Revelation: A Matthew Shardlake Mystery (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)

by C. J. Sansom

  Guy rose and inclined his head to me. I followed him outside. His expression was very angry.

  ‘Will you fetch the keeper here?’ he asked me. ‘The woman, not that oaf who is in charge?’

  ‘Very well.’ I went up the corridor to the parlour. Here all was quiet again, Cissy sewing and the card-players gaming. Ellen had joined them at the table. I saw that Jane’s face was red with tears. When she saw me she buried her head in her hands.

  ‘Mistress Ellen, Dr Malton would like a word,’ I said awkwardly. The keeper rose, keys jangling at her waist, and led me outside.

  ‘I am sorry for Jane’s exhibition,’ she said, looking at me seriously.

  ‘She is sorry now. But I am afraid the patients’ disturbing ways are a penalty of being a visitor.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘We will have to watch her today, or she may hurt herself.’

  Guy was in the corridor, looking through the viewing hatch. He turned to Ellen with a smile. ‘My friend says you have been kind to Adam.’

  Ellen reddened. ‘I try to be.’

  ‘He is very ill.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’

  ‘It is vital he is kept locked up, he must not get out or he would make another exhibition of himself. But it is very important he is kept clean, and made to take food even if he struggles. And try, but only very gently, to distract him with practicalities, the need to eat and keep warm and so forth.’

  ‘As though he were mopish or melancholy, and needed to be lifted from his dumps? But it is much worse than that with Adam, sir.’

  ‘I know. But can you do that? Will the other keepers help you?’

  ‘Some will and some won’t, sir. But I’ll tell Keeper Shawms those are your instructions.’ She smiled sardonically. ‘He is afraid of Serjeant Shardlake.’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’ Guy clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Now come, Matthew, let us find somewhere to talk. For once I feel in need of strong drink.’

  We Found a tavern nearby. I went to the bar-hatch and returned with a bottle of wine and two mugs. Guy was sitting frowning, preoccupied. ‘That boy Adam noticed my colouring,’ he said suddenly. ‘There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes.’

  ‘Yes. I saw that.’

  ‘That gives me hope, that and getting him to talk, even if only for the shortest while. Because it shows he can be distracted from that praying.’

  ‘It is terrible seeing him. That story of being driven into Hell . . .’

  ‘He is suffering as much as anyone I have ever seen. Despair.’ He frowned.

  ‘That place . . .’ I shook my head.

  ‘Some, if they have no family to take care of them, are better off in the Bedlam. Otherwise they would beg in the cities or roam as wild men in the woods. Enough do. And Adam would be in danger outside.’

  ‘What did you think of him? His case seems desperate. Hopeless.’ Guy pondered again. Then he said, ‘Let me ask you something. What do you think Adam Kite feels about himself?’

  ‘That he is abandoned by God.’

  ‘That is what he feels about God. But about himself?’

  ‘That he is unworthy of God’s love.’

  ‘Yes. He is a self-hater. And there have been self-haters since the world began, people who believe they are unlovable.’

  ‘We must fight such notions with reason,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come, Matthew.’ Guy smiled. ‘If only it were so simple. Our minds are ruled by passions more than reason. And sometimes they run out of control.’ His eyes went blank for a moment, as they had been when he was sitting in the parlour, as though he were looking inward. He frowned, then continued. ‘And why? Sometimes we learn to hate ourselves from early on.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ As I had learned, through insults and rejection as a child, that to many my form was frightening and shameful.

  ‘And these radical churchmen must hate themselves more than anyone. Despite their ranting, they feel they are quite unworthy. If they are saved from Hell it is only through God’s mysterious grace.’

  ‘When the end of the world comes. Any minute now, a lot of them say.’

  ‘There have always been churchmen forecasting the imminent Apocalypse. Though many more now amongst the radical congregations. And Adam was brought up in that setting. How did his parents say his illness started?’

