by C. J. Sansom
‘What about the relic? Was it valuable?’
‘That horrible thing! A hand nailed to a piece of wood. It was in a big gold casket set with stones: they were real emeralds, I believe. It is believed to cure broken or twisted bones, but it’s just another fake to gull the foolish.’ For a moment his voice rose with a reformer’s ardour. ‘The monks are more upset about the relic than about Singleton’s murder.’
‘What do you think?’ I asked. ‘Who do you think could have done this?’
‘I don’t know what to think. The monks talk of Devil-worshippers breaking in to steal the relic. But they hate us, you can feel it in the very air. Sir, now you are here, may I go home?’
‘Not just yet. Soon, perhaps.’
‘At least I will have you and the boy here.’
There was a knock at the door, and the servant poked his head in.
‘The abbot has returned, sir.’
‘Very well. Mark, help me up. I am stiff.’ He aided me to my feet and I brushed myself down.
‘Thank you, Dr Goodhaps, we may talk again later. By the way, what happened to the account books the commissioner was studying?’
‘The bursar took them back.’ The old man shook his white poll. ‘How did it come to this? All I wanted to see was reform of the Church; how has it come to a world where these things happen? Rebellion, treason, murder. Sometimes I wonder if there is a way through it all.’
‘There is a way at least through the mysteries men make,’ I said firmly. ‘That I believe. Come on, Mark. Let us go and meet the good lord abbot.’
Chapter Six
THE SERVANT LED US down the staircase again and showed us into a wide room whose walls were hung with colourful Flemish tapestries, old but very fine. The windows looked over a large cemetery dotted with trees, where a couple of servants were raking away the last of the leaves.
‘My lord abbot is changing out of his riding clothes. He will be with you shortly.’ He bowed himself out, and we stood warming our rears at the fire.
The room was dominated by a large desk covered with a clutter of papers and parchments, a cushioned chair behind it and stools in front. The great seal of the abbey lay on a block of sealing wax in a brass tray, next to a flagon of wine and some silver cups. Behind the desk, bookshelves lined the wall.
‘I didn’t realize abbots lived so well,’ Mark observed.
‘Oh yes, they have their own separate households. Originally the abbot lived among the brethren, but when the Crown started to tax their households centuries ago they hit on the device of giving the abbot his own revenues, legally separate. Now they all live in fine state, leaving most of the daily supervision to the priors.’
‘Why doesn’t the king change the law, so the abbots can be taxed?’
I shrugged. ‘In the past kings needed the abbots’ support in the House of Lords. Now - well, it won’t matter for much longer.’
‘So that Scottish brute actually runs the place from day to day?’
I went behind the desk and examined the bookshelves, noting a printed set of English statutes. ‘One of nature’s bullies, isn’t he? He seemed to enjoy mistreating that novice.’
‘The boy looked ill.’
‘Yes. I am curious to know why a novice has been set to menial servants’ work.’
‘I thought monks were supposed to spend part of their time in manual labour.’
‘That is part of St Benedict’s rule. But no monk in a Benedictine house has done honest toil for hundreds of years. Servants do the work. Not only cooking and stabling, but tending the fires, making the monks’ beds, sometimes helping them dress and who knows what else.’
I picked up the seal and studied it by the light from the fire. It was of tempered steel. I showed Mark the engraving of St Donatus, in Roman clothing, bending over another man lying on a pannier whose arm was stretched up to him in appeal. It was beautifully done, the folds of the robes rendered in detail.
‘St Donatus bringing the dead man back to life. I looked it up in my Saints’ Lives before we left.’
‘He could raise the dead? Like Christ with Lazarus?’
‘Donatus, we are told, came upon a dead man being carried to his grave. Another man was berating the widow, saying the deceased owed him money. The blessed Donatus told the dead man to get up and settle his accounts. He sat up and convinced everyone that he had paid his debt. Then he lay down dead again. Money, money, it’s always money with these people.’
There were footsteps outside and the door opened to admit a tall, broad man in his fifties. Beneath his black Benedictine habit could be seen hose of wool velvet and silver-buckled shoes. His face was ruddy, with a Roman beak of a nose set in square features. His thick brown hair was long and his tonsure, a little shaven circle, the barest concession to the Rule. He came forward with a smile.
‘I am Abbot Fabian.’ The manner was patrician, the voice richly aristocratic, but I caught a note of anxiety underneath. ‘Welcome to Scarnsea. Pax vobiscum.’
‘Master Matthew Shardlake, the vicar general’s commissioner.’ I did not give the formal reply of ‘and with you’, for I was not to be drawn into Latin mummery.
The abbot nodded slowly. His deep-set blue eyes quickly swept my bent figure up and down, then widened a little when he saw I was holding the seal.
‘Sir, I beg you, be careful. That seal has to be impressed on all legal documents. It never leaves this room. Strictly, only I should handle it.’
