by C. J. Sansom
'Dr Gurney had no enemies either. I have his list.' He produced a paper from his coat and we stood together to read. Dr Gurney had some courtiers and prominent London merchants among his patients, I saw. Lord and Lady Latimer's names were there. It was as comprehensive a list as mine, but there were no names that matched.
'Nothing.' Harsnet frowned. 'If I may keep your list?'
'Of course.'
He rolled both documents up, putting them in his coat. 'Yet those men had so much in common — religion, professional status, even their size. What made this monster choose them?'
'I do not know. But I wondered—'
'Yes?' His look was eager, anxious.
'Whether there might have been any other killings. We are on the borders of Kent and Surrey here. The coroners do not always liaise and are not always efficient. Like Coroner Browne.'
Harsnet nodded agreement. 'You are right, sir, thank you.' He gave me an approving look. 'I will speak to the other coroners.'
'I know of at least one strange killing this side of the river recently. One of my clients told me. I thought I might ask him for details.'
'Yes. Good idea. Thank you.' He raised his eyebrows, took a long deep breath. 'And now we must walk over to Lambeth. The man who found the body will meet us there.'
WE WALKED ALONG the south bank. Soon the houses gave way to wide marshes, high green reeds waving in the breeze among deep stagnant pools. Here and there patches of higher ground were cultivated, fields of vegetables laid out beside little mud-and-daub houses the cottars had built. It must be a lonely life out here.
'Archbishop Cranmer speaks highly of you,' Harsnet said. 'He said that but for a treacherous servant you might have saved Lord Cromwell from falling, three years ago.'
'That is kind of him. Though I prefer to avoid such matters these days.'
'You do this for your friend, for honour.' He nodded. 'Well, that is a godly thing. There is little honour among the circles I move in, at court.'
I found I was warming to him despite our bad beginning. 'Have you been the King's coroner long?' I ventured.
'Only the assistant. Most of my work is with deaths in London. I got my post six years ago.' He looked at me seriously. 'In Lord Cromwell's time, God rest him. These days are hard for reformers. We hang on by our fingertips.'
'I saw a butcher taken into custody on the way here. His wife said it was for selling meat in Lent.'
He nodded slowly, and I saw he looked worried. 'The order went out to the constables this morning to seize all butchers suspected of selling meat in Lent. They will be asked, none too gently, to inform on their customers. So those who place their faith in the word of God rather than ancient dietary rules will find themselves under arrest. That is how Bonner will prosecute us this time.' He gave a harsh smile that made his face look unpleasant. 'Though they may find some fish caught in their net they would rather not swallow. The Earl of Surrey is charged with Lent-breaking, the Duke of Norfolk's son. Have you read any of his poetry?'
'I fear not.' I knew though that the son of a principal figure in the conservative faction was a religious radical as well as a poet.
'He has written a new poem in prison. About London.' Harsnet quoted:
Oh member of false Babylon!
The shop of craft! The den of ire!
Thy dreadful doom draws fast upon
Thy martyr's blood, by sword and fire.
I thought of Roger, quoting Roderick Mors. For a second his face appeared to me again. I sighed and looked at Harsnet. 'Surrey sees London as the Babylon referred to in the Book of Revelation, then?'
'Which will be destroyed when God comes to judge the world.' He studied me, watching for my response.
'I thought people said Babylon was Rome. But I was never able to make much sense of Revelation.'
Harsnet inclined his head. 'If you study it properly, you see that God does not just foretell how the world will end, but when.' When I did not respond he smiled again, sadly.
'It's quiet here,' Barak said, breaking the silence that followed.
I nodded. The path was empty apart from us; to our left the river was at low tide, occasional gurgles and pops coming from the mud. To our right the wind hissed and clacked in the reeds. Across the river, the wharves and houses of London, Surrey's 'den of ire'.
'It will be busy enough when the working day gets going,' Harsnet observed. 'People will be walking and riding on this path all day.' He turned to me again. 'The Archbishop said you were acting for Adam Kite. How is he?'
'Very disturbed in his mind. You know of the case?'
‘I have met the family once or twice at meetings. His vicar and mine are friends. They seemed sober, honest folk.'
