Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) (17 page)
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Authors: C J Sansom
BOOK: Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries)
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The infirmarian looked at me, his face serious. ‘It is a congestion of the lungs. No wonder, standing about in the cold with no food. He has a dangerous temperature. But he keeps asking to speak with you. He will not rest till he has done so.’
I approached the bed, reluctant to go too close lest he breathe the humours of his fever on me. The boy fixed red-rimmed eyes on me. ‘Commissioner, sir,’ he croaked. ‘You are sent here to do justice?’
‘Yes, I am here to investigate Commissioner Singleton’s death.’
‘He is not the first to be killed,’ he gasped. ‘Not the first. I know.’
‘What do you mean? Who else has died?’
A series of racking coughs shook his thin frame, phlegm gurgling in his chest. He lay back, exhausted. His eyes fell on Alice.
‘Poor, good girl. I warned her of the danger here . . .’ He began to cry, retching sobs turning into another fit of coughing that looked ready to shake his thin frame apart. I turned to Alice.
‘What does he mean?’ I asked sharply. ‘What has he warned you of?’
Her face was clouded with puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand, sir. He has never warned me of anything. I have barely spoken to him before today.’
I looked at Brother Guy. He seemed equally puzzled. He studied the boy anxiously.
‘He is very ill, Commissioner. He should be left to rest now.’
‘No, Brother, I must question him some more. Have you any idea what he meant there?’
‘No, sir. I know no more than Alice.’
I moved closer to the bed and bent over the boy.
‘Master Whelplay, tell me what you mean. Alice says you have given her no warning—’
‘Alice is good,’ he croaked. ‘Dulce and gentle. She must be warned—’ He began coughing again, and Brother Guy stepped firmly between us.
‘I must ask you to leave him now, Commissioner. I thought talking to you might ease him, but he is delirious. I must give him a potion to make him sleep.’
‘Please, sir,’ Alice added, ‘for charity. You can see how ill he is.’
I drew away from the boy, who seemed to have collapsed into an exhausted stupor. ‘How ill is he?’ I asked.
The infirmarian set his lips. ‘Either the fever will break soon, or it will kill him. He should not have been treated so,’ he added angrily. ‘I have made a complaint to the abbot; he will be coming to see the lad in the morning. Prior Mortimus has gone too far this time.’
‘I must find out what he meant. I will come again tomorrow and I want to be told at once if his condition worsens.’
‘Of course. Now pray excuse me, sir, I must prepare some herbs—’
I nodded, and he left. I smiled at Alice, trying to seem reassuring.
‘A strange business,’ I said. ‘You have no idea what he meant? First he said he had warned you, then that he must do so.’
‘He has said nothing to me, sir. When we brought him in he slept a little, then as his fever rose he started asking for you.’
‘What could he mean by saying Singleton was not the first?’
‘On my oath, sir, I do not know.’ There was anxiety in her voice. I turned to her and spoke gently.
‘Do you feel you could be in danger from any source, Alice?’
‘No, sir.’ Her face reddened and I was surprised at the degree of anger and contempt that came into her face. ‘I have had approaches from certain monks from time to time, but I deal with them with the aid of Brother Guy’s protection and my own wits. That is a nuisance, not a danger.’
I nodded, struck once more by the strength of her personality.
‘You are unhappy here?’ I asked quietly.
She shrugged. ‘It is a post. And I have a good master.’
‘Alice, if I can help you or there is anything you want to tell me, please come to me. I would not like to think of you in danger.’
‘Thank you, sir. I am grateful.’ Her tone was guarded; she had no reason to trust me any more than the monks. But perhaps she would unwind to Mark. She turned back to her patient, who had begun tossing in his fever, threatening to throw off the bedclothes.
‘Goodnight then, Alice.’
She was still trying to settle the novice, and did not look up. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
I made my way back up the freezing corridor. Stopping at a window, I saw the snow had ceased at last. It lay deep and unbroken, glowing white under a full moon. Looking out on that wasteland broken by the black shapes of the ancient buildings, I felt as trapped and isolated in Scarnsea as though I stood in the moon’s own empty caverns.
Chapter Ten
WHEN I WOKE I did not at first know where I was. Daylight of unaccustomed brightness cast a leached white light over an unfamiliar room. Then I remembered all and slowly sat up. Mark, who had fallen asleep again by the time I returned from my talk with the novice, had already risen; he had banked up the fire and stood in his hose, shaving at a ewer of steaming water. Through the window bright sunlight was reflected from the snow that lay thick everywhere, dotted here and there with birds’ footprints.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, squinting at his features in an old brass mirror.
‘What time is it?’
‘Past nine. The infirmarian says breakfast is waiting in his kitchen. He knew we would be tired and let us sleep.’
I threw off the clothes. ‘We haven’t time to waste sleeping! Hurry, finish that and get into your shirt.’ I started pulling on my clothes.
‘Will you not shave?’
‘They can take me unshaven.’ The burden of work to be done filled my mind. ‘Hurry now. I want to see this place properly and talk to the obedentiaries. You must find an opportunity to talk to Mistress Alice. Then take a walk around the place, look for likely hiding places for that sword. We have to cover the ground as fast as we can, we have a new problem now.’ As I laced up my hose, I told him of my visit to Whelplay the night before.
