Dissolution

'I want only to forget about it.'

'And now, Mark, we must go. My lord Abbot, while we are in town I would like you to sort out more papers for me. The deeds of conveyance on all land sales for the last five years.'

'All of them? They will have to be fetched –'

'Yes, all of them. I want you to be able to swear you have given me the deeds of every sale –'

'I will arrange it, of course, if you wish.'

'Good.' I got up. 'And now we must be on our way.'

The abbot bowed and left, old Goodhaps scuttling after him.

'That worried him,' I said.

'The land sales?'

'Yes. It strikes me that if there is any fraudulent accounting going on, it would most likely be the concealment of income from land sales. That is the only way they could raise large amounts of capital. Let's see what he comes up with.'

We left the kitchen. As we passed Brother Guy's dispensary we glanced in, and Mark suddenly grasped my arm.

'Look! What's happened to him?'

Brother Guy lay face down on the floor under the big crucifix, arms extended in front of him. Sunlight glinted on his shaven brown pate. For a moment I was alarmed, then I heard the murmur of Latin prayer, soft but fervent. As we went on I reflected again that I must be careful how far I took the Spanish Moor into my confidence. He had confided in me, and was the most agreeable of those I had met here. But the sight of him lying prone, making fervid entreaties of a piece of wood, reminded me that as much as the others he was muzzled in the old heresies and superstitions, enemy of all I stood for.

CHAPTER 15

Outside, the morning was bitterly cold again under a clear blue sky. During the night the wind had blown big drifts against the walls, leaving parts of the courtyard almost bare of snow. It made a strange sight. We passed once again through the gate. Turning, I saw Bugge the gatekeeper peering out, withdrawing his head when he caught my glance. I blew out my cheeks.

'God's wounds, it's a relief to be away from all those eyes.' I looked up the road, which like the courtyard was a sea of drifts. The whole landscape, even the marsh, was white, broken only by skeletal black trees, clumps of reeds in the marsh and, in the distance, the grey sea. I had obtained another staff from Brother Guy, and took a firm grip on it.

'Thank Heaven for these overshoes,' Mark ventured.

'Yes. The whole country will be a sea of mud when this snow melts.'

'If it ever does.'

We had a long trudge through the drear landscape, and it was an hour before we reached the first streets of Scarnsea. We said little, for we were both still in sombre mood. There was hardly anyone about that day and in the bright sunlight I noticed anew how dilapidated most of the buildings were.

'We need Westgate Street,' I said as we arrived again in the square. At the wharf a small boat was pulled up, an official in a black coat inspecting bales of cloth while a couple of townsmen stood by, stamping their feet against the cold. Out at sea, at the mouth of the channel through the marsh, stood a large ship.

'The customs man,' Mark observed.

'They must be taking cloth over to France.'

We turned into a street of new, well-built houses. On the door of the largest the town's arms were engraved. I knocked, and the well-dressed servant who answered confirmed it was Justice Copynger's house. We were led to wait in a fine drawing room with cushioned wooden chairs and a buffet displaying a great richness of gold plate.

'He does himself well,' Mark observed.

'Indeed.' I crossed to where the portrait of a stern-looking man with fair hair and a spade-shaped beard hung on the wall. 'That's very good. And painted in this room, by the background.'

'He's rich then –' Mark broke off as the door opened to admit the original of the painting, a tall, strongly built man in his forties. He was swathed in a brown robe trimmed with sable fur and had a severe, serious air. He shook my hand firmly.

'Master Shardlake, this is an honour. I am Gilbert Copynger, Justice of the town and Lord Cromwell's most loyal servant. I knew poor Master Singleton; I thank Christ you have been sent. That monastery is a cesspit of corruption and heresy.'

'Nothing is straightforward there, certainly.' I indicated Mark. 'My assistant.'

He nodded briefly. 'Come through to my study. You will take some refreshment? I think the Devil himself has sent this weather. Are you kept warm at the monastery?'

'The monks have fires in every chamber.'

'Oh, I don't doubt that, sir. I don't doubt it at all.'

He led us down the hall to a cosy room with a view of the street, and cleared papers from stools before the fire. 'Let me pour you both some wine. Forgive the disorder, but the paperwork I have from London… the minimum wage, the poor laws…' he sighed. 'And I am required to provide reports of any treasonable mutterings. Fortunately there are few of those in Scarnsea, but sometimes my informers make them up and I have to investigate words that were never said. At least it means people realize they have to be careful.'

'I know Lord Cromwell sleeps easier knowing there are true men such as yourself in the shires.' Copynger nodded gravely at the compliment. I sipped the wine. 'This is excellent, sir, thank you. Now, time presses. There are matters on which I would welcome information.'

'Anything I can do. Master Singleton's murder was an insult to the king. It cries out for vengeance.'

It should have been a relief to have the company of a fellow reformer, but I confess I did not take to Copynger. Although the Justices were indeed burdened with an ever-greater workload from London on top of their judicial duties, they did well from it. It has ever been the custom for Justices to profit from their functions, and more duties meant more profit even in a poor town, as Copynger's wealth bore witness. To me his ostentation sat ill with his humourless, pious air. But that was the new type of man we were breeding in England then.

'Tell me,' I asked, 'how are the monks regarded in the town?'

'They are loathed for the leeches they are. They do nothing for Scarnsea, they don't come into the town unless they have to and then they are haughty as the Devil. The charity they give is tiny and the poor have to walk to the monastery on dole days to get even that. It leaves the main burden of maintaining the indigent on the ratepayers.'

'They have a beer monopoly, I believe.'

'And charge an extortionate price. Their beer is filthy stuff, hens roost in their brewhouse and drop dung in the brew.'

'Yes, I saw that. It must be vile indeed.'

'And no one else may sell beer.' He spread his arms wide. 'They milk their lands too, for all they can get. Don't let anyone say monks are easy landlords. Things are worse since Brother Edwig took over as bursar; he would skin a flea for the fat on its arse.'

'Yes, I believe he would. Speaking of the monastery's finances, you reported to Lord Cromwell there had been land sales at undervalue.'

He looked crestfallen. 'I fear I have no details. I'd heard rumours, but word got out I'd been making enquiries, and now the big landowners keep their doings from my ears.'

I nodded. 'And who are they?'

'Sir Edward Wentworth is the biggest hereabouts. He's in close with the abbot, for all he's related to the Seymours. They go hunting together. There have been rumours among the tenantry that monastery lands have been sold to him secretly and the abbot's steward now collects rents on Sir Edward's behalf, but I've no way of finding out for certain, it's beyond my authority.' He frowned crossly. 'And the monastery owns land far and wide, even out of the county. I am sorry, Commissioner. If I had more authority…'

I thought a moment. 'It may be stretching my brief, but as I have power to investigate all matters involving the monastery I think I could extend that to enquiring about land sales they have made. What if you were to renew your enquiries on that basis? Invoke Lord Cromwell's name?'