Revelation

Barak shook his head. 'Sounds like he deliberately vanished. Failed to leave an address.'

'I must send a note to Harsnet. You did well,' I added. 'I will tell him.'

He leaned back in his chair. 'I needed to do something,' he said. 'To find something — something—'

'Something real? Amidst all this inexplicable horror?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you have found it.' I looked at his face, tired and anxious still. I would not tell him of Guy's theory or my studies, not yet, not tonight. 'You should go home, you look as if you have had enough for one day.'

'Ay.' He looked guilty. 'I told Tamasin I'd be back for lunch. I'd best go.'

I shook my head after he had gone. If I were his age and Tamasin my wife, I would not be spending sunday afternoon harassing clerks in grubby archives. I turned my thoughts to Westminster Abbey. I remembered it had been one of the last monasteries to be dissolved. The King had not wanted the buildings destroyed as they housed the tombs of his father and other royal ancestors; he had squared the circle by turning the abbey into a cathedral. The former abbot had been installed as dean; he was known as one of Cromwell's agents inside the monasteries, working for its closure. His appointment afterwards had caused much cynical laughter.

I penned a long note to Harsnet and took it to the porter's lodge, telling him to have it delivered urgently. I looked out at Chancery Lane, the few passers-by, remembering the strong sense of being followed I had had earlier. As I returned I saw old Elias walking rapidly towards me; Dorothy was back. I walked with him back across Gatehouse Court, past the fountain, to Dorothy's, determinedly trying to clear my head of thoughts of Strodyr, of the other murderers. But with Roger perhaps the victim of such a man, that was not easy.

THE MAID MARGARET let me in. Dorothy was sitting in her usual place before the fire, beneath the wooden frieze, still dressed in black. I was glad to see she was occupied, embroidering a dress with little flowers. She looked up with a smile, and I was glad to see a little colour in her cheeks.

'How are you?' I asked gently.

'Life must go on, must it not? The clock still measures out the hours, even with Roger gone.'

'Yes, it does.'

'Samuel is coming tomorrow. And I have arranged Roger's funeral for Tuesday.' She looked at me. 'A week today since he died.'

'I know.'

'I am trying to keep occupied. With embroidery, as you see. And I have supervised the preparation of a fine repast. To thank you, for all you have done.'

'It is little enough, Dorothy. I am sorry commitments do not allow me to take on any of Roger's cases. But Bartlett has brought me a list of lawyers who can, and they are all honest fellows.'

'Good. I shall need the money. The Treasurer came to see me today, full of sorrow for my loss, but hinting they will be appointing a new Inn member now and he will want these rooms.'

'Have you enough to take a house? If not, I can—' She raised a hand. 'No. Thank you, Matthew, but Roger was a prudent man, there is enough saved for me to live carefully. But I do not know where I shall go. Samuel suggested in his letter that I return to Bristol.'

'Will you go?' I found my heart sinking at the thought. She hesitated. 'I do not know, yet. Is there any news?'

'We are making progress. I'm afraid that is all I can say.'

'Do you know yet why Roger was killed?' Her voice was no more than a whisper.

'No. But Dorothy . . .' I paused. 'We know of three men this man has killed now. All the victims of some terrible ritual. While he is at large, I think — I think you should not go out alone.'

'You think I might be in danger,' she said quietly.

'No. Only — it's as well to be safe.' Dorothy looked at me intently for a moment, then nodded. I felt suddenly fired anew with anger at what had been done to her and Roger.

A serving man appeared, bearing a large tray of meat with sweet-smelling sauces. I followed Dorothy to the table.

'There,' she said. 'A saddle of lamb. I am glad Lent is over. They say they are arresting butchers who sold meat then.'

'Yes.'

'I did not go to church today. I confess I cannot find it in my heart to feel anything but anger towards a God who could allow such an evil thing to happen to such a good man.' She looked at me. 'Do you think that a wicked thing?'

'No. I understand. I have not been either.' I sighed. 'Though I suppose one could answer that it is not God's fault if one of his creatures uses free will to commit a heinous sin.'

She smiled, an angry little smile. 'That is a reasonable answer. But reason has little to do with how I feel now. It would help if I could pray, but I am too angry.' She frowned. 'Perhaps in time.'

'Yes. When you feel ready.' I felt a hypocrite, for I prayed but seldom now myself, but I wanted to say the things that might best comfort her.