К Сэнсом - Dissolution

Where the crack ran through one of the niches the statue had been removed and lay, discoloured-looking, on the parapet. An extraordinary cat’s cradle of pulleys and ropes had been set up there; the ropes were secured to the wall behind the parapet and ran out over the void, before disappearing upward into the darkness of the bell tower, where presumably they were secured at their other end.

Dangling from the ropes was a wooden basket, big enough to hold two men. Presumably the cat’s cradle allowed the basket to be moved inwards and outwards and had allowed the removal of the statue. It was an ingenious arrangement but a dangerous one; scaffolding was surely needed to effect proper repairs. But the bursar was right to say a full repair programme would be enormously expensive. Otherwise, though, as frost and water did their work, the crack could only widen, eventually threatening the whole structure. The imagination reeled at the thought of the great building falling on one’s head.

Apart from the susurration of prayers from the side chapels, the church was silent. Then I caught a faint murmur of voices, and followed the sound to where a little door stood ajar, candlelight flickering within. I recognized the deep voice of Brother Gabriel.

‘I’ve every right to ask after him,’ he was saying in angry tones.

‘If ye’re always round the infirmary, people will be talking again,’ the prior replied in his harsh voice. A moment later he emerged, his ruddy face set hard. He started a little when he saw me.

‘I was looking for the sacrist. I thought he might show me the church.’

The prior nodded at the open door. ‘Ye’ll find Brother Gabriel in there, sir. He’ll be glad to be taken from his desk in this cold. Good morning.’ He bowed quickly and passed on, his footsteps echoing loudly away.

The sacrist sat behind a table strewn with sheets of music in a little book-filled office. A statue of the Virgin leaned drunkenly against one wall, her nose broken off, giving the bitterly cold, windowless room a depressing air. Brother Gabriel sat at a table, a heavy cloak over his black habit. His lined face was anxious; in some ways it was a strong face, long and bony, but the mouth was pulled down tightly at the corners and there were deep bags beneath his eyes. At the sight of me he rose, forcing his mouth into a smile.

‘Commissioner. Master Shardlake. How may I help you?’

‘I thought you might show me the church, Brother Sacrist, and the scene of the desecration.’

‘If you wish, sir.’ His tone was reluctant, but he stood and led me back into the body of the church.

‘You are responsible for the music, Brother, as well as the upkeep of the church?’

‘Yes, and our library. I can show you that too if you wish.’

‘Thank you. I understand Novice Whelplay used to help you with the music.’

‘Before he was sent to freeze in the stables,’ Brother Gabriel said bitterly. Collecting himself, he continued in a milder tone. ‘He is very talented, though rather over-enthusiastic.’ He turned anxious eyes on me. ‘Forgive me, but you are lodging in the infirmary. Do you know how it goes with him?’

‘Brother Guy believes he should recover.’

‘Thank God. Poor silly lad.’ He crossed himself.

As he led me on a circuit of the church he became a little more cheerful, talking animatedly about the history of this or that statue, the architecture of the building and the workmanship of the stained-glass windows. He appeared to find a refuge from his anxieties in words; it seemed not to strike him that as a reformer I might not approve of the things he was showing me. My impression of a naive, unworldly man was reinforced. But such people could be fanatical, and I noticed again that he was a big man, strongly built. He had long delicate fingers, but also thick strong wrists that could easily wield a sword.

‘Have you always been a monk?’ I asked him.

‘I was professed at nineteen. I have known no other life. Nor would I wish to.’

He paused before a large niche containing an empty stone pedestal, on which a black cloth had been laid. Against it was heaped an enormous pile of sticks, crutches and other supports used by cripples; I saw a heavy neck-brace such as crookback children wear to try and straighten them; I had worn one myself, though it did no good.

Brother Gabriel sighed. ‘This is where the hand of the Penitent Thief stood. It is a terrible loss; it has cured many unfortunate people.’ He gave the inevitable glance at my back as he spoke, then looked away and gestured at the pile.

‘All those things were left by people cured by the Penitent Thief’s intervention over the years. They no longer needed them and left them behind in gratitude.’

‘How long had the relic been here?’

‘It came from France with the monks who founded St Donatus’s in 1087. It had been in France for centuries, and at Rome for centuries before that.’

‘The casket was valuable, I believe. Gold set with emeralds.’

‘People used to be glad to pay to touch it, you know. They were disappointed when the injunctions forbade relics to be shown for lucre.’

‘It is quite large, I imagine?’

He nodded. ‘There is an illustration in the library, if you would care to see.’

‘I would. Thank you. Tell me, who found the relic missing?’

‘I did. I found the desecrated altar too.’

‘Pray tell me what happened.’ I sat down on a projecting buttress. My back was much better, but I did not wish to stand around for too long.

‘I rose towards five as usual, and came to prepare the church for Nocturns. There are only a few candles lit before the statues at night, so when first I came into the church with my assistant, Brother Andrew, we noticed nothing amiss. We went into the choir; Andrew lit the candles at the stalls and I set the books open at that morning’s prayers. As he was lighting the candles Brother Andrew saw a trail of blood on the floor, and called out. The trail led –’ he gave a shuddering sigh ‘– into the presbytery. There, on the table before the high altar, was a black cock, its throat cut. God have mercy on us, black bloodstained feathers lying on the very altar, a candle lit on either side in satanic mockery.’ He crossed himself again.

‘Would you show me the place, Brother?’

He hesitated. ‘The church has been reconsecrated, but I do not believe it is fitting to relive those events before the altar itself.’

‘Nevertheless, I must ask –’

With reluctant steps he led me through a door in the rood screen, into the choir stalls. I remembered Goodhaps’s remark that the monks seemed more upset by the desecration than by Singleton’s death.

The choir held two rows of wooden pews, black with age and richly carved, facing each other across a tiled space. Brother Gabriel pointed to the floor. ‘That’s where the blood was. The trail led in here.’ I followed him through to the presbytery, where the high altar stood, covered with a white cloth, before a beautifully carved altar screen decorated with gold leaf. The air was full of incense. He pointed to two ornate silver candlesticks flanking the centre of the altar table, where the paten and chalice would be laid for Mass.

‘It was there.’

I believe the Mass should be a simple ceremony in good English, so men can reflect on their relationship with God, rather than be distracted by magnificent surroundings and ornate Latin. Perhaps because of that, or perhaps because of what had happened there, looking at the richly decorated altar in the dim candlelight I had a sudden sense of evil, so strong that I shuddered. Not a sense of some ordinary crime, nor some furtive little sins, but of evil itself in this business. Beside me, the sacrist’s face was bleak with sorrow. ‘I have been a monk for twenty years,’ he said. ‘In the darkest, coldest days of winter I have stood watching the altar at Matins, and whatever weight there has been on my soul it has lifted with the first ray of light coming through the east window. It fills one with the promise of light, the promise of God. But now I will never be able to contemplate the altar without that scene coming into my mind. It was the Devil’s work.’