Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) (28 page)

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Authors: C J Sansom

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‘I know Lord Cromwell sleeps easier knowing there are true men such as yourself in the shires.’ Copynger nodded gravely at the compliment. I sipped the wine. ‘This is excellent, sir, thank you. Now, time presses. There are matters on which I would welcome information.’
 
‘Anything I can do. Master Singleton’s murder was an insult to the king. It cries out for vengeance.’
 
It should have been a relief to have the company of a fellow reformer, but I confess I did not take to Copynger. Although the Justices were indeed burdened with an ever-greater workload from London on top of their judicial duties, they did well from it. It has ever been the custom for Justices to profit from their functions, and more duties meant more profit even in a poor town, as Copynger’s wealth bore witness. To me his ostentation sat ill with his humourless, pious air. But that was the new type of man we were breeding in England then.
 
‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘how are the monks regarded in the town?’
 
‘They are loathed for the leeches they are. They do nothing for Scarnsea, they don’t come into the town unless they have to and then they are haughty as the Devil. The charity they give is tiny and the poor have to walk to the monastery on dole days to get even that. It leaves the main burden of maintaining the indigent on the ratepayers.’
 
‘They have a beer monopoly, I believe.’
 
‘And charge an extortionate price. Their beer is filthy stuff, hens roost in their brewhouse and drop dung in the brew.’
 
‘Yes, I saw that. It must be vile indeed.’
 
‘And no one else may sell beer.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘They milk their lands too, for all they can get. Don’t let anyone say monks are easy landlords. Things are worse since Brother Edwig took over as bursar; he would skin a flea for the fat on its arse.’
 
‘Yes, I believe he would. Speaking of the monastery’s finances, you reported to Lord Cromwell there had been land sales at undervalue.’
 
He looked crestfallen. ‘I fear I have no details. I’d heard rumours, but word got out I’d been making enquiries, and now the big landowners keep their doings from my ears.’
 
I nodded. ‘And who are they?’
 
‘Sir Edward Wentworth is the biggest hereabouts. He’s in close with the abbot, for all he’s related to the Seymours. They go hunting together. There have been rumours among the tenantry that monastery lands have been sold to him secretly and the abbot’s steward now collects rents on Sir Edward’s behalf, but I’ve no way of finding out for certain, it’s beyond my authority.’ He frowned crossly. ‘And the monastery owns land far and wide, even out of the county. I am sorry, Commissioner. If I had more authority . . .’
 
I thought a moment. ‘It may be stretching my brief, but as I have power to investigate all matters involving the monastery I think I could extend that to enquiring about land sales they have made. What if you were to renew your enquiries on that basis? Invoke Lord Cromwell’s name?’
 
He smiled. ‘A request in that name would bring them running. I will do what I can.’
 
‘Thank you. It could be important. By the way, I believe Sir Edward is cousin to Brother Jerome, the old Carthusian at the monastery?’
 
‘Yes, Wentworth’s an old papist. I hear that the Carthusian speaks open treason. I’d have him hanged from the cloth-hall steeple.’
 
I thought a moment. ‘Tell me, if you did hang Brother Jerome from the steeple, how would the townsfolk react?’
 
‘They’d have a feast day. As I said, the monks are hated. This is a poor town now and the monks make it poorer. The port is so silted up you can hardly get a rowboat through.’
 
‘So I have seen. I hear some have turned to smuggling. According to the monks, they use the marshes behind the monastery to get to the river. Abbot Fabian tells me he has complained, but the town authorities wink at it.’
 
At once Copynger’s face was watchful. ‘The abbot will say anything to make trouble. It’s a matter of resources, sir. There is but one revenue man and he cannot be out watching the ways through those marshes every night.’
 
‘According to one of the monks there has been activity out there recently. The abbot suggested it may have been smugglers who broke in and killed Singleton.’
 
‘He’s trying to divert attention, sir. There is a long history of smuggling here, finished cloth carried through the marsh and shipped to France in fishing boats. But why would one of those people want to kill the king’s commissioner? He had no brief to investigate smuggling. Did he?’ I noticed a sudden worried look in his eyes.
 
‘No indeed. And neither have I, unless those activities should be relevant to Master Singleton’s death. My feeling is the killer came from inside the monastery.’
 
He looked relieved. ‘If landlords were allowed to enclose more land for sheep, that would bring more profit to the town and people would not turn to smuggling. There are too many small farmers doubling as weavers.’
 
‘Apart from any smuggling there may be, is the town loyal? No trouble with extreme sectarians, for example, no witchcraft hereabouts? You know the monastery was desecrated?’
 
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. I’d know, I’ve five paid informers. A lot of people don’t like the new ways, but they keep their heads down. The biggest complaints have been about the abolition of saints’ days, but that’s only because they were holidays. And I’ve never heard of practitioners of the black arts hereabouts.’
 
‘No hot gospellers? No one who has read the Bible and seen some mysterious prophecy only he can fulfil?’
 
‘Like those German Anabaptists who would kill the rich and hold all goods in common? They should be burned. But there’s none of that here. There was a moonstruck forgemaster’s apprentice last year, preaching the Day of Judgement was come, but we set him in the stocks then cleared him out. He’s in gaol now, where he belongs. Preaching in English is one thing, but allowing the Bible to blockish servants and peasants will fill England with makebates.’
 
I raised an eyebrow. ‘You are among those who consider only heads of households should be allowed to read the Bible?’
 
‘There is much to be said for that view, sir.’
 
