Dissolution

  Again he gave that strange, savage smile. ‘Because he is. He is a tool of that monster Cromwell, as you are. You all perjure yourselves and betray your due allegiance to the pope.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Jerome of London, I can think of only one man who could have hated the commissioner, or rather his office, enough to devise a mad plot to kill him, and that is you. Your infirmity would prevent you from doing the deed yourself, but you are a man who would cozen another to do it. I put it to you that you are responsible for his death.’

  The Carthusian reached for his crutch again and stood up painfully. He placed his right hand over his heart; it trembled slightly. He looked me in the eye, still smiling, a secret smile that made me shiver.

  ‘Commissioner Singleton was a heretic and a cruel man and I am glad he is dead. May it vex Lord Cromwell. But I swear on my soul, before God and of my own free will, that I had no part in the killing of Robin Singleton, and I also swear I know of no man in this house of weaklings and fools who would have the fierce stomach to do it. There, I have replied to your accusation. And now I am tired, I would sleep.’ He lay back on the bed and stretched himself out.

  ‘Very well, Jerome of London. But we shall speak again.’ I motioned Mark to the door. Outside, I locked it and we passed back down the corridor, watched from their open doors by the monks, who had now returned from Sext. As we reached the door to the cloister yard it was thrown open and Brother Athelstan hurried in out of the snow that still tumbled down, his habit white. He pulled up short at the sight of me.

  ‘So, Brother. I have found the reason you are in bad odour with Brother Edwig. You left his private room unguarded.’

  He shuffled from foot to foot, his straggly beard dripping melted snow onto the rush matting. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That information would have been more use than your tales of mutterings in chapter. What happened?’

  He looked at me, his eyes afraid. ‘I did not think it important, sir. I came in to do some work and found Commissioner Singleton upstairs in Brother Edwig’s room, looking at a book. I pleaded with him not to take it, or at least to let me take a record, for I knew Brother Edwig would be angry with me. When he returned and I told him, he said I should have kept an eye on what Commissioner Singleton was doing.’

  ‘So he was angry.’

  ‘Very, sir.’ He hung his head.

  ‘Did you know what was in the book he had?’

  ‘No, sir, I only deal with the ledgers in the office. I do not know what books Brother Edwig has upstairs.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me about this?’

  He shifted from foot to foot. ‘I was afraid, sir. Afraid that if you asked Brother Edwig about it he would know I had spoken. He is a hard man, sir.’

  ‘And you are a fool. Let me advise you, Brother. A good informer must be prepared to give information even at risk to himself. Otherwise he will be mistrusted. Now begone from my sight.’

  He vanished down the corridor at a run. Mark and I hunched ourselves into our coats and stepped out into the blizzard. I looked around the white cloister.

  ‘God’s nails, was there ever such weather? I wanted to go round to that fish pond, but we can’t in this. Come on, back to the infirmary.’

  As we trudged back to our room, I noticed Mark’s face was thoughtful and sombre. We found Alice in the infirmary kitchen, boiling herbs.

  ‘You look cold, sirs. Can I bring you some warm wine?’

  ‘Thank you, Alice,’ I said. ‘The warmer the better.’

  Back in our room Mark took a cushion and sat before the fire. I lowered myself onto the bed.

  ‘Jerome knows something,’ I said quietly. ‘He wasn’t involved in the killing, or he wouldn’t have given his oath, but he knows something. It was in that smile of his.’

  ‘He’s so mazed after being tortured I don’t think he knows what he means.’

  ‘No. He’s consumed with anger and shame, but his wits are there.’

  Mark stared into the fire. ‘Is it true then, what he said about Mark Smeaton? That Lord Cromwell tortured him into making a false confession?’

  ‘No.’ I bit my lip. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You would not wish to,’ Mark said quietly.

  ‘No! I don’t believe Lord Cromwell was there when Jerome was tortured either. That was a lie. I saw him in the days before Anne Boleyn’s execution. He was constantly attending the king, he wouldn’t have had time to go to the Tower. And he wouldn’t have behaved like that; he wouldn’t. Jerome invented it.’ I realized my fists were clenched tight.

  Mark looked at me. ‘Sir, was it not obvious to you from his manner that everything Jerome said was true?’

  I hesitated. There had been a terrible sincerity about the way the Carthusian spoke. He had been tortured, of course, that was plain to see. But made to swear a false oath by Lord Cromwell himself? I could not believe that of my master, nor the story of his involvement with Mark Smeaton and his torture - alleged torture, I told myself. I ran my hands through my hair.

  ‘There are some men who are skilled in making false words seem true. I remember there was a man I prosecuted once, who pretended to be a licensed goldsmith, he fooled the guild—’

  ‘It’s hardly the same, sir—’

  ‘I cannot believe Lord Cromwell would have prepared false evidence against Anne Boleyn. You forget I have known him for years, Mark; he rose to power in the first place because of her reformist sympathies. She was his patron. Why would he help kill her?’