  I told him what the Kites had related to me, that Adam had been a happy, outgoing child, until a while ago he became increasingly preoccupied, and thus descended to his present state. ‘They are good folk,’ I concluded. ‘They are under the sway of their minister, a canting dogmatist called Meaphon, but concern for their son is leading them towards an independent stand, especially Adam’s mother.’

  ‘I should like to meet them.’ Guy stroked his chin. ‘Something happened, something specific brought this on, I am sure. His dream is a clue. The people he saw from that coach said, “He is so bad, he is being taken to the depths.” And I think he did know who was driving that coach in his dream. If I can find out who that was, that may help us on the path to saving him.’

  ‘You can set too much store by dreams, Guy.’

  ‘They are a guide to understanding. A way.’ He shook his head. ‘Strange to hear that poor pallid creature was once a strong, happy youth. But madness can distort the body as well as the mind.’

  ‘Will you visit him again?’ I asked.

  ‘If you and his parents wish.’

  ‘Yes.’ I looked at him curiously. ‘I did not know that you had worked with the mad.’

  ‘It was part of an infirmarian’s duties. And diseases of the mind have always interested me. Perhaps because there are so many different types, and no clear view as to what they are. There are those who say they are caused by an imbalance in the humours, a rush of bad humours to the brain.’

  ‘Like corrupted black bile rising to the brain and causing melancholy? ’

  ‘Yes. Others see mental illness as caused by physical disorders in the brain, though no one has ever found any that I know of, apart from tumours, which kill.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And then there are those, like your friend Meaphon, who see some madness as possession by devils, which must be driven out.’

  ‘And which school do you incline to?’

  ‘I belong to another tradition, Matthew. The tradition of Vesalius, although he has had many intellectual forebears. An approach that starts not with the theory but with the disorder; examines it, studies it, tries to understand what it is. The crazy words and actions of the mad may hold secret clues to what is happening in their minds. And even with the mad one can sometimes use reason, commonsense.’

  ‘That old woman we saw in the parlour, Cissy, Ellen seems to treat her in that way, trying to bring her from her inner world into the everyday one, giving her simple sewing tasks to do.’

  ‘Yes, that may help with melancholics. Forcing the mind away from dark thoughts, into the everyday.’

  ‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘whether Roger’s killer may be suffering some form of madness. To kill someone so brutally, apparently pointlessly.’ Twice, I thought, but did not say, for I knew it could be dangerous for us both if I breached Cranmer’s injunction not to tell Guy about Dr Gurney.

  ‘It is possible,’ Guy said. ‘Unless Master Elliard gave someone cause to take such a terrible revenge, which having met him, I doubt.’

  ‘That is impossible.’ There was something I could ask him about, I realized. I took a draught of wine.

  ‘Guy, you said some of the monastic infirmarians used dwale. Do you know of any infirmarians in London who might have?’

  ‘I did not know them, Matthew. Remember I came to London from Sussex when my old monastery was dissolved.’ He looked me. ‘You are thinking of those monks who were driven out of their wits when they were thrown out of the monasteries?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted.

  ‘Then I should tell you that the use of dwale was mainly restricted to the Benedictines. And the only Benedictine foundation
that had an infirmary in London was Westminster Abbey. But as I said before, its use is not a secret.’

  ‘Its expert use?’

  ‘There may be many healers who still use it.’ I could see that Guy found the whole idea of Roger’s killer being an ex-monk distasteful as well as improbable.

  ‘Its basis is opium, is it not? Poppies would need to be grown and cultivated. Whoever it is would need to have a garden.’

  ‘True. Though many grow poppies in their gardens for their bright colour. And I myself grow them in my herb garden to make opium.’

  I wished I could tell him this was not just a matter of finding someone with the motive to kill Roger. Again, I hoped fervently that Barak and Harsnet had caught him already.

  ‘How is Mistress Elliard?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Bereft.’

  ‘You are fond of her.’

  ‘She has always been my friend.’

