‘Only sickness will make your taking Hooke out of a condemned cell look right. If it comes to an ecclesiastical review where you must answer, you have to have a story. Work it through in your head so it’s as real as something that happened – more real. Send a doctor you can trust – is there one?’
‘There is.’
‘Get him to take Giant Scabious – it’ll make him sweat and go red in the face. The doctor can find it growing behind the Great Statue of the Hanged Redeemer.’
Bosco was offended. He had allowed Cale to take to his bed on three occasions with such symptoms.
‘What do you expect,’ taunted Cale, ‘from the wrath of the Lord? By the next day all the guards will be worrying it’s jail fever. Then you can remove him for a good reason and you won’t have done anything out of the ordinary. You used to tell me that was a sin.’
‘Clearly I failed. As I hoped to do, remember that. God plants his great messengers in many places. Mostly they go mad for lack of a guide to tell them who they are and what they have to do.’
That night the weekly check for signs of jail fever was made a day ahead of schedule. Guido Hooke was given a tincture of Scabious and took it without demur. Why suspect the Redeemers of poisoning him when they had such public and unpleasant plans for his death. By the next day he had the required fever, sweats and blisters. If they were not the symptoms of the much dreaded jail fever – dreaded because it could so easily spread to the wider community of Redeemers – they were still alarming enough to ensure the doctor was recalled by jailers who would never have the wit or courage to lie to the Office for the Propagation of the Faith. Part one of the lie was firmly embedded in the truth. Much fuss was made of taking Hooke from his cell and through the Purgators in order to provide as many witnesses to his obvious sickness as possible. His face was distinctive because of his moustache-less and abundant ginger beard. It gave him a hideous aspect but he had been told twenty years before by a malicious young woman that she found it especially suited him and he had for ever after continued to devote much time to maintaining it. Now ranting and delirious because the apothecary had tripled the dose in error, Hooke was taken to an isolated room where those suffering from jail fever were left to die without food or water. For once this was the kindest solution the Redeemers could offer. It was better to die reasonably quickly from a high fever exacerbated by lack of water than linger on into the hideous last stages of the disease. Within a few minutes, Cale arrived followed shortly after by Bosco and Gil who watched him trying to go about his deceptive business with some difficulty, given his raving state. Cale cut the ginger beard as close to the skin as possible leaving him with a pile of red hair that was both impressive and repellent.
‘Give it eyes and a tail and it’d look like a ginger rat.’
Gil and Bosco then left but were back ten minutes later with a dead body of an age and weight similar to Hooke’s. Cale had certainly requested the body and in doing so suggested it come from the morgue. Whether the cadaver had truly and conveniently done so he did not ask – and Gil and Bosco did not tell.
Cale had already stripped Hooke of his clothes and then did the same to the corpse. He then dressed the dead man in Hooke’s clothes and wrapped a large bandage, as was the custom for the dead, around his head and under his chin. He then stuffed the hair from the pile inside the bandage to give the impression that Hooke’s beard was squashed beneath. Bosco sniffed. If it was an ingenious idea it was not quite so impressive in execution.
‘It’s just a first go,’ said Cale. ‘Give me an hour and it’ll look a lot better. Besides – people see what they expect to see. When we burn him tomorrow we’ll keep the Redeemers well back.’
‘It’s an after-death execution,’ said Gil. ‘The Fatherhood will expect to see Brzica.’
‘Brzica’s not a problem.’
With that Bosco signalled Gil to help Hooke to his feet.
‘Give us a kiss, gorgeous,’ said the delirious Hooke.
‘Where are you taking him?’
‘God,’ said Bosco, ‘fashioned hell for the inquisitive.’
‘Just a little one,’ said Hooke, and with that they dragged him out of the room and Cale went back to re-arranging the fur inside the dead man’s face bandage.
Within twenty minutes Hooke was being settled in a new room, separated from the rest of the Sanctuary by two walls and being attended to by a fat nun in a wimple.
In the room with the dead man, Cale began to arrange the appearance of the ginger beard that now looked almost orange against the dead white of the man’s face. He sang softly to himself as he worked.
‘Nobody likes us – we don’t care
Nobody likes us – we don’t care
Nobody likes us – we don’t care
Nobody likes us – we don’t care.’
‘Tell the jailers that there is an alert about the Purgators and they must prepare them to be moved. Lock the place up with them inside for twenty-four hours. The Purgators and jailers are the only people who ever saw Hooke close up. Bring everyone to the post-mortem execution but keep them well back in case they catch the jail fever. Then get the burning over quickly.’
‘Why not burn him on the QT?’ said Gil. ‘It’s too risky doing it in front of so many.’
‘No, Cale is right. People will see what they expect to see. The Office for the Propagation of the Faith will expect us to make a show of the execution of such a notorious heretic. We’ll give them what they want.’
Too clever by half, both of them, thought Gil. He regretted his disobedience and pride almost at once. There would be hours of praying, at least ten minutes ablating. Perhaps half an hour defuscalating. Why couldn’t he have bitten his tongue? Then he remembered he would have to do that as well.
‘Thank you, Redeemer,’ said Bosco, dismissing Gil. When he had left Bosco looked at Cale, his expression mocking and expectant.
‘You want to ask me something?’
‘Yes. What was Picarbo doing cutting up that girl?’
‘Ah. Extraordinary.’ He unlocked a small cupboard at the side of his desk, took out a bound folder and handed it over.
‘There are a great many pages in his room. It would take months, I’d say, to read them all. But this was his testament of sorts. Apparently.’
‘So you knew nothing about it?’
‘Me? No.’
‘How was that possible?’
‘You think I’m lying to you?’ He seemed surprised. ‘Clearly I have in the past been willing to keep the truth from you, sir.’ The title was genuinely respectful yet also genuinely mocking. ‘But I don’t recall ever lying directly to you. I suppose I would have if it had been necessary. But I’m not lying now.’
‘He kept women. He kept them in rooms big enough for a small palace. How is that possible?’
‘All Redeemers must still seem alike to you. All are all-powerful. But only with acolytes, not with each other. There are many divisions and hierarchies. Lines there are that cannot be crossed. Picarbo ruled these areas. No arbitrary king had more power. It was not done to ask questions of one another. To have the power to control knowledge of something in a world where everyone knows everything in common, this is the most jealously guarded power a Redeemer can have. Like a bunch of keys, it is a sign of worthiness before God.’
‘Others must have known.’
‘Indeed they did. Twelve of them knew and had read the document here.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Now you’re being provocative.’
‘The nuns?’
‘A Redeemer can always be replaced; someone who can cook and iron a vestment in a way acceptable to God cannot. Besides they knew nothing about Picarbo’s intentions. It is a matter of considerable debate, theologically speaking, whether women have souls or not. I’m inclined to think not. In which case they are not entirely responsible for themselves.’