Revelation: A Shardlake Novel

  'What of the infirmarian, Lancelot Goddard;' Harsnet asked. 'And his assistants? There were two listed at Augmentations.'

  'And do you know if Dr Goddard used dwale;' I added.

  'Used what?' I thought he answered a little too quickly, something sparked for a moment in his sleepy eyes. I explained what the drug was. 'This is very disturbing,' he said quietly. He sat thinking, busily working his ring. At length he raised his eyes to meet our faces.

  'I do not know whether Dr Goddard used this dwale. I left the infirmary to him. He was very competent, I recall no complaints.' He paused. 'I will give you what help I can, gentlemen. But I think you are wrong. Whoever this — abomination is, I do not believe he is from here.'

  'How well did you know Dr Goddard;' I asked.

  'Not well.' He allowed himself a cynical smile. 'It is no secret I was appointed abbot with orders to bring Westminster to a peaceful dissolution. Which I did. The monks I noticed most were those who needed persuading, or pressing. Dr Goddard was not one of those. He was responsible for the monks' infirmary — looking after everyday illnesses, and caring for the old monks — and he also attended to those from the locality who came to the small infirmary we ran.'

  'With his helpers?'

  'Yes. Charles Cantrell in the monks' infirmary. Francis Lockley in the lay infirmary, for poor men of Westminster.' 'Was either qualified;' I asked.

  'No. Cantrell was a monk, Lockley a lay brother who worked for us and lived here. Goddard trained them both.' 'What was Goddard like;'

  Benson inclined his head. 'Not a companionable man. People thought him cold. He came from a well-off background and tended to look down on those of inferior origin. He accepted the Dissolution quietly, like the others. He spoke little in chapter.'

  'He has disappeared from his lodgings,' Harsnet told him. 'Have you any idea where he might have gone;'

  Benson shook his head. 'I am afraid not. He had been here a long time, I do not remember who his family were. And most of our records were destroyed.'

  'Yes.' I knew that was true, most of the monastic records had been burned along with their illustrated books during the Dissolution.

  'Anything you might know, sir . . .'

  'He was infirmarian when I came. I remember hearing he became a novice when he was very young. He was around forty when the monastery closed.'

  'He was a snob,' I said thoughtfully. 'They said that at his old lodgings. So he never really abandoned the standards of the outside world.'

  Benson laughed. 'That was hardly uncommon among the monks. Their worldliness was one reason the monasteries had to go.'

  'Do you know where he trained as a doctor?' I asked.

  'He didn't. He would have learned on the job under the old infirmarian, as most did. I am afraid "Doctor" was a courtesy title. But he would have had a good training, lasting many years. Know- ledge passed down through generations of iniirmarians.'

  'Like the dwale.'

  Dean Benson inclined his head. 'Perhaps.' 'Was there a herb garden?' 'Yes. It is gone to waste now.' 'I wonder if he grew poppies.'

  Benson spread his hands. His silk robe rustled. 'I do not know, sir. He may have done.'

  'What sort of man was Dr Goddard to deal with?'

  'Not difficult. Correct, self-contained.' He smiled. 'He had a disfigurement, a very large mole on the side of his nose. I think he was conscious of it, knew it detracted from his dignity. He would seem angry if people looked at it. Perhaps that warped his character. Some said he had no warmth towards the sick. But perhaps a doctor has to be detached.'

  As you are, I thought. But yours is a politician's detachment. He hadn't cared about any of the monks, they were pawns in the game of Dissolution. Benson was hiding something, I felt sure.

  He gave his thin smile again. 'I remember his assistant in the lay infirmary, Brother Lockley, used to mock Goddard, imitate his cold precise speech. Lockley often got into trouble for levity, though he performed his duties in the lay infirmary well enough.'

  'And the other assistant?' I asked. 'Cantrell.'

  'Ah, yes, young Brother Cantrell. Goddard trained him up, but he never seemed satisfied with him, I recall.'

  'Goddard's old neighbours said that he had come into an inhere itance,' Harsnet said.