‘Well, the papists would allow it to nobody. But to return to the subject of the monastery, I read there has been a history of ill-doings there. Sinful acts between the monks.’
 
Copynger snorted with disgust. ‘That still goes on, I’m sure. The sacrist, Brother Gabriel, he was one of them and he’s still there.’
 
‘Was anyone from the town involved?’
 
‘No. But there are fornicators at that place as well as sodomites. Women servants from Scarnsea have suffered at their filthy hands. No woman under thirty would work there, not since one young girl went missing altogether.’
 
‘Oh?’
 
‘An orphan from the poorhouse who went to work for the infirmarian. Two years ago. She used to come back and visit the town, then suddenly she stopped coming. When enquiries were made Prior Mortimus said she’d stolen some gold cups and run away. Joan Stumpe, the poorhouse keeper, was convinced something had happened to her. But she’s an old busybody, and there was no proof.’
 
‘She worked for the infirmarian?’ Mark spoke up, a note of anxiety in his voice.
 
‘Yes. The black goblin we call him. You’d think all Englishmen had work, giving a post to a man like that.’
 
I reflected a moment. ‘Might I talk to this Mistress Stumpe?’
 
‘You have to take what she says with a peck of salt. But she should be at the poorhouse now. There’s a dole day at the monastery tomorrow, she’ll be getting ready for it.’
 
‘Then let us seize the hour,’ I said, rising. Copynger called for a servant to fetch our coats.
 
‘Sir,’ Mark said to the magistrate as we were waiting. ‘There is a young girl working for the infirmarian now, one Alice Fewterer.’
 
‘Oh yes, I remember.’
 
‘I understand she had to get work because the family’s land was enclosed for sheep. I know the Justices have oversight of the enclosure laws; I wondered if it was all done legally? Whether something might be done for her?’
 
Copynger raised his eyebrows. ‘I
know
it was done legally, young man, because the land is mine and it was I that enclosed it. The family had an old copyhold that expired on her mother’s death. I needed to take down that cottage and put the land to sheep if I was to make any profit at all.’
 
I gave Mark a warning look. ‘I’m sure you did everything properly, sir,’ I said soothingly.
 
‘The thing that would profit the people of this town,’ Copynger said, a cold eye on Mark, ‘would be to close the monastery, throw out the lot of them and pull down those idol-filled buildings. And if the town has an extra burden of poor relief in the shape of a load of unemployed abbey-lubbers, I’m sure Master Cromwell would agree it was right for some monastery lands to be granted to prominent citizens.’
 
‘Speaking of Lord Cromwell, he has stressed the importance of keeping what has happened quiet for now.’
 
‘I’ve told no one, sir, and none of the monks has been to town.’
 
‘Good. The abbot has been told not to talk of it too. But some of the monastery servants will have contacts in Scarnsea.’
 
He shook his head. ‘Very few. They keep apart, the townspeople like the abbey-lubbers no more than the monks.’
 
‘It will get out eventually though. It’s in the nature of things.’
 
‘I am sure you will resolve this soon,’ he said. He smiled, his cheeks reddening. ‘May I say what an honour it is to meet one who has spoken personally with Lord Cromwell. Tell me, sir, what is he like, in person? They say he is a man of strong manner, for all his humble origins.’
 
‘He is indeed, Justice, a man of strong words and deeds. Ah, here is your servant with our coats.’ I cut him off; I was tired of his unctuous fawning.
 
THE POORHOUSE lay on the fringe of the town, a long low building in much need of repair. On the way we passed a little group of men sweeping snow from the streets under the eye of an overseer. They wore grey smocks with the town’s arms sewn on, far too thin for such weather. They bowed to Copynger as we passed.
 
‘Licensed beggars,’ the Justice observed. ‘The men’s warden at the poorhouse is good at putting them to honest labour.’
 
We entered the building, which was unheated and so damp the plaster had fallen in places from the walls. A group of women sat around the hall sewing or working at spinning wheels, while in one corner a plump, middle-aged matron was sorting through a large pile of odoriferous rags, helped by a group of scrawny children. Copynger went over and spoke to her and she led us to a neat little cubbyhole, where she introduced herself as Joan Stumpe, the children’s overseer.
 
‘How may I help you, sirs?’ The wrinkled face was kindly, but the brown eyes keen.
 
‘Master Shardlake is currently investigating some matters at the monastery,’ Copynger told her. ‘He is interested in the fate of young Orphan Stonegarden.’
 
She sighed. ‘Poor Orphan.’
 
‘You knew her?’ I asked.
 
‘I brought her up. She was a waif left in the yard of this building nineteen years ago. A newborn baby. Poor Orphan,’ she said again.
 
‘What was her name?’
 
‘Orphan
was
her name, sir. It’s a common name for foundlings. We never found out who her parents were, so she was given Stonegarden as a surname by the men’s warden, as she was found in the yard.’
 
‘I see. And she grew up under your care?’
 
‘I have charge of all the children. A lot die young, but Orphan was strong and she thrived. She helped me round the place, she was always cheerful and willing—’ She suddenly looked away.
 
‘Go on, Goodwife,’ Copynger said impatiently. ‘I have told you before, you are too soft with these children.’
 
‘They often have a brief stay on earth,’ she replied spiritedly. ‘Why should they not have some enjoyment of it?’
 
‘Better go broken to heaven than in one piece to hell,’ Copynger said brutally. ‘Most that live end as thieves and beggars. Go on.’
 
‘When Orphan reached sixteen the overseers said she must go out to work. It was a shame, she had a swain in the miller’s son and if that had been allowed to develop she’d have been married off.’

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