by C. J. Sansom
Hertford had pulled a Testament from Cranmer's shelf and was reading it. He nodded slowly. 'He is right, my lord. These murders fit the pattern of the vials of wrath too closely to be any coincidence. But we may take a little comfort.'
'Comfort? How:' Cranmer asked incredulously.
'If the killer's purpose is to fulfil these prophecies, the fact that the second victim was Lord Latimer's doctor surely has no significance.' He looked at Cranmer. 'This is not aimed at the proposed marriage.'
Cranmer nodded slowly. 'Yes, that follows. But the King would still be horrified beyond measure if he knew.' He glanced at Harsnet. 'I think he too might see the killer as inspired by the devil, and turn away from any possible involvement with the lady Catherine.' He smiled sadly. 'He is so superstitious; I have tried for years to persuade him out of such false thinking, but without success.'
'Would His Majesty necessarily be wrong to think this was inspired by the devil:' Harsnet's keen eyes darted round the room. 'Consider the blasphemous pattern the killer is following, how cunningly he planned these three terrible displays, his uncanny ability to carry the bodies over great distances.'
'The cottar's murder was also intended for display,' I said. 'But it was blamed on a woman he had thrown out.'
'Does that not speak to you of a man possessed:' Harsnet asked.
'Why are you gospel men always so ready to cry possession:' Thomas Seymour snapped irritably. 'We should be catching this man, not wasting time on these speculations. We cannot know what he is until then.'
For once I agreed with Seymour. 'Sir Thomas speaks true, my lord,' I said. 'Catching him remains our priority.'
Cranmer looked to me. 'Well, Matthew, where would you go from here?'
'We must find out if this Tupholme had any acquaintances in common with Roger and the doctor—'
'Fie, man,' Sir Thomas said impatiently. 'He was a cottar, a nobody, and the others were gentlemen.'
'Tupholme and Roger had both held radical reformist views, though in different ways both had abandoned them. Was that also true of Dr Gurney?'
'Yes,' Cranmer said. 'He - he had once been very radical, but recently he had become — disillusioned.' He frowned for a long moment, then looked at me. 'You think the killer may be seeking men who were once religious radicals but abandoned that position for one reason or another?'
'I fear so. And there is one place where radicals of all classes meet. In church.'
'The three dead men did not live near each other,' Cranmer said. 'They cannot have attended the same parish churches.'
'Sometimes radicals go to church outside their parishes,' Hertford said. 'Run private Bible-reading and prayer groups. And why should they not?' he added with sudden fierceness. 'When they are persecuted and driven underground for their beliefs.'
'Are you suggesting it was one of the godly people who did this?' Harsnet asked me, looking me straight in the eye.
'Not necessarily. But certainly someone who knew the reformers.'
Archbishop Cranmer buried his face in his hands. Everyone fell silent; Hertford glanced uneasily at Harsnet. I realized the Archbishop was caught in the middle, between his own reforming beliefs and the dangers the radicals presented to the very existence of reform. Lord Hertford, I thought, saw this, but Harsnet for the moment was too caught up in his own outrage. Sir Thomas did not care one way or the other.
Cranmer lowered his hands again and sat up straight in his tall chair, his face set hard. He looked at me.
'Matthew, the danger to me, to everyone in this room, grows by the hour. Some of my staff are still being questioned for heresy, though they will find nothing, for they are not heretics. More butchers are being arrested. Now there is a talk of a purge of booksellers. The Earl of Surrey is in the Fleet prison for Lent-breaking. And you will have seen that plays and interludes with a reformist slant are being made targets, their posters pulled down.'
'Yes, my lord.'
Hertford nodded in agreement. 'We are hanging on by our finger- tips.'
'Can you imagine what a gift to Bonner and Gardiner this would be, someone murdering radicals who have backslid in London: This horrid blasphemy would be meat and drink for his cause.'
'I found one clue at the scene of Tupholme's murder,' I said. I produced the badge from my pocket and laid it on Cranmer's table.
