Revelation (32 page)

'Oh, we
shall
pursue him,' Harsnet said with grim determination. 'And we shall find him.'

'I wonder if we should be looking for him among the radical Protestant sects,' I said, looking Harsnet firmly in the eye. 'As well as churches with radical preachers and church congregations there are study groups, private meetings. Some have developed extreme doctrines — Adamites who believe we have regained Adam's primeval inno
-
cence, Arians who deny the Trinity

I expected Harsnet to disagree fiercely, but he nodded. 'Ay, persecution drives men inwards. When even a faithful man writing some godly matter in rhyme to encourage little children to read the word of God, like a friend of mine, may find himself in the Fleet prison

'And this man seems to think he has a mission from God to kill lapsed radicals.'

'Or wants us to think that,' Harsnet answered. He looked at me seriously. 'Perhaps the killer is really a supporter of Bishop Bonner's persecutions. If this got out it could only encourage them.'

'Either way, he knew the religious past of Dr Gurney and Tupholme and my poor friend Roger,' I insisted. 'The three had nothing else in common.'

Harsnet sighed, then nodded. 'Very well, I will see some enquiries are made.' He seemed to hesitate, then said, 'Have you thought, sir, that you may be a potential victim? You were once a radical, like Master Elliard.'

'Never as radical as he.' And yet I knew Harsnet was right, theoretically I was a potential victim, though Harsnet and Barak were not. I thought again, with a sudden chill, that Dorothy was too. 'Thous' ands in London fall into that category,' I added. 'Thousands.'

Harsnet studied me, as though he sensed my fear and was weighing up my courage. He gave the slightest of nods, then said, 'One thing we have to think about is resources. If we are to seek out Goddard, enquire among the sects, protect those who need protection, we need a body of men who will keep this matter secret. I command certain resources, but they are limited.' He took a deep breath. 'However, another has offered help to Archbishop Cranmer.'

'Who?'

'Sir Thomas Seymour.' He inclined his head. 'Ay, that was a surprise to me too. Do you know why Seymour first became involved?' 'His link to Catherine Parr?'

'Ay. He said he wanted to protect her interests as a chivalrous man, but there was more to it than that. When Dr Gurney was found dead he feared that he might be a suspect, part of a plot to drive the King away from the Lady Catherine. Archbishop Cranmer told me he was relieved when Tupholme was found, and the focus shifted away from her. But now he has offered to help us with trusted men from his household.'

'Why?'

Harsnet gave a mirthless laugh. 'Sir Thomas loves adventure. And he has a household full of young men of like mind.'

'That sounds possible, from what I've heard of him,' Barak agreed.

'He is a detestable rogue. But we must take help where we can. The Archbishop and Lord Hertford are so close to the royal court that something happening in their households would be noticed. But no one will notice, still less care about, a lot of comings and goings at Sir Thomas Seymour's.'

'Can he be trusted?' I asked dubiously.

'He has reason to keep his mouth shut. This matter should have gone before the King, he is already implicated in the secret. I think he is safe.'

'Well, sir, you know far more about matters relating to the royal court than I. I will trust your judgement.'

Harsnet bowed his head in acknowledgement. 'Thank you.' He hesitated. 'Whatever our differences in matters of belief, I am sure we can work together well.'

'Indeed, I hope so, sir,' I said, a little embarrassed.

'Perhaps you would come and dine with my wife and me one evening,' he added. 'We could get to know one another better.' The coroner reddened, and I realized he was actually a shy man.

'I should be pleased.'

'Good.' He stood up. 'And now, let us take a look at the chapterhouse. I expect it will be full of papist imagery.'

W
e asked
a passing clerk where the chapterhouse was located. He pointed us to a heavy oak door some distance off. It stood ajar. We passed inside down a short passage into one of the most extraordinary rooms I have ever seen. It was enormous, octagonal, and lit by huge stained
-
glass windows. The floor was beautifully tiled. Brightly coloured, beautifully crafted statues of the Virgin and St Peter stood at the entrance, as though guarding the way in.

But what transfixed all three of us, so that we stood staring with open mouths, was that beneath the windows each wall was divided into panels, on each of which was painted, in bright colours and embossed with gold leaf, a scene from Revelation. There were scores of them, the whole story, in unsparing, vivid colour: St John, Christ in Judgement, the flaming pit of Hell, the beast with seven heads and ten horns, and the seven angels, pouring their vials of wrath upon a world red with torment.

Chapter Nineteen

W
e stood in silence
, turning on our heels to survey the great panorama of destruction. The unfolding story of the panels was interrupted, on one wall, by a Doom Painting showing the righteous ascending to Heaven while below the pale naked sinners were thrown into Hell. But even that image lacked the sharp colours and vivid scenes of the Revelation story. For the first time I felt its full power.

Barak went up to the panels to take a closer look, his footsteps echoing on the tiles. He stopped before a portrayal o
f a great beast with seven snake
like necks issuing from its powerful shoulders, at the end of each a snarling head crowned with either one or two horns. Before it, his head framed by a gold
-
leaf halo, stood the figure of St John, the witness of what was to come, his expression full of fear. I joined him.

'So that's what the beast with seven heads and ten horns looked like,' I said. 'I couldn't imagine it, somehow.'

The style of the paintings was that of two hundred years ago, the figures lacking the realistic fluidity we had achieved in these latter days. But it was vivid and terrifying nonetheless.

'The Westminster monks saw this,' I said quietly. 'Goddard, Lockley, Cantrell. Every day, in chapter. Yes, this could eat into a man's soul.'

