Revelation: A Shardlake Novel

by C. J. Sansom

  'What the hell is this?' Barak asked.

  'A block to set dentures in,' I said quietly. I took it from him. 'Remember Tamasin told us the tooth-drawer showed her one. They set teeth in those sockets and fix them in people's mouths. There's an old barrister's wife at Lincoln's Inn who has dentures, but she can't get a block to fit properly, they keep falling out.'

  'Maybe she could try some of these,' Barak said. He had opened the remaining four boxes and all contained denture blocks in different sizes. 'What's he got these for?' he asked incredulously. 'Lockley wasn't a barber-surgeon, was he? He worked for one, and left.'

  I turned the ugly wooden things over in my hands. The blocks had never been used to house teeth, there were no traces of glue in the tooth-holes. Pictures in my mind came together, some pieces of the puzzle fitting together at last. 'No,' I said quietly. 'He wasn't. I think he was something quite different. Now I understand, now I see what they were being so secretive about. Come, we have to go to Dean Benson, now. Bring those boxes.'

  I led the way downstairs. Guy and Harsnet had both sat down at a table marked with the round rings from a hundred goblets of beer. Harsnet looked agitated, Guy drawn and sad. Janley stood by the window, staring out on the tavern yard. Harsnet looked up. 'Anything?' he asked.

  'Yes,' I said. 'We need to go to the dean—'

  I broke off as there was a sudden loud rumbling noise and the flagstones trembled beneath our feet. Harsnet's eyes widened. 'What in God's name is that?'

  'This place is connected to the old Charterhouse sewer system,' I said. 'They must have opened the sluice gate over there. It happened when we came here before. We ought to investigate that cellar. There'll be a way down somewhere.'

  'I'll help Goodman Janley look,' Barak said. He laid the boxes of teeth on the counter.

  I glanced over at the body. 'What will you do with it?' I asked Harsnet.

  'Store it in my cellars at Whitehall. With Yarington.' He gave me an anguished look. 'And keep quiet.' I nodded.

  'Why did you say we must go to the dean?'

  'I think I know what he has been holding back.'

  'We've found the cellar.' Barak called from inside the house. 'There's a metal hatch in the hallway.'

  'We ought to see what's down there,' I said. I went into the stone-flagged hallway, Harsnet following.

  Barak had raised the hatchway and stood looking down. There was a ladder. Cold air came from below. Janley appeared with a lamp, a lighted candle inside. Barak took a deep breath. 'Right, let's have a look.'

  'Be careful,' I said.

  But there was nothing to see in the cellar. The candlelight showed only bare stone flags, barrels stacked against the walls. Barak and Janley found another hatch there, leading down to the sewers. Janley opened it and we caught a whiff of sewer smells.

  'Should we go on down?' Janley asked, peering nervously into the darkness.

  'No,' Barak said. 'Listen.' There was a sound of rushing water, faint then suddenly loud as someone up at the Charterhouse opened the sluice gates to flush more excess water through. The building shook again, and a rush of vile-smelling air was pushed upwards into the cellar and out through the hatchway to where we stood. 'That's a lot of water,' Barak called up.

  'With all the rain the ponds at Islington are probably full to overflowing,' Harsnet said.

  Barak and Janley climbed back up and we returned to the main room. Guy rose from his knees by the body, rushes and dust clinging to his robe. He had been praying.

  'What is Benson holding back?' Harsnet asked.

  'I'll tell you on the way. We—'

  There was a knock at the door, faint and hesitant. We looked at each other. Harsnet called, 'Come in!' and the door opened. An elderly couple stepped nervously inside. Both were small and thin, grey-haired, poor folk. They looked at us and then at the thing on the floor. The woman let out a little scream and ran back outside. The man turned to follow but Harsnet called him back. Through the open door we saw his wife standing trembling on the steps.

  'Who are you?' Harsnet asked him roughly.

  'We lodge next door,' the man said in a thin voice. He rubbed his hands together nervously. 'We heard all the noise, we wondered what was happening.'

  'Mistress Bunce has been murdered. Master Lockley has disappeared. I am Master Harsnet, the king's assistant coroner.'

