Revelation: A Matthew Shardlake Mystery (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘Thank you for taking on Adam Kite,’ I said.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Salvation panic. A strange obsession. How prone people are to become fixated on ideas, or religion, or people. And of course fanatic religion is everywhere. Perhaps the surprise is there are not more people like Adam.’ He turned his cup in his hand pensively.

  ‘A wherryman told me today that those huge fish they found in the river are the Leviathans, and foretell the second coming of Christ, the end of the world.’

  Guy shook his head. ‘There was only one Leviathan.’

  ‘So I thought.’

  ‘It has become a world of black and white, Matthew, a Manichean world where preachers encourage everyone to rush towards a conflict between good and evil. Each knowing, of course, that their own side is entirely in the right.’

  I smiled, inclined my head. ‘Protestants and Catholics alike?’

  ‘Yes. Do not forget my parents were moriscos, Moorish Spaniards made to leave Spain by the Inquisition. I too have seen the wildness that follows when fanatics without self-doubt gain power.’ He looked at me gravely. ‘But mark this. Whatever wrongs it has done, the Catholic Church has always believed in free will, that men by their actions as well as their faith may choose to come to God. This new Protestant radicalism will not allow for that, everyone is either saved or damned through God’s will, not free will. They may pray to be saved once and for all, may feel they are saved once and for all, but for them it is God’s decision, not man’s. And so we have Adam Kite, who thinks that God will not have him.’

  ‘And his wretched vicar, because he cannot cure him, believes he is possessed.’

  ‘It is a way of explaining failure.’

  ‘I never supported Luther on predestination, Guy. I was on Erasmus’ side in their debate on free will.’ I looked at him seriously. ‘I saw a nonlicensed preacher taken to St Paul’s in sackcloth and ashes this morning. Bonner is going to crack down on the Protestants, and they will not take it quietly. It is not going to be a good time for outsiders.’

  ‘Yes, you are right. With my dark face and monkish past, I am best to keep quiet and stay indoors when I can. And not talk too widely about the discoveries of Vesalius, still less this Polish scholar who says the earth goes round the sun. But what peace of mind is there even at home?’ he added, so quietly I barely heard him. His face was suddenly full of pain and sadness.

  ‘Are you all right, Guy?’ I asked quietly. ‘Have you some trouble of your own?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘Only the aches and pains of old age. And I have had enough of wine and should go to bed.’ He rose. ‘Good-night. ’

  ‘I shall tell Adam Kite’s parents you will see them. They will be relieved.’

  We shook hands and I left. I was glad we had parted on good terms after all. But I did not believe him when he said nothing was wrong.

  Chapter Eight

  NEXT MORNING I went to fetch Dorothy to accompany her to the inquest. She had not been out of doors since Roger’s death, and I was worried about how she would cope. Crossing Gatehouse Court I saw that as at Westminster the fountain’s underground valve had been turned and the water had come on; it splashed merrily into the huge bowl. The weather was still mild, the birds chirking in the trees. The world of nature was being reborn, though I could take no pleasure in it.

  Dorothy sat in her chair by the fire, the faithful Margaret beside her. Both were dressed in deepest black and wore coifs with long black wings behind, the pale oval of Dorothy’s face staring out starkly. I was reminded of that other mourner I had recently seen, Catherine Parr. Dorothy gave me a brave smile.

  ‘Is it time? Yes. I see from your expression that it is.’ She sighed, looking at the frieze above the fireplace. I followed her gaze. A weasel looked out at me from between thick wooden vines. ‘How lifelike that is,’ I said.

  ‘Ay, Roger was so fond of it. He was displeased with the repair of that corner after it was damaged.’

  ‘Are you sure you can bear this?’ I asked, looking at her white face and sunken cheeks.

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a touch of her old firmness. ‘I must see Roger’s killer caught.’

  ‘I will do the identification of the body, if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you. That - that might be too much.’

  ‘We shall take the boat to the Guildhall.’

  ‘Good.’ She hesitated, then asked suddenly, ‘What are they saying, in the streets?’

  ‘Just that there was a nasty murder here.’

  ‘If I hear anyone speak badly of Roger I shall fly at them.’