‘As the king’s commissioner I have access to everything here, my lord.’
‘Of course, sir, of course.’ His eyes followed my hands as I laid the seal back on his desk. ‘You must be hungry after your long journey; shall I order some food?’
‘Later, thank you.’
‘I regret keeping you waiting, but I had business with the reeve of our Ryeover estates. There is still much to do with the harvest accounts. Some wine, perhaps?’
‘A very little.’
He poured me some, then turned to Mark. ‘Might I ask who this is?’
‘Mark Poer, my clerk and assistant.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Master Shardlake, we have very serious matters to discuss. Might I suggest that would be better done in confidence? The boy can go to the quarters I have prepared.’
‘I think not, my lord. The vicar general himself requested me to bring Master Poer. He shall stay unless I wish him to leave. Would you care to see my commission now?’
Mark gave the abbot a grin.
He reddened and inclined his head. ‘As you wish.’
I passed the document into his beringed hand. ‘I have spoken with Dr Goodhaps,’ I said as he broke the seal. His expression became strained and his nose seemed to tilt upwards as though the smell of Cromwell himself rose from the paper. I looked out at the garden, where the servants were making a fire of the leaves, sending a thin white finger of smoke into the grey sky. The light was starting to fade.
The abbot pondered a moment, then laid the commission on his desk. He leaned forward, clasping his hands.
‘This murder is the most terrible thing that has ever happened here. Accompanied by the desecration of our church, it has left me - shocked.’
I nodded. ‘It has shocked Lord Cromwell too. He does not want it noised abroad. You have kept silence?’
‘Totally, sir. The monks and servants have been told if a word is breathed outside these walls they will answer to the vicar general’s office.’
‘Good. Please ensure all correspondence arriving here is shown to me. And no letters are to go out without my approving them. Now, I gather Commissioner Singleton’s visit was not welcome to you.’
He sighed again. ‘What can I say? Two weeks ago I had a letter from Lord Cromwell’s office saying he was sending a commissioner to discuss unspecified matters. When Commissioner Singleton arrived, he astonished me by saying he wished me to surrender this monastery to the king.’ He looked me in the eye, and now there was defiance as well as anxiety in his g
aze. ‘He stressed he sought a voluntary surrender and he seemed keen to have it, alternating promises of money with vague threats about misconduct - quite without foundation, I must add. The Instrument of Surrender he wanted me to sign was extraordinary, containing admissions that our life here has consisted of pretended religion, following dumb Roman ceremonies.’ An injured note entered his voice. ‘Our ceremonies faithfully follow the vicar general’s own injunctions, and every brother has sworn the oath renouncing the pope’s authority.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Otherwise there would have been consequences. ’ I noticed he wore a pilgrim badge prominently on his habit; he had been to the shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham. But then, of course, so had the king in days past.
He took a deep breath. ‘Commissioner Singleton and I had a number of discussions, centring on the fact that the vicar general has no legal right to order my monks and me to make over the house to them. A fact which Dr Goodhaps, a canon lawyer, could not dispute.’
I did not answer him, for he was right. ‘Perhaps we could turn to the circumstances of the murder,’ I said. ‘That is the more pressing matter.’
He nodded sombrely. ‘Four days ago Commissioner Singleton and I had another long and, I fear, fruitless discussion in the afternoon. I did not see him again that day. He had rooms in this house, but Dr Goodhaps and he had taken to dining separately. I went to bed as usual. Then at five in the morning I was woken by Brother Guy, my infirmarian, bursting into my room. He told me that on visiting the kitchen he had found Commissioner Singleton’s body lying in a great pool of blood. He had been decapitated.’ The abbot’s face twisted with distaste and he shook his head. ‘The shedding of blood on consecrated ground is an abomination, sir. And then there was what was found in the church, by the altar, when the monks went in to Matins.’ He paused, a deep furrow appearing between his brows, and I saw he was genuinely upset.
‘And what was that?’
‘More blood. The blood of a black cockerel that lay with its head also off, before the altar. I fear we are dealing with witchcraft, Master Shardlake.’
‘And you have lost a relic, I believe?’
The abbot bit his lip. ‘The Great Relic of Scarnsea. It is rare and holy, the hand of the Penitent Thief who suffered with Christ, nailed to a fragment of his Cross. Brother Gabriel found it gone later that morning.’
‘I understand it is valuable. A gold casket set with emeralds?’
‘Yes. But I am more concerned with the contents. The thought of something of such holy power in the hands of some witch—’
‘It was not witchcraft that beheaded the king’s commissioner.’
‘Some of the brethren wonder about that. There are no implements in the kitchen that could strike a man’s head off. It is hardly an easy thing to do.’
I leaned forward, placing a hand on my knee. It was to ease my back, but it looked challenging. ‘Your relations with Commissioner Singleton were not good. You say he used to take supper in his room?’
