by C. J. Sansom
‘I told you before that we are investigating a death. We think it possible that Goddard may have murdered someone.’
‘How?’
‘I may not say. Only that it was a violent attack.’
I would swear that Lockley seemed relieved. He laughed contemptuously. ‘Goddard would never attack anyone. He was a cold man, and a lazy devil, never there when you wanted him. And he had plenty of money, I know that. Why should he kill someone?’
I nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I can see you believe that,’ I said quietly. Then I looked him in the eye. ‘But I think you are hiding something. Something else to do with Goddard. I advise you to tell me what it is.’
Lockley clenched his fists harder on the table. Strong, solid fists, callused with years of hard work. His face grew red.
‘Will you leave me alone!’ His sudden exclamation startled me, and I saw Barak’s hand go to the hilt of his sword. ‘I know nothing - nothing! Leave me alone! All my life it’s been nothing but pester, pester, pester. The patients, Goddard, that wretched barber-surgeon and that church of his, saying I was damned. And you!’ He turned round to Mrs Bunce and glared at her. Then he put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.’
I looked at Barak, astonished by this childish outburst. Ethel Bunce’s mouth set in a tight line, but I saw tears in her eyes.
‘What are you hiding, Master Lockley?’ I asked quietly. ‘Tell us, and perhaps that will resolve your confusion.’
‘He knows nothing, sir, I’m sure,’ Mrs Bunce said. ‘You should have seen the state he was in when I met him, given over to drink, spending the last of the money he had. Francis is not as strong as he looks—’ Lockley jumped up suddenly, the chair banging on the floor behind him. ‘Get out, both of you, get out!’
‘You could find yourself arrested, and questioned in a hard place if you will not answer me,’ I said quietly.
‘Then do it, do it! I’m past caring! To hell with you all! I’m going back to my customers!’ He started walking to the door. Barak made to step in front of him, but I shook my head. Lockley left, moving quickly for a fat man. Mrs Bunce hesitated, then looked at us beseechingly.
‘Francis is not strong in his mind, sir,’ she said. ‘What he says is right, all his life he has been pestered by people who think they are better than he is.’
‘So have most people,’ Barak answered unsympathetically.
‘But Francis can’t take it, it affects him. I have tried to help him, but I think it has ended by him seeing me as another - persecutor. Though I’m not, I love him.’ She looked at us bleakly.
‘All right, madam, leave us,’ I said.
When she had gone Barak said, ‘We should arrest him.’
‘We don’t have the authority.’ I sighed. ‘We’ll tell Harsnet what’s happened. My guess is he’ll send some men up tonight, when the tavern is closed.’
‘Could he be our man?’ Barak asked. ‘Most people would be terrified at the prospect of arrest, but he seemed hardly to care. His own woman said he is not quite right in himself.’
I shook my head. ‘Running a tavern is a full-time job. He couldn’t possibly have done what the killer has done without Mrs Bunce knowing. And I can’t see him killing Roger or the others, I just can’t see it.’
‘You don’t know.’
I looked at him seriously. ‘If the killer was Lockley, do you think he would let us take him alive? No, let Harsnet deal with him.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
WE DECIDED TO ride back down to Westminster from Smithfield; it would take less time than riding the horses back home and catching a wherry. We rode along Holborn, right out into the countryside, taking a short cut over the fields to Drury Lane. A pair of hares were boxing in the field, jumping wildly about. ‘Spring is truly here,’ Barak said.
‘Ay, yet I seem to feel cold all the time these days, as though winter has lingered on in me.’
I FELT ANXIOUS as we rode down into Westminster, with all its noise and smells and danger. Under the old bell-tower in the Sanctuary we saw a group of gypsies had set up a stall, a piece of brightly coloured canvas showing the moon and stars with a table in front. Two were playing flutes to attract attention, while at the table an old woman was telling fortunes from the cards. Barak stopped to look, and indeed with their faces almost as dark as Guy’s and their fantastic costumes of embroidered turbans and bright, trailing scarves, the gypsies were an arresting sight. These colourful newcomers to our shores were expelled by the King some years ago, but many had escaped and some had gravitated to the Sanctuary. They seemed to be doing a good trade, though a black-clothed man stood on the fringes of the crowd, waving a Testament and denouncing them for heathenish practices. The crowd ignored him; the Sanctuary was not a godly place.
