Revelation

'And you lost touch with your charges?'

'All except those who work under me now.'

'Those three men?' I asked. 'How were they built, how strong were they? Our man is strong, and clever too.'

The dean laughed. 'Then I think you may discount both the assistants. Neither showed any great brains and muscle still less. Lockley is a small round man in his fifties with a taste for the bottle. Young Cantrell was a tall and stringy fellow. I recall he had a huge Adam's apple in his thin neck, it was hard not to look at it. He had trouble with his eyes, I remember. He took to dropping things in the infirmary. Goddard found he was short-sighted and got him some glasses so he could do his work.' He raised a finger. 'I remember now, Cantrell lives in the precinct outside here, his father was a carpenter. I saw him some time ago in the street, with his thick glasses, and remember thinking he would have trouble carrying on his father's trade. Cut his fingers off likely as not.' He laughed. And you said the doctor was cold, I thought.

Harsnet looked at me. 'We should see those two men, Master Shardlake. Barak has the addresses?'

'He does.'

'Good. Then we will leave you, dean. But we may call on you again.'

'Of course,' Benson shook his head, gave a puzzled smile. 'You believe this man will commit seven murders? To fulfil the prophecy of the seven vials in Revelation?'

'Yes, sir,' I answered seriously. 'He has only reached the third vial. I fear the fourth must come soon.'

Benson shook his head again, then rose. 'Then I pray you soon catch him.'

WE COLLECTED Barak and went outside. The hammering was louder. I turned to Harsnet.

'He was hiding something,' I said.

The coroner nodded. 'That was my thought too. But what?'

'He's watching,' Barak said quietly. Harsnet and I turned. The dean was at his window, staring out at us. He turned away, disappearing into the shadows of his room.

'It might be interesting to take a look around,' I suggested. 'At the chapterhouse, the infirmary buildings and garden.'

Harsnet nodded. 'Very well.'

We picked our way carefully over rubble and building materials, heading for the cloister. We passed a great pile of mattresses, perhaps from the dormitory.

'What did you think of Benson?' I asked Harsnet.

'A greedy careerist.' Harsnet frowned. 'It is sad Lord Cromwell had to use such people in the cause of reform.' He looked at me. 'It disillusioned many people.'

I wondered if Cranmer had told him that it had disillusioned me.

The three of us walked on, past where the old monks' dormitory was being demolished, men on the roof pulling off slates and casting them into the gutted interior of the fine old building. To our right, neglected and full of weeds, was what must once have been the abbot's formal garden. Next to it was an area where herbs had grown wild, neglected for three years. I recognized the distinctive stems and seed heads of poppies.

'So,' Harsnet said. 'Goddard did grow poppies.'

I looked at the desolation. 'Yes. And heaven knows what else.'

We walked back, through the din of demolition work, and entered the old cloister between the monastic buildings and the church. All at once it was quiet. Then another shower began, pattering on the roof of the walkway and hissing on the flagstones of the cloister yard within. Harsnet looked out over the cloister where the monks once walked, stroking his short greying beard. I wondered what he was thinking. Then he turned to me with an unexpected smile. 'There is a bench over there,' he said. 'Perhaps now would be a good chance to have a talk, in peace and quiet, before we go to visit the chapterhouse.'

'Yes. My head is fairly buzzing with all that has happened.' The three of us went and sat down.

'I think Dean Benson knows more than he allowed,' I said.

Harsnet nodded. 'I agree. We will question him again, and soon. But I do not think he knows Goddard's whereabouts. He would realize it would not be wise to conceal that.' He shook his head, sighing deeply. 'And what is Goddard? Is he the man we seek, or another victim, or neither?' His west country accent was stronger, as it seemed to become whenever he spoke with emphasis.

'It is over two months since he disappeared. I think if he had been a victim he would have been found by now.'

'But where has he gone?' Harsnet frowned. 'The dean should have known. Had he no care for the monks he led?'

'He was just a political appointment,' Barak ventured. 'My old master made a lot of those.'

Harsnet looked at him and nodded. I was glad he seemed to respect Barak, did not try snobbishly to exclude him from our councils. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'That is true. But we must find him somehow.'

'And whoever the killer is, he has found us,' Barak added grimly. 'Found my wife.' He looked down and clenched his hands.

'I think he marked us that day out at the marshes,' I said. 'Somehow afterwards he found out who we are, me and Barak at least, and he has been following us ever since.'

'If he's been following me without me noticing he's a lot sharper than I am,' Barak said grimly. 'But that's not impossible.' He rubbed his face fiercely with both hands.

'I think that he knew Dr Gurney's body had been found and the matter was being kept secret,' I said. 'So he killed Roger in a way absolutely no one could miss. And then he spent his days waiting on the marshes for investigators to visit the scene of Dr Gurney's murder, with which Roger's would surely be connected, lying on that rush matting we found. To mark the men who would be pursuing him.'

Harsnet shook his head. 'But what sort of man could lie out on there for days on end? And then he lay for hours in the very depths of the marsh, lay there until it grew dark and we had to leave him. Such patience, such endurance, it seems — not human.'

I knew he was thinking of possession. I hesitated for a long moment, then told them both of Guy's theory about obsessive madness, about the cases he had mentioned and about Strodyr. Harsnet listened carefully, staring at me with those keen, sharp blue eyes. At the end he shook his head firmly.

'Those people, the Frenchman and that Strodyr, they sound to me as though they were possessed. As this man does. I am sorry, Serjeant Shardlake, but I do not trust Dr Malton. I feel he still cleaves to his old loyalties. And with Bishop Bonner showing as much mercy to Protestants as a butcher shows to the poor lambs at Eastcheap, you must forgive me if I am still dubious about his involvement.'

Barak turned to us, his eyes suddenly fierce. 'Whether he's possessed or mad, that doesn't answer the question of why the arsehole's pursuing us now, rather than us pursuing him.'

'Oh, we shall pursue him,' Harsnet said with grim determination. 'And we shall find him.'

'I wonder if we should be looking for him among the radical Protestant sects,' I said, looking Harsnet firmly in the eye. 'As well as churches with radical preachers and church congregations there are study groups, private meetings. Some have developed extreme doctrines — Adamites who believe we have regained Adam's primeval innocence, Arians who deny the Trinity

I expected Harsnet to disagree fiercely, but he nodded. 'Ay, persecution drives men inwards. When even a faithful man writing some godly matter in rhyme to encourage little children to read the word of God, like a friend of mine, may find himself in the Fleet prison

'And this man seems to think he has a mission from God to kill lapsed radicals.'

'Or wants us to think that,' Harsnet answered. He looked at me seriously. 'Perhaps the killer is really a supporter of Bishop Bonner's persecutions. If this got out it could only encourage them.'

'Either way, he knew the religious past of Dr Gurney and Tupholme and my poor friend Roger,' I insisted. 'The three had nothing else in common.'