  Benson pursed his lips. 'I have an idea his family had money, and lived near London. Somewhere to the north I think. You may be able to find out somehow.'

  I doubted it. They said there were sixty thousand souls in and around London now. 'Are there no records at all left?' I asked.

  'All gone,' Benson said, shaking his head. 'When the abbey closed, the Augmentations men told us to burn all our papers, our records and songsheets, even our books. Lord Cromwell wanted monasticism utterly exterminated, sir.'

  'And you lost touch with your charges?'

  'All except those who work under me now.'

  'Those three men?' I asked. 'How were they built, how strong were they? Our man is strong, and clever too.'

  The dean laughed. 'Then I think you may discount both the assistants. Neither showed any great brains and muscle still less. Lockley is a small round man in his fifties with a taste for the bottle. Young Cantrell was a tall and stringy fellow. I recall he had a huge Adam's apple in his thin neck, it was hard not to look at it. He had trouble with his eyes, I remember. He took to dropping things in the infirmary. Goddard found he was short-sighted and got him some glasses so he could do his work.' He raised a finger. 'I remember now, Cantrell lives in the precinct outside here, his father was a carpenter. I saw him some time ago in the street, with his thick glasses, and remember thinking he would have trouble carrying on his father's trade. Cut his fingers off likely as not.' He laughed. And you said the doctor was cold, I thought.

  Harsnet looked at me. 'We should see those two men, Master Shardlake. Barak has the addresses?'

  'He does.'

  'Good. Then we will leave you, dean. But we may call on you again.'

  'Of course,' Benson shook his head, gave a puzzled smile. 'You believe this man will commit seven murders? To fulfil the prophecy of the seven vials in Revelation?'

  'Yes, sir,' I answered seriously. 'He has only reached the third vial. I fear the fourth must come soon.'

  Benson shook his head again, then rose. 'Then I pray you soon catch him.'

  WE COLLECTED Barak and went outside. The hammering was louder. I turned to Harsnet.

  'He was hiding something,' I said.

  The coroner nodded. 'That was my thought too. But what?'

  'He's watching,' Barak said quietly. Harsnet and I turned. The dean was at his window, staring out at us. He turned away, dis- appearing into the shadows of his room.

  'It might be interesting to take a look around,' I suggested. 'At the chapterhouse, the infirmary buildings and garden.'

  Harsnet nodded. 'Very well.'

  We picked our way carefully over rubble and building materials, heading for the cloister. We passed a great pile of mattresses, perhaps from the dormitory.

  'What did you think of Benson?' I asked Harsnet.

  'A greedy careerist.' Harsnet frowned. 'It is sad Lord Cromwell had to use such people in the cause of reform.' He looked at me. 'It disillusioned many people.'

  I wondered if Cranmer had told him that it had disillusioned

  me.

  The three of us walked on, past where the old monks' dormitory was being demolished, men on the roof pulling off slates and casting them into the gutted interior of the fine old building. To our right, neglected and full of weeds, was what must once have been the abbot's formal garden. Next to it was an area where herbs had grown wild, neglected for three years. I recognized the distinctive stems and seed heads of poppies.

  'So,' Harsnet said. 'Goddard did grow poppies.'

  I looked at the desolation. 'Yes. And heaven knows what else.'

  We walked back, through the din of demolition work, and entered the old cloister between the monastic buildings and the church. All at o
nce it was quiet. Then another shower began, pattering on the roof of the walkway and hissing on the flagstones of the cloister yard within. Harsnet looked out over the cloister where the monks once walked, stroking his short greying beard. I wondered what he was thinking. Then he turned to me with an unexpected smile. 'There is a bench over there,' he said. 'Perhaps now would be a good chance to have a talk, in peace and quiet, before we go to visit the chapterhouse.'

  'Yes. My head is fairly buzzing with all that has happened.' The three of us went and sat down.

  'I think Dean Benson knows more than he allowed,' I said.

