Dissolution

'There was a passage,' he said. 'It was closed off at the time of the Black Death, to minimize the spread of infection, and has never been reopened. A sensible measure.'

'Last night when I saw that boy I feared he had the sweating sickness. I have seen it, it is terrible. But of course it is produced by the foul airs of the towns.'

'Mercifully I have seen little plague. Mostly I have to deal with the consequences of too much standing at prayer in a cold church. And of old age, of course.'

'You have another patient there who seems poorly. The ancient.'

'Yes. Brother Francis. He is ninety-four. So old he is become a child again and now he has an ague. I think he may be near the end of his pilgrimage at last.'

'What is wrong with the fat fellow?'

'Varicose ulcers like Brother Septimus, but worse. I have drained them, and now he is enjoying some rest.' He smiled gently. 'I may have a task getting him up again. People do not like to leave the infirmary. Brother Andrew has become a fixture, his blindness came on him late and he fears to go outside. His confidence has gone.'

'Have you many old monks under your care?'

'A dozen. The brothers tend to be long-lived. I have four past eighty.'

'They have not the strains or hardships of most people.'

'Or perhaps their devotions strengthen the body as well as the soul. But here we are.'

He led me through a stout oak door. As he had described the night before, a short passage led into the kitchen itself. The door was open and I heard voices and the clattering of plates. A rich smell of baking drifted out as we proceeded up the passage. Inside, half a dozen servants were preparing a meal. The kitchen was large, and seemed clean and well organized.

'So, Brother, when you came in that night, where was the body?'

The infirmarian paced out a few steps, the servants watching curiously.

'Just here, by the big table. The body lay on its front, legs pointing to the door. The head had come to rest there.' He pointed to an iron vat marked 'Butter'. I followed his gaze, as did the servants. One crossed himself.

'So he had just come through the door when he was struck,' I mused. There was a big cupboard by the spot where he had fallen; the assailant could have hidden at the side and then, when Singleton passed, leaped out and struck him down. I paced out the steps and swung my staff in the air, making a servant jump back in alarm. 'Yes, there's room for a big swing. I'd guess that's how it was done.'

'With a sharp blade and a strong hand, yes, you could do it,' Brother Guy said pensively.

'If you were skilled, used to swinging a large sword about.' I looked around the servants. 'Who is head cook here?'

A bearded man in a stained apron stepped forward, bowing. 'Ralph Spenlay, sir.'

'You are in charge here, Master Spenlay, and you have a key to the kitchens?'

'Yes, Commissioner.'

'And the door to the courtyard is the only way in and out?'

'It is.'

'Is the door to the kitchen itself locked?'

'No need. The courtyard door is the only way in.'

'Who else has keys?'

'The infirmarian, sir, and the abbot and prior. And Master Bugge the watchman, of course, for his night patrols. No one else. I live in; I open up in the morning and close at night. If anyone wants a key they come to me. People will steal the viands, you see. No matter that it's for the monks' table. Why, I've seen Brother Gabriel hanging about the corridor some mornings, looking as though he was waiting for our backs to be turned before snatching something. And he an official-'

'What happens if you are ill, or away, when someone wants access?'

'They'd have to ask Master Bugge or the prior.' He smiled. 'Not that people like to bother either, if they don't have to.'

'Thank you, Master Spenlay, that is very helpful.' I reached out and took a little custard from a bowl. The cook looked put out.

'Very nice. I will trouble you no further, Brother Guy. I will see the bursar next, if you could point me to his counting house.'

***

He gave me directions and I plodded off, the snow creaking under my overshoes. The precinct was much quieter today, people and dogs keeping indoors. The more I thought, the more I considered only an expert swordsman would have had the confidence to step out behind Singleton and strike off his head. I could not imagine any of the people I had seen managing it. The abbot was a big man, and so was Brother Gabriel, but swordsmanship was a craft for gentlemen, not monks. Thinking of Gabriel, I remembered the cook's words. They puzzled me; the sacrist had not struck me as the kind of man to hang around a kitchen to steal food.

I looked around the snowy courtyard. The road to London would be impassable now; it was not pleasant to reflect that Mark and I were more or less trapped here, with a murderer. I realized that unconsciously I had been walking in the centre of the courtyard, as far as possible from shadowy doorways. I shivered. It was strange walking alone through this white silence under the high walls and it was with a sense of relief that I saw Bugge by the gate, shovelling a path through the snow with the help of another servant.

As I approached the gatekeeper looked up, red-faced with effort. His companion, a stocky young man with a face disfigured by warty growths, smiled nervously and bowed. Both had been working hard, and gave off a vile stink.

'Good morning, sir,' Bugge said. His tone was unctuous; doubtless he had been ordered to treat me with respect.

'Cruel weather.'

'Indeed it is, sir. Winter is come early again.'

'Now we are met, I would like to ask about your night-time routine.'

He nodded, leaning on his shovel. 'The whole precinct is patrolled twice every night, at nine and three-thirty. Either me or David here makes a complete round, checking every door.'

'And the gates? Are they locked at night?'

'Every night at nine. And opened at nine in the morning, after Prime. Not a dog could get in here when the gates are shut.'

'Not a cat,' the boy added. His eyes were sharp; he might be ugly but he was no fool.

'Cats can climb,' I suggested. 'And so can people.'

A touch of truculence appeared in the gatekeeper's face. 'Not a twelve-foot wall, they can't. You've seen it, sir, it's sheer; no one could scale it.'

'The wall is secure all round the monastery?'

'Except at the back. It's crumbled in places there, but it gives straight onto the marsh. No one would go wading through that, especially at night. People have taken a wrong step and disappeared over their heads in the mud-' he lifted a hand and pushed it down – 'glug.'

'If no one can get in, why do you patrol?'

He leaned close. I recoiled from his stench, but he seemed not to mind. 'People are sinful, sir, even here.' His manner became confidential. 'Things were very lax in the days of the old prior. When Prior Mortimus came, he ordered the night patrols, anyone out of bed reported straight to him. And that's what I do. Without fear or favour.' He smiled happily.

'What about the night of Commissioner Singleton's murder? Did you see anything that might indicate someone might have broken in?'

He shook his head. 'No, sir, I'll swear all was as it should have been between three-thirty and four-thirty, I made that round myself. I tried the courtyard door to the kitchen as usual and it was locked. I saw the commissioner, though.' He nodded self-importantly.

'Yes, I heard you did. Where?'

'On my round. I was passing through the cloister when I saw something moving and called out. It was the