‘Come on,’ I said, looking nervously over the crowds. ‘I don’t want to stop here, make a target.’
Barak nodded and pulled on Sukey’s reins. We rode past the railing preacher. ‘Woe to those who follow the ways of the devil!’ he cried.
We rode down into the southern precinct. We had seen from the clock tower in Palace Yard that we were a good hour and a half early for our meeting with Harsnet. We turned towards Cantrell’s house. Nearby a pack of wolfish dogs nosed and picked at a pile of rubbish on the corner. I knocked loudly on the door under the faded carpenter’s sign while Barak tied the horses to the rail. I was unhappy at leaving them there but we had no choice and Sukey at least would neigh and kick if a stranger tried to untie her. Once again footsteps approached slowly from within, but this time they stopped before reaching the door and Cantrell’s voice called out in timorous, cracked tones.
‘Who’s there? I am armed!’
‘It is Master Shardlake,’ I called out. ‘The lawyer who was here before. What is the matter?’
There was a brief pause, then the bolt was drawn back and the door opened a few inches. Cantrell’s thin face looked out; he peered closely at us from behind those thick spectacles that magnified his eyes. ‘Oh, sir,’ he said with relief. ‘It is you.’ He opened the door wider. I stared at a long piece of wood he held in his hand. On the end was a large smear of what looked like dried blood.
‘Someone attacked me,’ he said.
‘May we enter?’ I asked gently. He hesitated, then opened the door wide to allow us in. The sour, unwashed smell hit us again.
He led us into the bare parlour. A wooden plate with the remains of a greasy meal lay on the table, a pewter spoon black with dirt beside it. I saw the dirty window giving on to the yard was broken. There was glass on the floor.
Cantrell sat down on one of the hard chairs, facing us. We sat at the table. I avoided looking at the filthy plate. I saw rat-droppings in a corner. Cantrell’s face looked strained and miserable, several spots coming out on his forehead beneath the greasy blond hair. He placed the stick on the floor.
‘What did you want, sir?’ he asked wearily. ‘Have you found Infirmarian Goddard?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I told you all I know.’
‘Only a few more questions. But what happened here? Is that blood on your piece of wood?’
‘It was two nights ago. I couldn’t sleep. I heard breaking glass downstairs. I always keep a piece of wood by the bed in case of burglars.’
‘What would they steal?’ Barak asked.
‘Burglars wouldn’t know there is nothing here. I went downstairs. It was dark but I saw the window was open wide. A figure was there, a man. When I came into the room, he just stood there. I don’t think he saw the piece of wood. He said something and that let me know where his head was and I hit out.’
‘The edge of that piece of wood is sharp,’ Barak said. ‘You seem to have done some damage.’
‘Ay, I got him on the head. He groaned and staggered and I hit him again. Then he got out of the window again, stumbled away.’
‘What did he say to you?’
‘It was a strange thing for a bu
rglar.’ Cantrell frowned.
‘What?’
‘He said, “It is your time now.” Why would he say that?’
I looked at him, appalled. Had Charles Cantrell escaped becoming the killer’s fifth victim?
‘Did you tell the constable?’ I asked.
He shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘What’s the point? There are always burglaries in Dean’s Yard. He won’t try here again, though. I hope I hurt him hard, I hope he dropped in the gutter somewhere,’ Cantrell added with gloomy viciousness.
I chose my words carefully. ‘Was there anything you recognized about the man? Anything familiar about his voice?’
He stared at me with those half-blind, fishlike eyes. ‘He was just a figure in the dark, a shape. I cannot see anything unless it is close to. Your face is just a blur from here even with my glasses.’
‘Was he tall or short?’
‘He must have been quite tall. I aimed high.’ He thought a moment. ‘There was something familiar about that voice. A sharp voice.’
