Dissolution

'I was looking for the sacrist. I thought he might show me the church.'

The prior nodded at the open door. 'Ye'll find Brother Gabriel in there, sir. He'll be glad to be taken from his desk in this cold. Good morning.' He bowed quickly and passed on, his footsteps echoing loudly away.

The sacrist sat behind a table strewn with sheets of music in a little book-filled office. A statue of the Virgin leaned drunkenly against one wall, her nose broken off, giving the bitterly cold, windowless room a depressing air. Brother Gabriel sat at a table, a heavy cloak over his black habit. His lined face was anxious; in some ways it was a strong face, long and bony, but the mouth was pulled down tightly at the corners and there were deep bags beneath his eyes. At the sight of me he rose, forcing his mouth into a smile.

'Commissioner. Master Shardlake. How may I help you?'

'I thought you might show me the church, Brother Sacrist, and the scene of the desecration.'

'If you wish, sir.' His tone was reluctant, but he stood and led me back into the body of the church.

'You are responsible for the music, Brother, as well as the upkeep of the church?'

'Yes, and our library. I can show you that too if you wish.'

'Thank you. I understand Novice Whelplay used to help you with the music.'

'Before he was sent to freeze in the stables,' Brother Gabriel said bitterly. Collecting himself, he continued in a milder tone. 'He is very talented, though rather over-enthusiastic.' He turned anxious eyes on me. 'Forgive me, but you are lodging in the infirmary. Do you know how it goes with him?'

'Brother Guy believes he should recover.'

'Thank God. Poor silly lad.' He crossed himself.

As he led me on a circuit of the church he became a little more cheerful, talking animatedly about the history of this or that statue, the architecture of the building and the workmanship of the stained-glass windows. He appeared to find a refuge from his anxieties in words; it seemed not to strike him that as a reformer I might not approve of the things he was showing me. My impression of a naive, unworldly man was reinforced. But such people could be fanatical, and I noticed again that he was a big man, strongly built. He had long delicate fingers, but also thick strong wrists that could easily wield a sword.

'Have you always been a monk?' I asked him.

'I was professed at nineteen. I have known no other life. Nor would I wish to.'

He paused before a large niche containing an empty stone pedestal, on which a black cloth had been laid. Against it was heaped an enormous pile of sticks, crutches and other supports used by cripples; I saw a heavy neck-brace such as crookback children wear to try and straighten them; I had worn one myself, though it did no good.

Brother Gabriel sighed. 'This is where the hand of the Penitent Thief stood. It is a terrible loss; it has cured many unfortunate people.' He gave the inevitable glance at my back as he spoke, then looked away and gestured at the pile.

'All those things were left by people cured by the Penitent Thief's intervention over the years. They no longer needed them and left them behind in gratitude.'

'How long had the relic been here?'

'It came from France with the monks who founded St Donatus's in 1087. It had been in France for centuries, and at Rome for centuries before that.'

'The casket was valuable, I believe. Gold set with emeralds.'

'People used to be glad to pay to touch it, you know. They were disappointed when the injunctions forbade relics to be shown for lucre.'

'It is quite large, I imagine?'

He nodded. 'There is an illustration in the library, if you would care to see.'

'I would. Thank you. Tell me, who found the relic missing?'

'I did. I found the desecrated altar too.'

'Pray tell me what happened.' I sat down on a projecting buttress. My back was much better, but I did not wish to stand around for too long.

'I rose towards five as usual, and came to prepare the church for Nocturns. There are only a few candles lit before the statues at night, so when first I came into the church with my assistant, Brother Andrew, we noticed nothing amiss. We went into the choir; Andrew lit the candles at the stalls and I set the books open at that morning's prayers. As he was lighting the candles Brother Andrew saw a trail of blood on the floor, and called out. The trail led-' he gave a shuddering sigh '-into the presbytery. There, on the table before the high altar, was a black cock, its throat cut. God have mercy on us, black bloodstained feathers lying on the very altar, a candle lit on either side in satanic mockery.' He crossed himself again.

'Would you show me the place, Brother?'

He hesitated. 'The church has been reconsecrated, but I do not believe it is fitting to relive those events before the altar itself.'

'Nevertheless, I must ask-'

With reluctant steps he led me through a door in the rood screen, into the choir stalls. I remembered Goodhaps's remark that the monks seemed more upset by the desecration than by Singleton's death.