Lord Hertford bent to study it closely. 'A pilgrim badge. The wearer went to St Edward the Confessor's shrine in Westminster Abbey. I saw enough of these badges on people's coats before the shrines were done away with.'
'It can't have come from Tupholme, if he was a reformer,' Harsnet said.
'Nor from his woman,' Thomas Seymour added. ‘I never heard of a Southwark whore that wore one of those.'
Cranmer took the badge, turned it between his thick fingers. 'So the killer dropped it. Perhaps it was torn from his coat as he struggled to tie that poor wretched cottar—'
'Hold fast,' Harsnet said. 'People don't wear pilgrim badges now. It marks you out as a Papist sympathizer.'
'Yes, it would be a defiant gesture,' I said.
'It could have been dropped deliberately,' Lord Hertford said.
'Yes, my lord,' I agreed. 'That is possible. But there may be another connection to the old religion.' I took a deep breath. 'Dwale was used to subdue at least two victims. And according to my friend Dr Malton, the only certain place dwale has been used in recent years is in the infirmaries of Benedictine monasteries. I wanted to ask you, my lord, whether I might make search among the Court of Augmentations records, to see what became of London's Benedictine infirmarians.'
Cranmer leaned forward. 'Could that be the explanation?' he asked eagerly. 'An ex-monk? A crazed, embittered papist making an example of men who were radicals once—'
'But is it not the radical godly men, not papists, who claim they understand the secrets of Revelation?' Again Sir Thomas surprised me with his perceptiveness.
'And perhaps these killings are to make an evil mockery of those very views,' Cranmer said. 'The papist church had its own students of Revelation, like Jonathan of Fiore.' His face lightened at the thought that the killer's religious motives might be conservative, not radical. He sat up, looked at us in turn. 'Master Harsnet, I want you to investigate whether the cottar had any links with the first two victims, especially through their religious affiliations. Matthew, look into the Court of Augmentations records. Edward.' He turned to Hertford. 'You are close to the King these days, I leave it to you to ensure no word of this comes near him.'
Hertford nodded. 'So long as no one here talks, I can do that.'
'And me?' Thomas Seymour asked.
'You, Thomas, keep your mouth shut,' his brother said.
Seymour reddened. Hertford turned to Cranmer. 'Well, so we investigate what has been done. But what of the future? If the lawyer here is right, and I believe he may well be, there will soon be a fourth killing.' He opened his Testament and read aloud: 'And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power was given unto him to burn men with heat of fire. And the men raged in great heat, and spoke evil of the name of God, which hath power over these plagues, and repented not.'
'What will he do?' Cranmer said quietly. 'Where, and when?'
'Anyone could be the victim,' I said. 'Anywhere in London, a pious man like Roger or a man relapsed into sin like the cottar. We cannot know when he will strike, or where.'
'Then we cannot stop him?'
'Only if we catch him first,' I answered. 'And I think he will strike again before long.'
'Why so?' Harsnet asked.
'It seems Tupholme was found in January. Dr Gurney died in February, a month later. Roger died three weeks after that. A week ago. It would seem sensible to expect the fourth killing within the next fortnight.'
'What of the final three vials of wrath?' Thomas Seymour asked. 'What happens?'
Cranmer took a deep breath. 'The pouring of the fifth vial brings death to the sinful by darkness and great pain. That could m
ean death by any one of a hundred means. The sixth vial dries up the waters of the Euphrates, and I do not know what someone could do to simulate that. And when the seventh angel pours out his vial there are thunders and lightnings and a great earthquake.'
'My lord,' I said. 'There is one more thing I would ask, if I may. It could assist us.'
'Yes?'
'Dr Malton. He told me some of the old monastic infirmarians used dwale. He may know of them, even if he did not know them himself. I would like to take him into my confidence. He helped us over the dwale.'
'He's an ex-monk, isn't he?' Hertford asked sharply.
'Yes, but if Matthew says he will keep his confidence—' Cranmer gave me a long considering look – ‘I will accept that. You may tell him, Matthew.'
