Revelation

Lockley smiled faintly. 'It makes new customers jump. They think the devil's coming up from Hell to get them. We're connected to the old sewer that was built to drain the Charterhouse. It runs under the cellar. The monks always did themselves well with their plumbing. Most of the buildings round the precinct are connected to their old sewer system, water flushes down from springs up at Islington fields.'

'Yes.' The widow took the chance to move the conversation away from religion. 'We have our own little room of easement that drains down there, and all the tavern's waste goes through a cellar hatch into the sewer. The only thing is, the watchman of the Charterhouse has to be reminded to open the lock gates under the old monastery, or the water builds up then rushes through, like just now. He's a drunk. But there's no one else lives there now, except those Italian musicians of the King's, and they're just stupid foreigners.'

Lockley gave me another challenging look. 'Ethel was here when the Charterhouse defied Cromwell, refused to accept the royal supremacy. Prior Houghton was taken out, hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn, his arm nailed to the door of the gate. You remember that, Ethel, don't you?'

'It was a long time ago,' Mistress Bunce said uneasily.

'Religious folks.' His face twisted with contempt and something more than that, pain. In his own way, like Cantrell, he was one of those who had suffered from the changes. He got up.

'Well, sir, we must get back to work. I am sorry I could not help you more.'

I hesitated, then rose too. 'Thank you, sir. If you think of anything else, please contact me. Master Shardlake, at Lincoln's Inn.'

'I will.' He looked relieved the interview was over.

'We may well call again,' I added lightly. His face fell. He was hiding something, I was sure.

'I'll see you out.' Mistress Bunce rose and accompanied us to the door. In the doorway she looked round to make sure Lockley could not hear, then lowered her voice.

'I'm sorry for his words about religion, sir,' she said quietly. 'Francis has had a hard time. He was used to life at the abbey. He found life outside hard, especially with that gospel-leaning barber-surgeon pestering him to join their faith. He started drinking, would come here and get drunk every night. That was when I took him in. I know drunks, I knew that love and care and something to do could help Francis.' She looked at me, her bossy manner gone, a tired and vulnerable woman. 'He doesn't drink now, but he says bitter things.'

'Do not worry, goodwife,' I said gently. 'I have no interest in Goodman Lockley's beliefs.'

'He's bitter he's ended up a potman, like his father was.' She looked at me, utterly weary. 'Strange how the world turns, isn't it, sir?'

WE RODE AWAY from the tavern deep in thought. Barak broke the silence.

'He was hiding something, wasn't he?'

'I think he was. Something about Goddard.'

'I might have forced it out of him.'

'No. That's Harsnet's job. I'll tell him tonight.'

'I don't think the woman knows anything.'

'No. Poor creature. I don't think she gets much thanks for her care of him.'

'Maybe he'll order him in for some stiff questioning.'

'Yes.' I did not like the idea of the bitter, disappointed little man being treated roughly. But if he was hiding something we had to find out what it was.

We returned to my house. I was tired, my arm sore whenever I moved it. I could have done with an evening at home resting, but I was due at the chapel for the funeral. I wondered what Samuel would be like; I had not seen him since he was a toddler.

Tamasin was lying on a pile of cushions in the parlour when we came in. Her eyes were less puffy, but her features were still a mass of brightly coloured bruises and her mouth was swollen. She looked utterly exhausted.

'How are you, chick?' Barak asked with what sounded to me like forced cheerfulness.

'Sore. My mouth hurts.' Her voice was a mumble, and when she opened her mouth I saw her cheeks were padded with bloodstained cotton. I shuddered, and my tongue went to the gap in my own mouth, where two years before I had had a tooth snapped off by a torturer in the Tower.

'By Mary, it hurts,' she said. Barak went over and put an arm around her.

'Could have been worse,' he said. 'The tooth was at the side. You'll still have your pretty smile.'

'Oh, that's all right then,' she said sarcastically. 'I didn't mean—'

Tamasin looked at me. 'Do you know what the wretch said, the tooth-drawer? When he told me his fee would be five shillings, I told him it was too much. He said he'd waive the fee and give me ten shillings if I'd let him take out all my teeth. Said I had a good set and they'd make a good false set for rich folk.' She looked at me. 'He brought out these wooden blocks shaped like people's jaws, wanted to measure them against the size of my mouth. He said my mouth was a good standard size. I told him to forget it and get on with his work, that he was heartless to show me such things when I was in pain. I was surprised that Dr Malton recommended him.'

'He's lucky I wasn't there,' Barak said. 'The arsehole.'

'Though I suppose he did the job quickly enough, and with less pain than I expected.' Tamasin shuddered. 'Ugh. He was a vile man, his apron stained with blood, a necklace of teeth hanging over his shop-sign.'

'You should go to bed, Tamasin,' I said. 'Rest.'

'Are you going to Master Elliard's funeral, sir?' she asked.

'Yes. I must change. I am going to Dorothy's. I am accompanying her household. When I come back, Barak, we will have a quick supper then go to meet Harsnet.'

'I was thinking,' he said. 'This church. St Agatha's, Irish Lane. Isn't it the one where the steeple fell down a couple of years ago?'

'Yes. It's one of the reformers' churches. There is no need for you to come,' I added. I glanced meaningfully at Tamasin.

Barak shrugged. 'Harsnet said both of us in his letter. He might have things for me to do.'

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. If I remonstrated with him in front of Tamasin that would only infuriate him.

'I'll be all right,' she said pointedly.

'That's good,' Barak said. 'You rest.'

I met Tamasin's eye. She looked furious.

FOR THE FIRST TIME since Roger's death, Dorothy was dressed in her best. Beside her stood a slim dark lad of eighteen, handsome in his black doublet, whose resemblance to his father was so close it almost took my breath away. It was as though Roger had returned.

'Samuel,' Dorothy said. 'You will not remember Master Shardlake. You were but a child when we moved to Bristol.'

The boy bowed to me. 'I remember you, sir. You brought me a spinning-top for my birthday. It was very brightly coloured. I thought it a marvel.' His voice was like Roger's, clear and a little sharp; though Samuel spoke with the flat vowels of the west country.

'Yes,' I said with a laugh. 'I remember now. You were five. You have a good memory.'

'I do for kindnesses, yes. I must thank you, for all you have done for my mother.' He laid a hand on Dorothy's.

'She has been very brave.'

'Is Samuel not the very image of Roger?' There were tears in Dorothy's eyes.

'He is.'

'It comforts me. Roger lives on in my son. But, Matthew, you hold your arm strangely. Have you done something to it?'

How observant she was. 'A careless accident. It is not serious. Will you stay in London long, Samuel?'

He shook his head. 'I must go back to Bristol next week, there is a cloth fair I must attend. I am hoping that when matters are — settled — my mother may come and join me there.'

'Oh.' I had not thought she might go so soon. The news disconcerted me.

'Time enough to think of that later,' Dorothy said. 'There are things to arrange. And I cannot leave everything to Matthew. Though he looks after me, he has been my rod and staff.' She smiled at me warmly.