  Harsnet nodded. 'I agree. We will question him again, and soon. But I do not think he knows Goddard's whereabouts. He would realize it would not be wise to conceal that.' He shook his head, sighing deeply. 'And what is Goddard; Is he the man we seek, or another victim, or neither;' His west country accent was stronger, as it seemed to become whenever he spoke with emphasis.

  'It is over two months since he disappeared. I think if he had been a victim he would have been found by now.'

  'But where has he gone;' Harsnet frowned. 'The dean should have known. Had he no care for the monks he led;'

  'He was just a political appointment,' Barak ventured. 'My old master made a lot of those.'

  Harsnet looked at him and nodded. I was glad he seemed to respect Barak, did not try snobbishly to exclude him from our councils. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'That is true. But we must find him somehow.'

  'And whoever the killer is, he has found us,' Barak added grimly. 'Found my wife.' He looked down and clenched his hands.

  'I think he marked us that day out at the marshes,' I said. 'Somehow afterwards he found out who we are, me and Barak at least, and he has been following us ever since.'

  'If he's been following me without me noticing he's a lot sharper than I am,' Barak said grimly. 'But that's not impossible.' He rubbed his face fiercely with both hands.

  'I think that he knew Dr Gurney's body had been found and the matter was being kept secret,' I said. 'So he killed Roger in a way absolutely no one could miss. And then he spent his days waiting on the marshes for investigators to visit the scene of Dr Gurney's murder, with which Roger's would surely be connected, lying on that rush matting we found. To mark the men who would be pursuing him.'

  Harsnet shook his head. 'But what sort of man could lie out on there for days on end? And then he lay for hours in the very depths of the marsh, lay there until it grew dark and we had to leave him. Such patience, such endurance, it seems — not human.'

  I knew he was thinking of possession. I hesitated for a long moment, then told them both of Guy's theory about obsessive madness, about the cases he had mentioned and about Strodyr. Harsnet listened carefully, staring at me with those keen, sharp blue eyes. At the end he shook his head firmly.

  'Those people, the Frenchman and that Strodyr, they sound to me as though they were possessed. As this man does. I am sorry, Serjeant Shardlake, but I do not trust Dr Malton. I feel he still cleaves to his old loyalties. And with Bishop Bonner showing as much mercy to Protestants as a butcher shows to the poor lambs at Eastcheap, you must forgive me if I am still dubious about his involvement.'

  Barak turned to us, his eyes suddenly fierce. 'Whether he's possessed or mad, that doesn't answer the question of why the arsehole's pursuing us now, rather than us pursuing him.'

  'Oh, we shall pursue him,' Harsnet said with grim determination. 'And we shall find him.'

  'I wonder if we should be looking for him among the radical Protestant sects,' I said, looking Harsnet firmly in the eye. 'As well as churches with radical preachers and church congregations there are study groups, private meetings. Some have developed extreme doctrines — Adamites who believe we have regained Adam's primeval inno- cence, Arians who deny the Trinity

  I expected Harsnet to disagree fiercely, but he nodded. 'Ay, persecution drives men inwards. When even a faithful man writing some godly matter in rhyme to encourage little children to read the word of God, like a friend of mine, may find himself in the Fleet prison

  'And this man seems to think he has a mission from God to kill lapsed radicals.'

  'Or wants us to think that,' Harsnet answered. He looked at me seriously. 'Perhaps the killer is really a supporter of Bishop Bonner's persecutions. If this got out it could only encourage them.'

  'Either way, he knew the religious past of Dr Gurney and Tupholme and my poor friend Roger,' I insisted. 'The three had nothing else in common.'

  Harsnet sighed, then nodded. 'Very well, I will see some enquiries are made.' He seemed to hesitate, then said, 'Have you thought, sir, that you may be a potential victim? You were once a radical, like Master Elliard.'

  'Never as radical as he.' And yet I knew Harsnet was right, theoretically I was a potential victim, though Harsnet and Barak were not. I thought again, with a sudden chill, that Dorothy was too. 'Thous' ands in London fall into that category,' I added. 'Thousands.'