‘Could it have been your old master?’ I asked quietly. ‘Infirmarian Goddard?’
He stared at me in silence for a long moment. ‘I - I suppose it could have been. But why - why would that old bastard attack me in my house? I haven’t seen him in three years.’
‘He would have known your father’s house was near the abbey.’
‘But why - what has he done, sir? You never told me last time.’ There was an edge of shrill panic in Cantrell’s voice now.
I hesitated. ‘Could I see that piece of wood?’
‘I won’t get into trouble for this, sir? I was only defending myself.’
‘I know. I just want to see it.’
Reluctantly he passed it over. I had noticed a few hairs among the blood. They were black. Like Goddard’s; like the whore Abigail’s unknown visitor.
‘You dealt him a couple of good blows, by the look of it. But scalp wounds bleed a lot. He may have been more shocked and hurt than damaged.’ I passed the stick back to Cantrell. His wrists were skinny, lumps of bone. I thought of Adam.
‘You did not answer my question, sir,’ Cantrell said.
I sighed. ‘Infirmarian Goddard may be - deranged.’
‘But why attack me?’
I looked at the broken glass on the floor. Yes, someone had broken in there from outside. Cantrell had not picked up the glass. I wondered whether with his poor vision he was afraid of cutting himself.
‘Have you ever had anything to do with the radical religious reformers? The godly men.’
He was silent for a moment. Then he bowed his head.
‘It is important,’ I said. ‘It may explain why you were attacked.’
‘When I was a monk,’ he said in a quiet voice, bowing his head as though ashamed, ‘my father became a reformist. He joined a group that used to meet together at an unlicensed preacher’s house, in the Sanctuary. When I left the abbey and came home it was all “You monks got what you deserve, you will go to hell unless you follow the true path of the Word.” ’ I could sense anger in Cantrell’s voice as he imitated his father’s harsh, rough tones. ‘I was losing belief in the old faith then. I let him drag me to some of these house meetings. There were only half a dozen in the group, they believed they had to prepare for the end-time, had a mission from God to find those he had elected to save and convert them. They were stupid, they only knew a few bits of the Bible that suited their arguments and didn’t even understand those. Some couldn’t even read. I had read the Bible for years, I could tell they knew nothing.’
‘There are many such,’ I said.
‘Theirs was all idle talk and frantic babble.’ Cantrell’s voice was louder now, full of bitter anger. ‘I only went to keep Father quiet. They kept saying they could save me, they would baptize me in the true faith.’ He shook his head. ‘My father was already ill when I came home, after he passed away I stopped going.’ Cantrell looked up again, staring around the room. ‘He had a growth.’
Cantrell’s voice was quiet again. ‘When he died I feared he might somehow still come back, to chide and rail at me. But he has not, there has been only silence in this house since.’ He gave an exhausted sigh then and fell silent himself, lost in a world of his own. I looked around the room, at the filthy table and the broken window. Cantrell might be just about surviving from his monk’s pension, but he needed help, someone to take care of him.
‘How will you get the window repaired?’ I asked. He shrugged. ‘Perhaps the neighbours might help,’ I suggested.
He shook his head fiercely. ‘They’re a nosy lot. The old shrew up the street used to come in. Tidying up, interfering with my things, telling me I needed to get married.’ He laughed angrily. ‘Perhaps I could find a blind woman and we could stumble around the house together. I hardly dare go out for victuals in case a cart runs me down.’
‘What happened to this little religious group? Are they still active round Westminster?’
He shook his head. ‘The vicar of St Margaret’s heard there was some radical preaching going on. He got their leader arrested and the others fled. Last year.’ A bitter laugh again. ‘So much for their cleaving fast to the True Word. They ran like rats.’
So the fate of the group had become public. What had happened to them, I wondered. The members had probably become involved with other groups, other churches. Perhaps, somewhere among them, the murderer had mixed with them, where he heard Cantrell’s name spoken of as a backslider. If the killer was Goddard, he would have recognized the name.
‘Can you remember the names of the people in the group?’ I asked. He gave me half a dozen. They meant nothing to me, but they might to Harsnet.