Hertford gave me a dubious look, and Harsnet another. But Cran- mer nodded.
There was silence for a moment, as we considered the horrors that might lie before us. Then Sir Thomas laughed. 'By Jesu, this killer would need devilish powers indeed to bring about an earthquake.'
'I am sick of your mockery, Thomas!' Cranmer turned on him with sudden fierceness. "We all know, or should know, that the devil may indeed be moving in this, with all his powers. But we must investigate this matter with reason.'
'You forget your presence here is only allowed because you are my brother,' Lord Hertford said. 'And the connection to Catherine Parr, about whose welfare you were so chivalrously anxious, seems to be gone. You are not needed. It was a mistake for me to involve you in the first place.' He shook his head. 'Foolish.'
For a moment fury flared in Thomas Seymour's face; then he stomped to the window like a sulky child. Cranmer turned back to us. 'Each of you knows what to do,' he said. 'Do it, with despatch.' He nodded in dismissal.
OUTSIDE IN the corridor, Lord Hertford and his brother strode confidently away in opposite directions, but Harsnet lingered beside me. Barak was waiting, sitting on a bench a little way up the corridor. He came over and stood silently beside me.
'It seems we are to work together,' Harsnet said. 'You did well to find the link to that cottar, sir, and to the Book of Revelation. Though I pray you may be wrong about that.'
'It is indeed a fearful thought.'
'I am sorry if I spoke roughly in that meeting. You were right, we need reason to solve these dreadful crimes. But the idea that anyone who had studied the Bible could do such acts—' He broke off, shaking his head.
'The whole thing is monstrous. I have never heard of anything like
it.'
'Nor I.' He looked at me seriously. 'Though I think we should have spent more time considering what sort of man this is.'
'You mean he may be possessed by a devil, who makes him do these things; Well, sir, I see it more likely that he is sick in his mind, and the sickness has driven him to a fanaticism the like of which has never been seen.' I spoke placatingly, but firmly. I thought of Adam Kite, gibbering on his knees in the Bedlam. And as Guy had said, madness may take many forms.
And you think he may be killing people who have abandoned a biblical understanding of religion?' Harsnet looked agitated.
'I think it may be possible. I think he may be a man of radical religion, gone mad.'
'But have you ever heard of a man who was mad, yet could plan and execute such an ambitious scheme? Though the devil could. And if you are right, this is a blasphemy.'
'I confess I do not know what we are dealing with, sir, but I see no point in speculating now.'
Harsnet inclined his head; I could see he did not want to get drawn into argument, he wanted to keep good relations with me. I changed the subject.
'There seemed to be difficulties between Thomas Seymour and his brother.'
He nodded. 'Lord Hertford is a clever man, a great man. In the right circumstances he could be a great reformer, in religion and in righting social injustices too. His devotion to his family is his only weakness. Restraining his brother is hard.'
'Yes.' I thought, a truly strong man would surely not indulge his affections so far.
'Will you let me know what happens at Augmentations?' Harsnet asked. 'A note marked for my urgent and personal attention will reach me.'
'I will.'
'If I send a messenger, should he go to your chambers?'
'Yes, or to my home if I am not there. I live hard by Lincoln's Inn, in Chancery Lane.'
'Then we will speak again soon.' Harsnet nodded to Barak, bowed and left us. I looked at my assistant. His face was pale. 'He's right,' he said. 'This is — monstrous.'
The full horror of it all hit me. Tupholme's terrible death, Roger and Dr Gurney, all three killed with such planning and precision. 'There have been mad prophets before,' I said uncertainly.
'Reading Revelation scared me,' Barak said. 'It is so . . .' He struggled for the right word. 'Relentless. Like this killer.'
'You don't think he's possessed, as Harsnet does?'
'I don't know what he is.'
'Well, all I know is that I will find the killer of my friend. Now come, we are going to Westminster, to the Court of Augmentations.' I clapped Barak on his broad back, and led the way outside, striding with a confidence I did not feel, for whatever else he was, the man we hunted was surely a monster in human form.
