К Сэнсом - Dissolution

‘We always come back, sir, to the fact he was away. Away when Singleton found the book and away when, the same night, he was murdered.’

‘I know. Only Athelstan knew and he said he told no one else.’

‘Could Athelstan be the killer?’

‘Him strike off a man’s head, a commissioner? No. Remember how frightened he was when he approached me to offer himself as an informer. He hasn’t the courage to defy a mouse.’

‘Is that not an emotional reaction to his personality?’ There was a note of sarcasm in Mark’s voice.

‘All right. Perhaps I was carried away with the logical edifice I had built when I accused Gabriel. Yet it all seemed to fit so well. But yes, of course we must take our judgement of men’s characters into account and Athelstan’s is palpably weak.’

‘And why should he care if Brother Edwig goes to the gallows, or even if the monastery goes down? He is hardly devout.’

‘And how could he have come by that sword? I wish I could trace its history; in London I could probably discover the maker through his mark. The swordsmiths’ guild would know. But we’re trapped down here by this snow.’

‘Sir, what if Singleton told someone else what he had found in the counting house and they decided to kill him? The abbot, perhaps. His seal would be on those deeds.’

‘Yes. A seal he leaves lying on his desk, where anybody could use it while he was away.’

‘Prior Mortimus, then? He’s brutal enough for murder, surely? And isn’t it said that he and Brother Edwig run the place?’

‘Those two in a fraud together? I wonder. I must get that answer from Copynger.’ I sighed. ‘How long is it since we set out from London? A week? It seems a lifetime.’

‘Just six days.’

‘I wish I had time to go back. But even sending a message would take days in this snow. Pox on it, is it going to go on for ever?’

‘It seems so.’

SHORTLY AFTER Mark got into his little wheeled cot and pulled it back under my bed. I sat on, staring into the banked-up fire. Through windows already frosting again with ice I heard the bells ring out for Compline. Whatever happened, whatever nightmares unfolded, the services still went on.

I thought of Lord Cromwell, waiting in London for my reply. I must try to send a message soon, even if it were only to say I had no answers and two more murders to solve. I could imagine his angry face, his oaths, his wondering again about my loyalty. But if Copynger confirmed the land sales I could have Brother Edwig arrested for fraud. I had a vision of myself interrogating him in Scarnsea gaol, manacled in some dark hole, and found the thought gave me pleasure. That disturbed me and I reflected how dislike of a man and the prospect of power over him led the mind into unpleasant paths. Guilt stole over me and I began thinking once more about Mark and Alice. How pure were my motives there? All I had said to Mark about the difference in their degree, and his obligation to his family to succeed, was true. Yet I knew the worm of jealousy stirred in me. The sight of them embracing in the kitchen came back to me and I clenched my eyes shut as another vision stirred in the corner of my mind’s eye, of Alice embracing me instead of him. All the time I could hear Mark’s breathing, which had deepened into sleep.

I prayed that God might lead my actions into a true and just path; a path such as Christ might have followed. Then I must have slept for the next thing I knew I had started awake and was staring at a dead fire. Hours must have passed; my back ached and I was chilled to the bone. I rose painfully from the chair, undressed and climbed wearily into bed.

I FELL AT ONCE into a deep sleep and woke next morning more rested than for a week past. Brother Guy’s prescription was doing me good. After breakfast I wrote a letter to Justice Copynger and gave it to Mark.

‘Take this into Scarnsea now. Ask Copynger if he can get a reply to me by tomorrow.’

‘I thought you wished to see him yourself.’

‘I want to go out on the marsh while the weather holds.’ I looked up at the sky, which was dark with clouds again. ‘Tell the abbot the cleaning of Singleton’s grave can be done when you return. Are arrangements in place to drain the pond?’

‘They have a sump they can drain the stream into. Apparently they clear out the silt every ten years or so.’

‘When was it last done?’

‘Three years ago.’

‘So that body would have lain undisturbed for many years yet. And yet not for ever.’

‘Maybe the murderer needed to get rid of it quickly.’

‘Yes. And then it would be hard to get out again.’

‘No need to go to the church now.’

‘No, let’s get the pond drained first. You will have a busy day,’ I added in an effort at cheerfulness. But that very effort seemed to make him close in on himself again. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly and left the room.

I read more routine correspondence which the abbot’s servant brought, then went in search of Alice. I felt a mixture of nervousness and excitement, like a boy, at the thought of seeing her. Brother Guy told me she was hanging herbs in the drying house and would be free shortly, so I went into the courtyard to see how the weather was faring. The clouds were high and I hoped we might escape more snow. I shivered at the endless cold.

My attention was drawn by raised voices. By the gatehouse I saw two figures struggling, one dressed in black and the other in white. I hurried over. Jerome was in the grasp of Prior Mortimus, who had him in a firm grip. He was trying to seize a paper Jerome held tightly in one hand. Despite his disabilities, the Carthusian was putting up a fierce struggle. Nearby Bugge was holding a squirming small boy by the collar.

‘Give me that, ye whoreson!’ the prior growled. Jerome tried to stuff the paper in his mouth, but the prior hooked a foot beneath his good leg and he toppled over, landing on his back in the snow. Prior Mortimus reached down, tore the paper from his hand and stood breathing heavily.

‘What is this tumult?’ I demanded.

Before the prior could answer, Jerome hauled himself up on his elbow and spat at him, a gobbet of spittle landing on his habit. He exclaimed in disgust and launched a sudden kick at the Carthusian’s ribs. The old man fell back with a yell to lie shrieking in the churned-up snow. Prior Mortimus held up a letter.

‘See, Commissioner, I caught him trying to smuggle this out!’

I took it and read the superscription. ‘It’s addressed to Sir Thomas Seymour!’

‘Is he not one of the king’s council?’

‘He is, and the late queen’s brother.’ With a glance at Jerome, who lay glaring up at us like a wild beast, I tore it open. A chill ran down my spine as I read. It addressed Seymour as cousin, referred to his imprisonment in a corrupt house where a king’s commissioner had been murdered, and said there was a story he should know, of ill deeds by Lord Cromwell. He then went on to repeat the story of his encounter in prison with Mark Smeaton, and the musician’s torture by Cromwell.

I am now confined here by another of Cromwell’s commissioners, a grim-faced hunchback. I tell you this story now in the hope you may use it against Cromwell, that tool of the Antichrist. The people hate him and will hate him more when this is known.

I crumpled the paper in my hand. ‘How did he get out?’

‘He disappeared after Prime and I came looking for him. Meanwhile our good Bugge was visited by this boy from the poorhouse, saying he had come to fetch a message from one of the monks. Bugge was suspicious and wouldn’t let him in.’ The gatekeeper nodded in satisfaction, grinding his knuckles into the urchin’s collar. He had ceased his struggles and was staring in astonished terror at Jerome lying on the snow.