'Lockley the lay brother wouldn't have come to chapter, would he:' Barak asked.

'A lot of other business would be done in the chapterhouse. He'd have seen the panels often.'

Harsnet joined us. 'The papists say we have given the Bible to people who cannot understand its message, who are driven to wild interpretations. But see, Master Shardlake, pictures may have the same effect. If this room had been slubbered over with whitewash like a good Reformed church, Goddard might never have had his mind turned. I think the devil came to him through these pictures.'

'If it is Goddard.'

'Yes, if. But he seems the most likely.'

I looked at him. 'Is this what the dean was hiding from us? Did he remember this panorama, perhaps the effect it had on someone?'

Harsnet set his lips. 'That we shall discover. Serjeant Shardlake, I will see the dean again tomorrow. Can y
ou talk to those other two ex-m
onks, see what they know? Let us build up our knowledge before we confront Benson again.'

‘I
will,' I said. 'After court today, if I may.'

He nodded agreement. 'And I will send word to the Common Council of London, someone there may know of Goddard's family.'

'I should like to take a look at what is left of the infirmary buildings before we go.'

'Yes. We should do that.' Harsnet cast a last look of distaste round the chamber, then led the way out. I paused at a panel show
-
ing a grim
-
faced angel, winged and clad in white, pouring liquid on to an earth that was turned to fire. Agonized white faces pierced the flames.

'The fourth vial,' I murmured to Barak. 'Dear God, I hope we catch him before he butchers someone else.'

O
utside in
the cloister we asked another clerk where the old infirmary buildings were. He told us the monks' infirmary was demolished now, but that the lay infirmary which had cared for the poor of the parish lay a little distance off, through the old monks' graveyard. The rain ceased as we left the cloister and crossed a path through a grassy square dotted with headstones, some going back centuries. As with all the dissolved monasteries, the stones would soon be dug out, the coffins disinterred and the bones thrown into a communal pit.

The infirmary was a long, low building, apart from the main complex to safeguard against plague. The heavy wooden door was unlocked. Inside was a bare chamber, dimly lit by high dusty windows, nothing left but rags of cloth in the corners, marks on the walls where pictures and a large cross had hung, and an empty fire
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grate with mouse droppings scattered around.

'Where do the Westminster patients go now:' I asked quietly, thinking of Roger's hospital plans. His face seemed to appear again before me, smiling cheerfully and nodding.

'They have nowhere,' Harsnet answered sadly.

We all turned quickly as the door creaked. Someone was trying to open it, slowly and stealthily. Barak put his hand to his sword as an extraordinary figure crept into the room. An old man, with a thatch of untidy fair hair like a bird's nest, thin and ragged, his cheeks fallen in. He had not seen us, and as we watched he took a long twig he had found somewhere and began poking at the rubbish in one of the corners.

'What are you doing here:' Harsnet's clear voice echoing round the chamber made the intruder start violently. He dropped his twig, clutched his hands together in front of his chest and stared at us in fear. 'Well:' Harsnet asked.

He cowered away. 'I — I washn't doing any harm, shir.' His voice was slurred, unintelligible, and at first I thought he was drunk. But then I realized that he was toothless. I also saw that he was actually a younger man, his sunken cheeks making him look older.

'You came here for a reason,' Harsnet went on. 'You're in the middle of the abbey precinct, you didn't just wander in.'

'I wash looking for my teeth,' he said, wringing his hands and backing away. 'I keep hoping I'll find them, in a corner. Shomewhere I haven't looked. Shomewhere at Westminster.' There was a look of baffled helplessness in his wide blue eyes, and I wondered if the fellow was an idiot.

'All right, but leave us,' Harsnet said more gently, evidently coming to the same conclusion. The man scurried out and closed the door behind him with the same slow, creaking motion, as though afraid of disturbing us further with the noise.

'What in Jesu's name was all that about;' Barak asked.

'Some poor beggar out of his wits,' Harsnet said. 'They are everywhere at Westminster, evidently they can even find their way in here. The guards should be told.' He frowned at Barak. 'And I would be grateful if you did not take the Lord's name in vain.'

Barak's eyes glinted. Far away, I heard the clock tower strike ten. 'I have to be at court,' I said. 'Barak, come quickly. I am sorry, master coroner, but we must go. I will report to you, once I have seen those two ex
-
monks.'

W
e walked back
with Harsnet to the main gate and out into the busy precinct. It had come to life now, the shops busy, people milling around. Seeing us, a couple of pedlars hurried over. One carried a tray full of old jars, the stink of their contents reaching us from yards away. 'Oil from the great fish, masters,' he called. 'Full of magical properties!' Barak waved him away. A skinny hand clutched at my robe, and I half turned to see a ragged woman holding a pale, skinny baby. 'Feed my child,' she said. I turned away before she could meet my eye, remembering the stories that beggar-women would keep their babies hungry to arouse pity. Or was that just another story we told ourselves, to salve our consciences as we made these people invisible?

As we headed into the gate leading into Thieving Lane, I saw there was a melee outside one of the shops. A middle
-
aged man and his wife, both looking frightened, stood outside between two parish constables. Two more constables were heaving battered chests from inside the shop, while another rummaged through a third chest, set on the muddy ground. It seemed to contain a variety of outlandish costumes. The crowd that had gathered looked sour and hostile, and I noted the blue coats of several apprentices. A little gang of beggars had made for the crowd, scabby and scurvy, some breechless and wearing skirts of cloth. Among them were a couple of women, young perhaps but with leathery, weatherbeaten faces, passing a leather bottle between them and laughing.