‘You are not angry with me?’
‘No.’ I smiled. ‘I thought you were angry with me, over Bealknap. ’
‘Just irritated by him beyond measure. We women get cantankerous then.’
‘You will never be that, if you live to eighty.’
Dorothy reddened again. The light from the window caught the frieze, showing up the different colour of the poor repair. ‘It is a shame that discoloured patch draws the eye so,’ she said, shifting the conversation to mundane matters. ‘It used to annoy Roger terribly.’
‘Yes.’
‘The man who originally made it was such an expert. We contracted him again after that corner was damaged, but he was recently dead. His son came instead. He did a poor job.’
I took a deep breath, oddly reluctant to say what was in my mind.
‘The carpenter and his son. Do you - do you remember their names?’
She gave me a sharp look. ‘Why does that matter?’
‘One of the killer’s other victims also had a carpenter come to repair a damaged screen.’
Dorothy went pale. She clutched at her throat.
‘What was their name? The father and son?’
‘Cantrell,’ she said. ‘Their name was Cantrell.’
Chapter Forty-three
IRAN BACK to my house to fetch Genesis, then rode faster than I had for years, down Fleet Street and past the Charing Cross to Whitehall. My burned back throbbed and jolted with pain, but I ignored it. People stopped and stared and once or twice had to jump out of my way. I would have brought Barak, but Joan said he was still searching the streets for Tamasin. She looked upset; I knew she was fond of them both.
I managed to convince the guards at Whitehall Palace that my business was urgent. Harsnet had been in his office that morning but had gone over to the Charterhouse. Someone was sent to fetch him while I waited in his office. A servant lit a fire for me, giving me curious looks as I paced up and down.
It felt as if I waited an age. All the time I thought of what fresh horrors Cantrell might wreak. My first thought had been to go to his house myself with Barak, but even had Barak been at home he was still suffering from his injuries. I thought briefly of taking Philip Orr, but I did not wish to leave Joan and the boys unprotected. And this needed more than one man.
At last, in the early afternoon, Harsnet arrived. He looked utterly worn out. I had sat in the chair behind his desk but rose painfully to my feet as he entered.
‘What has happened, Matthew?’ he asked wearily. ‘Not another killing?’
‘No.’ He looked relieved.
‘I am sorry to fetch you back—’
‘There are problems at the Charterhouse,’ he said. ‘The engineer has repaired the mechanism of the wheel that opens the lock gates; it jammed when the watchman tried to open them with Lockley down there. But there is so much water backed up now he fears if he opens the gates its force could knock the doors off their hinges and set a flood running round the cellars of Charterhouse Square, all the way to Catherine Parr’s house.’ He looked out of the window; it was a sunny day again; I had hardly noticed. ‘At least the water level hasn’t risen any more in the Charterhouse quadrangle.’ He sighed.
‘I think I know who the killer is,’ I said.
He stared at me. I told him about the work Cantrell and his father had done at Roger’s house and Yarington’s. His eyes widened, he leaned forward. When I had finished he stood in thought.
‘We should act now, coroner,’ I said.
‘But Cantrell’s eyes?’ he said. ‘He is half blind. We have seen him. And according to the guard there he never goes out.’
‘What if his eyes weren’t as bad as he pretended? One may have difficulty in reading what is written on a jar yet see well enough to murder. And what better disguise than near-blindness? Where better to hide than behind those great thick lenses? And he never lets the guard into the house. He could get out without his knowledge.’
‘And he knew Lockley,’ Harsnet said. ‘And Goddard. And now, we know, Roger Elliard’s and Reverend Yarington’s houses. And he could have learned of people who had left the radical reformers’ circles when he was with his father’s group.’
‘Westminster is only a step away,’ I said.
‘I know where the constables live,’ he said, decisive now. ‘I could get two or three of them and we could go round there now.’
‘Before he strikes again.’
‘You think he will?’
‘I have always thought so, Master Harsnet.’
‘I agree. He is too tight in the devil’s grip for him to let him go.’
We Walked quickly down to Westminster. I chafed with impatience as I stood under the great belfry in the busy square, waiting while Harsnet went to find the constables. At length he reappeared, with three sturdy young men carrying staffs and wearing swords. Westminster was a rough place and the constables there tended to be young and strong.
