Revelation: A Matthew Shardlake Mystery (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Hertford snapped. ‘Thomas, I trust you have not visited the lady again. If the King knew—’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Thomas snapped back.

  ‘I would like to go,’ I said to Harsnet in a low voice. ‘My arm throbs, I need some rest.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. I will stay here.’ He looked around. ‘It is strange Reverend Yarington is not here. I am sorry you were hurt.’

  ‘It is getting better.’

  He smiled. ‘Good. My wife and I look forward to meeting you tomorrow at dinner. And you will meet my children.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. How many children have you?’

  ‘Four. All healthy and obedient. And a good wife. You should marry, sir.’

  ‘I do not think that is my lot.’

  ‘You have no one, then?’

  I thought of Dorothy. ‘One may hope,’ I said with a sad smile.

  ‘Press your suit, Brother Shardlake. Tie the knot, like young Barak here.’

  ‘Knot’s the word for it,’ he answered under his breath.

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’ I shook Harsnet’s hand and turned to leave, Barak following. I frowned at him. ‘That was a churlish thing to say. A knot indeed—’

  Suddenly a woman screamed. ‘The church! The church is on fire!’

  Everyone stopped eating and talking. Through one of the windows, the surviving stained-glass one, a flickering light could be seen. It cast strange shadows on the darkened churchyard.

  Reverend Meaphon was the first to step forward and grab the handle of the church door. ‘It’s locked!’ he shouted. ‘Who has the key?’

  ‘Reverend Yarington!’ Everyone looked around, but there was still no sign of the white-haired minister.

  ‘Go to the vicarage!’ someone shouted.

  ‘He doesn’t allow visitors to the vicarage,’ the churchwarden said nervously, ‘he is so afraid of anyone finding his copies of Luther and Calvin.’

  ‘There’s no time for that anyway. We have to get in and put out the fire.’

  ‘Break the door down!’ someone called.

  Sir Thomas looked at the solid oak door, and laughed. ‘You’d need a battering ram to break down that door!’

  ‘There’s a side door,’ someone called. A couple of men ran round the church, but reappeared a moment later to say it, too, was locked. I looked at the window. The flames seemed brighter now.

  The churchwarden Finch stepped forward. ‘I’ve a key! I left it at home!’

  ‘Then go and get it, you fool!’ Harsnet said, giving the dithering churchwarden a push. Finch cast another horrified glance at the flickering light coming through the church window, then hurried away. Someone knelt down on the ground and started praying for the Lord to save their church, not to subject it to a second disaster.

  Lord Hertford appeared beside us. He bent and spoke quietly to Harsnet. ‘I think I should leave. There is nothing I can do, and there is going to be a scene here if the church is on fire.’

  Harsnet nodded agreement. ‘Ay, my Lord, that may be best.’

  ‘I am staying,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘I want to see this.’ His face was full of excitement. His brother frowned at him, then shrugged and walked swiftly away.

  Harsnet was staring at the window. ‘Look! The fire seems to be at one fixed spot,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And I smell no smoke.’

  ‘And what’s that noise?’ Barak asked quietly.

  Above the sound of the man praying to Heaven and the horrified murmuring of the rest of the congregation, a strange sound was faintly audible from the church. A series of muffled grunts, more animal than human.

  ‘Dear Jesus, what is happening in there?’ Harsnet asked, fear visible in his face in the dim light.

  Finch ran back into the churchyard, a large key in his hand. There was a flurry of activity around the door. He unlocked it and threw it open. Half a dozen people dashed in. Then they stopped just inside. Someone gave a yell of terror. Sir Thomas Seymour lunged his way through the crowd, Barak and Harsnet and I following. We were hit by an awful stench of burning flesh, and something more: the rotting fishy smell Barak had noticed. Inside the doorway we all stopped dead at the horrific, extraordinary sight within.

