Revelation (74 page)

We passed through the servants' door, following a stone
-
flagged passage into a large kitchen. Half a deer was roasting on a range, a boy turning the spit and another ladling juices over it. A large group of frightened
-
looking servants sat round a large table.

'Where is the cook?' Harsnet asked.

A fat man in a stained apron stepped forward. 'I am, sir. Master Greaves.'

'What deliveries have there been today?'

He nodded at the spit. 'George and Sam brought that deer over from Smithfield. And the coalman came this morning. He brought a new load, we put it in the cellar.'

'Where do you get your coal?' I asked.

'A man up at Smithfield. Goodman Roberts. He's been delivering for years.'

The freckle-
faced lad turning the spit looked up. 'He sent his new assistant this week,' he ventured. 'And last week. I let him in.'

I exchanged a glance with Barak. 'What was he like?' I asked the boy.

'I didn't really see his face, sir, it was so black with coal-dust. He looked like he'd been rolling in the stuff.' 'Was he tall or short;'

'Tall, sir, and thin. He took the coal down to the cellar in the hall, as usual. I told him where it was last week.' 'Did you see him come out;'

The boy shook his head. 'Master Greaves sent me to the larder to peel some turnips.'

The cook looked worried. 'I can't be there to receive every delivery—'

'Did
anyone
see the coalman's boy leave;'

Heads were shaken round the table. 'You should have gone with him to the cellar, James,' the cook chided the boy. 'There are valuable things in this house—'

Harsnet interrupted him. 'Take us to the cellar.' He turned to me. 'Could it be him;'

'From the description, yes.'

'But how could he get hold of the coal—'

'By watching deliveries to this house, then dealing with Goodman Roberts as he dealt with the solicitor,' I answered grimly. I turned to the cook. 'Hurry, now.'

'I'll fetch the men.'

T
he cook led
the way back to the passage outside, halting before a wooden trapdoor set with an iron ring. Harsnet went to collect the men he had left in the hall and returned.

'What is down there exactly;' Harsnet asked.

'Flasks of wine and barrels of vegetables, and the coal. And there's another trapdoor there, leading down to the sewer passage.' 'Part of the Charterhouse system?'

'Yes, sir. We're the last house in the system, after the water runs through our sewer it empties out into a stream that runs past the house. There is a large iron grille set into the wall where the water goes out. No one could get in or out that way.'

'Do you think he could be down there?' Harsnet asked.

'I doubt it. He'd be trapped.' I nodded agreement. 'No, if he is in the house my guess is it will be somewhere with an escape route.'

'We should do a thorough search,' Harsnet said. 'Two of you men search the house. You other two go down there and search the cellar, and the sewer.'

'The sewer is dry,' the cook said. 'There's something wrong with the mechanism up at the Charterhouse.'

'I know.'

Torches were fetched, the hatch was opened and Cranmer's men climbed down to the cellar. I glimpsed a large chamber full of barrels, a big pile of coal. The men looked behind the barrels, thrusting their swords into the coal lest anyone was hidden there. Then they turned to the trapdoor. 'It's bolted on the outside,' one of them called out. 'There can't be anyone down there.'

'Look nonetheless.'

They opened the trapdoor; cold air and a filthy smell wafted up to us. 'Go down,' Harsnet ordered. They descended, and shortly after I heard the sound of booted feet on iron rungs again, and someone called, 'No one!'

One of the men Harsnet had sent to search the house returned. 'There's no one here, sir.'

Harsnet and I looked at each other.

'Perhaps he got out of the house when Cranmer's messenger arrived and the search started,' Barak suggested. 'Knew something was up.'

Harsnet nodded gravely. 'If so, Lady Catherine is going to need to be carefully watched for some while. You four men, search the house once again. Please. Every nook and cranny.'

We returned to the hall.
'I
am going to see the steward again,' Harsnet said. He left Barak and me alone in the hallway. Barak headed for the stairs.

'Where are you going?'
I
asked.

'Thought
I
'd join the search.' He smiled sadly. 'Take my mind off other things.'
'I
'll join you.'

W
e mounted
the wide staircase. Above was another broad corridor, and facing us a pair of wide doors, half open, two guards standing just inside. A blonde young woman in a fine dress of red velvet was looking out nervously. One of Lady Catherine's ladies,
I
guessed.

As we approached
I
saw a pair of inner doors was open.
I
glimpsed a bed draped with rich hangings and bright tapestries. Beside it, Harsnet and the steward were talking to a woman.
I
recognized the tall, shapely form and the striking, slightly severe face of Catherine Parr. Then she turned and stared back at me, and her dark eyes widened with fear.
I
realized she did not remember me from the day
I
saw her at Westminster. She thought this strange-looking man might even be the killer.

'You should not be looking in there!' the lady-in-waiting said, scandalized.

'I — I
am sorry,'
I
stuttered.
'I
did not mean—' She slammed the door in my face. Barak gave me a look of commiseration.

'You weren't to know—' he began. Then he broke off at a sudden yell from outside the house. 'Fire! Help! Fire!'

Chapter
Forty-
five

H
arsnet ran out
of Lady Catherine's rooms. He stared at me for a moment, then we all ran to the nearest window, through which the glow of flames could be seen in the darkness. He shouted at Lady Catherine's steward, hesitating in the doorway to her chambers, to stay with his mistress.

Across the lawn, a large wooden summerhouse was well ablaze, flames at all the windows and smoke drifting across the grass towards the house. Guards and servants ran to and fro, carrying buckets of water. Discipline had vanished in face of the ever
-
present terror of fire. 'What is he doing?' Harsnet breathed.