‘Someone else killed? Jesu. This skein gets more tangled by the hour.’
‘I know. And we have little time to untangle it. Come.’
We went down the corridor to Brother Guy’s infirmary. He was at his desk, squinting at his Arabic book.
‘Ah, you are awake,’ he said in his soft accent. He closed the text reluctantly and led us to a little room, where more herbs hung from hooks. Inviting us to sit at the table, he set bread and cheese and a jug of weak beer before us.
‘How is your patient?’ I asked as we ate.
‘A little easier this morning, thank God. The fever has broken and he is in a deep sleep. The abbot is coming to visit him later.’
‘Tell me, what is Novice Whelplay’s history?’
‘He is the son of a small farmer towards Tonbridge. Brother Guy smiled sadly. ‘He is one of those too soft by nature for this harsh world, too easily bruised. Such souls often gravitate here, I think it is where God intends them to be.’
‘A soft refuge from the world, then?’
‘Those like Brother Simon serve God and the world with their prayers. Is that not better for all than the life of mockery and ill-treatment such people often have outside? And in the circumstances he could hardly be said to have found a refuge.’
I looked at him seriously. ‘No, he found mockery and ill-treatment here too. When we have eaten, Brother Guy, I would like you to take me to the kitchen where you found the body. I fear we have had a late start.’
‘Of course. But I should not leave my patients for too long—’
‘Half an hour should be enough.’ I took a last swig of beer and rose, wrapping my cloak around me. ‘Master Poer will stay here in the infirmary this morning, I have allowed him a morning’s rest. After you, Brother.’
We went through the hall, where Alice was again attending to the old monk. He was as ancient as any man I had ever seen, and lay breathing slowly and with effort. He could not have been a greater contrast to his plump neighbour, who sat up in bed playing a card game. The blind patient was asleep in a chair.
The infirmarian opened the front door, stepping back as nearly a foot of snow banked up against the door fell over the threshold.
‘We should have overshoes,’ he said, ‘or we shall get foot-rot walking in this.’ He excused himself and left me looking out, my breath steaming before me. Under a blue sky the air was as still and cold as any I remember. The snow was that light, fluffy sort that comes in the hardest weather, the devil to walk through. I had brought my staff, for with my poor balance I could easily go over. Brother Guy returned carrying stout leather overshoes.
‘I must have these issued to the monks with outside duties,’ he said. We laced them up and stepped up to our calves in the snow, Brother Guy’s features standing out darker than ever against the whiteness. The door to the kitchens was only a short distance away, and I saw the main building had a common wall with the infirmary. I asked if there was a connecting door.
‘There was a passage,’ he said. ‘It was closed off at the time of the Black Death, to minimize the spread of infection, and has never been reopened. A sensible measure.’
‘Last night when I saw that boy I feared he had the sweating sickness. I have seen it, it is terrible. But of course it is produced by the foul airs of the towns.’
‘Mercifully I have seen little plague. Mostly I have to deal with the consequences of too much standing at prayer in a cold church. And of old age, of course.’
‘You have another patient there who seems poorly. The ancient.’
‘Yes. Brother Francis. He is ninety-four. So old he is become a child again and now he has an ague. I think he may be near the end of his pilgrimage at last.’
‘What is wrong with the fat fellow?’
‘Varicose ulcers like Brother Septimus, but worse. I have drained them, and now he is enjoying some rest.’ He smiled gently. ‘I may have a task getting him up again. People do not like to leave the infirmary. Brother Andrew has become a fixture, his blindness came on him late and he fears to go outside. His confidence has gone.’
‘Have you many old monks under your care?’
‘A dozen. The brothers tend to be long-lived. I have four past eighty.’
‘They have not the strains or hardships of most people.’
‘Or perhaps their devotions strengthen the body as well as the soul. But here we are.’
He led me through a stout oak door. As he had described the night before, a short passage led into the kitchen itself. The door was open and I heard voices and the clattering of plates. A rich smell of baking drifted out as we proceeded up the passage. Inside, half a dozen servants were preparing a meal. The kitchen was large, and seemed clean and well organized.
‘So, Brother, when you came in that night, where was the body?’
The infirmarian paced out a few steps, the servants watching curiously.
‘Just here, by the big table. The body lay on its front, legs pointing to the door. The head had come to rest there.’ He pointed to an iron vat marked ‘Butter’. I followed his gaze, as did the servants. One crossed himself.
‘So he had just come through the door when he was struck,’ I mused. There was a big cupboard by the spot where he had fallen; the assailant could have hidden at the side and then, when Singleton passed, leaped out and struck him down. I paced out the steps and swung my staff in the air, making a servant jump back in alarm. ‘Yes, there’s room for a big swing. I’d guess that’s how it was done.’
‘With a sharp blade and a strong hand, yes, you could do it,’ Brother Guy said pensively.
‘If you were skilled, used to swinging a large sword about.’ I looked around the servants. ‘Who is head cook here?’
A bearded man in a stained apron stepped forward, bowing. ‘Ralph Spenlay, sir.’
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