  A MAN IN a white clerical robe was chained to a stone pillar in the nave and he was on fire, blazing like a human torch in the darkness though there was no fuel stacked around him, no visible reason why he should be burning. In the doorway someone fainted, and others sank to their knees and called out to the Lord. Barak and Sir Thomas Seymour went forward, Harsnet and I following. The heat from the burning man was so intense we had to stop seven or eight feet away. I shall never forget that dreadful sight. It was Reverend Yarington who was burning there, his clothes already charring, red burned flesh showing through, blood trickling into the flames with a sizzle. He stared at us in terrible agony, and I saw he was gagged, a cloth tied round his mouth with string. The sounds we had heard were his muffled howls.

  He watched with bulging eyes the bulk of his congregation who stood horror-struck, until someone shouted, ‘Water! Get water!’ Three men rushed out of the church, and I saw Yarington’s bulging eyes turn to follow them. But it was too late, it had been too late before we ever entered the church. Even as we watched, the flames engulfed Yarington’s head. I gazed with horror as that proud head of white hair caught light, becoming a yellow halo for a second then vanishing with a hiss. As the flames began to rip his face apart, his head slumped forward, and the terrible grunting noise ceased.

  ‘No smoke,’ Harsnet said in a shaking voice beside me. ‘No smoke and no fuel. This is the devil’s work.’

  The men who had run out returned with buckets of water and torches. They lit the plain whitewashed interior of the church, the black thing chained to the pillar. They threw the water over Yarington, and the flames went out with a sizzle and a hiss. Thin trails of smoke now began to rise from parts of the body. Sir Thomas Seymour stepped boldly forward and looked into the burned face. ‘He’s dead,’ he said. He stepped back. ‘Ugh, he stinks.’

  I looked at Yarington’s body slumped in its chains, the white clothes melted into burnt flesh. Someone turned away to vomit. Even Barak, whose stomach was of iron, looked pale. It was not just the sight, but the smell, roasted flesh mixed with that stink of rotten fish. I looked at the floor. There were spots of some thick liquid there. I bent and hesitantly put my finger to one of them, lifting it and sniffing hesitantly.

  ‘Fish oil,’ I said quietly. ‘He was covered in fish oil, probably the oil from those great fishes that is being sold everywhere.’ I turned to Harsnet. ‘That was the fuel.’ I looked again at the face, though my stomach heaved. The gag was burned into his face now. The cottar Tupholme had been gagged. I guess that Yarington had been drugged, was unconscious when he was brought in here and chained to the pillar. He would have woken with a shock to find himself on fire.

  Around us people were speaking in horrified whispers, clinging to each other, women crying. Harsnet looked at the body of the vicar, taking deep breaths. Quietly, he quoted from the Book of Revelation:

  ‘And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power was given unto him to burn men with heat of fire.’

  Barak walked over to the side door and pulled at the handle, confirming it was locked. Already I could see the familiar picture: Yarington overpowered somewhere, rendered unconscious, the killer using the vicar’s own keys to lock them both inside the church, then escaping through the side door when poor Yarington was set alight, locking it after him.

  ‘The killer knew we would be here,’ I said. ‘How could he know that?’

  ‘Jesu, he’s right,’ Harsnet said. ‘This spectacle was meant for us as well as the churchpeople. But it cannot be coincidence that we are here too. My vicar. My poor vicar.’ Tears started to his eyes.

  ‘Taunting us,’ I said bitterly. ‘Again. Playing with us, showing we are helpless.’

  Someone stepped forward to try and loo
sen the chains, but when he touched the metal he pulled his hand away with a yelp. It was still burning hot. Meaphon stepped forward. He took off his cassock and threw it gently over Yarington’s ruined head.

  Harsnet looked round at the shocked congregation. ‘Listen to me, all of you!’ he said. ‘I will investigate this outrage, the murderer will be caught! But until then say nothing - nothing - of what has happened here tonight! It would only give comfort to our enemies.’

  There were murmurs from the crowd.

  ‘Nothing, do you hear! If this news spread it could cause a panic. We are all under threat enough!’ Harsnet’s west country accent was prominent. ‘Finch, I make you responsible for people keeping silence until I return. Bring down the minister’s poor body when the chains have cooled enough.’ Harsnet turned back to Sir Thomas and Barak and me. ‘Come,’ he said quietly. ‘All of you. We must see the Archbishop at once.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ARCHBISHOP CRANMER was with Lord Hertford when we arrived at Lambeth Palace. We were sent in, though again Barak had to wait outside.

