by C. J. Sansom
'No. A man has to sleep,' he added in a truculent mumble.
'Not if he's a watchman,' Sir Thomas said sharply. 'Where are the Italians?'
Padge led the way to the building with the open door. It had evidently been the monastic chapter house, for there were benches round the wall as there were at Westminster Abbey. But this was a far smaller, more austere room. Most of the space was taken up with chests and wardrobes; to store the costumes for the masques, no doubt. Two huge suits of armour stood beside them, and half a dozen enormous jousting lances were stacked against the wall. A little group of people had found space on the benches and sat huddled together, looking scared. They were swarthy, dark-haired; four men and three women with children in their laps. All were clutching musical instruments, lutes and tabors and even a harp. I saw the men's doublets and the women's dresses were soaked through. 'Does anyone speak English?' I asked.
One of the men stood up. 'I do,' he said in heavily accented tones.
'You are the Bassano family, the King's musicians?'
'Yes, sir.' He bowed. 'I am their servant, Signor Granzi.'
'What has happened to you?' Sir Thomas asked. 'You look like a lot of drowned rats.'
'We woke this morning to find the floors of our quarters in water above our feet,' the Italian said. 'The ground goes downward from that conduit. Water was coming into our rooms. We had to rescue our instruments. We came here, then called the watchman. What is it, sir? We heard the watchman cry out.'
'Nothing to worry you.'
'Did any of you hear anything strange last night?' I asked. Master Granzi consulted the other in their strange, musical tongue, then shook his head. 'No, sir. We were all asleep.'
Sir Thomas grunted. 'Come on, Padge. Take us to where you found the body.' He pushed the watchman out into the rain; a born bully.
As we crossed the courtyard Harsnet fell into step beside me. 'Those musicians perform before the King. If they learn there has been a killing here it will be a fine bit of gossip to tell around the court. They must not find out what has happened.'
'I agree.' Was that what the killer had intended?
'We'll say it was an accident.'
'Padge is a drunk. He'll talk in his cups.'
'I'll take him with us when we leave,' Harsnet said. 'Keep him somewhere safe and put one of Sir Thomas' men in here for now. I'll square it with the Court of Augmentations.'
Padge led us back to the gatehouse. He had appropriated one room, a truckle bed on the floor. The room stank of beer. There was a fire burning in the grate, and he lit three lamps from it. He passed them to Barak, Janley and then me.
'We'll need these, sir,' he said and led the way back to the outer courtyard. We followed him, heads bowed against the rain, into a low, square building standing on its own. In the centre of the stone floor was a large square opening, protected by a low railing. An iron ladder bolted to the side led down into a brickwork shaft streaked with green lichen. A large wheel stood off to one side.
'I left the lock gates slightly open last night,' Padge said. After all the rain there is a lot of water coming through and it needs to drain. When I came this morning I thought to open them fully with the wheel but they were stuck fast. I looked down the shaft and — you will see.' The hand that held his lamp began to shake.
We all went to the rail and looked down, holding our lamps out over the shaft. It went down twenty feet. At the bottom, on one side, a pair of heavy wooden gates about eight feet high was set into the brick wall. They were slightly open, enough to let a trickle of water through. My eyes widened as I made out the body of a naked man at the bottom of the gate. His posture was strange, he was spreadeagled against the wooden gates, limbs outstretched. His face looked upwards, merely a white shape in the gloom, but I could make out that it was Lockley.
'The body's fixed to those gates somehow,' Padge said. 'Did you go down to look?' Sir Thomas asked. Padge shook his head vigorously.
'We'd better see. Barak, Harsnet, come with me. You too, Shardlake - if you can climb down ladders,' he added with a nasty smile, a flash of white teeth in the gloom.
'Of course I can,' I replied sharply, though I did not relish the prospect.
Sir Thomas swung easily over the railing and began his descent. Barak and Harsnet followed. I made up the rear, grasping the slippery rungs hard.