  Harsnet studied me, as though he sensed my fear and was weighing up my courage. He gave the slightest of nods, then said, 'One thing we have to think about is resources. If we are to seek out Goddard, enquire among the sects, protect those who need protection, we need a body of men who will keep this matter secret. I command certain resources, but they are limited.' He took a deep breath. 'However, another has offered help to Archbishop Cranmer.'

  'Who?'

  'Sir Thomas Seymour.' He inclined his head. 'Ay, that was a surprise to me too. Do you know why Seymour first became involved?' 'His link to Catherine Parr?'

  'Ay. He said he wanted to protect her interests as a chivalrous man, but there was more to it than that. When Dr Gurney was found dead he feared that he might be a suspect, part of a plot to drive the King away from the Lady Catherine. Archbishop Cranmer told me he was relieved when Tupholme was found, and the focus shifted away from her. But now he has offered to help us with trusted men from his household.'

  'Why?'

  Harsnet gave a mirthless laugh. 'Sir Thomas loves adventure. And he has a household full of young men of like mind.'

  'That sounds possible, from what I've heard of him,' Barak agreed.

  'He is a detestable rogue. But we must take help where we can. The Archbishop and Lord Hertford are so close to the royal court that something happening in their households would be noticed. But no one will notice, still less care about, a lot of comings and goings at Sir Thomas Seymour's.'

  'Can he be trusted?' I asked dubiously.

  'He has reason to keep his mouth shut. This matter should have gone before the King, he is already implicated in the secret. I think he is safe.'

  'Well, sir, you know far more about matters relating to the royal court than I. I will trust your judgement.'

  Harsnet bowed his head in acknowledgement. 'Thank you.' He hesitated. 'Whatever our differences in matters of belief, I am sure we can work together well.'

  'Indeed, I hope so, sir,' I said, a little embarrassed.

  'Perhaps you would come and dine with my wife and me one evening,' he added. 'We could get to know one another better.' The coroner reddened, and I realized he was actually a shy man.

  'I should be pleased.'

  'Good.' He stood up. 'And now, let us take a look at the chapterhouse. I expect it will be full of papist imagery.'

  WE ASKED a passing clerk where the chapterhouse was located. He pointed us to a heavy oak door some distance off. It stood ajar. We passed inside down a short passage into one of the most extraordinary rooms I have ever seen. It was enormous, octagonal, and lit by huge stained-glass windows. The floor was beautifully tiled. Brightly coloured, beautifully crafted statues of the Virgin and St Peter stood at the entrance, as though guarding the way in.

  But what transfixed all three of us, so that we stood staring with open mouths, was that beneath the windows each wall was divided into panels, on each of which was painted, in bright colours and embossed with gold leaf, a scene from Revelation. There were scores of them, the whole story, i
n unsparing, vivid colour: St John, Christ in Judgement, the flaming pit of Hell, the beast with seven heads and ten horns, and the seven angels, pouring their vials of wrath upon a world red with torment.

  Chapter Nineteen

  WE STOOD IN SILENCE, turning on our heels to survey the great panorama of destruction. The unfolding story of the panels was interrupted, on one wall, by a Doom Painting showing the righteous ascending to Heaven while below the pale naked sinners were thrown into Hell. But even that image lacked the sharp colours and vivid scenes of the Revelation story. For the first time I felt its full power.

  Barak went up to the panels to take a closer look, his footsteps echoing on the tiles. He stopped before a portrayal of a great beast with seven snakelike necks issuing from its powerful shoulders, at the end of each a snarling head crowned with either one or two horns. Before it, his head framed by a gold-leaf halo, stood the figure of St John, the witness of what was to come, his expression full of fear. I joined him.

  'So that's what the beast with seven heads and ten horns looked like,' I said. 'I couldn't imagine it, somehow.'

  The style of the paintings was that of two hundred years ago, the figures lacking the realistic fluidity we had achieved in these latter days. But it was vivid and terrifying nonetheless.

  'The Westminster monks saw this,' I said quietly. 'Goddard, Lockley, Cantrell. Every day, in chapter. Yes, this could eat into a man's soul.'