  The Archbishop looked dog-tired. He was unshaven, black stubble covering his sallow cheeks. Lord Hertford stood by his side. The Archbishop waved to us to sit.

  ‘So there has been another?’ Hertford said. I saw he looked afraid.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Harsnet replied. He told the story of what had happened at the church.

  Cranmer sat silent a moment, then said, ‘Poor creature. I pray that after his terrible sufferings he is now in Heaven.’ He turned to Hertford. ‘Each killing is more spectacular than the last. If this goes on, the whole affair cannot fail to become public.’

  ‘Can it be kept quiet?’ Hertford asked. His tone was sharp, his expression intent. He seemed more in control than Cranmer.

  ‘I have spoken to Yarington’s congregation,’ Harsnet said. ‘Sworn them to silence. I have left Reverend Meaphon in charge there. I will go back when I leave here, have the body removed and make the point once more that if Yarington’s killing becomes known that can only benefit Bonner.’

  ‘No public inquest again,’ Hertford said.

  ‘We are interfering with the course of the law,’ Cranmer replied.

  ‘But we have no alternative if we are to keep this quiet. Where will he strike next?’ he burst out in sudden anger. ‘And how was he able to get Yarington inside the church and make this terrible display without anyone seeing?’ He looked at me.

  ‘I think the killer did the same as with Dr Gurney and Master Elliard,’ I said. ‘Invited Yarrington to some meeting point, drugged him with dwale, used his key to open the church and tie him up during the day, then locked the door and waited until the gathering outside had started before setting light to the fish oil he had obtained.’

  ‘It is just as well we were there,’ Harsnet said. ‘The sight of poor Yarington burning in the church, without any apparent fuel or smoke, made me think it was the devil’s work. If we had not been able to calm the congregation somewhat I think they would be running through the streets crying the devil had done this. Though I’m not sure they would have been wrong,’ he added quietly.

  Hertford looked at me with a penetrating gaze. ‘We have to stop him,’ he said. ‘Bonner and Gardiner are still questioning the courtiers and the Archbishop’s staff that were taken last week. They have found nothing, but they will keep pressing.’

  ‘That will not be enough for the King to act against us,’ his brother said. ‘And I hear the London butchers are all saying they cannot remember to whom they sold meat in Lent.’

  For once Hertford nodded in agreement with Sir Thomas. ‘That is true. And I think Bonner is hesitating to arrest too many people. He was booed at London Wall yesterday.’ I looked at him. So they knew about that. Hertford continued: ‘And the King will not be satisfied with evidence concocted out of half-truths and rumours to link you with the radicals. He loves you more than any man. Hold to that, my lord.’

  Cranmer sighed deeply. ‘That was what they said about Cromwell and Wolsey. Watch the King for me, Edward, watch who is going in and out of the Privy Chamber, who is whispering in his ear.’

  ‘I will.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘May I, my lord?’ I reached across and took a blank sheet of paper from the Archbishop’s desk. I had to try to make some order out of this chaos. Cranmer waved a hand in assent. I wrote quickly, the others watching in silence. Then I laid my work on the desk. They all leaned forward to see what I had written:VIAL 1: An infected sore

  Tupholme - Cottar - radical reformer turned sinner - January (killed December?)

  VIAL 2: Death in salt water

  Dr Gurney - Doctor - radical reformer turned moderate - February 20th

  VIAL 3: Death in fresh water

  Roger Elliard - Lawyer - radical reformer turned moderate - March 25th

  VIAL 4: Death by fire

  Rev. Yarington - Cleric - radical reformer - April 3rd

  VIAL 5: Death in darkness and great pain

  VIAL 6: River dries up

  VIAL 7: Great earthquake

  ‘He is speeding up,’ Hertford said quietly.

  ‘I think it is Goddard,’ Harsnet said. ‘Dean Benson and the man Lockley are hiding something about him, I am sure. I will have them questioned tomorrow. We should bring the men and subject them to stiff questioning in your prison, my lord.’

  ‘No,’ Cranmer said firmly. ‘We are not questioning them about a religious matter. We cannot just pluck people off the streets of London with the atmosphere as it is just now.’