  ‘That’s the way, mistress,’ Margaret said approvingly. She helped Dorothy rise to her feet.

  THE GREAT PILLARED vestibule of the London Guildhall was as busy as usual. Unusually, a pair of constables in city livery were posted by the door. Within, council and guild officials scuttled to and fro. Some glanced curiously at a large group of black-robed lawyers gathered in a corner. I recognized the stern face of Treasurer Rowland; the others were all Lincoln’s Inn barristers - the jury. I was surprised that apart from Treasurer Rowland they were all very young; there was no one else there of any seniority. Some looked distinctly uneasy, as did the two students who had found the body and who stood on the fringe of the group. Guy stood a little apart, talking to Barak.

  Dorothy looked at the crowd, hesitated, then moved to a bench by the wall. She sat, signalling Margaret to join her. ‘We will wait here until the court opens,’ she told me. ‘I cannot face talking to anyone.’

  ‘Very well.’

  I crossed to Barak and Guy. ‘Good day, Matthew,’ Guy said. He looked across at Dorothy. ‘Is that the poor widow? She is very pale.’

  ‘It has cost her much to come today. But she is brave.’

  ‘Yes, one senses strength beneath her suffering.’ He nodded at Barak. ‘Jack here has noticed something strange.’

  ‘What?’

  Barak looked red-eyed, a little bilious. Had he had yet another night in the taverns? He leaned close; his breath was sour.

  ‘A spectacular death like this,’ he said, ‘you’d think there’d be a crowd here to fill the public gallery. But those constables are turning folk away.’

  ‘Really?’ That would be good for Dorothy, but it was unheard of; the coroner’s court, like all jury courts, was supposed to be public.

  ‘Brother Shardlake, a word.’ Treasurer Rowland appeared at my elbow. I followed him away from the group.

  ‘My clerk tells me no spectators have been allowed in,’ I said.

  ‘The usher says the coroners have decided the hearing is to be private, to prevent idle babble. I have never heard of such a thing.’

  We were interrupted by a black-robed usher calling from a doorway. I went back to Dorothy. She rose to her feet; lips set, a spot of red in each cheek. ‘Take my hand, Margaret,’ she said quietly. The jurors parted to let her enter the courtroom.

  WE HAD BEEN GIVEN one of the meeting rooms. Rows of benches faced the table where the two coroners already sat. The usher guided me, along with the other witnesses, to the front row and the jurors took the two rows behind. The rows where the public would have sat were empty. I studied the two coroners sitting at the table facing us. Browne slouched with his plump hands folded across his ample stomach. Next to him sat a very different man: in his early forties, short but strongly made, with a square face. Thick brown hair curled beneath his black cap and he had a short, neat beard just starting to go grey. He met my look; the gaze from his bright blue eyes was sharp, appraising.

  ‘That’s Sir Gregory Harsnet,’ Barak whispered. ‘The King’s assistant coroner. He used to be in Lord Cromwell’s camp, he’s one of the few reformers who’s kept his place.’

  Browne let out a little belch; Harsnet frowned at him and he turned another belch into a cough and sat up straight. No doubt who was master here. The doors were closed.

  ‘We will come to order, please.’ Harsnet spoke in a clear, quiet voice with a west country ac
cent, his eyes roving round the room. ‘We are here today to adjudicate on the sudden and dreadful death of Roger Elliard, barrister of Lincoln’s Inn. As the jurors are all lawyers I do not need to tell you that today we shall view the body, hear the evidence and decide whether we can come to a verdict.’

  The jury was sworn in, the young barristers stepping up to take the Testament from the usher. Then Harsnet addressed us again.

  ‘Before we view the body I would call Dr Guy Malton, who has been charged with examining it, to tell us what he found.’

  Guy stood and recited his impressive medical qualifications, the jurors staring curiously at his brown skin. He spoke of how he believed Roger had been rendered unconscious using the drug called dwale, then carried to the fountain where his throat had been cut.

  ‘He was alive when he went in,’ he said. ‘He died from a massive loss of blood, not drowning. That means’ - he hesitated - ‘that means his throat was cut, then he was held over the fountain until he died, and then was thrown in.’