At the bottom we found ourselves standing on wet brickwork that sloped down to a central channel where the water ran off down an archway into darkness. We looked at the lock gates, rendered speechless by what we saw there. The naked body of Francis Lockley had been laid out at the bottom of the gates and then nailed to them, like some terrible mockery of the Crucifixion, his hands nailed to one gate and his feet to the other. Big, broad-headed nails, driven in to the hilt. The gates could not be opened without ripping them out, and that would require more force than the weight of the water and turning of the wheel above could provide. I saw there was a mass of dried blood on the back of his head, but little sign of blood flowing from the terrible wounds. Lockley had at least died quickly. I guessed if he had been drugged with dwale and left to wake in the darkness there was the risk that he might live long enough to talk to a rescuer. The killer had put his safety before his sadistic cruelty. Nonetheless the savagery was unspeakable.
A loud creak from the gate made us start back.
'There's a lot of water backing up there,' Barak said anxiously.
'How in hell did the killer get him down here?' Sir Thomas asked.
'Dropped him down, I'd guess,' Barak said. 'Then climbed down the ladder.'
The gates creaked again. 'I think we should get out,' Barak said with sudden urgency. 'With the rain there's more water building up behind there all the time. Those nails are driven in fast, but at some point they'll give way.'
'You're right,' Sir Thomas agreed. 'Let's leave.'
We climbed the ladder again. Janley and Padge were sitting on stools on either side of the gloomy little room. We just stood there for a moment, shocked and overwhelmed by the latest murder. Then Harsnet said, 'I have to get out of here.' We followed him out into the courtyard. The rain seemed to be easing off.
'It will be a hard job getting Lockley out,' Harsnet said quietly. 'And as you said, Barak, a risky one. We will have to block the gates in some way while we remove the body, bring it up on ropes.'
'I will go and arrange that now,' Sir Thomas said. Even he appeared subdued. 'With some men of my household I can trust to keep their mouths shut. We cannot wait.'
'No.' Harsnet agreed. 'Not just the musicians' instruments but all the King's possessions that are stored here will be flooded out. But I do not understand how he got Lockley into the precinct, how he knew where the conduit-house was.'
I looked around. 'If he was hanging about the vicinity he could pick up that the watchman was a drunk,' I said quietly. 'Easy enough to get in here at night and explore the buildings to see if they would suit his purpose, which I guess he had already worked out.'
'If he talked to the watchman, the drunken old sot may remember him,' Sir Thomas said, his eyes lighting up with excitement. 'I doubt he did.' 'Why?'
'Because Padge is still alive. He should be questioned, certainly, but remember the killer has already murdered one man who could have led us to his identity.'
Harsnet nodded. 'Then we must question the tavern customers again. Ask them if a stranger has been asking about the Charter- house.'
I nodded to the chapel. 'The beggars too, perhaps.'
'Ay. Someone may have asked one of them for information in return for a groat. It's possible.'
Sir Thomas looked at me. 'Do you think there is any significance in the last two murders being round the Charterhouse?' he asked. 'Because do not forget, Lady Catherine Parr lives across that green. And the killer may know something of the layout. Dr Gurney was staying there when he was killed. That's three out of six murders now with a connection to Charterhouse Square.'
'I do not think so. I think
he deliberately chose Lockley and his wife because he knew of their past somehow. Dr Gurney's presence on the other side of the square is surely a coincidence.'
'He must be strong to have got the body in here from outside,' Barak said.
'He brought my friend Roger Elliard's body across Lincoln's Inn Fields and into the Inn. Assuming he killed Lockley before he got here, I imagine he did the same. Lockley was a small man, like Roger, but fat. Yes, he must be very strong.'
'Shall we look around;' Barak asked. 'See if we can find where he got in;'
'Yes. We cannot get any wetter.'
We turned to go, but just then three figures walked under the gatehouse arch, like us muddy from riding. Barak's hand went to his sword-hilt, but I recognized the leading figure as Dean Benson, swathed in a heavy coat. He indicated to the two retainers who accompanied him to stay where they were. They stood in the yard, rain dripping off their caps. Benson came up to us. His plump face was anxious.
