Revelation

There were three large wooden chests against the wall. And I recognized that pedlar's cart. I went over and touched the handle. Here he had carried his trinkets in his guise as a pedlar, and bodies too, unconscious or dead. I was suddenly full of anger, anger at what Cantrell had done and at myself too. 'I was a fool,' I said quietly.

'Why?' Harsnet asked. 'He made fools of us all.'

'For allowing myself to be so easily deceived, to see Cantrell as he wanted to be seen, as another of life's victims.'

'We must look in these chests,' Harsnet said quietly.

'I'll take this one. You take that.' I lifted the lid of the nearest chest, dreading what might be within. It was a pile of disguising clothes, tattered robes, fake beards and wigs too — a whole ward-robe.

'Those must have cost money,' Harsnet said, glancing over.

'Some of them look old and well worn.' I pulled out a colourful patchwork coat. 'This is Joseph's coat of many colours. I've seen others like it at disguisings. He wouldn't need all of these.'

The chest Harsnet had opened contained bottles and jars of herbs and drugs, wrapped in rags. I opened them carefully. One stoppered bottle contained a thick, bitter-smelling yellow liquid. I lifted it out. 'I think this is dwale.'

'Where did he get it?'

'Made it, I would think, from Master Goddard's formula.' I took another bottle, sniffed the contents carefully, then tipped a few drops on to the ground. The vitriol hissed and spat.

'There can be no doubt now,' Harsnet said.

'No.'

'Where did his raging fury come from?' I asked.

'It came from the devil,' Harsnet said flatly. He looked at me. I shook my head.

'That would make it simpler, I suppose. Easier to bear.'

'Perhaps it is simple. You have thought too much on this man.'

'I have had cause to. He killed my friend.' I bent and opened the third chest, and we looked inside. There, under some cloths, lay a large flat wooden case. I recalled seeing something similar at Guy's. I opened it, then stepped back with a gasp.

Inside the box, neatly laid out, were knives of different sizes, a little axe and even a small cleaver. Trays contained little hooks and pins, and pliers and tweezers of various sizes. The cleaver and some of the knives had blood on them, and a foul smell rose from the box. 'Goddard's surgical equipment,' I said.

'As I said, possession by the devil.' Harsnet turned aside, his mouth twisting with disgust.

WE WENT UPSTAIRS. There were two bedrooms. One, which had been stripped bare of all furniture except an old bed, I guessed had belonged to Cantrell's father. The other was his. There was an old truckle bed, and another chest, old and scarred, and a table with a large, heavy copy of the Bible in English set on it. The chest contained some of the poor clothes we had seen Cantrell wearing, and a rickety table and stool.

Harsnet had opened the Bible. 'Look at what he has done here,' he said quietly. I went over to him. He had opened the Testament at the Book of Revelation. The wide margins were filled with notes in red ink, in handwriting so tiny it was virtually illegible, though I made out words like vengeance, punishment, fire, etched in thickly and underlined. Turning over the pages I saw that all the passages dealing with the consequences of the angels pouring out the seven vials of wrath were likewise underlined: a noisome and grievous sore, the rivers and fountains of water... became blood, they gnawed their tongues for pain.

'What a blasphemy.' Harsnet's voice trembled as I had not heard it tremble even at the worst things we had seen. I picked up the Bible and flicked through it. Passages here and there, like the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, were also marked, but virtually none of the New Testament apart from Revelation and, I realized, only a part of Revelation: the seven vials of wrath and then immediately afterwards the chapter on the judgement of the Great Whore.

'Look at the underlinings here,' I said. 'More even than in the passages about the pouring of the vials. Does this give us the clue to what he means to do next?'

'That book is tainted,' Harsnet said. 'Polluted.'

'The Great Whore. Who does he think she is?'

'She is symbolic of the Pope and Babylon of Rome,' Harsnet said. 'We know that now.'

'St John of Patmos did not when he wrote this book.'

'That is what he foresaw,' Harsnet said firmly. 'It is quite clear to those who study well.'

'That is not what Cantrell saw. No, he will have someone closer than the Pope in mind.'

Harsnet was silent for a moment. Then he turned to me. 'Where is he now, Matthew?' he asked quietly. 'I confess I am afraid.'

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and one of the constables appeared.

'There is an old woman downstairs says she knows Cantrell,' he said.

I looked at Harsnet. 'The neighbour.'

We went downstairs to find the old crone who had spoken to me the first time I visited Cantrell standing on the doorstep, peering round the large constable who stood in her way. She smiled a toothless grin when she recognized me.

'Ah, master lawyer, sir. We spoke before. I saw something was going on. Has anything happened to Charlie?' Her eyes were alive with curiosity.

'He is not here. We are seeking him.'

'In connection with a crime,' Harsnet added grimly. 'What do you know about him?'

'I live a few doors down. I was friends with Charlie's father, till he got religion and was too pure to speak to the likes of me. What's Charlie supposed to have done?' she repeated, trying to peer round us into the house again. She shook her head. 'He's not up to doing anything serious, he's a poor weak creature.'

'What is your name?'

'Jane Beckett.'

'Come, Jane,' I said. 'I want to ask you a couple of questions.'

'So you want to talk to me this time.'

The old woman wrinkled her nose as I led her into the parlour. She followed me into the old workshop, and now sadness did cross her face. 'Look at this place now,' she said. 'So sad and empty. Adrian kept it so neat, and it was always full; he never lacked work.'

I opened the chest full of clothes. 'Do you know where these might have come from? There are a lot of them.' I picked out the coat of many colours.

The old woman nodded. 'Ah, yes, those are Adrian's. He built up quite a collection. He used to work for the stage companies. Got contracts to build the sets for open-air performances. Built one at Hampton Court once, for a disguising before the King. He used to lend out costumes as well.' She looked at me. 'He was a good businessman, you know. These things are worth money, they shouldn't be left lying here.'

'Did Adrian ever take his son to the performances?'

'Charlie? Yes, when he was small. He used to love them. It was the only time you saw him happy. If it was something local a lot of the neighbours would go. I think Charlie wanted to be an actor, but he didn't have the skill for it, or anything else, so he went for a monk instead.' She laughed contemptuously, then turned back to me and said seriously, 'But Adrian had such skill, he could make pulleys that could make wooden dragons he built move across the stage as though they were real.' She stroked the coat with a skinny hand, then replaced it in the box. When she looked up her eyes were sharp with curiosity again. 'What's he done then, useless Charlie?'

'Never mind that,' Harsnet said.

A thought struck me. 'How did Adrian Cantrell die?'

'Fell down the stairs one night, according to what Charlie said. Broke his neck.' She laughed bitterly. 'Still, according to that hot-gospelling religion he believed in, he's gone straight to Heaven. What're those things in that chest? Those aren't Adrian's.'