  'Oh.'

  'Please bring your wife inside. We wish to question you.'

  'She's upset,' he said, but Harsnet's look was unyielding. The old man went outside and brought his wife back. She clung to him, avoiding looking at the body.

  'We think this happened last night,' I said. 'After the tavern closed. Did either of you hear anything?'

  The old man stared at Guy, his dark face and long physician's robe, as though wondering how he had appeared there.

  'Last night?' Harsnet repeated impatiently.

  'There was a lot of noise at closing time.'

  'When was that?'

  'They shut at twelve. We were in bed, the noise woke us. It sounded like tables going over. But you get rough people in this tavern now, beggars from the chapel when they have any money. We knew Francis had gone. Ethel has been in a frantic state, asking everyone round the square if they had seen him. She liked to rule the roost, poor Ethel.' He looked around the room, then down at the covered body. 'Did some drunkard kill her?'

  'Yes. You heard nothing later on in the night?'

  'No'

  The woman began to cry. 'Oh please, let us out of here—'

  'In a minute. How well did you know Mistress Bunce and Goodman Lockley?'

  'We've lived next to the tavern for ten years. We knew Master Bunce before he died, he kept a quiet house. He was a godly man.'

  'What do you mean?' I asked.

  The neighbour looked between us nervously. 'Only that he belonged to one of the radical congregations. If you talked to him for any length of time he would always bring the Bible and salvation into it.'

  'Yet he kept a tavern?' Harsnet sounded incredulous.

  The old man shrugged. 'I think he was converted after he bought it. It was his living. And as I say, he kept it very orderly. No swearing or fighting.'

  'And he kept it closed Sundays,' his wife added. She looked at the covered body and crossed herself. 'Ethel had a hard time of it, a woman trying to run a tavern alone.'

  'When did she take up with Lockley?'

  'Francis? He came about two years ago. First as a potman, then they got together.' She shook her head. 'I've sometimes thought Eddie Bunce must be turning in his grave, Ethel taking up with an ex-monk.'

  'She didn't try to bring Master Lockley into her husband's congregation?'

  She shook her head again. 'No, we never heard any more about Bible truth after Eddie died, and the tavern began opening on Sundays. She must have left the church.'

  'Got a noisier type of customer in,' her husband added gloomily.

  Harsnet and I exchanged glances. So Mistress Bunce was an apostate from a radical congregation, like the others.

  'Which church did Master Bunce go to?' Harsnet asked.

  'Clerkenwell. Those radicals had better watch out, with Bishop Bonner after them.'

  'Did Mistress Bunce have any living relatives that you know of?'

  'No, sir. We didn't know them well.' He looked at the body again. 'She was decent enough, Ethel, though Francis could be a grump. Even if they did live in sin.'

  'We would like to go to the funeral,' his wife said.

  The old man looked at us. 'Please, sir, what do you think happened? We only ask because we wonder if we are safe. If there are robbers about.'

  'You are not in any danger,' Harsnet said. 'But that is all I can tell you till we investigate further. In the meantime, this is to be kept quiet. You tell no one Mrs Bunce is dead. It could hamper our investigation.'

  'But how—'

  'You will keep quiet. I order it in the King's name. A guard will remain here for now. Thank you for your hel
p,' he concluded in a tone of dismissal.

  HARSNET SHOOK his head after the old man led his wife away. 'Poor old creatures,' he said. 'Come then, Matthew, if we are to go to Westminster now. I want to know what you have puzzled out. Janley, stay here, secure that door and keep enquirers away. I will arrange for the body to be removed.' 'Can I go home?' Guy asked.

  'Yes,' Harsnet answered shortly. He still did not like or trust Guy, it was clear. With most folk it would have been his colour, but with Harsnet I was sure it was his religion.

  WE ALL STEPPED outside, relieved to be out of that dreadful place. We stood on the step, looking out at the wide square. On the other side, in the distance, we saw a coach surrounded by four riders pull into Catherine Parr's courtyard.

  'A visitor for Lady Catherine,' I said. 'Perhaps it is the Archbishop.'