Harsnet stepped forward. 'What are you doing here, sir?' he asked.
The dean wiped his face with his sleeve. 'I have ridden halfway across London in the rain looking for you, sir. Your servant at Whitehall wouldn't tell me where you were at first, I had the devil's job to get it out of him. Can we please go inside, I am covered in mud—'
'Pox on the mud!' Sir Thomas Seymour said brutally. 'Who are you and what do you want;'
Benson thrust his chest forward. 'I am William Benson, Dean of Westminster Abbey. And who are you;'
'Sir Thomas Seymour, brother of Lord Hertford.'
'Seymour;' The dean frowned, and I could see his mind making connections. So the Seymour family were involved in this—
'What do you want, sir;' Harsnet asked again.
'We should go inside. What I have brought here should not get wet.'
Harsnet hesitated a moment, then led the way back into the conduit-house. Janley and Padge bowed as the gentleman of the church entered. The dean looked round him, puzzled. 'What is going on in here?'
'Never mind that for now,' Harsnet said. 'Please, tell us why you have come.'
Benson delved in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. 'This was pushed under the front door of my house just before dawn. My steward brought it to me.' He handed the paper to Harsnet. We gathered round the coroner. The paper was folded, Dean Benson's name and the words MOST URGENT written on it. Harsnet opened it. Inside was written, again in block capitals:
LANCELOT GODDARD KINESWORTH VILLAGE BY TOTTERIDGE HERTFORDSHIRE
We stared at the simple, stark message, the address. 'Hertfordshire,' Harsnet said quietly. 'I did not think to make enquiry so far.'
'I've been to Totteridge village,' Barak said. 'It's at the bottom of that little ringer of Hertfordshire land that sticks down towards London. It's a couple of hours' ride away.'
'You say this was pushed under your door,' Sir Thomas said. 'You didn't by any chance write it yourself?'
'Of course I didn't,' Benson snapped.
'The killer knew we were about to find the sixth victim,' I said quietly.
'And now he is giving us his address?' Harsnet said incredulously. 'He is surrendering?'
I took the piece of paper. I felt reluctant to touch the writing, the killer's writing. 'No. That would be to abandon his mission. And Goddard may be the victim, not the killer. The killer may not be inviting us to this village to surrender. It could be to show us the seventh killing. The last. The great earthquake that will signal the end of the world.'
THERE WAS SILENCE for a moment. The dean looked between us, puzzled. 'There has been a sixth death; Who; Here;' He looked around, then his eyes fixed on the shaft.
'Down there,' I said quietly. 'Your former lay brother, Francis Lockley.'
The dean looked at the hatch, then stepped away, his face white. 'Dean,' Harsnet said. 'Go back to your house and stay there should we need you again. And tell nobody. You have seen now that the Seymour family is involved in this, how high this matter reaches.'
'What are you going to do?' Benson asked.
'Take steps,' Harsnet said noncommittally.
'Get out, you're wasting time,' Thomas Seymour said. 'Or do you want me to take you down to get a proper look at what's down that hatch; It's not pretty.'
The dean shrank away. He looked round us again, then turned and went out. He called to his retainers to follow him, and we listened to their footsteps on the wet flagstones dying away.
Harsnet looked round at us. 'We should ride up to Totteridge now,' he said. 'Sir Thomas, can you get some men—'
'I'm not sure we should do that,' I said urgently. 'It is what he would expect. We could be riding into a trap.'
'But if Sir Thomas can get some men,' Barak said, 'and we can ride there in force—'
'The hunchback's right,' Seymour said. 'This creature's got something waiting for us up there. It would be better for me to send a couple of trusted men up to that village, my steward and another man, an ex-soldier, who was with me in Hungary. They can spy out the land, find out whether Goddard lives there, make contact with the local magistrate. They can report back tonight. Coroner Harsnet, you should tell the Archbishop what has happened, then I will report to him personally as soon as I have news.'
