brother Gabriel said. The bursar’s frown deepened. He put down his spoon, waving his chubby little hands.

‘P-prudent accounting does not allow for a great hole in the revenues for years to come, sir, interest p-payments eating away at them like m-mice. The abbot’s policy is a b-balanced b-b-b –’ His face reddened as, in his excitement, he lost control of his stutter.

‘Budget,’ the prior concluded for him with a sour grin. He passed me a carp and plunged his knife into his own fish, slicing into it with enthusiasm. Brother Gabriel gave him a glare and took a sip of the good white wine.

I shrugged. ‘It is a matter between you, of course.’

Brother Edwig set down his cup. ‘I ap-pologize if I became heated. It is an old argument between the sacrist and me.’ He gave his slash of a smile again, showing even white teeth. I nodded gravely in acknowledgement, then turned my gaze to the window, where the snow still whirled down. It was settling thickly now. There was a draught from the window and, although my front was warm where it faced the fire, my back was cold. Next to the window the novice gave a cough. His bowed head under its cap was in shadow, but I noticed his legs trembling under his habit.

The silence was broken by a sudden harsh voice.

‘Fools! There will be no new building. Do you not know that the world has at last rolled down to its end? The Antichrist is here!’ The Carthusian had half-risen from his bench. ‘A thousand years of devotion to God, in all these houses of prayer, is ended. Soon there will be nothing, empty buildings and silence, silence for the Devil to fill with his roaring!’ His voice rose to a shout as he fixed everyone in turn with bitter looks. The monks averted their eyes. Turning in his place, Brother Jerome lost his balance and fell sprawling across the bench, his face contorted with pain.

Prior Mortimus rose, slamming his hand on the table. ‘God’s death! Brother Jerome, you will leave this table and keep to your cell till the abbot decides what is to be done with you. Take him out!’

His neighbours lifted the Carthusian under the arms, hauled him quickly to his feet and hustled him from the refectory. As the door closed behind them, an exhalation of held breaths sounded across the room. Prior Mortimus turned to me.

‘Once again, my apologies on behalf of the community.’ There was a mumble of assent along the tables. ‘I only ask you to excuse the man on the grounds that he is mad.’

‘Who does he think is the Antichrist, I wonder? Me? No, Lord Cromwell more likely, or perhaps His Majesty the King?’

‘No, sir, no.’ There was an anxious murmur along the obedentiaries’ table. Prior Mortimus set his thin lips.

‘If I had my way, Jerome would be turned out of doors tomorrow to cry his madness in the streets till he was put in the Tower, or more likely the Bedlam, for that’s where he belongs. The abbot only keeps him because he needs the favour of his cousin Sir Edward. You know of Jerome’s connection with the late queen?’ I nodded. ‘But this is too much. He must go.’

I raised a hand, shaking my head. ‘I take no official note of a madman’s babble.’ I felt a palpable sense of relief along the table at my words. I lowered my voice again, so only the obedentiaries could hear. ‘I would have Brother Jerome kept here, I may wish to question him. Tell me, did he treat Master Singleton to such discourse as I have had?’

‘Yes,’ the prior replied bluntly. ‘When he first arrived Brother Jerome accosted him in the yard and called him perjurer and liar. Commissioner Singleton gave as good as he got, calling him a Roman whoreson.’

‘Perjurer and liar. That’s more specific than the general abuse he’s given me. I wonder what he meant?’

‘God alone knows what madmen ever mean.’

Brother Guy leaned forward. ‘He may be mad, Commissioner, but he would never have been capable of killing Commissioner Singleton. I have treated him. His left arm was wrenched out of its socket on the rack, the ligaments shredded. His right leg is scarcely better and his balance is gone, as you saw. He can scarcely carry himself, yet alone wield a weapon to sever a man’s head. I have treated the effects of official torture before, in France,’ he added in quieter tones, ‘but never before in England. I am told it is a new thing.’

‘The law permits it in times of extreme threat to the State,’ I replied, stung. I saw Mark’s eyes on me and read disappointment, sadness. ‘Regrettable though it always is,’ I added with a sigh. ‘But to return to poor Singleton. Brother Jerome may have been too infirm to kill, but he could have had an accomplice.’

‘No, sir, never, no.’ It was a chorus along the table. I read only fear in the officials’ faces, anxiety not to be associated with murder and treason and their terrible penalties. But men, I reflected, are adept at concealing their true thoughts. Brother Gabriel leaned forward again, his thin face furrowed with anxiety.

‘Sir, no one here shares Brother Jerome’s beliefs. He is a blight on us. We wish only to carry on our life of prayer in peace, loyal to the king and in obedience to the forms of worship he dictates.’

‘There at least my brother speaks for all,’ the bursar added loudly. ‘I say “Amen” to that.’ A chorus of ‘Amens’ followed along the table.

I nodded in acknowledgement. ‘But Commissioner Singleton is still dead. So who do you think killed him? Brother Bursar? Brother Prior?’

‘It was p-people from the world outside,’ Brother Edwig said. ‘He was on his way to meet someone and he disturbed them. Witches, Devil-worshippers. They broke in to desecrate our church and steal our relic, came across poor Singleton and killed him. The person he was to meet, whoever he was, no doubt took fright at the tumult.’

‘Master Shardlake hazarded the killing may have been done with a sword,’ Brother Guy added. ‘And such people would be unlikely to carry weapons lest they be discovered.’

I turned to Brother Gabriel. He sighed deeply, running his fingers through the straggly locks below his tonsure. ‘The loss of the hand of the Penitent Thief – it is a tragedy, that most holy relic of Our Lord’s Calvary – I shudder to think what abominable uses the thief may be putting it to now.’ His face looked drawn. I remembered the skulls in Lord Cromwell’s room and realized again the power of relics.