I hesitated. 'Could I see that piece of wood:'
'I won't get into trouble for this, sir: I was only defending myself
'I know. I just want to see it.'
Reluctantly he passed it over. I had noticed a few hairs among the blood. They were black. Like Goddard's; like the whore Abigail's unknown visitor.
'You dealt him a couple of good blows, by the look of it. But scalp wounds bleed a lot. He may have been more shocked and hurt than damaged.' I passed the stick back to Cantrell. His wrists were skinny, lumps of bone. I thought of Adam.
'You did not answer my question, sir,' Cantrell said.
I sighed. 'Infirmarian Goddard may be - deranged.'
'But why attack me:'
I looked at the broken glass on the floor. Yes, someone had broken in there from outside. Cantrell had not picked up the glass. I wondered whether with his poor vision he was afraid of cutting himself.
'Have you ever had anything to do with the radical religious reformers? The godly men.'
He was silent for a moment. Then he bowed his head.
'It is important,' I said. 'It may explain why you were attacked.'
'When I was a monk,' he said in a quiet voice, bowing his head as though ashamed, 'my father became a reformist. He joined a group that used to meet together at an unlicensed preacher's house, in the Sanctuary. When I left the abbey and came home it was all "You monks got what you deserve, you will go to hell unless you follow the true path of the Word.'" I could sense anger in Cantrell's voice as he imitated his father's harsh, rough tones. 'I was losing belief in the old faith then. I let him drag me to some of these house meetings. There were only half a dozen in the group, they believed they had to prepare for the end
-
time, had a mission from God to find those he had elected to save and convert them. They were stupid, they only knew a few bits of the Bible that suited their arguments and didn't even understand those. Some couldn't even read. I had read the Bible for years, I could tell they knew nothing.'
'There are many such,' I said.
'Theirs was all idle talk and frantic babble.' Cantrell's voice was louder now, full of bitter anger. 'I only went to keep Father quiet. They kept saying they could save me, they would baptize me in the true faith.' He shook his head. 'My father was already ill when I came home, after he passed away I stopped going.' Cantrell looked up again, staring around the room. 'He had a growth.'
Cantrell's voice was quiet again. 'When he died I feared he might somehow still come back, to chide and rail at me. But he has not, there has been only silence in this house since.' He gave an exhausted sigh then and fell silent himself, lost in a world of his own. I looked around the room, at the filthy table and the broken window. Cantrell might be just about surviving from his monk's pension, but he needed help, someone to take care of him.
'How will you get the window repaired?' I asked. He shrugged. 'Perhaps the neighbours might help,' I suggested.
He shook his head fiercely. 'They're a nosy lot. The old shrew up the street used to come in. Tidying up, interfering with my things, telling me I needed to get married.' He laughed angrily. 'Perhaps I could find a blind woman and we could stumble around the house together. I hardly dare go out for victuals in case a cart runs me down.'
'What happened to this little religious group? Are they still active round Westminster?'
He shook his head. 'The vicar of St Margaret's heard there was some radical preaching going on. He got their leader arrested and the others fled. Last year.' A bitter laugh again. 'So much for their cleaving fast to the True Word. They ran like rats.'
So the fate of the group had become public. What had happened to them, I wondered. The members had probably become involved with other groups, other churches. Perhaps, somewhere among them, the murderer had mixed with them, where he heard Cantrell's name spoken of as a backslider. If the killer was Goddard, he would have recognized the name.
'Can you remember the names of the people in the group?' I asked. He gave me half a dozen. They meant nothing to me, but they might to Harsnet.
'But, sir,' Cantrell asked. 'What is all this to do with Master Goddard?' He blinked at me helplessly. I dared not tell him the whole story.
'I am not sure, Master Cantrell. But I think you may be in need of protection. I might be able to arrange for a guard to come to the house, stay here with you.'
Cantrell shook his head vigorously. 'No. I do not want anyone here. Criticizing and saying the place is filthy.' He looked at me again with those wide swimming eyes. 'If Goddard comes to me again, let him. You won't tell me why he's after me, but I care little if I live or die.'
I looked at Barak, who shrugged. I would try and arrange for a guard to be posted, just the same.
'Do you think me a great sinner,' Cantrell asked suddenly. 'Not to care if I die?'
'I think it a great shame.'
'What is death anyway? Afterwards it will be eternal bliss or eternal torment, one or the other, who may know which these days?' He gave a humourless cracked laugh.
'There is one last thing I would ask you,' I said. 'I have just been to see Francis Lockley again. I gained the impression there was something he was keeping back about Infirmarian Goddard. Some
-
thing he did not want us to know about the man. Can you think what that might be?'
'No, sir. I had nothing to do with the lay infirmary. I only saw Francis when he came to see Master Goddard, to borrow some implements perhaps.' He shrugged, and I thought, he really does not care about anything, not even his own life or death.
W
e left the house
, returned to the stink and the noise of Dean's Yard. 'He's in a bad way,' Barak observed.
'A state of deep melancholy, I would say. Not surprising given what is life has become, and the condition of his eyes.'
'He could pull himself together a bit. Accept some help. Imagine not caring if you lived or died, but caring if someone thought your house was filthy.'
'When we see Harsnet, I will see if I can arrange a guard. I could not bear to see Cantrell tortured like the others.' I did not think the killer would return to Cantrell now his victim had been alerted, but I could not be sure. 'There is one more piece of information we have,' I said. 'We are now looking for a man with an injured head.'
