Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) (27 page)

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Authors: C J Sansom

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‘Of course.’
 
I motioned Mark to stand aside, and we followed him across the cloister yard, Mark taking up a lamp to light the way. Brother Edwig unlocked the counting house and we climbed the stairs to his private office. He unlocked his desk and pulled a thin blue book from a drawer.
 
‘This is it, sir. See for yourself.’
 
I looked inside. Indeed there were no neat columns, only scrawled jottings and arithmetical reckonings.
 
‘I will take this for now.’
 
‘B-by all means. B-but may I ask, as this is a private office, if you would come to me before taking any more books? To prevent confusion?’
 
I ignored the question. ‘I see from your other records that the monastery has a large surplus, larger this year than last. Sales of land have brought in fresh capital. Why then is there objection to Brother Gabriel’s proposals for repair of the church?’
 
He looked at me seriously. ‘Brother Gabriel would spend everything we have on the r-repairs. He would allow all else to f-fall down. The abbot
will
give him money for repairs, but we have to beat him down or he will take all. It is a matter of negotiation.’
 
It was all so plausible. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘That is all. For now. One thing more. You mentioned Alice Fewterer. The girl is under my special protection, and if any harm befalls her you will find yourself at once under arrest and sent to London for enquiry.’ I turned and marched out.
 
 
‘WAYS OF NEGOTIATION, indeed,’ I said as we walked to the infirmary. ‘He’s as slippery as they come.’
 
‘He could not have killed Singleton, though. He was away. And a fat little hog like that couldn’t have struck his head off.’
 
‘He could have killed Simon Whelplay. Perhaps there is more than one of them acting together in this business.’
 
Back in our room, we studied the account book. It seemed, as the bursar said, to contain nothing more than random calculations and jottings, all in his neat round hand, going back years by the faded look of the ink in the earlier part. I tossed it aside, rubbing my tired eyes.
 
‘Perhaps Commissioner Singleton thought he had found something when he had not?’
 
‘No. I don’t think so. From what Alice said his accusation was specific, he said the book shed new light on the year’s accounts.’ I exclaimed and banged my fist into my palm. ‘Where are my wits? What if he has more than one book with a blue cover? This may not be the one!’
 
‘We could go back now, and turn the counting house upside down.’
 
‘No. I am exhausted. Tomorrow. Now let’s rest, it will be a busy day. There’s Singleton’s funeral to get through, then we must go to Scarnsea to see Justice Copynger. I want to talk to Jerome too. And we should investigate the fish pond.’
 
Mark groaned. ‘Truly there is no rest for Lord Cromwell’s emissaries. At least we may find ourselves too busy to be frightened.’
 
‘With any luck. And now I am going to bed. Say a prayer for some progress tomorrow.’
 
 
WE WOKE early next morning, just as dawn was breaking. I rose and scraped frost from the inside of the window. The rising sun was casting fingers of pink light across the snow. It was a beautiful but sterile scene.
 
‘No sign of a thaw.’ I turned to find Mark standing shirtless by the fire, a shoe in his hand, staring around the room with a puzzled expression. He raised a hand.
 
‘What was that? I heard something.’
 
‘I heard nothing.’
 
‘It was like a footstep. I did hear it.’ Frowning, Mark threw the door open. There was nobody there.
 
I sat down on the bed again; my back was stiff and sore that morning. ‘You are imagining things. This place is unsettling you. And don’t stand there half-bare. The world doesn’t want to see your belly, flat as it may be.’
 
‘Sir, I did hear something. I thought it was outside.’ He thought a moment, then crossed to the cupboard, which served as a storage space for clothes. He threw open the door, but it contained only dust and mouse-droppings. I looked down at him, envying the play of smooth, symmetrical muscles down his back.
 
‘Only mice,’ I said. ‘Come on.’
 
AS WE SAT at breakfast we had a visit from the abbot, ruddy-cheeked and swathed in furs against the cold. He was accompanied by Dr Goodhaps, who cast nervous, rheumy eyes about the infirmary, a dewdrop on the end of his nose.
 
‘I have sad news,’ Abbot Fabian began in his pompous way. ‘We must postpone the late commissioner’s interment.’
 
‘How so?’
 
‘The servants have not been able to dig deep enough. The ground is hard as iron and now they have poor Simon’s grave to dig as well in the monks’ cemetery. Today will be needed to finish the task. Then we could have both funerals tomorrow.’
 
‘It cannot be helped. Will the funerals be held together?’
 
He hesitated. ‘As Simon was a religious that must be a separate ceremony. That is allowed in the injunctions . . .’
 
‘I have no objection.’
 
‘I wondered, sir, how your enquiries are going. The bursar really needs his books back as soon as possible, I fear—’
 
‘He will have to wait, I am not finished yet. And this morning I am going into town to see the Justice.’
 
He nodded portentously. ‘Good. I am positive, Commissioner, that poor Commissioner Singleton’s murderer is to be found in the town, among the smugglers and ill-doers there.’
 
‘When I return I would like to interview Brother Jerome. Where is he? I have not seen his smiling face.’
 
‘In solitude, as a penance for his behaviour. I must warn you, Commissioner, if you talk to him you will only have fresh insults. He is beyond control.’
 
‘I can make allowance for the mad. I will see him when I return from Scarnsea.’
 
‘Your horses may have difficulty getting there. Last night’s wind has blown the snow into great drifts. One of our carts has had to turn back, the horses could not manage.’
 