'They are.' I wondered if he meant illegal Bible-study meetings.
'I know Reverend Meaphon fears Master Kite may be possessed,' Harsnet said seriously. 'In any event, I think he is better where he is. If he were to make a spectacle of himself again, Bonner might make a spectacle of him. On top of a fire.'
'There, sir,' I answered feelingly, 'I agree.'
WE WERE NOW coming to where the river turned south to Westminster. On the river the wherries had begun work, white sails bobbing on the grey Thames. A bank of cloud had risen, covering the sun. On our side, the low mudbanks were dotted increasingly with pools of water left by the tide. Ahead, standing in the mud by a small pool, we saw a lonely figure outlined against the sky: an elderly labouring man in a grey smock, a wide leathern hat on his head. As we approached he studied us with narrow, frightened eyes set in a weatherbeaten face. Harsnet stepped down from the path into the mud. It quivered as his boots sank in six inches.
'Careful, sir!' Barak called. 'That mud can suck you in!' We followed him carefully to where the old man stood. The pool beside him was circular, shallow, perhaps twenty feet in diameter.
'How now, Wheelows,' the coroner said. 'Have you been here long?'
The labourer bowed low, wincing as he rose. Trouble with his back, I thought sympathetically. 'Half an hour, sir. I don't like it here. It reminds me. And I keep feeling I'm being watched.' He cast scared eyes over the reedbanks on the other side of the path. It was indeed a dismal spot.
'Well, we won't need to trouble you again after this,' Harsnet said. He indicated in my direction. 'This gentleman is helping my investigation. I want you to tell him exactly what happened when you found Dr Gurney's body.'
A look of irritation crossed Wheelows' face. 'I've told the story so many times—'
'Then tell it once more,' Harsnet said, smiling but firmly.
'It was three weeks back, when the snow was still thick on the ground. I was going to Southwark to work, there's new houses going up along the Croydon Road—'
'Where do you live?' I asked.
'Westminster village. I was coming along the path at first light. The river was frozen but the tide still ran and would seep out under the ice and make tidal pools as usual. I was walking along and something caught my eye. One of the pools was a strange colour. I looked and saw it was red, bright red. I couldn't believe it at first. Then I saw a dark shape floating in it, and I went down to look.'
'Were there footprints?' Barak asked.
‘Ay.'
'What were they like? Large, or small?'
'Quite large, I'd say.' He shook his head. 'That red pool, standing out against the white snow, it was like something from a nightmare. It turned my stomach.'
'The pool is much larger than the fountain,' I observed. 'Yet it was stained red.'
'You'd be surprised how little blood it takes to turn water red,' Barak said.
Harsnet looked at him in surprise. 'That is strange knowledge for a law clerk. But of course, you worked for Lord Cromwell.'
'So I did,' Barak answered. I saw old Wheelows narrow his eyes. Cromwell's name could still bring fear, even now.
'So he walked here with the body, dumped it and walked back,' I said.
Wheelows looked frightened. 'I heard there was anot
her one, similar, over at Lincoln's Inn.'
'You must keep your mouth shut about that,' Harsnet said sternly.
'I know I must, master,' Wheelows answered resentfully. 'Or end in Marshalsea Prison. You told me.'
'Then carry on with your story.'
'There was a place beside the pool where all the snow was churned up. There was blood there too,' Wheelows said. Where he cut the doctor's throat, I thought. I looked at the pool. The wind made little ripples on the surface.
'What did you do next?' I asked the old labourer gently.
'I went into the pool, turned the body over. I saw it was a gentleman by his clothes. His face was white as bone, was no blood left in him. I saw what had been done to his throat.'
'What was the expression on his face?'
Wheelows gave me a sharp look. 'No one's asked me that before. But it was strange. He looked peaceful, as if he was asleep.' Dwale, I thought. 'So, what did you do then?'
'I ran to Southwark, to find the coroner. I know that's what you must do if you find a body.' He glanced at Harsnet. 'Then ever since I've had gentlemen questioning me, pressing me to keep it all a secret.'
'There is good reason,' I said.
'So make sure you do as you're told.' Harsnet took a shilling from his pocket and passed it to Wheelows. 'All right, you can go.'
