Revelation

'Ay, Goddard gave that boy a hard time. He had a nasty sharp tongue. But Charlie Cantrell was always a wet fart.'

'I saw the infirmary yesterday. Empty now, of course. It looked a gloomy place.'

'It was. Conditions got steadily worse all the time I was there. Abbot Benson wanted the abbey to go to seed, to be closed. Cromwell paid him well. The old papist church was rotten,' he said with sudden fierceness.

'You are not one of those who still cleave to the old faith, then?'

'No.' Lockley frowned. 'But the barber-surgeon I worked for when I left was one of those hot-gospellers. They're even worse, puffed up because they think they have the keys to Hell and death.'

'So you came here, to me,' Mistress Bunce said, squeezing his hand. 'To find rest.'

Lockley did not respond to her gesture; instead he gave me an angry look. 'Maybe neither the radicals nor the papists have it right, maybe the heathen Turks do.' He laughed bitterly. I sensed something desperate, almost wild, about him then. He was not a man at ease in his mind.

Mistress Bunce laid her hand on his again. 'Now, chick,' she said warningly, casting us a nervous glance. 'He says things without thinking. You don't mean it, do you?'

A sudden rumbling came from under the tavern, and I felt the stone flags tremble. I looked up, startled. From somewhere far below came the sound of rushing water. 'What's that?' Barak asked.

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.