  ‘Because the king wanted it, and Lord Cromwell would do anything to keep his position? That is what they whisper at Augmentations.’

  ‘No,’ I said again decisively. ‘He is hard, he has to be with the enemies he faces, but no Christian could do such a thing to an innocent man, and believe me, Lord Cromwell is a Christian. You forget how many years I have known him. Were it not for him there would have been no Reform. That cankered monk told us a seditious tale. One you had better not repeat outside this room.’

  He gave me a keen, hard look. For the first time, I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. Alice came in with steaming mugs of wine. She passed me one with a smile, then exchanged a look with Mark that seemed to carry a different level of meaning. I felt a stab of jealousy.

  ‘Thank you, Alice,’ I said. ‘That is very welcome. We have been talking with Brother Jerome and could do with some sustenance.’

  ‘Have you, sir?’ She did not seem much interested. ‘I have only seen him a few times, limping about. They say he is mad.’ She curtsied and left. I turned back to Mark, who sat staring into the fire.

  ‘Sir,’ he said hesitantly, ‘there is something I wish to tell you.’

  ‘Yes? Go on.’

  ‘When we return to London - if we ever get out of this place - I do not wish to return to Augmentations. I have decided. I cannot bear it.’

  ‘Bear what? What do you mean?’

  ‘The corruption, the greed. All the time we are pestered by people wanting to know which monasteries will be down next. They write pleading letters, they turn up at the door claiming acquaintance with Lord Rich, they promise if they are granted lands they will do loyal service to Rich or Cromwell.’

  ‘Lord Cromwell, Mark—’

  ‘And the high officials talk of nothing but which courtier may go to the block next, who will have their posts. I hate it, sir.’

  ‘What has brought this about? Is it what Jerome said? Do you fear ending up somehow like Mark Smeaton?’

  He looked at me directly. ‘No, sir. I have tried to tell you before how I feel about Augmentations.’

  ‘Mark, hear me. I do not like some of the things that are happening now any more than you. But - it is all to an end. Our goal is a new and purer realm.’ I got up and stood above him, spreading my arms wide. ‘The monastic lands, for example. You have seen what this place is like, these fat monks steeped in every heresy the pope ever devised, living on the backs of the town, becking and scraping to their images
when, given the chance, they would play the filthy person with each other, or young Alice, or you. It’s all coming to an end, and so it should. It’s a disgrace.’

  ‘Some of them are not bad people. Brother Guy—’

  ‘The institution is rotten. Listen: if Lord Cromwell can get these lands into the king’s hands then, yes, some will be given to his supporters. That is the nature of patronage, it is how society works, it is inevitable. But the sums are vast; they will give the king enough money to make him independent of Parliament. Listen, you feel for the plight of the poor, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is a disgrace. People like Alice thrown off their lands everywhere, masterless men begging in the streets—’

  ‘Yes. It is a disgrace. Lord Cromwell tried to put a Bill through Parliament last year that would truly succour the poor, set up almshouses for those who could not work and provide great public works for those without labour, building roads and canals. Parliament turned the Bill down because the gentry did not want to pay a tax on income to fund it. But with the wealth of the monasteries in the king’s coffers, he won’t need Parliament. He can build schools. He can pay to provide an English bible in every church. Imagine it, work for everyone, all the people reading God’s word. And that is why Augmentations is vital!’

  He smiled sadly. ‘You do not think, like Master Copynger, that only householders should be allowed to read the Bible? I have heard Lord Rich believes the same. My father is not a householder, they would not allow him the Bible. Nor am I.’

  ‘You will be one day. But no, I do not agree with Copynger. And Rich is a rogue. Cromwell needs him now, but he will ensure he rises no further. Things will settle down.’

  ‘Will they, sir?’

  ‘They must. They must. You need to think, Mark, you need to pray. I cannot - I cannot cope with doubts, not now. There is too much at stake.’

  He turned back to the fire. ‘I am sorry to vex you, sir.’

  ‘Then believe what I say.’

  My back ached. For a long time we were silent as dusk fell outside and the room slowly darkened. It was not a comfortable quietude. I was glad I had spoken so vigorously to Mark and I believed all I had said about the future I thought we were building. Yet as I sat there Jerome’s words came back to me, and his face, and my lawyer’s instinct told me that he had not been lying. But if everything he had said was true, then Reform was being built on an edifice of lies and monstrous brutality. And I was part of it all. Lying there, I was horrified. Then a thought came to comfort me. If Jerome was mad he might have come truly to believe in something that was only a fantasy in his head. I had known such things before. I told myself that must be the answer; what was more, I should cease from agonizing over this; I needed rest and a clear head for the morrow. In such ways do men of conscience comfort themselves against their doubts.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ALL AT ONCE Mark was shaking me awake; I must have fallen asleep lying there.

  ‘Sir, Brother Guy is here.’

  The infirmarian stood looking down at me; hastily I got to my feet.

  ‘I have a message, Commissioner. The abbot has the land deeds you requested and some correspondence he wishes to send out. He is on his way.’

