Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) (42 page)

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Authors: C J Sansom

BOOK: Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)
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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.
 
‘Who sent you here?’ I asked him.
 
‘A servant brought a note, sir,’ he answered tremulously, ‘asking me to take a letter for the London post.’
 
‘I found this on him,’ Bugge said. He opened his free hand, which held a gold ring.
 
‘Yours?’ I asked Jerome. He turned his head away.
 
‘Which servant, boy? Answer, you are in serious trouble.’
 
‘Mister Grindstaff, sir, from the kitchen. The ring was to pay me and the post coach.’
 
‘Grindstaff!’ the prior snorted. ‘He takes Jerome his food, he’s always been against the changes. I’ll put him out on the road tonight - unless you’d take harsher measures, Commissioner?’
 
I shook my head. ‘Make sure Jerome is kept locked in his cell all the time. You should not have let him out for services - see what has come of it!’ I turned to Bugge. ‘Let the boy go.’
 
Bugge hauled the urchin to the gate and shoved him out on the road with a cuff.
 
‘Get up, you,’ Prior Mortimus snapped at Jerome.
 
He tried to struggle up, but fell back. ‘I can’t, you unchristian churl.’
 
‘Help him,’ I ordered Bugge. ‘Lock him in his cell.’ The gatekeeper hauled Jerome to his feet and led him roughly away.
 
‘Cromwell has many enemies!’ Jerome shouted at me over his shoulder. ‘His just end will come!’
 
I turned to the prior. ‘Have you an office we can go to?’
 
He led me through the inner cloister to a room with a warm fire. A jug of wine stood on a paper-strewn desk and he poured us each a cup.
 
‘Is this the first time Jerome has disappeared after a service?’
 
‘Yes. He is always watched.’
 
‘Is there any chance he could have sent another letter out before today?’
 
‘Not since he was confined, the day you came. But before - yes.’
 
I nodded, biting a fingernail. ‘He must be guarded closely from now on. This letter is a serious matter. It should be reported to Lord Cromwell at once.’
 
He gave me a calculating look. ‘Would ye perhaps tell Lord Cromwell that a monk loyal to the king stopped the letter going?’
 
‘We’ll see.’ I looked at him coldly. ‘There was another matter I wanted to discuss with you. Orphan Stonegarden.’
 
He nodded slowly. ‘Aye, I’d heard questions were being asked.’
 
‘Well? Your name has been mentioned.’
 
He shrugged. ‘Even old celibates get lusty. She was a fine-looking girl. I tried to get her to romp with me, I’ll not deny it.’
 
‘You who are charged with keeping discipline in this house, and told me yesterday that discipline is all that keeps the world from chaos?’
 
He stirred uneasily in his chair. ‘A tumble with a warm girl’s a different matter from unnatural passions that rot the relations monks should have with each other,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m not perfect, nobody is except the saints and not all of them.’
 
‘Some would say, Prior Mortimus, those words make you a hypocrite.’
 
‘Oh come, Commissioner, aren’t all men hypocrites? I wished the girl no harm. She rejected me quickly enough, and that old pederast Alexander reported me to the abbot. I felt sorry for her afterwards,’ he added in a quieter voice, ‘drifting about the place like a wraith. I never talked to her again, though.’
 
‘Did anyone take her by force, that you know of? Goodwife Stumpe believes someone did.’
 
‘No.’ His face darkened. ‘I wouldn’t have stood for that.’ He let out a long breath. ‘It was bad, seeing her yesterday. I knew her at once.’
 
‘So did Goodwife Stumpe.’ I folded my arms. ‘Brother Prior, your fine feelings amaze me. I can hardly believe this is the same man I saw kick a cripple not half an hour ago.’
 
‘A man’s place in the world is hard, a monk’s most of all. He has obligations set by God, and fierce temptations to resist. Women - they’re different, they deserve a peaceful life if they behave. Orphan was a good girl, not like that malapert Guy has working for him now.’
 
‘She too had an approach from you, I hear.’
 
He was silent a moment. ‘I wasn’t fierce with her, y’know. Orphan. When she turned me away I didn’t press her.’
 
‘But others did. Brother Luke.’ I paused. ‘Brother Edwig.’
 
‘Aye. Brother Alexander reported them too - though his own greater sins were to find him out,’ he added maliciously. ‘The abbot dealt with Brother Luke and told Brother Edwig to leave her be. And me as well. He doesn’t often give me orders but he did then.’
 
‘They tell me, you know, that you and Brother Edwig run this place.’
 
‘Someone has to, Abbot Fabian’s always been more interested in hunting with the local gentry. We see to the dull things that keep the monastery going.’
 
I wondered whether to mention the monastery’s financial affairs, or land sales in general, to see how he reacted. But no, I should not warn any of them till I had evidence to hand.
 
‘I never believed she’d stolen those cups and run away, you know,’ he said quietly.
 
‘You told Goodwife Stumpe she had.’
 
‘It was how it looked, and it was the line Abbot Fabian told us to take - he bestirred himself over that. I hope ye find who put her in there,’ he added grimly. ‘When ye do I wouldn’t mind five minutes alone with them myself.’
 
I stared at his face, full of righteous anger. ‘I imagine you would enjoy that,’ I said coldly. ‘And now you must excuse me, I am late for an appointment.’
 
 
ALICE WAS WAITING in the infirmary kitchen, a pair of stout overshoes on her feet and an old wool coat beside her. ‘You need something warmer than that,’ I said. ‘It will be cold out there.’
 
‘It will suffice,’ she said, wrapping it round her. ‘It was my mother’s and it warmed her for thirty winters.’
 
We set out for the gate in the rear wall, following the path Mark and I had taken the day before. I was disconcerted to realize she was a good inch taller than me. Most men are, because of my bent back, but usually I can look women in the eye. I pondered on what it was that had attracted both Mark and me to Alice, for she was no conventional beauty, demure and pale. But simpering blonde maids had never attracted me; it was the spark of one strong spirit meeting another I had always yearned for. My heart lurched anew at the realization.
 
We passed Singleton’s grave, still stark brown against the whiteness. Alice was as distant and uncommunicative as Mark had been. It made me angry to be confronted with this silent insolence again, and I wondered whether it was a tactic they had agreed between them, or whether it came to each naturally. But then the ways of expressing discontent to those in power are limited.
 
As we ploughed through the orchard, where today a flock of starveling crows sat cawing in the trees, I tried to make conversation. I asked how she had come to pass her childhood playing around the marsh.
 
‘Two little boys lived in the cottage next to ours. Brothers, Noel and James. We used to play together. Their family had been fishermen for generations; they knew all the paths through the marsh, all the landmarks that keep you on firm ground. Their father was a smuggler as well as a fisherman. They’re all dead now, their ship was lost in a great storm five years ago.’
 
‘I am sorry.’
 
‘It’s what fishermen have to expect.’ She turned to me, a spark of animation entering her voice. ‘If folk do take treated cloth to France and bring back wine, it’s only because they’re poor.’
 
‘I have no interest in prosecuting anybody, Alice. I merely wonder whether some moneys that may be unaccounted for, and perhaps the lost relic, could be taken out that way.’
 
We arrived opposite the fish pond. A little way off some servants, supervised by a monk, were working by a little lock gate in the stream, and I saw the water level in the pond had already fallen.

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