The old man bowed quickly to us, cast a last frightened look over at the marshes, then clambered grunting through the mud to the path. He walked rapidly off towards Westminster. Harsnet watched him go. 'I didn't like locking him up,' he said. 'But we had to scare him to keep him silent.'
I nodded, then stared into the tidal pool. 'It's just like Roger. The doctor was lured to a meeting with someone, drugged, then carried out here. His throat was slit and he was dumped in the pool. People walk along this path every day, more when the river was frozen and the wherries weren't running. If the old man hadn't come on the body early it would have made another—' I hesitated — 'spectacle.'
Harsnet looked down the path. 'But how could he drag the body out here? Dr Gurney wouldn't have met anyone on this path at night, surely.'
I nodded at the river. 'People were walking across the ice then. It was very thick. I would guess the killer met Dr Gurney on the far bank, drugged him there and hauled him over here.' I shook my head. 'The killings identical, the men so similar in many ways. What is it that links them?'
'He must have timed it right at low tide,' Barak said. 'Like now. When the sea tide rose under the ice the bloodied water would have leaked out underneath and covered the shore, and the pool.'
Sea tide. Water turned to blood. Words snagged at my mind, as had the Treasurer's about a fountain turned to blood. I knew those phrases. But from where?
Then Barak leaned in close to us. 'Don't look round, but there's someone watching. On a patch of higher ground behind us. I saw a head outlined against the sky, just for a second. The old man was right.'
'Are you sure?' I asked.
'I'm going after him.' The light of excitement was back in his eyes.
I put a hand on his arm. 'It's all marsh. You don't know how deep the mud and water are.'
'I'll risk that,' Barak turned, ran across the path and plunged into the reeds. There was a great splashing and the water came up to his thighs, but he ploughed on. Harsnet and I stared. About fifty yards away a green-covered knoll rose from the reeds. For the merest second I saw a head outlined against the grey sky, then it was gone.
'I'm going to follow,' Harsnet said. I had to admire the way the coroner threw himself into the reeds after Barak, mud splashing on his fine coat. I followed in his wake, gasping at the chill of the muddy water against my legs.
Ahead, we saw Barak step on to dry land. He stood outlined against the sky, looking around. 'Shit!' he said loudly.
I followed Harsnet up on to the small knoll. Barak was looking out over the marshes. It was dotted with cottars' cottages in the distance but between us and them lay a wide bare expanse of waving reeds.
'I thought if I got up here and he ran, I could see where he went,' Barak said. 'But he's vanished.'
'But where to?' Harsnet stared out across the wide empty land' scape. 'It's not been a few minutes, we should see him running.'
'I'd guess he's lain down somewhere in those reeds,' I said. 'They're perfect cover.'
'Then we wait,' Harsnet said in clipped tones. 'No man could stand lying out among those reeds for long. The water's freezing.'
'Look at this.' Barak was pointing at something on the ground. A rough pallet of straw. He put his hand to it.
'It's still warm,' he said. 'He's been lying here watching us.'
Harsnet frowned. 'Then he knew we were coming. But how; How?' His eyes roved over the marshes, looking for movement. But there was nothing. I shivered. Was the killer lying out there in the freezing mud and water, watching us? Harsnet took a deep breath. 'I will not stir from this spot till dusk. He has to move sooner or later.' He looked at Barak. 'Good, you brought your sword.'
Barak looked at the sky, a deeper grey now. 'I think it will rain.'
'All the better to drive him out.'
The three of us waited, watching the marshland below. Occasionally a waterbird started up with a clatter of wings, but otherwise we saw no movement, even when a heavy shower came and soaked us all. I was becoming uncomfortable and my back hurt. How much worse the discomfort must be for someone lying down out there.
Harsnet looked at me, probably thinking I would be of little use in a tussle. 'You go,' he said. 'Barak and I can deal with this.' Barak was sitting down on the pallet, but the coroner stood like a rock.
'Do you want me to fetch some more men?' I asked. 'Search the reeds?'
'No. He could be anywhere in there. It could take hours. We will wait till he moves. If Barak might stay here.'