  ‘A woman of courage, I think.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’ I thought, with frustration, I cannot tell Dorothy the full story either. I drained my wine.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Guy, for seeing Adam. I will arrange for you to see him again, and meet his parents. Will you come to the court hearing next week, give evidence as to his state of mind, asking that he be kept in the Bedlam for now?’

  ‘Yes, I will. May I bring Piers?’ I gave him a look of surprise. ‘I want the boy to see all aspects of the physician’s work. I know he is only an apprentice apothecary, but he has a very good mind. I am thinking of sponsoring him to study as a physician.’

  ‘Could you afford that?’

  ‘It would not be easy. But my earnings are growing since I have been accepted as a physician myself, and I still have my pension as an ex-monk. And poor people with ability deserve to find sponsors, to find patrons, do they not?’ His look was challenging.

  I was taken aback. That would be a huge investment for Guy. I met his look, realizing to my shame that I was jealous. For a long time I had been Guy’s only friend.

  I HURRIED HOME through the busy streets, for it would soon be curfew-time. Barak was waiting for me in chambers. He was towelling his hair, which like his clothes was soaking wet. Skelly had gone home.

  ‘No luck?’ I asked.

  ‘We waited till it got dark, then came away. That bastard was crouching in those reeds all day, he’s got away now.’ He frowned. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Just a feeling.’

  ‘Harsnet’s furious with himself, said he should have left us two there to watch and roused some of the Westminster constables to flush him out. He hadn’t believed anyone could have sat it out in those cold marshes all day.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘He said it was as though the man was spirited away by a devil.’

  ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘He’s right that it would take something to lie out there all day without making a noise. I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘We know how determined this creature is,’ I said. ‘But how did he know we would be there to look at where Dr Gurney was found? That is what worries me.’

  ‘And me,’ Barak said with feeling.

  We sat silent for a minute, then Barak asked, ‘How was Adam Kite?’

  ‘Mad. I hope Guy can help him, but I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I’ve some news at least. I sent word to Gib Rooke, and he sent a reply, at once, by one of his children. He’ll meet us at his house tomorrow, tell us about that killing in Lambeth last winter.’

  Out on those marshes again. But the news lifted me, it was something positive to do after a day of horrors. ‘Thank you, Jack,’ I said. ‘You should get off home. Tamasin will be worried about you.’

  ‘I’m seeing some old friends for a drink tonight,’ he said brusquely.

  When he had gone I went into my room. Poor Tamasin, I thought. And poor Dorothy, I must look in on her before I went home. I saw a sheaf of papers with the Court of Common Pleas seal on my desk, more work. Outside the rain had begun again, pattering on the windows.

  Chapter Thirteen

  NEXT MORNING Barak and I set out once again for the marshes. We took the horses; it was bright and sunny, a truly springlike day, and they were skittish, Barak’s black mare Sukey sniffing the air and tossing her fine head. As we rode through the city I saw crocuses and snowdrops springing up everywhere, even among the tumbled stones of the dissolved Blackfriars monastery. At Cheapside conduit I looked at the beggars gathered round. The Bedlam man was there, singing a nonsensical song to himself, snowdrops stuck in his wild hair. He had a sharp eye on the crowd though, hoping to catch someone’s eye and shame them into casting him a coin.

  We rode across London Bridge and through Southwark. Gib’s child had left directions with Barak; we were to take a path on the far side of Southwark village, where a church stood on the edge of the marshes, and follow it through the marshes to the cottars’ dwellings. We found the church easily enough, a square little Norman building perched on the edge of the reedbeds. Beside it a wide track led through the marshes, twisting and turning to follow the higher ground. We passed a group of men shoring up a muddy, sunken stretch of path with cinders and branches. They stepped aside and bowed. I wondered if the cottars had widened and maintained this stretch themselves, to bring their produce to market. They were bringing a whole new area into development; no wonder the landlords were keen to filch the product of their labours.

  ‘Our local butcher’s been arrested,’ Barak told me.

  ‘Him too?’ I looked at him sharply. ‘You haven’t been buying meat in Lent?’

  ‘No. I would have, left to myself, but Tamasin is too careful.’