‘But, sir,’ Cantrell asked. ‘What is all this to do with Master Goddard?’ He blinked at me helplessly. I dared not tell him the whole story.
‘I am not sure, Master Cantrell. But I think you may be in need of protection. I might be able to arrange for a guard to come to the house, stay here with you.’
Cantrell shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I do not want anyone here. Criticizing and saying the place is filthy.’ He looked at me again with those wide swimming eyes. ‘If Goddard comes to me again, let him. You won’t tell me why he’s after me, but I care little if I live or die.’
I looked at Barak, who shrugged. I would try and arrange for a guard to be posted, just the same.
‘Do you think me a great sinner,’ Cantrell asked suddenly. ‘Not to care if I die?’
‘I think it a great shame.’
‘What is death anyway? Afterwards it will be eternal bliss or eternal torment, one or the other, who may know which these days?’ He gave a humourless cracked laugh.
‘There is one last thing I would ask you,’ I said. ‘I have just been to see Francis Lockley again. I gained the impression there was something he was keeping back about Infirmarian Goddard. Something he did not want us to know about the man. Can you think what that might be?’
‘No, sir. I had nothing to do with the lay infirmary. I only saw Francis when he came to see Master Goddard, to borrow some implements perhaps.’ He shrugged, and I thought, he really does not care about anything, not even his own life or death.
WE LEFT THE HOUSE, returned to the stink and the noise of Dean’s Yard. ‘He’s in a bad way,’ Barak observed.
‘A state of deep melancholy, I would say. Not surprising given what is life has become, and the condition of his eyes.’
‘He could pull himself together a bit. Accept some help. Imagine not caring if you lived or died, but caring if someone thought your house was filthy.’
‘When we see Harsnet, I will see if I can arrange a guard. I could not bear to see Cantrell tortured like the others.’ I did not think the killer would return to Cantrell now his victim had been alerted, but I could not be sure. ‘There is one more piece of information we have,’ I said. ‘We are now looking for a man with an injured head.’
We led the horses across the road to the gate in the abbey wall
. Barak nodded to the guard. There was still an hour before Harsnet was due. I felt a need to be alone for a while. ‘Barak,’ I said, ‘see if you can find somewhere to stable the horses. I am going to take a walk inside the precinct. I will meet you back here in an hour.’
‘Are you sure that’s safe?’
‘I shall be within the precinct. It is guarded. I will see you soon.’ To settle the argument I turned away from him, nodding to the guard. Recognizing me, he opened the door in the wall to let me through. I stepped again into the precinct of Westminster Abbey.
INSIDE, I PICKED my way through the maze of rubble to the old cloister. All was still and quiet. I walked the ancient flagstones, looking out at the deserted inner courtyard, thinking. I had picked up clues, but they only seemed to deepen the mystery. Was it Goddard we were looking for, or the young man who had visited Abigail? And why had the killer chosen Cantrell to be the fifth victim, as it looked likely that he had? If it was Goddard he would know the lad would be unlikely to be able to help himself. I felt an uncharacteristic satisfaction at the thought of Cantrell bringing that piece of wood down on his assailant’s head. I thought how Cantrell, like Meaphon, had a peripheral link to me. I shook my head. It was dangerous and foolish to imagine that the killer was somehow focused on me as an audience. Had the killer not gone out of his way to try and terrorize me into dropping the case? Yet I could not prevent a clutch of fear at my heart at the recollection that I fitted the pattern of a man who had turned away from radical religion.
I realized how weary I was. I decided to take a walk through the ancient Westminster Abbey church, to calm myself. As I paced slowly I saw that the door to the chapterhouse stood half open, and heard voices from within. Hesitantly I walked across. To my surprise, I heard the sound of hammering. I stepped into the vestibule.
A group of black-robed clerks were carefully removing thick rolls of yellow parchment from old chests, laying them on the tiled floor. Workmen, some on ladders, were putting up heavy wooden shelves along the walls. One by one, the maroon-framed scenes from the Apocalypse were being hidden from view. As I watched, a heavy nail was driven through the body of the seven-headed monster.