We gathered in a circle. Harsnet told the constables we were hunting a suspected murderer, and he was dangerous. Then we walked down to Dean’s Yard. A little group of prostitutes standing talking in a doorway faded away at the constables’ approach. Harsnet lifted a hand to knock at Cantrell’s door. I stopped him.
‘No, leave two men here and we will go round the back and talk to the guard.’
‘Very well.’
Taking one of the constables, we stepped into the noisome little lane running alongside the house, our footsteps echoing against the narrow walls. The constable pushed open the gate to Cantrell’s yard.
It was empty, the door to the little shed shut. I went with Harsnet to the grubby rear window of the house and looked in. The tumbledown parlour inside was empty. The constable, meanwhile, opened the door of the shed. Then he laughed. We joined him and looked in at the sight of Cantrell’s guard sprawled on a heap of dirty sacks. He was fast asleep, and the smell from him told that he was drunk. The constable kicked him. ‘Wakey wakey,’ he said cheerfully. The man stirred, groaned and opened his eyes to find Harsnet glaring furiously down at him.
‘Is this how you guard your ward?’ he snapped. ‘The Archbishop shall hear of this.’
The guard struggled to sit up. A dripping tap caught my eye, set in the side of a large barrel. I lifted the lid and saw it was half full of beer. ‘He’s made sure there was temptation in his way,’ I said.
‘Where is he?’ Harsnet asked the wretched guard. ‘Cantrell? Is he in?’
‘I don’t know,’ the man mumbled. ‘He makes me stay out here. He won’t let me in, sir. That’s the problem. He’s not normal,’ he added sulkily.
‘You speak truer than you know, churl.’ Harsnet turned away. ‘Come on, let’s get in the house.’
We wasted no ceremony. At a gesture from Harsnet the constable smashed the recently repaired window to smithereens, and one after the other we stepped through. The drunken guard had staggered out into the yard and stood watching us, his face crumpling as he realized he was probably out of a job.
Inside, nothing but silence. ‘It’s like Goddard’s house again,’ Harsnet whispered. I noticed the bloodied piece of wood, which Cantrell said he had used to see off his assailant, propped against one wall. I wondered which of his victims he had struck with that.
‘Let’s get those men in from the front and search it,’ I said.
The constables were sent to look through the house. I told them to disturb nothing. They returned minutes later to confirm the place was empty.
‘Let’s see what we can find,’ I said to Harsnet.
There was nothing in the parlour, nor in the miserable-looking kitchen next to it, only dirt and pieces of bad food in a cupboard. We turned to the door that led off the parlour, which Cantrell had said had led to his father’s workshop. It was a stout oak door and it was firmly locked. It took two of the constables to break it down. Inside it was dark, the shutters drawn over the windows. In the lights from the parlour I saw stone flags, some sort of cart against one wall. We al
l hesitated for a moment on the threshold, then I stepped in and walked across to the window. I removed the bar across the shutters and opened them, light and noise from the street spilling in.
There were three large wooden chests against the wall. And I recognized that pedlar’s cart. I went over and touched the handle. Here he had carried his trinkets in his guise as a pedlar, and bodies too, unconscious or dead. I was suddenly full of anger, anger at what Cantrell had done and at myself too. ‘I was a fool,’ I said quietly.
‘Why?’ Harsnet asked. ‘He made fools of us all.’
‘For allowing myself to be so easily deceived, to see Cantrell as he wanted to be seen, as another of life’s victims.’
‘We must look in these chests,’ Harsnet said quietly.
‘I’ll take this one. You take that.’ I lifted the lid of the nearest chest, dreading what might be within. It was a pile of disguising clothes, tattered robes, fake beards and wigs too - a whole wardrobe.
‘Those must have cost money,’ Harsnet said, glancing over.
‘Some of them look old and well worn.’ I pulled out a colourful patchwork coat. ‘This is Joseph’s coat of many colours. I’ve seen others like it at disguisings. He wouldn’t need all of these.’
