Revelation

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.'