  'If it is, God speed him. True religion needs her help,' Harsnet answered. He walked down the step, and unhitched his horse from the rail. I made to follow, but Barak touched me on the arm.

  'What is next?' he asked. 'What happens when the sixth vial is poured?'

  Guy answered. 'Revelation talks of great waters being dried up. The Euphrates.'

  'How's the arsehole going to make a killing that symbolizes that’ll Dry up the Thames?'

  'He'll find a way.' I answered grimly. 'Whatever it is, it will be some other method of torturing another poor soul to death. Jesu knows what.'

  Chapter Thirty-two

  GUY RODE BACK to Smithfield with us. There he turned left into town, bidding us farewell. 'Shall I see you at the Bedlam tomorrow morning, Matthew? I am going at nine o'clock.'

  I agreed to the rendezvous, then watched him for a few moments, a lonely figure in the country road, his stoop noticeable as he rode away.

  'Now, Matthew,' Harsnet asked. 'What is it that you have worked out? What are in those little boxes that Barak is carrying?'

  I told them what I believed. Lockley had been keeping secrets, the dean too, and perhaps Cantrell.

  'Maybe we should talk to Cantrell first,' Barak suggested. 'See if he can confirm it.'

  'We can talk to him afterwards,' Harsnet answered grimly. 'I want to confront the dean directly.'

  'You could go home, Jack,' I said. 'See Tamasin.'

  He shook his head. 'No, I want to see the end of this.' He looked at me, and I saw that like Harsnet and me, he had been deeply shocked by what had been done to Mrs Bunce. 'I wish we could have saved her,' he said.

  WE RODE DOWN to Westminster. It was a Saturday; Parliament and the courts were shut, there were fewer people around. Shopkeepers and pedlars eyed us as we passed, and one or two called out, but we ignored them. In the Sanctuary we passed a big cart loaded with planks of newly cut wood, the resin smell sweet in the foul town air.

  The cathedral doors were closed but we heard the sound of hymn-singing from inside, the choir no doubt preparing for service.

  'I wonder where the dean is,' I said.

  'We will go to his house.'

  We rode on to Dean's Yard, passed under the wall into the abbey courtyard and once again tied up the horses outside the pretty old house standing amidst the chaos of building works. Enquiries of the steward revealed that Dean Benson would be occupied in the cathedral all day. Harsnet sent a message asking him to attend us on a matter of urgency which might involve his personal safety. 'That'll bring him,' he said as the steward hurried away, leaving us sitting in the entrance hall.

  In a short time we heard footsteps approaching up the garden path. The dean entered. He was breathing heavily; he must have hurried over as soon as he got the message. He looked at us angrily. 'What in the name of Heaven has happened now?' he demanded. 'Why do you say I am in danger?'

  'May we speak in your office?' Harsnet asked.

  'Very well.' The dean sighed and led us down the corridor, his cassock rustling. After a few steps he turned, staring at Barak, who had followed us, carrying Lockley's boxes. 'And you propose to bring your servant to an interview with me?' he asked me haughtily.

  'Barak comes too this time,' Harsnet said, looking the dean hard in the eye. We had agreed this beforehand. 'He has something to show you.'

  The dean looked at the boxes Barak carried, shrugged and walked

  on.

  Once in his office, Harsnet told the dean of Ethel Bunce's murder, Lockley's disappearance, and the attack on Cantrell. 'So you see, dean,' he said. 'The killer seems to be focusing his attention now on those associated with the infirmary.'

  'Why should that endanger me?' The dean looked at the boxes on Barak's lap and took a sudden deep breath. I saw that he guessed what they might be.

  'There was a connection between you and them,' I said. 'More, I think, than the mere fact that you had overall authority over the monks' infirmary and the lay hospital. I think that is what you have been hiding.'

  Barak opened the boxes, revealing the dentures. From the way the dean's eyes widened and he sat back in his chair I knew my suspicions were right.

  'Let me tell you what I think happened,' I said quietly. 'Goddard used to administer dwale, a powerful and dangerous soporific, to render people unconscious for operations. Meanwhile a fashion came in among the rich for wearing false teeth set in wood. The teeth are usually obtained from healthy young people, preferably as a complete set. Master Barak's wife recently had to have a tooth removed, and the tooth-drawer suggested he pull out the lot, offering to pay her well for them.'

