'With all your income I would have thought you could spare more funds than this.'
Brother Edwig's face darkened with sudden anger. 'And Lord Cromwell would have all our money, for his cronies! Is that charity?' He bit off the words without a trace of a stutter, then turned and walked quickly away. The crowd looked at me curiously as the monks went on handing out scraps, and the pittancer's bag chinked, slowly emptying.
I sighed. My anger at the spectacle had got the better of me, now everyone would know there was a king's commissioner here. I felt utterly exhausted after my outburst, but crossed over to where Mistress Stumpe stood by the roadside with the children, waiting for the adults to finish. She curtsied.
'Good morning, sir.'
'A moment, Mistress, if you would. Over here.'
We walked a little way from the children. She eyed me curiously.
'I want you to look at this, tell me if you recognize it.' My back to the crowd, I produced the silver chain I had taken from the corpse's neck. She grabbed at it with an exclamation.
'The St Christopher! I gave it to Orphan when she came here! Sir, have you found her-?' She broke off at my expression.
'I am sorry, Mistress,' I said gently. 'It was found on a body pulled from the fish pond this morning.'
I had expected tears, but the old woman only clenched her hands into fists.
'How did she die?'
'Her neck was broken. I am sorry.'
'Have you found who did it? Who was it?' Her voice broke, became a thin screech. The children looked round anxiously.
'Not here, madam. Please. This is not to be told abroad yet. I will find who did it, I swear to you.'
'Revenge her, in God's name revenge her.' Goodwife Stumpe's voice faltered, and then she did begin to cry, softly. I took her gently by the shoulder.
'Say nothing yet. I will send word by Justice Copynger. Look, the adults are finished. Try to compose yourself.'
The last of the adult doles had been given, and a line of people was already heading back along the road to town, ragged black figures like crows against the stark white snow. Goodwife Stumpe nodded to me quickly, took a deep breath and led the children over. I went back through the gate to where Mark stood waiting. I feared she might break down again, but the overseer's voice was steady as she encouraged the children to step forward. Brother Edwig had disappeared.
CHAPTER 22
I entered the dark church quietly, closing the big door carefully behind me. Beyond the rood screen candles were flickering, and I could hear the monks' voices chanting a psalm. The evening service of Vespers was in progress.
After leaving Mistress Stumpe I had told Mark to go to the abbot and order him to ensure Brother Gabriel did not leave, and to arrange for the cleaning of Singleton's grave. I wanted the pond, too, drained on the morrow. Mark had been reluctant to give orders to Abbot Fabian, but I told him if he was to make his way in the world he would have to get used to dealing with those of high station. He went off without further comment, his manner stiff- backed again.
I had stayed in our room; I needed time alone to think. I sat before the fire as darkness began falling outside. Exhausted as I was, it was hard not to fall asleep before the warmth of the crackling logs. I stood up and splashed water over my face.
The launderer's confirmation that Gabriel's robe had been stolen was a grievous disappointment, for I had thought to have our man. I was still certain he was holding something back. Mark's words came back to mind and surely they were true: Gabriel had nothing about him of the brutal savage our murderer must be. Savage, I thought; where had I had heard that term before? I remembered; it was how Goodwife Stumpe had described Prior Mortimus.
The bells began their clangour; the monks would be in service now for an hour. At least, I reflected, that would provide an opportunity to do what Singleton had done, and I myself should have done earlier: investigate the counting house while Brother Edwig was out of the way. Despite my exhaustion and the weight of anxiety upon me, I realized I felt better in myself, less sluggish of mind somehow. I took another dose of Brother Guy's potion.
I made my way quietly down the dim nave, invisible to those chanting behind the rood screen. I put my eye to one of the ornamented gaps in the stone, fashioned to give lay people in the congregation a tantalizing glimpse of the mystery of the Mass being performed on the other side.
Brother Gabriel was conducting, apparently absorbed in the music. I could not but admire the skill with which he led the monks in the chanting of the psalm, their voices rising and falling in harmony as their eyes moved between his directing hands and the service books on their lecterns. The abbot was present, his face sombre in the candlelight. I remembered his last despairing whisper: 'Dissolution.' Looking over the monks I saw Guy and, to my surprise, Jerome next to him, his white Carthusian habit standing out in contrast to the Benedictine black. They must be letting him out for services. As I watched, Brother Guy leaned over and turned a page for the crippled Carthusian. He smiled, and Brother Jerome nodded with thanks. It struck me that the infirmarian, with his austerity and devotion, might be one of the few at Scarnsea of whom Jerome might approve. Were they friends after all? They had not seemed so when I had come upon Guy dressing Jerome's wounds. My eye turned to Prior Mortimus, and I saw he was not chanting, but staring fixedly before him. I remembered he had been horrified, and angered too, at the sight of the girl's body. Brother Edwig, in contrast, was singing lustily, standing between Brother Athelstan and his other assistant, the old man.
'Which of them?' I whispered under my breath. 'Which of them? God, guide my poor brain.' I felt no answering inspiration. Sometimes in those desperate days it seemed God did not hear my prayers. 'Please let there be no more deaths,' I prayed, then silently rose and left the church.
The cloister yard was deserted as I inserted the key marked 'Treasury' into the lock of the counting house. The damp chill of the interior made me shiver and I gathered my coat around me. All was as before; the desks, the ledger-lined walls, the chest against the far wall. A candle had been left burning on a table and I took it over to the chest. Selecting another key, I opened it.
The interior was divided into racks filled with bags, each with the denominations of the coins they contained and the totals entered on tags. I took out those containing gold coins; angels, half-angels and nobles. Opening a couple at random, I counted out the coins, checking the marked total. Everything tallied, and the amount recorded in the chest agreed with what the accounts had shown. I closed it. As big a sum here as in any counting house in England, and secure enough, for a monastery was harder to get into and rob than a merchant's strongroom.
I took up the candle and opened the door to the staircase. I paused at the top. The counting house was a little higher than the other buildings and in daylight the window gave a view across the cloister to the fish pond and, beyond that, the marsh. I wondered whether the hand of the Penitent Thief lay down there in the pond; I would know on the morrow.
I unlocked the door to the bursar's private sanctum. Setting the candle on his desk, I began by glancing at some of the ledgers stacked round the walls of the windowless, claustrophobic room; they were routine accounts, going back years. The desk was tidy, papers and quills set out with geometric straightness. Brother Edwig seemed a man obsessed with order and precision.
The desk had two deep drawers. I tried key after key until I found one that would unlock them. The first contained a couple of Latin books, which I lifted out: Thomas Aquinas's