'Of course.'
I left them to their vigil, wading back to the path. A couple of early passers-by stared in astonishment as I appeared, my robe and boots mud-spattered. I cast a look back at the little knoll, where Harsnet stood outlined against the sky, a waiting, avenging angel.
Chapter Twelve
AN HOUR LATER I walked through the Bedlam gates and approached the long building. This time, from somewhere within I heard two people shouting, the words indistinguishable. I did not want to enter. A monstrous killer and a deranged boy; it seemed as though this past fortnight I had left the world of normal behaviour, normal passions, behind, and entered a strange, terrifying new country. I remembered the companionable warmth of that last dinner with Roger and Dorothy. Now Roger was dead and Dorothy a shadow of herself, leaden with grief. I worried about her constantly. I thought of Barak and Harsnet waiting out there in Lambeth marshes, and prayed they would catch Roger's killer. It had been somehow terrifying, the contrast between the violence of the second identical, horrible death and the still emptiness of the marsh where the killer lay — unless it was some stranger who had chosen to camp on that knoll; but that seemed implausible.
On the doorstep of the madhouse I took a deep breath, then knocked. Keeper Shawms himself answered; perhaps he had been watching my approach from a window. He had a grim expression on his hard face. The shouting was louder now. 'Let me go, let me go, you churls.' There was a clash of chains.
'Oh, you're here, then,' he said. 'I've had notification of a hearing at the Court of Requests, about my care of Adam Kite. It's next week, the fourth.'
'Good,' I said. 'They've let you know. It is to ask you to report on him regularly.'
'I've got no time to go running to courts. You're saying I don't take care of him.'
I bent close to him, catching an odour of foul breath and drink. 'Nor do you, rogue. But the court order will ensure you will. Now let me in, I have to see my client.'
He stood back, surprised by the anger in my voice. I stepped past him, feeling the better for snapping. The shouting was louder now.
'There's a man who says he's a doctor waiting for you,' Shawms said. 'Skin
as dark as coal. As if it's not enough having that madwag boy upsetting everyone, now you have to bring a blackamoor here to affright Christian folk. The Chained Scholar saw him pass, though, in that robe of his. Thought it was the Cambridge don who denied him a post, burned black in Hell and returned from the grave to torment him.' He paused, and then said, 'Come and see, sir, see what I have to contend with!'
He stumped off down the corridor. I followed him, reluctantly, but thought again that I should know as much as possible about what went on here.
A viewing hatch was open in one of the last rooms in the corridor. Through it I saw Hob Gebons and another keeper struggling to chain a middle-aged man in a dirty white shirt and black hose. He had a long, ascetic face beneath thinning brown hair. He was quiet now, panting with exhaustion. The two keepers had shackled his hands together before him, and one was manacling his ankle to a chain on the floor. I shuddered, for the sight brought back my brief but terrifying experience of the Tower of London.
'Is this necessary?' I asked Shawms.
There was a clinking sound as the man turned to look at us. His eyes widened as he saw the lawyer's robe beneath my coat. In a second his face went wild, and he tried to break free of the warders and fly at me. 'A lawyer now,' he yelled. 'First Pellman's ghost and now the devil sends a lawyer to torment me!'
'Stay still,' Gebons growled. 'Madwag!' He turned to the door. 'Please close the hatch, Master Shawms.' Shawms nodded, closed the door and turned to me. 'You see what I have to deal with? He'd scratch your face off if he could. His family pay for him to be kept here, or God knows what he would do. Now, I'll take you to see Dr Malton. I put him in the parlour so the patients could have a gawp at him. The ones in there are all right,' he added. 'They're not violent.' I followed him, still shocked by the scholar's savage lunge.
THE PARLOUR was full today. The old woman Cissy sat in her corner sewing, while a man and two women played cards at a table. It was a normal enough scene. The keeper Ellen, who had been with Cissy before and had said she would never leave the Bedlam, was not there. I was disappointed, for she had intrigued me. Guy sat on a stool by the fire, ignoring the curious looks Cissy and the card-players gave him, his brown hands folded in his lap. He seemed, as he occasionally did in company which might be hostile, to have retreated quietly into himself.