Chapter Fifteen
A DAY LATER, I rode down to Guy's. It was Sunday, the first of April. It was another mild, sunny day; birds flew by with twigs and grass in their beaks, heading for the trees where the first dusting of pale green was spreading.
It was All Fools' Day, when people will play tricks on each other, but mercifully, although the streets were busy, nobody shouted out that my horse's tail was on fire or suchlike. People looked preoccupied; I had heard that two courtiers suspected of heretical leanings had gone to the Tower.
Barak and I had spent the previous day at the Court of Augmentations office, trying to find the records of infirmarians at the London Benedictine houses. Some senior clerk had ordered that all the records of the monks receiving pensions be reorganized, and the result was chaos. It was evening before we emerged, a good deal dustier, with three names, although the addresses were now held in a separate file and it would be Monday morning before that office opened.
As I neared Guy's I saw the bulk of the Old Barge over the rooftops, and felt a stab of guilt. I had not really tackled Barak over how he was treating Tamasin. He was expert at brushing off unwanted enquiries, and I feared, too, that if I tried to exert authority where his private life was concerned, I would only anger him again. I shook my head, for I did not see how I was to proceed.
When I turned into Guy's street I had the uneasy feeling that had come over me once or twice on the journey. As though I were being followed. I turned quickly in the saddle, but could see no one in the narrow street. I told myself that the hunt for Roger's killer was making me over-anxious. I reminded myself that I was due to go to dinner with Dorothy that evening, a prospect that filled me equally with pleasure and sadness.
I tied Genesis up outside Guy's shop, and knocked on his door.
He let me in, and I saw he already had another visitor, a tall, stout, rubicund man with a long grey beard. Like Guy he wore a physician's robe, but his was of the best cut. He had a long wooden wand in his hand, which he was pointing at the apothecary's jars that lined Guy's shelves. Young Piers had taken down a couple of the jars and was carefully measuring out quantities in a balance.
The stranger looked at me down a long beak of a nose. 'Perhaps you will allow me to complete my business before you advise your patient,' he said haughtily to Guy, who gestured me to take a seat, with an apologetic look.
I sat and watched as the fat physician pointed to another jar. 'A peck of the wormwood, and I'll take an ounce of antimony. Have you any ground cockerel's blood, sir?'
'I do not keep it.'
'A pity. It is a wondrous cure for headache.'
'Such wisdom,' Piers murmured. The physician stared at him, suspecting insolence, but the boy's smooth
face was impassive. I could see, though, that Guy was repressing a smile as he wrote down the man's wants on a slate. Evidently his fellow physician had consulted him in his other capacity, as an apothecary. The big man seemed one of those doctors whose strategy is to awe people with the arrogant confidence that often covers ignorance. I wondered why Guy tolerated him.
'That is all, sir,' his customer said. 'I will have it fetched tomorrow. How much?' 'A shilling.'
'You come cheap.' He brought out a fat purse and handed over the silver coin. Then he deigned to look at me. 'You are a lawyer, sir?' he asked. 'At which Inn?'
'Lincoln's Inn,' I replied curtly.
'I have a patient there. Master Bealknap, perhaps you know him.'
'I do. He seems ill and faint these days,' I added pointedly.
'Oh, I will have him well soon.' The physician seemed blind to the implied criticism. 'He needs more bleeding, that will soon restore him. I am Dr Archer, by the way. I have much experience in treating lawyers' ills.' He smiled condescendingly, then with a cursory bow to Guy, he restored his purse to his belt and left the shop.
'Who was that creature;' I asked.
Guy smiled wryly. Archer is a senior man in the College of Physicians. My status there is tenuous, I must put up with him. He is a great traditionalist, believes there has been nothing new in medicine since Galen, save for his own quack remedies. I let him come to get the ingredients for them. He is a man of influence, he likes to patronize me, and I am careful to undercharge him.' His voice was suddenly weary. He waved a hand. 'Let us forget Archer. Sit down.' He took a seat at his consulting table. 'How can I help you, Matthew; I see by your face this is no social call.'