  ‘And we are not sure it is Goddard,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What picture have you formed of him?’ Cranmer asked.

  ‘By all accounts Goddard was a cold man. A good doctor but one who did not care about his patients. He was sensitive about a disfigurement he had - a large mole on his nose. But somehow, from what those who knew him say, I cannot see him having the savage rage of this killer.’

  ‘Unless he is possessed,’ Harsnet said.

  There was silence for a moment. Then Cranmer said, ‘If Yarington was still a radical reformer, he does not fit the pattern you have drawn.’

  ‘So far as we know,’ I said. ‘There may have been more to him than met the eye. We should go to his house. If Yarington was as godly as he seems, then my idea that the killer is punishing backsliders from radicalism falls down. But if not, it narrows the field of possible victims.’

  Thomas Seymour grunted. ‘To every lapsed radical in London. How many hundreds is that?’

  ‘Many,’ I admitted. I rubbed my arm; the stitches were pulling.

  Lord Hertford looked at my paper. ‘According to Revelation the pouring out of the next vial will result in people gnawing their tongues in darkness, in great pain. That could mean anything.’ He stroked his long beard, frowning.

  ‘I’d still like to know how he will dry up a river as the sixth vial is supposed to do,’ Thomas Seymour said scoffingly. ‘Or cause a great earthquake like the seventh.’

  ‘He’ll find something,’ I said. ‘Something that fits.’

  Cranmer turned to Harsnet. ‘You have made no progress in tracing Goddard?’

  ‘Not yet, my lord. I am enquiring of the Surrey and Kent and Sussex authorities as well. Discreetly.’

  The Archbishop nodded. Then he looked at me. ‘Matthew, you are acting for that boy in the Bedlam. Yarington’s neighbour Reverend Meaphon is his parish priest, is he not?’

  ‘Yes. He was there yesterday, when young Kite got himself on top of London Wall. So was Yarington.’

  ‘Make sure that boy is kept safe, out of sight.’

  ‘I will, my lord. It seems the warden at the Bedlam may have let him out deliberately, to try to get rid of a problem. He will not do so again. There is a hearing in Requests tomorrow, to ensure his care.’

  Cranmer nodded, then looked at my arm. ‘And you think the killer is following you, taunting you.’

  ‘Ye
s.’

  ‘Only you?’

  ‘It seems so. Barak’s wife was hurt too, but I fear that is because of her connection to me. He wants me to leave the case.’

  Thomas Seymour laughed. ‘You are being overanxious. Why should you matter to him?’

  ‘I do not know,’ I answered. I turned to Harsnet. ‘Nothing has gone amiss with you?’

  ‘No. Though working at Whitehall Palace I would be harder to get at.’

  Cranmer drew a hand down his face. ‘There is nothing to do but keep on with the hunt. See Dean Benson and the man Lockley again tomorrow. Where does Lockley live?’

  ‘Out by the Charterhouse.’

  Sir Thomas frowned. ‘My lord, I have said I do not like the Lady Catherine Parr being so near to someone who may be involved somehow with these murders.’

  ‘She is surrounded by servants,’ his brother answered with a note of weariness. ‘And she hardly fits the pattern of his victims. A woman of quiet sincere faith.’

  ‘Nor did Yarington. But that didn’t stop him going up like a Christmas candle tonight.’

  ‘My lord,’ Harsnet said. ‘I think we should go to Reverend Yarington’s house now. The churchwarden told me he lived in the rectory, a couple of streets away from his church, alone but for his servants. I told him not to send word what has happened.’

  Cranmer considered a moment. ‘Very well. Matthew, Gregory, go now to poor Yarington’s house, speak to his servants, find what you can about his life. Take a couple of my guards, and if you think it worth holding any of the servants in custody have them brought back here quietly. Now, Matthew, before you go, I would see you alone for a minute.’

  The others filed out, leaving me alone with the Archbishop.

  ‘This terrible matter affects you, Matthew, does it not?’

  I felt tears behind my eyes. The Archbishop could have that effect. ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  ‘Because your good friend was one of the victims? And because the perpetrator follows you and mocks you?’

  ‘Yes. And because I have never seen such—’ I hesitated -