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’ He looked at me intently, fingering the rope at the waist of his habit with long brown fingers.

  ‘I will shortly be going to the night service for Simon Whelplay. Commissioner, I feel I should tell what I suspect about his poisoning to the abbot.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet. His killer does not know murder is suspected and that may give me an advantage.’

  ‘But how am I to say he died? The abbot will ask.’

  ‘Say you are unsure.’

  He passed a hand across his tonsure. When he spoke again his voice was agitated.

  ‘But, sir, knowledge of how he died should guide our prayers. We should be asking the Lord to receive the soul of a slain man, not a sick one. He died without shrift or housel, that alone is a danger to his soul.’

  ‘God sees all. The boy will be admitted to heaven or no as He wills.’

  The infirmarian looked set to argue further, but just then the abbot entered. His old servant followed behind, carrying a big leather satchel. Abbot Fabian looked grey and worn, peering at us through tired eyes. Brother Guy bowed to his superior and left us.

  ‘Commissioner, I have brought the deeds of the four land sales made this last year. Also some correspondence - business letters and some personal letters from the monks. You asked to see correspondence before it went out.’

  ‘Thank you. Put the satchel on the table.’

  He hesitated, rubbing his hands together nervously. ‘May I ask how things went in the town today? Did you make progress? The smugglers—’

  ‘Some progress. My lines of enquiry seem to multiply, my lord Abbot. I also saw Jerome this afternoon.’

  ‘I trust he was not - not—’

  ‘Oh, he insulted me again, naturally. I think he should remain in his cell for the present.’

  The abbot coughed. ‘I have had a letter myself,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I have put it with those others; it is from an old friend, a monk at Bisham. He has friends at Lewes Priory. They say terms of surrender are being negotiated with the vicar general.’

  I smiled wryly. ‘The monks of England have their own communication networks, it was ever so. Well, my lord, I think I may say Scarnsea is not the only house with a mischievous history that Lord Cromwell thinks would be better closed.’

  ‘This is not a mischievous house, sir.’ There was a slight tremble in his deep voice. ‘Things went well and peacefully until Commissioner Singleton came!’ I fixed him with an affronted look. He bit his lip and swallowed and I realized I was looking at a frightened man, near the edge of his reason. I felt his sense of humiliation, his confusion as his world shook and trembled about him.

  He raised a hand. ‘I am sorry, Master Shardlake, forgive me. This is a difficult time.’

  ‘Nonetheless, my lord, you should mind your words.’

  ‘I apologize again.’

  ‘Very well.’

  He collected himself. ‘Master Goodhaps has made ready to leave tomorrow morning, sir, after Commissioner Singleton’s funeral. The night service will begin in an hour, followed by the vigil. Will you attend?’

  ‘Will there be a vigil over the two bodies together? The commissioner and Simon Whelplay?’

  ‘No, as one was in orders and the other a layman the services will be separate. The brethren will be divided between the two vigils.’

  ‘And will stand over the bodies all night, with blessed candles lit, their purpose to ward off evil spirits?’

  He hesitated. ‘That is the tradition.’

  ‘A tradition disapproved in the king’s Ten Articles of Religion. Candles are allowed for the dead only in remembrance of God’s grace. Commissioner Singleton would not have wanted superstitious powers imputed to his funeral candles.’

  ‘I will remind the brethren of the provision.’

  ‘And the rumours from Lewes - keep those to yourself.’ I nodded in dismissal and he left. I looked after him thoughtfully.

  ‘I think I have the upper hand there now,’ I told Mark. A cold shiver went through me. ‘God’s wounds, I’m tired.’

  ‘One could pity him,’ Mark said.

  ‘You think I was too hard? Remember his pompous manner the day we came? I need to stamp my authority; it may not be pretty, but it is necessary.’

  ‘When will you tell him how the novice died?’

  ‘I want to investigate the fish pond tomorrow, then I’ll consider where to go next. We can look through those side chapels as well. Come now, we should study those letters and the deeds. Then we should look in on the vigil for poor Singleton.’

  ‘I have never been to a night service.’

  I opened the satchel, and tipped a pile of letters and parchments over the table. ‘We should show respect, but I’m not joining in a
night’s worth of mummery about purgatory. You’ll see, it’s a strange affair.’

  THERE WAS NOTHING to take exception to in the letters; the business missives were routine, purchases of hops for the brewhouse and the like. The few personal letters from the monks to their families mentioned the death of a novice only as the result of an ague in the terrible weather, the same explanation the abbot gave in his formally mellifluous letter to the dead boy’s parents. I felt again a stab of guilt over Simon’s death.

  We looked over the land deeds. The prices seemed to be what one would expect for parcels of farmland and there was no evidence of sales at undervalue to curry political support. I would check with Copynger, but again I had the feeling that great care had been taken to make sure the monastery’s affairs were in order, on the surface at least. I ran my hands over the red seal at the bottom of each deed, impressed with the image of St Donatus bringing the dead man to life.