  ‘She always had a sensible head on her shoulders.’

  ‘If it’s right that Catherine Parr has reformist sympathies,’ Barak said, changing the subject, ‘she’s stepping into a dangerous position if she marries the King. Gardiner and Bonner will be after her, watching every word she says, hoping she’ll let slip some reformist opinion they can run and tell the King about.’

  ‘They will. But it will take courage to turn down a proposal from the King.’

  Barak looked across the marshes. ‘Were those two killings to do with her? Someone who wants to stop the marriage?’

  ‘Thomas Seymour would have a motive,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t see Sir Thomas lying flat in a bog for most of a cold day. He’d damage his fine clothes.’ Barak spoke lightly, yet there was an uneasy note in his voice as he steered a way through the reeds, all around us now.

  Cottages began to appear beside the path, surrounded by little market gardens; Gib’s was the fifth along, a mud-and-daub cottage like the rest, smoke curling through a hole in the thatched roof. Gib was working in his patch, loosening the heavy soil with a spade. A woman and several small children were also at work digging and sowing. Barak called out Gib’s name and he came across, his wife and children following. They gathered round as we dismounted, the children staring at me wide-eyed.

  ‘My barrister,’ Gib introduced me proudly. ‘He seeks my help on a certain matter.’

  His wife, a thin, tired-looking woman, curtsied then smiled at me warmly. ‘We are so grateful, sir, for what you did. We won’t ever forget.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Like all lawyers, I was delighted by gratitude. It happened so rarely.

  Gib clapped his hands. ‘Come on. Maisie, children, back to work! Master Shardlake and I have confidential matters to discuss.’ Barak winked at me. The family returned to their labours, the children casting glances over their shoulders at us.

  ‘I don’t want them to hear about this bad business,’ Gib said, suddenly serious. ‘Tie your horses to this post, sir, and come inside.’

  We followed him into the cottage, which smelt of damp and smoke. A few poor sticks of furniture stood about, and a fire burning in the hearth in the middle of the floor provided some warmth. The single window was unglazed, the crude shutters open. I looked out at the view of his market garden, the marshes stretching
out beyond.

  ‘Ay, it’s a doleful spot,’ Gib said.

  ‘It must have been lonely this past winter, with all the snow.’

  ‘It was. Bitterly cold too. At least now we can get busy with the sowing. Sit down on that settle.’

  He brought some weak beer and sat on a stool opposite us. ‘Now then,’ he said, looking at us seriously. ‘You’ve questions about poor Wilf Tupholme?’

  ‘He was the man who was murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’ He paused, remembering. ‘He was found in January. They are after Welsh Elizabeth, that he lived with. A Bankside whore.’ He spat in the fire. Barak and I looked at each other. This sounded as though we were on the wrong track.

  ‘Are they sure she did it?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure enough to issue a warrant against her. She and Wilf had been living together a few months, but they were always fighting. Both liked the drink too much. He turfed her out in December, then he was found dead a month later. The coroner’s trying to trace her but the other whores say she’s gone back to Wales. She’ll go to earth there, they won’t find her.’

  ‘But there was no direct evidence?’

  ‘Well, whoever did that to him must have hated him.’ He looked at us curiously. ‘Are you saying it was someone else?’

  ‘We don’t know. At Westminster you said his landlord probably killed him.’

  Gib grinned. ‘That was just to annoy Sir Geoffrey.’ He looked at us with great curiosity, but saw that we were not going to tell him anything more.

  ‘So what happened?’ Barak asked. ‘You said he was killed most horribly.’

  ‘So he was. I’ll tell you on the way to his house. His neighbour has the key, I thought you might like to look.’ He inclined his head to the window and I saw that one of the children, a girl of ten or so, had edged close to the window as she walked up and down the vegetable patch, sowing. ‘Little pigs have big ears,’ he said quietly.

  I glanced at Barak, who shrugged slightly. It did not sound as though this killing had anything to do with our investigation, but we might as well hear the full tale. ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘let us go.’