‘Then we will walk.’
 
‘That too may be difficult. I have been trying to tell Dr Goodhaps—’
 
The old man spoke up. ‘Sir, I have come to ask, may I not go home tomorrow, after the funeral? Surely I can be of no more use? If I were to get to the town I could find a place in a coach, or I wouldn’t mind staying at an inn till the snow melts.’
 
I nodded. ‘Very well, Master Goodhaps. Though I fear you may have a wait in Scarnsea before this weather changes.’
 
‘I don’t mind, sir, thank you!’ The old man beamed, nodding his head so that the dewdrop fell on his chin.
 
‘Go back to Cambridge. Say nothing of what has happened here.’
 
‘I want only to forget about it.’
 
‘And now, Mark, we must go. My lord Abbot, while we are in town I would like you to sort out more papers for me. The deeds of conveyance on all land sales for the last five years.’
 
‘All of them? They will have to be fetched—’
 
‘Yes, all of them. I want you to be able to swear you have given me the deeds of every sale—’
 
‘I will arrange it, of course, if you wish.’
 
‘Good.’ I got up. ‘And now we must be on our way.’
 
The abbot bowed and left, old Goodhaps scuttling after him.
 
‘That worried him,’ I said.
 
‘The land sales?’
 
‘Yes. It strikes me that if there is any fraudulent accounting going on, it would most likely be the concealment of income from land sales. That is the only way they could raise large amounts of capital. Let’s see what he comes up with.’
 
We left the kitchen. As we passed Brother Guy’s dispensary we glanced in, and Mark suddenly grasped my arm.
 
‘Look! What’s happened to him?’
 
Brother Guy lay face down on the floor under the big crucifix, arms extended in front of him. Sunlight glinted on his shaven brown pate. For a moment I was alarmed, then I heard the murmur of Latin prayer, soft but fervent. As we went on I reflected again that I must be careful how far I took the Spanish Moor into my confidence. He had confided in me, and was the most agreeable of those I had met here. But the sight of him lying prone, making fervid entreaties of a piece of wood, reminded me that as much as the others he was muzzled in the old heresies and superstitions, enemy of all I stood for.
 
Chapter Fifteen
 
OUTSIDE, THE MORNING WAS bitterly cold again under a clear blue sky. During the night the wind had blown big drifts against the walls, leaving parts of the courtyard almost bare of snow. It made a strange sight. We passed once again through the gate. Turning, I saw Bugge the gatekeeper peering out, withdrawing his head when he caught my glance. I blew out my cheeks.
 
‘God’s wounds, it’s a relief to be away from all those eyes.’ I looked up the road, which like the courtyard was a sea of drifts. The whole landscape, even the marsh, was white, broken only by skeletal black trees, clumps of reeds in the marsh and, in the distance, the grey sea. I had obtained another staff from Brother Guy, and took a firm grip on it.
 
‘Thank Heaven for these overshoes,’ Mark ventured.
 
‘Yes. The whole country will be a sea of mud when this snow melts.’
 
‘If it ever does.’
 
We had a long trudge through the drear landscape, and it was an hour before we reached the first streets of Scarnsea. We said little, for we were both still in sombre mood. There was hardly anyone about that day and in the bright sunlight I noticed anew how dilapidated most of the buildings were.
 
‘We need Westgate Street,’ I said as we arrived again in the square. At the wharf a small boat was pulled up, an official in a black coat inspecting bales of cloth while a couple of townsmen stood by, stamping their feet against the cold. Out at sea, at the mouth of the channel through the marsh, stood a large ship.
 
‘The customs man,’ Mark observed.
 
‘They must be taking cloth over to France.’
 
We turned into a street of new, well-built houses. On the door of the largest the town’s arms were engraved. I knocked, and the well-dressed servant who answered confirmed it was Justice Copynger’s house. We were led to wait in a fine drawing room with cushioned wooden chairs and a buffet displaying a great richness of gold plate.
 
‘He does himself well,’ Mark observed.
 
‘Indeed.’ I crossed to where the portrait of a stern-looking man with fair hair and a spade-shaped beard hung on the wall. ‘That’s very good. And painted in this room, by the background.’
 
‘He’s rich then—’ Mark broke off as the door opened to admit the original of the painting, a tall, strongly built man in his forties. He was swathed in a brown robe trimmed with sable fur and had a severe, serious air. He shook my hand firmly.
 
‘Master Shardlake, this is an honour. I am Gilbert Copynger, Justice of the town and Lord Cromwell’s most loyal servant. I knew poor Master Singleton; I thank Christ you have been sent. That monastery is a cesspit of corruption and heresy.’
 
‘Nothing is straightforward there, certainly.’ I indicated Mark. ‘My assistant.’
 
He nodded briefly. ‘Come through to my study. You will take some refreshment? I think the Devil himself has sent this weather. Are you kept warm at the monastery?’
 
‘The monks have fires in every chamber.’
 
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, sir. I don’t doubt it at all.’
 
He led us down the hall to a cosy room with a view of the street, and cleared papers from stools before the fire. ‘Let me pour you both some wine. Forgive the disorder, but the paperwork I have from London . . . the minimum wage, the poor laws . . .’ he sighed. ‘And I am required to provide reports of any treasonable mutterings. Fortunately there are few of those in Scarnsea, but sometimes my informers make them up and I have to investigate words that were never said. At least it means people realize they have to be careful.’
 

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