The chest Harsnet had opened contained bottles and jars of herbs and drugs, wrapped in rags. I opened them carefully. One stoppered bottle contained a thick, bitter-smelling yellow liquid. I lifted it out. ‘I think this is dwale.’
‘Where did he get it?’
‘Made it, I would think, from Master Goddard’s formula.’ I took another bottle, sniffed the contents carefully, then tipped a few drops on to the ground. The vitriol hissed and spat.
‘There can be no doubt now,’ Harsnet said.
‘No.’
‘Where did his raging fury come from?’ I asked.
‘It came from the devil,’ Harsnet said flatly. He looked at me. I shook my head.
‘That would make it simpler, I suppose. Easier to bear.’
‘Perhaps it is simple. You have thought too much on this man.’
‘I have had cause to. He killed my friend.’ I bent and opened the third chest, and we looked inside. There, under some cloths, lay a large flat wooden case. I recalled seeing something similar at Guy’s. I opened it, then stepped back with a gasp.
Inside the box, neatly laid out, were knives of different sizes, a little axe and even a small cleaver. Trays contained little hooks and pins, and pliers and tweezers of various sizes. The cleaver and some of the knives had blood on them, and a foul smell rose from the box.
‘Goddard’s surgical equipment,’ I said.
‘As I said, possession by the devil.’ Harsnet turned aside, his mouth twisting with disgust.
WE WENT UPSTAIRS. There were two bedrooms. One, which had been stripped bare of all furniture except an old bed, I guessed had belonged to Cantrell’s father. The other was his. There was an old truckle bed, and another chest, old and scarred, and a table with a large, heavy copy of the Bible in English set on it. The chest contained some of the poor clothes we had seen Cantrell wearing, and a rickety table and stool.
Harsnet had opened the Bible. ‘Look at what he has done here,’ he said quietly. I went over to him. He had opened the Testament at the Book of Revelation. The wide margins were filled with notes in red ink, in handwriting so tiny it was virtually illegible, though I made out words like vengeance, punishment, fire, etched in thickly and underlined. Turning over the pages I saw that all the passages dealing with the consequences of the angels pouring out the seven vials of wrath were likewise underlined: a noisome and grievous sore, the rivers and fountains of water . . . became blood, they gnawed their tongues for pain.
‘What a blasphemy.’ Harsnet’s voice trembled as I had not heard it tremble even at the worst things we had seen. I picked up the Bible and flicked through it. Passages here and there, like the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, were also marked, but virtually none of the New Testament apart from Revelation and, I realized, only a part of Revelation: the seven vials of wrath and then immediately afterwards the chapter on the judgement of the Great Whore.
‘Look at the underlinings here,’ I said. ‘More even than in the passages about the pouring of the vials. Does this give us the clue to what he means to do next?’
‘That book is tainted,’ Harsnet said. ‘Polluted.’
‘The Great Whore. Who does he think she is?’
‘She is symbolic of the Pope and Babylon of Rome,’ Harsnet said. ‘We know that now.’
‘St John of Patmos did not when he wrote this book.’
‘That is what he foresaw,’ Harsnet said firmly. ‘It is quite clear to those who study well.’
‘That is not what Cantrell saw. No, he will have someone closer than the Pope in mind.’
Harsnet was silent for a moment. Then he turned to me. ‘Where is he now, Matthew?’ he asked quietly. ‘I confess I am afraid.’
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and one of the constables appeared.
‘There is an old woman downstairs says she knows Cantrell,’ he said.
I looked at Harsnet. ‘The neighbour.’
We went downstairs to find the old crone who had spoken to me the first time I visited Cantrell standing on the doorstep, peering round the large constable who stood in her way. She smiled a toothless grin when she recognized me.
‘Ah, master lawyer, sir. We spoke before. I saw something was going on. Has anything happened to Charlie?’ Her eyes were alive with curiosity.
‘He is not here. We are seeking him.’
‘In connection with a crime,’ Harsnet added grimly. ‘What do you know about him?’
‘I live a few doors down. I was friends with Charlie’s father, till he got religion and was too pure to speak to the likes of me. What’s Charlie supposed to have done?’ she repeated, trying to peer round us into the house again. She shook her head. ‘He’s not up to doing anything serious, he’s a poor weak creature.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Jane Beckett.’
