it was a place for walking and talking. Against one pillar stood the lavatorium, an elaborate stone bowl used for washing hands, where a little fountain made a gentle tinkling sound. The soft glow from the stained-glass windows of the church made coloured patterns on the ground. I noticed strange little motes dancing in the light, and was puzzled for a moment before realizing it had started to snow again. The flags of the cloister yard were already speckled with white. Brother Guy led us across.
'You found the body, I believe?' I asked.
'Yes. Alice and I were up tending Brother August, who had a fever and was in much distress. I wanted to give him some warm milk and went to the kitchen to fetch some.'
'And that door is normally kept locked.'
'Of course. Otherwise the servants, and I regret also the monks, would help themselves to food whenever they wanted. I have a key because I often need things urgently.'
'This was at five o'clock?'
'The clock had struck a little before.'
'Had Matins begun?'
'No, Matins is sung late here. Usually towards six.'
'St Benedict's rule prescribes midnight.'
He smiled gently. 'St Benedict wrote his rule for Italians, sir, not people who have to live through English winters. The office is sung and God hears it. We cut through the chapter house now.'
He opened another door and we found ourselves in a large chamber, its walls richly painted with biblical scenes. Stools and cushioned chairs were dotted around, and there was a long table before a roaring fire. The room was warm and musty with body odour. About twenty monks sat around; some were talking, some reading, and half a dozen were playing cards at a table. Each monk had a pretty little crystal glass by his elbow, filled with green liquid from a large bottle of French liqueur that stood on the card-players' table. I looked round for the Carthusian, but there was no white habit among the black; the straggle-haired sodomite Brother Gabriel and Mortimus the sharp-eyed bursar were also absent.
A thin-faced young monk with a wispy beard had just lost a game, judging by his annoyed expression.
'That's a shilling you owe us, Brother,' a tall, cadaverous monk said cheerfully.
'You'll have to wait. I will need an advance from the chamberlain.'
'No more advances, Brother Athelstan!' A plump old brother sitting nearby, his face disfigured by a warty growth on one cheek, wagged a finger at him. 'Brother Edwig says you've had so many advances you're getting your wages before you've earned them-' He broke off, and the monks hastily rose to their feet and bowed to me. One, a young fellow so obese even his shaven head was lined and puckered with fat, knocked his glass to the floor.
'Septimus, you dolt!' His neighbour prodded him sharply with his elbow, and he stared round with the vague glance of the simple-minded. The monk with the disfigured face stepped forward, bowing again obsequiously.
'I am Brother Jude, sir, the pittancer.'
'Master Matthew Shardlake, the king's commissioner. I see you are enjoying a convivial evening.'
'A little relaxation before Vespers. Would you care for some of this fine liqueur, Commissioner? It is from one of our French sister houses.'
I shook my head. 'I still have work to do,' I said severely. 'In the earlier days of your order, the day's end would have been taken up with the Great Silence.'
Brother Jude hesitated. 'That was long ago, sir, in the days before the Great Pestilence. Since then the world has fallen further towards its end.'
'I think the English world does very well under King Henry.'
'No, no-' he said hastily. 'I did not mean-'
The tall thin monk from the card table joined us. 'Forgive Brother Jude, sir, he speaks without thinking. I am Brother Hugh, the chamberlain. We know we need correction, Commissioner, and we welcome it.' He glared at his colleague.
'Good. That will make my work easier. Come, Brother Guy. We have a corpse to inspect.'
The fat young monk stepped forward hesitantly. 'Forgive me slipping, good sire. My leg pains me, I have an ulcer.' He gave us a woebegone look. Brother Guy put a hand on his shoulder.
'If you would follow my diet, Septimus, your poor legs would not have to bear such weight. No wonder they protest.'
'I am weak flesh, Brother, I need my meat.'
'Sometimes I think it a pity the Lateran Council ever lifted the prohibition on meat. Now excuse us, Septimus, we are on our way to the crypt. You will be pleased to hear Commissioner Singleton may be laid to rest soon.'
'Thanks be to God. I am afraid to go near the cemetery. An unburied body, an unshriven man-'
'Yes, yes. Go now, it is almost time for Vespers.' Brother Guy gently moved him aside and led us through another door, out into the night again. An expanse of flat ground lay ahead, dotted with headstones. Ghostly white shapes stood out here and there, which I recognized as family crypts. Brother Guy raised the hood of his habit against the snow, which was coming down thickly now.
'You must forgive Brother Septimus,' he said. 'He is a poor silly creature.'
'No wonder his leg gives trouble,' Mark observed. 'Carrying all that weight.'
'The monks stand for hours at a time in a cold church every day, Master Mark, a good covering of fat is not unhealthy. But the standing brings on varicose ulcers. It is not so easy a life. And poor Septimus has not the wit to cease from gorging.'
I shivered. 'This is not the weather to stand talking.'
Holding his lamp high, Brother Guy led us between the headstones. I asked him whether, when he came to the kitchen that morning, the door had been locked.
'Yes,' he replied. 'I went in through the door from the cloister yard, which is always locked at night, then up the short passage leading to the kitchen. The kitchen itself is not locked because the only way is via the passage. I opened the door and at once I slipped in something and almost went over. I put my lamp down, then saw that headless body.'
'Dr Goodhaps said he slipped too. So the blood was liquid?'
The infirmarian considered. 'Yes, it had not started to congeal.'
'So the deed had not been done long?'
'No, it cannot have been.'
'And you saw no one on your way to the kitchen?'
'No.'
I was pleased to find my brain working again, my mind racing along. 'Whoever killed Singleton would himself have been covered in blood. He would have had bloody clothes, left bloody footsteps.'
'I saw none. But I confess it was not in my mind to look, I was shocked. Later, of course, when the house was roused, there were bloody footprints everywhere from those who had entered the kitchen.'
I thought a moment. 'And the killer may then have gone to the church, desecrated the altar and stolen the relic. Did you, did anyone, notice any traces of blood on the way across the cloister to the church, or inside the church?'
Brother Guy gave me a sombre look. 'There was blood spilt about the church. We assumed it came from that sacrificed cock. As for the cloister, it started to rain before dawn and went on all day. It would have washed away any traces.'
'And after you found the body, what did you do?'
'I went straight to the abbot, of course. Now, here we are.'
He had led us to the largest of the crypts, a one-storey building in the ubiquitous yellow limestone, set on a little rise. It had a stout wooden door, wide enough for a coffin to be carried in.
I blinked a snowflake from my eyelashes. 'Well, let us get this over with.' He produced a key and I took a deep breath, breathing a silent prayer that God might strengthen my weak stomach.
We had to stoop to enter the low, whitewashed chamber. The ossuary was bitterly cold, the wind slicing in through a small barred window. The air held the faint, sickly tang all tombs possess. In the dim light of Brother