  There was silence in the courtroom for a moment, as the full horror of the scene Guy described sank in. Then Harsnet asked, ‘How long was he dead before he was found?’

  ‘Some hours. Rigor mortis would be delayed by the cold.’ He looked at me. ‘And I believe a skin of ice had had time to re-form on the fountain.’

  ‘It had,’ I said.

  I glanced across Barak to Dorothy, who sat with Margaret on Guy’s other side. She was quite still, her face expressionless. She seemed smaller somehow, as though shrinking into those heavy black clothes.

  Harsnet frowned at Guy. ‘What object could anyone have in creating such a terrible spectacle? A man dead in a fountain of blood.’

  Guy spread his hands. ‘I cannot say.’ Again I thought, that phrase is familiar. A fountain of blood. But from where?

  ‘A ghastly thing.’ Harsnet shook his head; he looked troubled. He then rose slowly. ‘Jurors,’ he said quietly, ‘you will now accompany me to view the body. Dr Malton, please come too in case there are questions. I see a Brother Shardlake is to identify the body.’ He looked at me. ‘That is you?’

  ‘Yes, master coroner.’

  He gave me a long, considering stare. ‘How long did you know the deceased?’

  ‘Twenty years. I wished to spare his widow.’

  Harsnet looked at Dorothy. ‘Very well,’ he said quietly, and rose to lead us out.

  THE JURORS HAD little to say when the sheet was drawn back from Roger’s corpse. The incense someone had set to burn in the room could not hide the rising smell of decay. I closed my eyes at the sight of Roger’s poor face and though I did not pray often now I begged that his killer be caught, that I be given strength to play my part, and that this time at least God might listen to my plea. I opened my eyes to see one or two of the jurors looking green. Guy showed us the terrible wounds, explained the mechanisms of death again. No one had any questions, and we trooped back to the inquest room. Harsnet looked at us seriously.

  ‘What we have to determine today is how Roger Elliard died. Murder, clearly, but by whom? I would like to call Jack Barak.’

  He asked Barak a series of questions about the footprints he had followed.

  ‘The footsteps led to the fountain and then went back in the opposite direction.’ Barak said. ‘He was carrying something on the way in, not on the way back. The snow was melting fast but the impressions were quite clear.’

  Harsnet looked at him. ‘No ordinary man, surely, could carry an unconscious body as far as you have suggested.’

  ‘A very strong and determined man could.’

  ‘You used to work for Lord Cromwell, I believe?’ I wondered, how did Harsnet know that?

  ‘I did. Before I became a law clerk.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘This and that,’ Barak answered cheerfully. ‘As my master commanded. ’

  ‘Sit down,’ Harsnet said coldly, clearly not liking Barak’s attitude. Beside him, Coroner Browne gave a little smirk. He was taking no part in the proceedings, his presence evidently a mere formality.

  Other witnesses were called: the two boys, then I, to attest to the time and circumstances of the body’s discovery, then Treasurer Rowland. Asked about Roger’s state of mind, he replied clearly and precisely that he was a happy, cheerful man, respected in the profession, with many friends and no enemies anyone knew of.

  ‘He had one enemy,’ Harsnet said. ‘A vicious and clever one. This killing was planned, with patience and cunning.’ I looked at him. He was no fool. ‘Someone hated Roger Elliard,’ he continued. He turned to Rowland.

  ‘What about this solicitor who wrote to Master Elliard?’

  ‘Fictitious, sir. No one knows anything of a solicitor with the unusual name of Nantwich. I have made enquiries at all the Inns of Court. As no one else seemed to be doing so,’ he added, pointedly glancing at Browne. Harsnet frowned at him, but the crotchety old man was hard as teak and his eyes did not waver.

  ‘If I may remind the court of something?’ Guy stood and spoke quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ Harsnet snapped. I was puzzled. I could understand the coroner becoming a little annoyed by witnesses who kept speaking up, but Rowland’s point was not trivial, and Guy’s was unlikely to be.

  ‘Sir, even the most skilled physician would find it hard to gauge the dose of this drug. This man has at least a degree of specialized knowledge.’

