Otto Von Habsburg

  ‘Thank you, sir. I am grateful.’ Her tone was guarded; she had no reason to trust me any more than the monks. But perhaps she would unwind to Mark. She turned back to her patient, who had begun tossing in his fever, threatening to throw off the bedclothes.

  ‘Goodnight then, Alice.’

  She was still trying to settle the novice, and did not look up. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  I made my way back up the freezing corridor. Stopping at a window, I saw the snow had ceased at last. It lay deep and unbroken, glowing white under a full moon. Looking out on that wasteland broken by the black shapes of the ancient buildings, I felt as trapped and isolated in Scarnsea as though I stood in the moon’s own empty caverns.

  Chapter Ten

  WHEN I WOKE I did not at first know where I was. Daylight of unaccustomed brightness cast a leached white light over an unfamiliar room. Then I remembered all and slowly sat up. Mark, who had fallen asleep again by the time I returned from my talk with the novice, had already risen; he had banked up the fire and stood in his hose, shaving at a ewer of steaming water. Through the window bright sunlight was reflected from the snow that lay thick everywhere, dotted here and there with birds’ footprints.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, squinting at his features in an old brass mirror.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Past nine. The infirmarian says breakfast is waiting in his kitchen. He knew we would be tired and let us sleep.’

  I threw off the clothes. ‘We haven’t time to waste sleeping! Hurry, finish that and get into your shirt.’ I started pulling on my clothes.

  ‘Will you not shave?’

  ‘They can take me unshaven.’ The burden of work to be done filled my mind. ‘Hurry now. I want to see this place properly and talk to the obedentiaries. You must find an opportunity to talk to Mistress Alice. Then take a walk around the place, look for likely hiding places for that sword. We have to cover the ground as fast as we can, we have a new problem now.’ As I laced up my hose, I told him of my visit to Whelplay the night before.

  ‘Someone else killed? Jesu. This skein gets more tangled by the hour.’

  ‘I know. And we have little time to untangle it. Come.’

  We went down the corridor to Brother Guy’s infirmary. He was at his desk, squinting at his Arabic book.

  ‘Ah, you are awake,’ he said in his soft accent. He closed the text reluctantly and led us to a little room, where more herbs hung from hooks. Inviting us to sit at the table, he set bread and cheese and a jug of weak beer before us.

  ‘How is your patient?’ I asked as we ate.

  ‘A little easier this morning, thank God. The fever has broken and he is in a deep sleep. The abbot is coming to visit him later.’

  ‘Tell me, what is Novice Whelplay’s history?’

  ‘He is the son of a small farmer towards Tonbridge. Brother Guy smiled sadly. ‘He is one of those too soft by nature for this harsh world, too easily bruised. Such souls often gravitate here, I think it is where God intends them to be.’

  ‘A soft refuge from the world, then?’

  ‘Those like Brother Simon serve God and the world with their prayers. Is that not better for all than the life of mockery and ill-treatment such people often have outside? And in the circumstances he could hardly be said to have found a refuge.’

  I looked at him seriously. ‘No, he found mockery and ill-treatment here too. When we have eaten, Brother Guy, I would like you to take me to the kitchen where you found the body. I fear we have had a late start.’

  ‘Of course. But I should not leave my patients for too long—’

  ‘Half an hour should be enough.’ I took a last swig of beer and rose, wrapping my cloak around me. ‘Master Poer will stay here in the infirmary this morning, I have allowed him a morning’s rest. After you, Brother.’

  We went through the hall, where Alice was again attending to the old monk. He was as ancient as any man I had ever seen, and lay breathing slowly and with effort. He could not have been a greater contrast to his plump neighbour, who sat up in bed playing a card game. The blind patient was asleep in a chair.

  The infirmarian opened the front door, stepping back as nearly a foot of snow banked up against the door fell over the threshold.

  ‘We should have overshoes,’ he said, ‘or we shall get foot-rot walking in this.’ He excused himself and left me looking out, my breath steaming before me. Under a blue sky the air was as still and cold as any I remember. The snow was that light, fluffy sort that comes in the hardest weather, the devil to walk through. I had brought my staff, for with my poor balance I could easily go over. Brother Guy returned carrying stout leather overshoes.

