'I wish I had time to go back. But even sending a message would take days in this snow. Pox on it, is it going to go on for ever?'
'It seems so.'
Shortly after Mark got into his little wheeled cot and pulled it back under my bed. I sat on, staring into the banked-up fire. Through windows already frosting again with ice I heard the bells ring out for Compline. Whatever happened, whatever nightmares unfolded, the services still went on.
I thought of Lord Cromwell, waiting in London for my reply. I must try to send a message soon, even if it were only to say I had no answers and two more murders to solve. I could imagine his angry face, his oaths, his wondering again about my loyalty. But if Copynger confirmed the land sales I could have Brother Edwig arrested for fraud. I had a vision of myself interrogating him in Scarnsea gaol, manacled in some dark hole, and found the thought gave me pleasure. That disturbed me and I reflected how dislike of a man and the prospect of power over him led the mind into unpleasant paths. Guilt stole over me and I began thinking once more about Mark and Alice. How pure were my motives there? All I had said to Mark about the difference in their degree, and his obligation to his family to succeed, was true. Yet I knew the worm of jealousy stirred in me. The sight of them embracing in the kitchen came back to me and I clenched my eyes shut as another vision stirred in the corner of my mind's eye, of Alice embracing me instead of him. All the time I could hear Mark's breathing, which had deepened into sleep.
I prayed that God might lead my actions into a true and just path; a path such as Christ might have followed. Then I must have slept for the next thing I knew I had started awake and was staring at a dead fire. Hours must have passed; my back ached and I was chilled to the bone. I rose painfully from the chair, undressed and climbed wearily into bed.
I fell at once into a deep sleep and woke next morning more rested than for a week past. Brother Guy's prescription was doing me good. After breakfast I wrote a letter to Justice Copynger and gave it to Mark.
'Take this into Scarnsea now. Ask Copynger if he can get a reply to me by tomorrow.'
'I thought you wished to see him yourself.'
'I want to go out on the marsh while the weather holds.' I looked up at the sky, which was dark with clouds again. 'Tell the abbot the cleaning of Singleton's grave can be done when you return. Are arrangements in place to drain the pond?'
'They have a sump they can drain the stream into. Apparently they clear out the silt every ten years or so.'
'When was it last done?'
'Three years ago.'
'So that body would have lain undisturbed for many years yet. And yet not for ever.'
'Maybe the murderer needed to get rid of it quickly.'
'Yes. And then it would be hard to get out again.
'No need to go to the church now.'
'No, let's get the pond drained first. You will have a busy day,' I added in an effort at cheerfulness. But that very effort seemed to make him close in on himself again. 'Yes, sir,' he said quietly and left the room.
I read more routine correspondence which the abbot's servant brought, then went in search of Alice. I felt a mixture of nervousness and excitement, like a boy, at the thought of seeing her. Brother Guy told me she was hanging herbs in the drying house and would be free shortly, so I went into the courtyard to see how the weather was faring. The clouds were high and I hoped we might escape more snow. I shivered at the endless cold.
My attention was drawn by raised voices. By the gatehouse I saw two figures struggling, one dressed in black and the other in white. I hurried over. Jerome was in the grasp of Prior Mortimus, who had him in a firm grip. He was trying to seize a paper Jerome held tightly in one hand. Despite his disabilities, the Carthusian was putting up a fierce struggle. Nearby Bugge was holding a squirming small boy by the collar.
'Give me that, ye whoreson!' the prior growled. Jerome tried to stuff the paper in his mouth, but the prior hooked a foot beneath his good leg and he toppled over, landing on his back in the snow. Prior Mortimus reached down, tore the paper from his hand and stood breathing heavily.
'What is this tumult?' I demanded.
Before the prior could answer, Jerome hauled himself up on his elbow and spat at him, a gobbet of spittle landing on his habit. He exclaimed in disgust and launched a sudden kick at the Carthusian's ribs. The old man fell back with a yell to lie shrieking in the churned-up snow. Prior Mortimus held up a letter.
'See, Commissioner, I caught him trying to smuggle this out!'
I took it and read the superscription. 'It's addressed to Sir Thomas Seymour!'
'Is he not one of the king's council?'
'He is, and the late queen's brother.' With a glance at Jerome, who lay glaring up at us like a wild beast, I tore it open. A chill ran down my spine as I read. It addressed Seymour as cousin, referred to his imprisonment in a corrupt house where a king's commissioner had been murdered, and said there was a story he should know, of ill deeds by Lord Cromwell. He then went on to repeat the story of his encounter in prison with Mark Smeaton, and the musician's torture by Cromwell.
I crumpled the paper in my hand. 'How did he get out?'
'He disappeared after Prime and I came looking for him. Meanwhile our good Bugge was visited by this boy from the poorhouse, saying he had come to fetch a message from one of the monks. Bugge was suspicious and wouldn't let him in.' The gatekeeper nodded in satisfaction, grinding his knuckles into the urchin's collar. He had ceased his struggles and was staring in astonished terror at Jerome lying on the snow.
'Who sent you here?' I asked him.
'A servant brought a note, sir,' he answered tremulously, 'asking me to take a letter for the London post.'
'I found this on him,' Bugge said. He opened his free hand, which held a gold ring.
'Yours?' I asked Jerome. He turned his head away.
'Which servant, boy? Answer, you are in serious trouble.'
'Mister Grindstaff, sir, from the kitchen. The ring was to pay me and the post coach.'
'Grindstaff!' the prior snorted. 'He takes Jerome his food, he's always been against the changes. I'll put him out on the road tonight – unless you'd take harsher measures, Commissioner?'
I shook my head. 'Make sure Jerome is kept locked in his cell all the time. You should not have let him out for services – see what has come of it!' I turned to Bugge. 'Let the boy go.'
Bugge hauled the urchin to the gate and shoved him out on the road with a cuff.
'Get up, you,' Prior Mortimus snapped at Jerome.
He tried to struggle up, but fell back. 'I can't, you unchristian churl.'
'Help him,' I ordered Bugge. 'Lock him in his cell.' The gatekeeper hauled Jerome to his feet and led him roughly away.
'Cromwell has many enemies!' Jerome shouted at me over his shoulder. 'His just end will come!'
I turned to the prior. 'Have you an office we can go to?'
He led me through the inner cloister to a room with a warm fire. A jug of wine stood on a paper-strewn desk and he poured us each a cup.
'Is this the first time Jerome has disappeared after a service?'
'Yes. He is always watched.'
'Is there any chance he could have sent another letter out before today?'
'Not since he was confined, the day you came. But before – yes.'