We led the horses across the road to the gate in the abbey wall. Barak nodded to the guard. There was still an hour before Harsnet was due. I felt a need to be alone for a while. 'Barak,' I said, 'see if
you can find somewhere to stable the horses. I am going to take a walk inside the precinct. I will meet you back here in an hour.' 'Are you sure that's safe?'
'I shall be within the precinct. It is guarded. I will see you soon.' To settle the argument I turned away from him, nodding to the guard. Recognizing me, he opened the door in the wall to let me through. I stepped again into the precinct of Westminster Abbey.
I
nside
, I
picked
my way through the maze of rubble to the old cloister. All was still and quiet. I walked the ancient flagstones, looking out at the deserted inner courtyard, thinking. I had picked up clues, but they only seemed to deepen the mystery. Was it Goddard we were looking for, or the young man who had visited Abigail? And why had the killer chosen Cantrell to be the fifth victim, as it looked likely that he had? If it was Goddard he would know the lad would be unlikely to be able to help himself. I felt an uncharacteristic satisfaction at the thought of Cantrell bringing that piece of wood down on his assailant's head. I thought how Cantrell, like Meaphon, had a peripheral link to me. I shook my head. It was dangerous and foolish to imagine that the killer was somehow focused on me as an audience. Had the killer not gone out of his way to try and terrorize me into dropping the case? Yet I could not prevent a clutch of fear at my heart at the recollection that I fitted the pattern of a man who had turned away from radical religion.
I realized how weary I was. I decided to take a walk through the ancient Westminster Abbey church, to calm myself. As I paced slowly I saw that the door to the chapterhouse stood half open, and heard voices from within. Hesitantly I walked across. To my surprise, I heard the sound of hammering. I stepped into the vestibule.
A group of black-robed clerks were carefully removing thick rolls of yellow parchment from old chests, laying them on the tiled floor. Workmen, some on ladders, were putting up heavy wooden shelves along the walls. One by one, the maroon
-
framed scenes from the
Apocalypse were being hidden from view. As I watched, a heavy nail was driven through the body of the seven
-
headed monster.
One of the clerks, a tall young
fellow, looked up at me enquir
ingly. 'Are you from the Rolls House, sir?'
'No — I was just passing, I heard the hammering. Of course, I remember now. The chapterhouse is to be made into a repository for state documents.'
He nodded seriously. 'The paperwork of state just grows and grows, we have to put the ancient documents somewhere.'
I looked at the walls. 'So the old paintings are being covered up.'
He shrugged. 'The windows too, I hear. Well, 'tis all old monkish stuff. What are those little pictures anyway? They're not very good.'
'That is the Apocalypse of St John. The story of Revelation.' At my words one of the clerks looked up, and a workman stopped hammering. The clerk who had spoken to me walked over to the wall, studied a painting of the Great Whore uneasily.
'Is it?' he asked. He thought a moment. 'Well, the end
-
time should not be portrayed in crude pictures like these.' Another gospel man, I thought.
I left them, following the cloister walk to the door to the abbey church. The church was deserted except for black
-
robed attendants walking slowly to and fro, their footsteps echoing on the stone flags. The great hushed space, stripped now of all its images and ornaments, was lit dimly by a grey light from the high windows. The monks had prayed here for centuries, now all was stillness, silence. There was only one guard, by the door, and he was asleep. There was nothing of value left to steal; the King had it all.
I walked up to Henry VII's chapel where the King's father lay. There the great vaulted shrine was still in place, the white stone bright in the light from the large windows, contrasting with the dimness of the abbey. I returned to the nave, and walked among the old royal tombs.
I found myself in front of the sarcophagus of Edward the
Confessor, naked stone now. I had seen it in the days before the Dissolution, magnificently framed by rich gold and silver statues and images reflecting the glow of a thousand candles. There had been crutches and walking sticks piled there too, for the tomb was believed to have the power to cure cripples. I remembered that one of the tomb's first cures was supposed to be a hunchback. All nonsense, but nonsense of such power.
I became aware of a group of people nearby, grouped before a bare stone altar adorned only with a cross. Four stout men in livery, holding their caps in their hands, while their other hands rested on their sword-hilts. In front of them a woman knelt on the stone floor, her head bowed. She was beautifully attired, in a red silk dress with black cuffs inlaid with gold leaf, and the hands which she held in front of her, palms pressed together in an attitude of prayer, had jewelled rings on each finger. Her black hood was inlaid with pearls. One of the guards, seeing me looking, shot me a warning glance that said I should not approach. Then the woman lowered her hands with a sigh, and I saw it was the Lady Catherine Parr. She rose to her feet, her dress rustling. The expression on her face was similar to the one she had worn at her husband's funeral, closed in and worried, but as she stood up her face relaxed, the small mouth settling into a mild, gentle expression as she smiled at her guards. She nodded, and they began walking away.
They were halfway to the door when there was a sudden disturbance. I saw a ragged little man was praying before one of the tombs, and no sooner had I registered his presence than he got up and darted out before Lady Catherine, throwing himself to his knees in front of her. I started forward out of some instinct to protect her but her guards had got there first. One of them pointed a sword at the man's throat. Lady Catherine stood with a hand to her breast, shocked and frightened. The man raised his head and I saw it was the mad beggar whom Barak and I had encountered in the infirmary, talking about looking for his teeth.
Then another figure stepped from the shadows with a drawn sword. It was Sir Thomas Seymour, dressed in a dark blue doublet with jewels to match. Lady Catherine turned pale. 'Are you safe, my lady?' Seymour asked.