  ‘I must have these issued to the monks with outside duties,’ he said. We laced them up and stepped up to our calves in the snow, Brother Guy’s features standing out darker than ever against the whiteness. The door to the kitchens was only a short distance away, and I saw the main building had a common wall with the infirmary. I asked if there was a connecting door.

  ‘There was a passage,’ he said. ‘It was closed off at the time of the Black Death, to minimize the spread of infection, and has never been reopened. A sensible measure.’

  ‘Last night when I saw that boy I feared he had the sweating sickness. I have seen it, it is terrible. But of course it is produced by the foul airs of the towns.’

  ‘Mercifully I have seen little plague. Mostly I have to deal with the consequences of too much standing at prayer in a cold church. And of old age, of course.’

  ‘You have another patient there who seems poorly. The ancient.’

  ‘Yes. Brother Francis. He is ninety-four. So old he is become a child again and now he has an ague. I think he may be near the end of his pilgrimage at last.’

  ‘What is wrong with the fat fellow?’

  ‘Varicose ulcers like Brother Septimus, but worse. I have drained them, and now he is enjoying some rest.’ He smiled gently. ‘I may have a task getting him up again. People do not like to leave the infirmary. Brother Andrew has become a fixture, his blindness came on him late and he fears to go outside. His confidence has gone.’

  ‘Have you many old monks under your care?’

  ‘A dozen. The brothers tend to be long-lived. I have four past eighty.’

  ‘They have not the strains or hardships of most people.’

  ‘Or perhaps their devotions strengthen the body as well as the soul. But here we are.’

  He led me through a stout oak door. As he had described the night before, a short passage led into the kitchen itself. The door was open and I heard voices and the clattering of plates. A rich smell of baking drifted out as we proceeded up the passage. Inside, half a dozen servants were preparing a meal. The kitchen was large, and seemed clean and well organized.

  ‘So, Brother, when you came in that night, where was the body?’

  The infirmarian paced out a few steps, the servants watching curiously.

  ‘Just here, by the big table. The body lay on its front, legs pointing to the door. The head had come to rest there.’ He pointed to an iron vat marked ‘Butter’. I followed his gaze, as did the servants. One crossed himself.

  ‘So he had just come through the door when he was struck,’ I mused. There was a big cupboard by the spot where he had fallen; the assailant could have hidden at the side and then, when Singleton passed, leaped out and struck him down. I paced out the steps and swung my staff in the air, making a servant jump back in alarm. ‘Yes, there’s room for a big swing. I’d guess that’s how it was done.’

  ‘With a sharp blade and a strong hand, yes, you could do it,’ Brother Guy said pensively.

  ‘If you were skilled, used to swinging a large sword about.’ I looked around the servants. ‘Who is head cook here?’

  A bearded man in a stained apron stepped forward, bowing. ‘Ralph Spenlay, sir.’

  ‘You are in charge here, Master Spenlay, and you have a key to the kitchens?’

  ‘Yes, Commi
ssioner.’

  ‘And the door to the courtyard is the only way in and out?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Is the door to the kitchen itself locked?’

  ‘No need. The courtyard door is the only way in.’

  ‘Who else has keys?’

  ‘The infirmarian, sir, and the abbot and prior. And Master Bugge the watchman, of course, for his night patrols. No one else. I live in; I open up in the morning and close at night. If anyone wants a key they come to me. People will steal the viands, you see. No matter that it’s for the monks’ table. Why, I’ve seen Brother Gabriel hanging about the corridor some mornings, looking as though he was waiting for our backs to be turned before snatching something. And he an official—’

  ‘What happens if you are ill, or away, when someone wants access?’

  ‘They’d have to ask Master Bugge or the prior.’ He smiled. ‘Not that people like to bother either, if they don’t have to.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Spenlay, that is very helpful.’ I reached out and took a little custard from a bowl. The cook looked put out.