Abbot Fabian spread his hands. ‘He was afforded every courtesy as an emissary of the vicar general. It was his preference not to share my dinner table. But please,’ he raised his voice slightly, ‘let me repeat, I abhor his death as an abomination. Indeed I would like to give his poor remains Christian burial. Their continued presence here makes my monks uneasy, they fear his ghost. But Dr Goodhaps insisted the body be kept for inspection.’
‘A sensible suggestion. Its examination will be my first task.’
He eyed me carefully. ‘Are you to investigate this crime alone, without involving the civil authorities?’
‘Yes, and speedily. But I expect your full co-operation and assistance.’
He spread his hands wide. ‘Of course. But, frankly, I do not know where you would begin. It seems an impossible task for one man. Especially if, as I am sure, the culprit came from the town.’
‘Why do you say that? I have been told the gatekeeper encountered Commissioner Singleton during the night. He said he was on his way to meet someone. And that a key is needed to open the kitchen door.’
He leaned forward earnestly. ‘Sir, this is a house of God, devoted to the worship of Christ.’ He bowed his head at the mention of Our Lord’s name. ‘Nothing like this has happened in the four hundred years it has stood. But in the sinful world outside - some lunatic or, worse, someone dabbling in witchcraft could have entered the grounds with desecration in mind. The spoliation of the altar makes that obvious to me. I think Commissioner Singleton surprised the intruder, or intruders, on his way to this assignation of his. As for the key, the commissioner had one. He had requested it from Prior Mortimus that afternoon.’
‘I see. Have you any idea whom he might have been meeting?’
‘I wish I had. But that information died with him. Sir, I do not know what violent madmen there may have been in the town lately, but certainly there are rogues enough; half the people are involved in smuggling wool to France.’
‘I will raise that tomorrow when I visit the town’s Justice, Master Copynger.’
‘He is to be involved?’ The abbot’s eyes narrowed. Plainly that did not please him.
‘He and no one else. Tell me, how long have you been abbot here?’
‘Fourteen years. Fourteen peaceful years, till now.’
‘But there were problems two years ago, were there not? The visitation?’
He reddened. ‘Yes. There had been some - backsliding. The old prior - there were corrupt practices, it happens even in the holiest of places.’
‘Corrupt and illegal.’
‘The old prior was removed, defrocked. The prior is, of course, responsible for the monks’ welfare and discipline under me. He was a crafty villain and kept his ill deeds well concealed. But now we have godly discipline again under Prior Mortimus. Commissioner Singleton did not deny that.’
I nodded. ‘Now, there are sixty servants here?’
‘We have a large complex of buildings to maintain.’
‘And - what - thirty monks?’
‘Sir, I cannot believe that one of my servants, let alone a monk devoted to the service of God, could have done this thing.’
‘All must be suspect at the start, my lord. After all, Commissioner Singleton was here to negotiate the surrender of the monastery. And for all that the pensions His Majesty is graciously offering are generous, I imagine some may take very unkindly to the prospect of the end of their life here.’
‘The monks were not told of his purpose. They know only that the commissioner was an emissary of the vicar general. I had Prior Mortimus put it about there was a problem with the title to one of the estates. At Commissioner Singleton’s specific request. Only my senior officials, the senior obedentiaries, knew his purpose.’
‘Who are they exactly?’
‘As well as Prior Mortimus there are Gabriel, the sacrist; Brother Edwig, our bursar; and Brother Guy, the infirmarian. They are the most senior and have all been here for years, save for Brother Guy who came last year. Since the murder there have been all sorts of rumours about why the commissioner was here, but I have kept to the story about a title dispute.’
‘Good. We shall hold to that arrangement for the present. Although the question of surrender is one I may wish to return to.’
The abbot paused, choosing his next words carefully.
‘Sir, even in these terrible circumstances I must insist on my rights. The Act dissolving the smaller houses said specifically that the greater monasteries were in good order. There is no legal basis to demand a surrender, unless the house has been guilty of some gross breach of the injunctions, which we have not. I do not know why the vicar general should want possession of this monastery. I have heard rumours that others are being asked to surrender, but I must say to you as I said to Master Singleton: I call on the protection the law affords me.’ He leaned back, his face red and his lips set, cornered but defiant.
‘I see you have a collection of statutes,’ I observed.
&
nbsp; ‘I studied law at Cambridge many years ago. You are a lawyer, sir, you know that observance of law is the basis of our society.’
‘So it is, but the law changes. New Acts have come, and others will follow.’
He looked at me without expression. He knew as well as I that there would be no more Acts dissolving monasteries by force while the country remained unsettled.
I broke the silence. ‘Now, my lord, I would be grateful if you could arrange for me to inspect poor Singleton’s body, which as you say is overdue for Christian burial. I will want someone to show me over the monastery, too, but perhaps that would be better done tomorrow. Dusk draws on.’