  ‘He may have,’ Harsnet said. ‘But unfortunately that does not take us any further. In a case of savage vengeance such as this, I would expect there to be an obvious culprit, yet there seems to be none. With the delays necessitated by Easter, I find it hard to see how this murderer can be quickly caught.’

  I looked at him in surprise. It was not for a coroner to discourage investigation like this. I sensed he was uneasy with what he was saying. Browne gave a slight smirk, as though he had expected this outcome.

  ‘We must be realistic,’ Harsnet went on. ‘I foresee a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, and I fear that they may remain unknown.’

  I was astonished. This was blatant leading of the jury. Yet none of the young men who had been selected dared speak up.

  Then I heard a swish of skirts. Dorothy had risen to her feet and stood facing the King’s coroner.

  ‘I have not been asked to speak, sir, but if anyone has that right it is me. I will see my husband’s murderer caught, though it costs me all. With the help of faithful friends, I will.’ She was shaking from head to toe but her voice, though quiet, cut the air like a knife. With her last words she turned to me. I gave her a vigorous nod. She sat down.

  I expected some sort of explosion from Harsnet, but he merely sat with his lips pressed into a narrow line. His face had reddened. Browne was grinning at his discomfiture; I would have liked to rise and wipe that smirk from his froggy face. At length, Harsnet spoke.

  ‘I can make allowances for Mistress Elliard’s state of mind, I will not censure her. Perhaps we need more evidence before the jury can deliver a verdict. Therefore I will not ask it to deliver a verdict now; the matter will be left open while I undertake an investigation myself—’

  I rose to my feet. ‘With the help of the jury, sir, I take it. As is normal?’

  ‘A coroner may investigate without a jury if he feels it appropriate; as I do here. The jurors, like the deceased, are all lawyers. Less heat and more light will be generated if I act alone. Now sit down, sir.’

  I sat, but glared at him.

  ‘And now all of you note something, and note it well.’ Harsnet looked over the room. He spoke slowly, his accent noticeable. ‘I will not have the details of this case hawked around London. There is a royal order going out today banning the printing of any pamphlets on the subject. Everyone here is ordered to keep these matters secret, and discourage those who come to pry, as they will. There is too much loose talk in London now. That is my order, as the King’s deputy coroner, and anyone who disobeys it will be punished.’ Then he ros
e, Browne heaving himself to his feet beside him. ‘This inquest is adjourned sine die. It will be recalled when I have more evidence. Good morning, gentlemen.’ The usher opened the door, and the coroners left. There was an immediate babble of talk.

  ‘This has to be the devil’s work. Such a dreadful display, on a Sunday. This killer was possessed—’

  I stared round at the young fool of a juror who had spoken. Loose talk, indeed.

  ‘His unnatural strength. That is always seen in cases of possession—’

  Margaret turned to me. ‘We should get my mistress out of here.’ And indeed Dorothy looked as though she might faint. I rose and helped Margaret steer her out of the room. Her arm felt light as a bird’s; I wondered if she was eating. We led her to a bench and sat her down. Barak and Guy followed. Treasurer Rowland emerged, looking angry. I hoped he might come and offer some words of encouragement to Dorothy but he only gave me a nod and swept away, shoes clicking on the tiles; his concern was with the Inn’s reputation and power, not a grieving widow. Turning back to her, I reflected the Inn would want her out of her lodgings before long.

  She had closed her eyes, but now she opened them and heaved herself upright. She looked at each of us in turn: me, Margaret, Barak and Guy.

  ‘Thank you for your help, all of you, and for refusing to be swayed from the truth.’ She turned to me. ‘They won’t investigate, will they? They think the killer has got away, and it will be too much trouble.’

  ‘There’s something going on. Harsnet wanted the matter kept entirely to himself.’

  ‘Who is that man?’

  ‘I know nothing of him.’

  ‘They want it buried,’ she said bitterly. ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Come, Matthew, I was not married to Roger near twenty years without learning a good deal about the law. They want this dropped and forgotten.’

  ‘It looks like it.’ I shook my head. ‘If we waste more time the killer may never be found.’