  ‘Very nice. I will trouble you no further, Brother Guy. I will see the bursar next, if you could point me to his counting house.’

  HE GAVE ME directions and I plodded off, the snow creaking under my overshoes. The precinct was much quieter today, people and dogs keeping indoors. The more I thought, the more I considered only an expert swordsman would have had the confidence to step out behind Singleton and strike off his head. I could not imagine any of the people I had seen managing it. The abbot was a big man, and so was Brother Gabriel, but swordsmanship was a craft for gentlemen, not monks. Thinking of Gabriel, I remembered the cook’s words. They puzzled me; the sacrist had not struck me as the kind of man to hang around a kitchen to steal food.

  I looked around the snowy courtyard. The road to London would be impassable now; it was not pleasant to reflect that Mark and I were more or less trapped here, with a murderer. I realized that unconsciously I had been walking in the centre of the courtyard, as far as possible from shadowy doorways. I shivered. It was strange walking alone through this white silence under the high walls and it was with a sense of relief that I saw Bugge by the gate, shovelling a path through the snow with the help of another servant.

  As I approached the gatekeeper looked up, red-faced with effort. His companion, a stocky young man with a face disfigured by warty growths, smiled nervously and bowed. Both had been working hard, and gave off a vile stink.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Bugge said. His tone was unctuous; doubtless he had been ordered to treat me with respect.

  ‘Cruel weather.’

  ‘Indeed it is, sir. Winter is come early again.’

  ‘Now we are met, I would like to ask about your nighttime routine.’

  He nodded, leaning on his shovel. ‘The whole precinct is patrolled twice every night, at nine and three-thirty. Either me or David here makes a complete round, checking every door.’

  ‘And the gates? Are they locked at night?’

  ‘Every night at nine. And opened at nine in the morning, after Prime. Not a dog could get in here when the gates are shut.’

  ‘Not a cat,’ the boy added. His eyes were sharp; he might be ugly but he was no fool.

  ‘Cats can climb,’ I suggested. ‘And so can people.’

  A touch of truculence appeared in the gatekeeper’s face. ‘Not a twelve-foot wall, they can’t. You’ve seen it, sir, it’s sheer; no one could scale it.’

  ‘The wall is secure all round the monastery?’

  ‘Except at the back. It’s crumbled in places there, but it gives straight onto the marsh. No one would go wading through that, especially at night. People have taken a wrong step and disappeared over their heads in the mud –’ he lifted a hand and pushed it down – ‘glug.’

  ‘If no one can get in, why do you patrol?’

  He leaned close. I recoiled from his stench, but he seemed not to mind. ‘People are sinful, sir, even here.’ His manner became confidential. ‘Things were very lax in the days of the old prior. When Prior Mortimus came, he ordered the night patrols, anyone out of bed reported straight to him. And that’s what I do. Without fear or favour.’ He smiled happily.

  ‘What about the night of Commissioner Singleton’s murder? Did you see anything that might indicate someone might have broken in?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, sir, I’ll swear all was as it should have been between three-thirty and four-thirty, I made that round myself. I tried the courtyard door to the kitchen as usual and it was locked. I saw the commissioner, though.’ He nodded self-importantly.

  ‘Yes, I heard you did. Where?’

  ‘On my round. I was passing through the cloister when I saw something moving and called out. It was the commissioner, fully dressed.’

  ‘What was he about at that hour?’

  ‘He said he had a meeting, sir.’ He smiled, enjoying the attention. ‘He said if I met any of the brethren and they said they were on their way to see him, I was to let them pass.’

  ‘So he was on his way to meet someone!’

  ‘I would say so. He was near enough the kitchens, as well.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I’d say about a quarter past four. I was near the end of my round then.’

  I nodded at the great bulk behind us. ‘Is the church locked at night?’

  ‘No, sir, never. But I went round it as usual before checking the cloister, and all was normal. Then I was back in my house at half-past four. Prior Mortimus has given me a little clock,’ he said proudly, ‘and I always check the time. I slept a little, leaving David on watch, then I was woken by the great hue and cry at five.’

