Dissolution

'Oh yes, they have their own separate households. Originally the abbot lived among the brethren, but when the Crown started to tax their households centuries ago they hit on the device of giving the abbot his own revenues, legally separate. Now they all live in fine state, leaving most of the daily supervision to the priors.'

'Why doesn't the king change the law, so the abbots can be taxed?'

I shrugged. 'In the past kings needed the abbots' support in the House of Lords. Now – well, it won't matter for much longer.'

'So that Scottish brute actually runs the place from day to day?'

I went behind the desk and examined the bookshelves, noting a printed set of English statutes. 'One of nature's bullies, isn't he? He seemed to enjoy mistreating that novice.'

'The boy looked ill.'

'Yes. I am curious to know why a novice has been set to menial servants' work.'

'I thought monks were supposed to spend part of their time in manual labour.'

'That is part of St Benedict's rule. But no monk in a Benedictine house has done honest toil for hundreds of years. Servants do the work. Not only cooking and stabling, but tending the fires, making the monks' beds, sometimes helping them dress and who knows what else.'

I picked up the seal and studied it by the light from the fire. It was of tempered steel. I showed Mark the engraving of St Donatus, in Roman clothing, bending over another man lying on a pannier whose arm was stretched up to him in appeal. It was beautifully done, the folds of the robes rendered in detail.

'St Donatus bringing the dead man back to life. I looked it up in my Saints' Lives before we left.'

'He could raise the dead? Like Christ with Lazarus?'

'Donatus, we are told, came upon a dead man being carried to his grave. Another man was berating the widow, saying the deceased owed him money. The blessed Donatus told the dead man to get up and settle his accounts. He sat up and convinced everyone that he had paid his debt. Then he lay down dead again. Money, money, it's always money with these people.'

There were footsteps outside and the door opened to admit a tall, broad man in his fifties. Beneath his black Benedictine habit could be seen hose of wool velvet and silver-buckled shoes. His face was ruddy, with a Roman beak of a nose set in square features. His thick brown hair was long and his tonsure, a little shaven circle, the barest concession to the Rule. He came forward with a smile.

'I am Abbot Fabian.' The manner was patrician, the voice richly aristocratic, but I caught a note of anxiety underneath. 'Welcome to Scarnsea. Pax vobiscum.'

'Master Matthew Shardlake, the vicar general's commissioner.' I did not give the formal reply of 'and with you', for I was not to be drawn into Latin mummery.

The abbot nodded slowly. His deep-set blue eyes quickly swept my bent figure up and down, then widened a little when he saw I was holding the seal.

'Sir, I beg you, be careful. That seal has to be impressed on all legal documents. It never leaves this room. Strictly, only I should handle it.'

'As the king's commissioner I have access to everything here, my lord.'

'Of course, sir, of course.' His eyes followed my hands as I laid the seal back on his desk. 'You must be hungry after your long journey; shall I order some food?'

'Later, thank you.'

'I regret keeping you waiting, but I had business with the reeve of our Ryeover estates. There is still much to do with the harvest accounts. Some wine, perhaps?'

'A very little.'

He poured me some, then turned to Mark. 'Might I ask who this is?'

'Mark Poer, my clerk and assistant.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Master Shardlake, we have very serious matters to discuss. Might I suggest that would be better done in confidence? The boy can go to the quarters I have prepared.'

'I think not, my lord. The vicar general himself requested me to bring Master Poer. He shall stay unless I wish him to leave. Would you care to see my commission now?'

Mark gave the abbot a grin.

He reddened and inclined his head. 'As you wish.'

I passed the document into his beringed hand. 'I have spoken with Dr Goodhaps,' I said as he broke the seal. His expression became strained and his nose seemed to tilt upwards as though the smell of Cromwell himself rose from the paper. I looked out at the garden, where the servants were making a fire of the leaves, sending a thin white finger of smoke into the grey sky. The light was starting to fade.

The abbot pondered a moment, then laid the commission on his desk. He leaned forward, clasping his hands.

'This murder is the most terrible thing that has ever happened here. Accompanied by the desecration of our church, it has left me – shocked.'

I nodded. 'It has shocked Lord Cromwell too. He does not want it noised abroad. You have kept silence?'

'Totally, sir. The monks and servants have been told if a word is breathed outside these walls they will answer to the vicar general's office.'