The Heresy of Dr Dee

‘Where now?’

I was not confident about this, but saw no other way.

‘I think… the abbot himself.’

XL Paper Kites

WITH THE YOUNGER men out on the hills, the main parlour of the Bull was only half full, but the power behind the new Presteigne was here, its red-veined faces flushed in the creamy light of stubby candles on a round board.

Many a sideways glance for Forest and me, as we drank small beer served by the innkeeper, Jeremy Martin, whose agreeable manner was, for once, muted. For I, too, had journeyed here with the judge’s company and my name would, by now, have been well blackened by my cousin, Nicholas Meredith, who sat amongst his elders and did not acknowledge me.

Half a dozen of them, all well dressed and drinking French wine.

Forest and I took stools at the serving board and drank silently, listening, but our entry had dampened their discussion. Then the urgency of the situation broke upon me and I gave Forest a nod.

He stood up.

‘I come from Hereford with a letter for Master Roberts, the antiquary. I’m unable to find him. Does anyone here know where he might have gone?’

Nobody replied. None of them said a word. As if we might simply disappear if they made no response to us.

I looked at the innkeeper.

‘Martin?’

‘En’t seen Master Roberts since he broke his fast. Off to the court, he reckoned.’

‘Looks to me like the court’s over,’ John Forest said.

‘With a unfortunate verdict for this town,’ I said to the company at the candlelit board.

A heavy-set man with crinkled grey hair set down his goblet, his voice a reluctant, weighted drawl.

‘An unfortunate verdict, one might say, for the superstitious.’

‘By which you mean the local people?’

‘We,’ he said, ‘are the local people.’

‘My name is John Dee,’ I said. ‘And you are?’

‘Bradshaw.’

I nodded. The wealthiest wool merchant in Presteigne, the owner of many of the one-time abbey properties.

‘Half the townsmen are out on the hills,’ I said, ‘thinking to recapture Prys Gethin. What think you of that… as a magistrate?’

‘What I’m thinking, Master Dee, is that while we may not agree with the verdict, no one can deny that the trial was good for the town. Never done better trade. More lawyers than we’ve ever seen. Guards, attendants. Every room taken at every inn.’

‘Better than a visit by the Queen.’

‘The lawyers,’ he said sourly, ‘pay for their accommodation.’

‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘As a man of stature here, did you know how it might end? Did you have a meeting with Sir Christopher Legge before the trial?’

Bradshaw sniffed.

‘Your knowledge of the processes of the law seems somewhat lacking, Master Dee.’

My cousin, Nicholas Meredith, stirred, his beard jutting, anger deepening the lines of wear on his otherwise bland face.

‘You accuse his worship of irregular conduct?’

‘Is that what it sounds like, cousin?’

He rose.

‘Why don’t you just go back to London? You’ve seen your father’s place of birth, what else is here for you?’

‘I’d hoped,’ I said, ‘before I left, to meet the former abbot of Wigmore, of whom I wrote in my letter to you.’

‘And I told you I knew not where he was.’

I placed both hands on the round board.

‘And I don’t believe you. Cousin.’

Meredith turned to Jeremy Martin.

‘Innkeeper, this man offends me. Perhaps you might summon a constable.’

I smothered laughter.

‘Now I know,’ I said, ‘that my mention of John Smart was the main reason you were less than joyous at my arrival…’

Only gossip, Anna Ceddol had said, but the same gossip from different ends of town. Taking me back to the guarded words of Bishop John Scory as we walked by the Wye. The abbey owned most of it at one time. And Meredith… owned the rest. And now appears to own even more. Oh, yes, he might be a very good man to talk to.

‘Having done business with Smart,’ I said. ‘Around the time of the dissolution of the abbey.’

‘Have a care, Dr Dee,’ Bradshaw said.

‘Who does own this inn,’ I asked Meredith. ‘Is it you?’

‘Of course it’s me.’

‘In your own right… or as his guise? What I’m told is that the good abbot, knowing what fate was to befall the abbey at the hands of Lord Cromwell might have sought to dispose of certain abbey property—’

‘Get yourself off my property,’ Meredith said. ‘Conjurer.’

‘—by sale or rent, before the axe, as it were… fell.’

Bradshaw grunted.

‘What drivel is this? Nothing got past Cromwell.’

‘Divers deals were done in the confusion of Reform,’ I said. ‘Deeds of property discreetly transferred, oft- times with the cooperation of the local gentry who told themselves they were only helping the true Church from being plundered by the Protestants. The word is that Abbot Smart was already proficient in… matters of finance. After a while, I’d guess, it would not always be easy for the agents of the Crown to work out precisely what the abbey owned. Especially out here.’

‘Where’s your proof of that?’ Bradshaw said. ‘For if you don’t want to spend the night in the sheriff’s dungeon—’

‘The sheriff’s gone home to sulk. Now listen to me. Although I’m good with numbers, the fiscal side of them is not my country. But I’m sure the office of Sir William Cecil, scenting riches which should be in the Queen’s treasury, would waste no time in appointing accountants to unravel what we might call the discrepancies in Presteigne.’

There was a long silence, tense as a bowstring. What the hell kind of place was this, where a disgraced former abbot could be running whores and collecting money for the tenure of houses he’d corruptly removed from the ownership of the Church? I was aware that John Forest had his hand upon his sword. I had, in truth, never thought it might come to this.

‘I don’t believe,’ Bradshaw said to Meredith, ‘that this man knows anything. I think he flies paper kites.’

‘You’ll have noticed,’ I said, ‘that I put my questions to you, rather than the abbot himself. Knowing of his obvious need to walk in stealth in order to live a full life. Which, for the lascivious former abbot, must needs include a ready supply of woman’s crack.’