‘Come, Jane,’ I said. ‘I want to ask you a couple of questions.’
‘So you want to talk to me this time.’
The old woman wrinkled her nose as I led her into the parlour. She followed me into the old workshop, and now sadness did cross her face. ‘Look at this place now,’ she said. ‘So sad and empty. Adrian kept it so neat, and it was always full; he never lacked work.’
I opened the chest full of clothes. ‘Do you know where these might have come from? There are a lot of them.’ I picked out the coat of many colours.
The old woman nodded. ‘Ah, yes, those are Adrian’s. He built up quite a collection. He used to work for the stage companies. Got contracts to build the sets for open-air performances. Built one at Hampton Court once, for a disguising before the King. He used to lend out costumes as well.’ She looked at me. ‘He was a good businessman, you know. These things are worth money, they shouldn’t be left lying here.’
‘Did Adrian ever take his son to the performances?’
‘Charlie? Yes, when he was small. He used to love them. It was the only time you saw him happy. If it was something local a lot of the neighbours would go. I think Charlie wanted to be an actor, but he didn’t have the skill for it, or anything else, so he went for a monk instead.’ She laughed contemptuously, then turned back to me and said seriously, ‘But Adrian had such skill, he could make pulleys that could make wooden dragons he built move across the stage as though they were real.’ She stroked the coat with a skinny hand, then replaced it in the box. When she looked up her eyes were sharp with curiosity again. ‘What’s he done then, useless Charlie?’
‘Never mind that,’ Harsnet said.
A thought struck me. ‘How did Adrian Cantrell die?’
‘Fell down the stairs one night, according to what Charlie said. Broke his neck.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Still, according to that hot-gospelling religion he believed in, he’s gone straigh
t to Heaven. What’re those things in that chest? Those aren’t Adrian’s.’
I steered her away from the instruments and led her back outside; she was clearly disappointed that I would not tell her more. In the doorway I asked her, ‘That cart in the workshop? Was it Adrian Cantrell’s?’
‘Ay. He used to take things to customers in it.’
A thought struck me. To get from Westminster up to Hertfordshire, Cantrell must have a horse.
‘What became of his horse?’ I asked.
‘I thought Charlie must have sold him.’
‘What did it look like?’
She shrugged. ‘Brown, with a white triangle down its nose.’
‘You never saw him going in or out of there with a horse and cart?’
‘Him that can hardly see?’ She snorted. ‘No. I saw him going out to buy something once or twice, shrinking against the wall, feeling his way along it.’
‘Ever see him go out at night?’
She laughed. ‘I shouldn’t have thought that was very likely. Anyway, I got to bed early and lock my doors. It is not safe around here. Look, sir, what’s this all about—’
‘It doesn’t matter. Thank you.’ I gently closed the door on her and turned to Harsnet. ‘So he learned about acting,’ I said quietly. ‘Perhaps even as a boy he needed to act to appear like a normal man. I wonder if he killed his father. I wonder if that was when he learned what he truly wanted to be.’
‘Such speculation does not get us anywhere,’ Harsnet said.
‘No. You are right.’
‘What about that horse?’ Harsnet asked.
‘He must have one.’
‘Can he see to ride?’
‘I begin to think he has greatly exaggerated that eye trouble of his. He has to be able to ride to get to Goddard’s house.’ I turned to the stairs. ‘I want to have another look at his Bible, those underlined passages. See if I can wring some meaning from his scribblings.’
‘I’ll come up with you.’
Harsnet was too blinkered to give me any serious help. ‘No, thank you, Gregory. I work best alone.’
I CLIMBED the stairs again. It was strange to sit at Cantrell’s desk, beside his bed, the room silent apart from the noises from the street. I sat down, held my head in my hands and bent over the book. Like a lawyer trying to get inside an opponent’s mind through the text of an affidavit, I searched for what Cantrell might see here, what final enemy was to be destroyed. My mind tumbled and turned the words of the short chapter. ‘I will shew unto ye the judgement of the great whore . . . with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication . . .’ On to where the angel said she would explain her mystery to the saint: ‘And the beast that was, and is not, even he is the eighth, and is of the seven, and goeth into perdition.’