  'Is there some meaning to this story?' the dean asked angrily. But his eyes kept going back to the boxes.

  'I do not know how often you visit the abandoned parts of the old monastery now, but I have twice encountered a beggar who keeps sneaking into the premises, asking anyone who will listen if they know where his teeth are — he has not a tooth in his head. He is mad, of course, but I wonder what drove him so. Something that was done to him here? Perhaps his teeth were removed, under dwale? Perhaps they were checked for size against one of these boxes we found in Lockley's chest. One of the reasons the tootlvdrawers find it hard to get people to volunteer their teeth, even for high sums, is the pain involved. But destitute folk who came here to have their illnesses treated could be offered a dose of dwale to make the process itself painless.'

  There was silence in the room. A loud hammering began somewhere outside, making the dean jump. He took a deep breath. 'If Goddard and Lockley, and Cantrell for all I know, had some scheme going in the infirmary, I knew nothing of it. And what has that to do with your hunt for the killer?'

  'We need to know all, dean. And from the way you looked at those boxes it is clear this is not news to you.'

  A second hammer joined the first. The dean closed his eyes. 'That noise,' he said quietly. 'That endless noise. How am I supposed to be able to think?' He opened his eyes again. He looked between the three of us, then took a deep breath.

  'I congratulate you, Serjeant Shardlake. Yes, you are right. Back in 1539, four years ago, I learned Goddard was inviting patients in the lay hospital to sell their teeth. The fashion for false teeth was coming in then, and he had made an arrangement with a local barber- surgeon in Westminster. A man called Snethe, at the sign of the Bloody Growth. He buys teeth, and other things as well from what I hear.' He took another deep breath and then continued. 'Lockley worked with Goddard. By then, everyone knew the monasteries had no future and many of the monks tried to protect their financial security in various ways. That was the way Goddard chose, so he could preserve his status if the monastery closed. Lockley, I imagine, spent his share on drink.'

  'How did you learn about this?'

  'Young Cantrell told me. He worked in the monks' infirmary and had little to do with the lay hospital, but he learned what was going on, he heard Goddard and Lockley talking one day. Goddard told him to keep it quiet or he would suffer for it, but Cantrell suspected that one or two of the people Goddard and Lockley renderd unconscious for their teeth never woke up.'

  'Cantrell,' I said. 'He was terrified at the me
ntion of Goddard's name.'

  Benson continued: 'I had been told by Lord Cromwell to seek out any scandals that might be going on, for use if we needed to put pressure on the monks to surrender.' He looked at us again. 'Yes, and all of you worked for him too, so you have no cause to be righteous with me. He told me to let what they were doing continue, so that we could spring a trap if need be, make a scandal of it. But his preference was for the monastery to be closed quietly and peacefully, without scandal, because that is what the King wanted. And that is what I achieved.'

  'Did Goddard know Cantrell had informed on him?'

  'No. I never told him I knew.'

  'So more people could have died?' Harsnet said.

  'Perhaps. I was under the Lord Cromwell's orders. As all of you know, one did not defy those lightly.' He leaned forward, regaining confidence now. 'And the King would not like to hear a scandal about Westminster, even now. I obeyed Lord Cromwell because he had all the power then, though I had no sympathy for his extreme radicalism in religion. But I knew he would go too far and his enemies on the Council would bring him down. Which is what happened. And now we are going back to more sensible ways.'

  'So you swung with the wind,' Harsnet said.

  'Better swinging with the wind than swinging in the wind, as many have.' Benson pointed a stubby finger at the coroner. 'The King knows nothing of this, does he? This killer you are seeking? I have been making soundings — oh, very discreetly, do not worry. The King would not be glad to hear Archbishop Cranmer had been keeping things from him, not at this time when there are so many voices raised against him.' He turned to me. 'Your search does not go well, does it? You seem to be caught up in a nasty tangle, master crookback. You would not want to annoy the King a second time.'