  ‘So Commissioner Singleton was on his way to meet one of the monks. It does seem then that the great crime committed here a week ago was the work of a monk.’

  He hesitated. ‘I say no one broke in, that’s all I know. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Not impossible, but unlikely, I agree.’ I nodded. ‘Thank you, Master Bugge, you have been most helpful.’ I set my staff before me and turned away, leaving them once more to their labours.

  I RETRACED MY STEPS to where a green door marked the counting house. Entering without knocking, I found myself in a room that reminded me of my own world: whitewashed walls lined with shelves of ledgers, any bare patches covered with lists and bills. Two monks sat working at desks. One, counting out coins, was elderly and rheumy-eyed. The other, frowning over a ledger, was the young bearded monk who had lost at cards the night before. Behind them stood a chest with the largest lock I had ever seen; the abbey’s funds, no doubt.

  The two monks jumped to their feet at my entry. ‘Good morning,’ I said. My breath made a mist in the air, for the room was unheated. ‘I seek Brother Edwig.’

  The young monk glanced at an inner door. ‘Brother Edwig is with the abbot—’

  ‘In there? I’ll join them.’ I passed to the inner door, ignoring a hand half-raised in protest. Opening it, I found myself facing a staircase. It led to a little landing, where a window gave a view out over the white landscape. Opposite, voices could be heard behind a door. I paused outside, but could not make out what it was they were saying. I opened the door and went in.

  Abbot Fabian was speaking to Brother Edwig in peevish tones. ‘We should ask more. It doesn’t befit our status to let it go for less than three hundred . . .’

  ‘I need the money in my coffers now, Lord Abbot. If he’ll p-pay cash for the land, we should t-take it!’ Despite his stutter, there was a steely note in the bursar’s voice. Abbot Fabian looked round, disconcerted.

  ‘Oh, Master Shardlake—’

  ‘Sir, this is a private conversation,’ the bursar said, his face filled with sudden anger.

  ‘I am afraid there is no such thing where I am concerned. If I knocked and waited at every door, who knows what I might miss?’

  Brother Edwig controlled himself, fluttering his hands, once more the fussy burea
ucrat. ‘N-no, of course, forgive me. We w-were discussing the monastery finances, some lands we must sell to meet the costs of the building w-works, a mat-mat—’ His face reddened again as he struggled for words.

  ‘A matter of no concern to your investigation,’ the abbot finished with a smile.

  ‘Brother bursar, there is a relevant issue I would discuss.’ I took a seat at an oak desk with many drawers, the only furniture in the little room apart from yet more shelves of ledgers.

  ‘I am at your service, sir, of course.’

  ‘Dr Goodhaps tells me that on the day he died Commissioner Singleton was working on an account book he had obtained from your office. And that afterwards it disappeared.’

  ‘It did not d-disappear, sir. It was returned to the counting house.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me what it was.’

  He thought a moment. ‘I cannot remember. The inffirmary accounts, I believe. We keep accounts for all the different departments – sacristy, infirmary and so on, and a central set for the whole monastery.’

  ‘Presumably if Commissioner Singleton took account books from you, you would keep a record.’

  ‘I m-most certainly would.’ He frowned petulantly. ‘But more than once he took books without telling me or my assistant, and we had to spend the day hunting for something he had taken.’

  ‘So there is no actual record of all he took?’

  The bursar spread his arms. ‘How c-could there be, w-when he helped himself? I am s-sorry—’

  I nodded. ‘All is in order now, in the counting house?’

  ‘Thank the Lord.’

  I stood up. ‘Very well. Please have all the account books for the last twelve months brought to my room in the infirmary. Oh, and those from the departments as well.’

  ‘All the books?’ The bursar could not have looked more aghast had I ordered him to remove his habit and parade naked in the snow. ‘That would be very disruptive, it would bring the work of the counting house to a halt—’

  ‘It will only be for one night. Maybe two.’

  He seemed set to argue further, but Abbot Fabian interjected.