'We should storm the place,' Barak pressed.
'Let's see the lie of the land first,' Seymour said 'We can go to that village in force tomorrow.' He looked at the coroner. 'But we shall need the Archbishop's approval.'
Despite his insulting behaviour towards me, I looked at Sir Thomas with a new respect. He had been an ambassador with a fighting army in Hungary, he was thinking strategically.
'I should go with your men,' Harsnet said.
'No, Gregory,' I said. 'There is every chance that the killer will recognize you, given how he has been following us. It may be possible for Sir Thomas' men to make enquiries without showing who they are.'
'You think this man's possessed by the devil,' Seymour said. 'We have to show as much cunning as he does.'
Harsnet frowned. 'We need reliable men,' he said after a pause.
Seymour laughed. 'Do not worry, coroner, my steward is reliable and sober. He even goes to church on Sundays when I do not need him to organize some hunting.'
Harsnet looked at me. I nodded. 'Very well,' he said reluctantly.
Seymour looked at the watchman, Padge. And I'll get someone to replace him and keep people away. You'd better keep him safe somewhere for a bit, ply him with drink. His big ears have been flapping all this time.' The watchman gave him a bitter look, but dared say nothing. 'Janley should go back to the tavern,' Seymour concluded. He grinned at us suddenly. 'The chase is on, gentlemen, the hunt is nearly over.'
WHEN HE HAD LEFT, Harsnet ordered Janley and the watchman to remain in the conduit-house and asked Barak and me to step outside. Mercifully the rain had ceased and a weak sun was trying to penetrate the clouds.
'You suggested there might be a trail, Barak:' Harsnet said. 'Shall we see? Then I must go and report to the Archbishop.'
Harsnet was silent, thoughtful, as the three of us went through the outer gate, following the wall that bounded the precinct. A gate led us into an orchard, reminding me again of the aftermath of Roger's death at Lincoln's Inn.
Barak led the way through the long grass around the trees. My shoes and netherhose were getting a further soaking from the grass. 'Can't see anything,' he said. 'Everything is sopping wet. No, wait, look there.' He pointed to the ground. A single long line ran through the grass. It had left a heavy impression.
'What is it?' I asked.
'A wheelbarrow,' Barak said. 'Wherever he was hiding Lock- ley, he must have had some distance to bring him. This is how he did it.'
'But a man carrying a body in a wheelbarrow would be noticed.'
'Not if he had a cover over it. I wonder where this leads.' He began following the thin line through the orchard. The trail led us back towards Aldersgate Street. It followed a gap in a hedge and disappeared in the sho
rt grass of a pathway round a field. Barak looked towards the distant road.
'The time and care he takes,' Harsnet said. 'He must have killed Lockley them come back for Mrs Bunce, and kept Lockley's body somewhere before putting him into the conduit yesterday.'
'And what he did to Mrs Bunce must have taken most of the night,' I said quietly.
'How could he overcome both of them?'
'Perhaps somehow he got them both to take dwale. Perhaps he came in late and persuaded them to take a glass of beer with him. He is clever enough for anything,' I added bitterly.
'And now he wants us to go to that village,' Barak said.
'Yes.' Harsnet looked at me. 'I think you are right. The seventh vial will be poured out somehow in that Hertfordshire village. I should have gone with them.'
I admired his courage, but could not agree. 'The chance to make some enquiries by stealth could make all the difference.'
Harsnet nodded reluctantly. 'What will he do?' he asked, his voice full of tension. 'Who will the seventh victim be? Is it to be one of us, a stranger, or someone else from the abbey? He is probably already dead, another body waiting to be found.'
'Or is Goddard himself the victim? Someone should check young Cantrell is safe,' I asked.
'Ay, not bludgeoned and carted off somewhere in a wheelbarrow.' Barak's tone was suddenly savage. The strain showed in his face again. He turned to me.
'What nightmarish bloody thing is he going to do this time? How will he make the earth quake?'