'He's trying to distract us,' I said urgently. 'Fetch the sergeant, get those men back in the house!'

The coroner looked at me for a moment, then turned and ran down the stairs. Barak opened the window and leaned out. The summerhouse was blazing from end to end, there was nothing to be done for it and it was far enough from the house for the flames not to spread. As we watched, Harsnet ran outside, calling everyone back. I turned to look at Lady Catherine's closed doors. 'If he is trying to get everyone away from her, he has failed. Come!'

We hurried down the stairs. The movement jarred my back again, and I clamped my mouth shut against the pain. Through the open front door we saw guards running, the sergeant bawling at them to watch the doors and windows. The acrid stink of smoke drifted into the building.

'This is chaos,' I said. 'There is always panic when there is a fire. As Cantrell knows.'

'Is he still outside;' Barak asked.

'He may have come back in after starting the fire.'

Barak did not answer. I turned to him. He raised a finger to his lips, pointing to the half-open door of a room behind us.

'There's an open window in there,' he whispered. 'I can feel a breeze.'

He drew his sword; I did the same with my dagger. Barak stepped back, waited a second, then kicked the door wide open. We lunged inside.

We were in a storeroom, stacked chairs and tables and a heap of large cushions lying against the walls. The room was empty, but one of the three windows giving on to the lawn was half open. Barak jerked back the door lest anyone be hiding behind it, but there was only the blank wall. He slammed it shut again, then started thrusting with his sword under the stacked chairs and tables. I crossed to the window, coughing in the smoke-filled air. In the moonlight I saw the summerhouse collapse in a great flurry of sparks, the few men still on the lawn jumping back. I remembered the smoke at Goddard's house, that terrible impact on my back. Then I heard, behind me, a metallic clatter and a thud.

I whirled round. Barak was lying on the floor, his forehead red with blood, his sword beside him. Standing over him, the pile of cushions he had been lying under scattered around him, was Cantrell, in one of his old shabby smocks. He was carrying the piece of wood he had shown me at his house. He wore no glasses, and now I realized what the old woman had meant about his strange eyes. They were large, pale blue, with a dark heaviness in them such as I had never seen in human eyes before. It was as though, while he looked at me, he was also looking inward, at a terrible, exhausting vision. But he did not squint or peer; there was little wrong with his vision. He had been exaggerating his short
-
sightedness to deceive us, and his acting had been good.

I reached for my dagger; but Cantrell was quicker. In a single fluid movement he bent, picked up Barak's sword and thrust it at my throat. His clumsiness had been another act. I glanced frantically down at Barak; but he was unconscious, or worse.

'The Jew cannot help you.' Cantrell's voice was low, thick with gloating pleasure, quite different from his previous dull tones. He threw his club down on a cushion, keeping Barak's sword in his other hand held at my throat, the sharp point pricking at my skin.

'Now I have you,' he said. 'God has delivered you to me. I knew setting the summerhouse on fire would make everyone run about like ants!' He laughed, a childlike giggle that somehow chilled me to the bone.

'Catherine Parr is well guarded,' I said, trying to keep my breathing steady.

'I thought you would all think it had ended with Goddard, the pouring of the last vial.' He shook his head, his expression serious now. 'But of course the devil knows Catherine Parr is the Great Whore that was foretold. The devil told you the truth, didn't he? She will be well guarded now.' He frowned, looking for a moment like a thwarted child, then smiled again. 'But the Lord has delivered you to me. To remove an enemy and strengthen my hand.' He looked down at Barak's prone form a moment, stirred him with his toe and smiled at his own cleverness. Barak's face was white. I prayed he was still alive. I could hear voices outside, but dared not call, for Cantrell would slash my throat in a moment.

'Kneel down,' he hissed releasing the pressure of the sword a little. I hesitated, then knelt on the wooden floor. The burned skin of my back stretched agonizingly with the movement. A splinter dug into my knee. Cantrell pulled something from his
pocket. A small glass vial, half-ki
lled with yellowish liquid. Still holding the sword to my throat, he unstoppered it and held it out. 'Drink this,' he said.

I looked at it fearfully, knowing what it was. Dwale. His prelude to torture and death. 'You will never get us out of this room,' I said. 'The whole house is in uproar.'

'Drink it! Or I cut your throat and then the Jew's.' He pressed the sword to my neck, I felt a sharp pain, then blood trickling down my neck.

'All right!' I took the vial. It smelt of honey, he had mixed the evil stuff with nectar. I looked at it. My hand trembled. I thought, if I refuse and he kills me now, at least my death will be quick. But Barak would certainly die too. By drinking it I could live a little longer, and the instinct to do so is always powerful. I lifted it to my mouth. My throat seemed to constrict, I feared I would not be able to swallow it down, but I gulped once and it was gone. I wondered how long the dwale would take to have effect. Perhaps someone would come before it did. But immediately I felt strange, as though my body was enormously heavy. I tried to take a breath, but could not. Then everything slipped away.

I
woke in darkness
, to a cesspit smell that made me retch and gasp. My body felt thick and heavy. A stab of pain shot down my back. I realized my wrists were bound in front of me, my ankles tied as well. I was propped up in a sitting position, my back against a brick wall, my legs on a rough, slimy floor. There was a light to one side. I turned painfully towards it. A lantern containing a fat be
es' wax candle showed the ordure-
smeared floor of a low, narrow brick passage. Cantrell sat cross-legged beside it, looking at me with a brooding gaze, his eyes glinting as they caught the light. He was near, four feet or so away. Barak's sword lay at his side.