Revelation

Chapter Twenty-three

ROGER WAS BURIED; laid to earth in a peaceful corner of old St Bride's churchyard. All through the burial service, as the priest spoke of Roger being gathered to the Lord, all I could think was that he should not have been laid here for another twenty, thirty years. Afterwards I left Dorothy and Samuel to have some time alone together. I picked up Barak from my house and we rode south to our meeting with Harsnet.

ST AGATHA'S CHURCH stood in a lane leading down from Thames Street to the waterfront. It was a mixed area, ancient crumbling wood-framed tenements gradually being displaced by newer, modern houses of stone. The church itself was small and very old, though looking up I saw it had a new lead roof and a pointed steeple. I remembered now hearing the story of the steeple's collapse in a storm two years before; two families in neighbouring houses had been killed. It was nearly dusk when we arrived, the sun slanting at a low angle, long shadows in the lane. At the bottom of the lane the grey river flowed; the wherries on the river just lighting their lamps. It was low tide and a stink of rot came from the rubbish-strewn banks.

A number of horses were tied to a rail outside the old wooden lychgate, where a little group of men in sober black stood. They turned as we approached, and one stepped out in front of us. 'Can I help you, gentlemen?' He was small, with a grizzled beard, in sober but well-cut clothes. He looked like a merchant or tradesman.

'We have been asked to meet Coroner Harsnet here,' I told him.

At once his expression changed and became friendly, almost servile. 'Ah, yes. He is here. With Sir Thomas Seymour. And Lord Hertford too, he has honoured us with his presence.' The church-warden swelled with pride. 'They do us a great honour by attending the reopening of our church. I am Walter Finch, at your service, churchwarden.'

Finch led us to the lychgate. 'Friends of the coroner,' he murmured to the others, who at once bowed low. We followed him through the churchyard to where more people, men and women, stood round a fire that had been lit against the far wall. A spit had been placed over the fire, and a small boar was roasting on it. The handle was being turned by two boys at each end, white aprons over their good clothes. Pig fat dripped into a large tray set underneath. The smell of roasting meat filled the air. 'Burn, Pope, burn,' one of the boys said, and the other laughed. I looked at the church. Only one of the three large windows was of stained glass; the glass in the others was clear.

Finch smiled at us. 'When the steeple collapsed two years ago it was a tragedy, it ruined the interior as well as the roof. We had to redecorate entirely. But sometimes the Lord brings opportunity through misfortune. We got rid of all the statues and other idols, emptied the side-chapels, replaced two broken windows with plain glass.' He smiled happily. 'This is how God means his house of worship to be, not stuffed with gold and incense. I would like to take the rood screen down, though that would get us into trouble. I would show you inside, but Reverend Yarington has the key. He isn't here yet.'

'I see.' I thought of the families killed in the collapse.

Finch winked at me. 'And if Bonner's men say it is too like a Lutheran church we may always say that we could not raise enough money to redecorate. The servants of the Lord must be as wise as serpents, as the book says.'

I looked around at the people in the churchyard. I guessed this had been a reformers' church for some time. These were the sort of folk who attended Meaphon's church, where the Kites went. There were merchants and guildsmen, and a smattering of people from the labouring classes who stood against the wall, looking uncomfortable. There were several clerics there; I saw Meaphon himself, talking earnestly to another merchant. He caught my eye, nodded briefly and looked away. I guessed he was uncomfortable at the way he had backed down before Bishop Bonner the day before. I wondered if the serpent's wisdom of these people would save them from Bonner when he moved against them. I recalled his squat, powerful form confronting me under London Wall, and suppressed a shudder.

Sir Thomas Seymour and Lord Hertford were standing with Harsnet, near the roasting boar, Harsnet talking earnestly to Lord Hertford. Sir Thomas was studying the company with a bored look. He raised his eyebrows when he saw us, and nudged his brother. 'Here's the crookback,' he said, not bothering to lower his voice.

'Master Shardlake.' Lord Hertford nodded to us as we approached. 'And this must be Jack Barak.'

'Yes, my lord.' Barak bowed.

'I remember my poor friend Thomas Cromwell speaking highly of you,' he said, a sad note in his voice. Hertford and his brother were dressed in their best, Lord Hertford in a crimson doublet under a dark cloak with a gold chain round his neck, Thomas in a yellow doublet with slashed sleeves showing a green lining, and a black cap with a bright emerald brooch pinned to it.

'Any news, Shardlake?' Harsnet asked.

I told him of my interviews with Cantrell and Lockley, my feeling Lockley was hiding something. He nodded.

'We'll talk to him again. And Dean Benson.' He gave me one of his stares. 'It looks like Goddard is our man, doesn't it?'

'It is too early to say, I think.'

'Yes, perhaps. I have been unable to find any trace of Goddard's family as yet. I am making enquiries among the guilds, and those who own land around the city.'

'But he was a monk for years,' Sir Thomas said. 'If his family are from near London they should be easy to find.'

'His family may have come here from somewhere else while he was a monk,' Lord Hertford said. 'Many people of wealth gravitate here, especially if they have a relative in London already, to increase their fortune. Or lose it,' he added. 'How is your arm, Serjeant Shardlake? Coroner Harsnet told me you were attacked.' He looked at Barak. 'And your wife, too?'

'Yes, my lord,' Barak answered. 'She got away with some bruises and a broken tooth.'

Sir Thomas clapped Barak on the shoulder. 'I would not have taken you as a married man, I thought you another young roisterer.'

'Not any more, Sir Thomas.'

'This affair could not have come at a worse time,' Lord Hertford said. 'Those butchers are still being questioned about Lent breaches. But they won't give Bishop Bonner any names, brave men.'

'I think this man is possessed,' Harsnet said.

'Whatever he is,' Hertford said, 'we must catch him.'

A serving man appeared at our side, offering us platters of roast pig. I looked over to the cooking fire. The pig was cooked through now and the serving men, wiping their brows, stepped away from the fire which still burned merrily, throwing up bright yellow sparks as the boar fat sizzled. Dusk was falling rapidly; beyond the houses to the south, the Thames shone a white colour now as the sun fell to the horizon.

'I can smell bad fish somewhere,' Barak said.

'So can I. It must be coming from the river.' And indeed the smell of roast meat was now unpleasantly mingled with a salty, fishy smell.

'Where is Reverend Yarington?' someone asked. 'He should be here by now.'

I winced as Sir Thomas grasped me by my bad arm. 'Harsnet says one of those ex-monks you saw lives on Charterhouse Square.'

'The lay brother, Lockley, yes. In a tavern there.'

He frowned. 'I know those houses and taverns built round the sides of the old precinct. The largest house there is where Lady Catherine Parr lives. I have visited her there.'

'Easy, Thomas,' his brother said. 'It is surely clear now there is no connection between her and the murders.'

'I would not have her near any danger.' Sir Thomas' expression was anxious. I wondered, is that because you love the lady, or because she is a wealthy widow who may still turn the King down?

'Is there any more news of the projected marriage?' I asked Lord Hertford in quiet tones. That was, after all, what had first brought the involvement of these people in all this.

He speared a piece of boar and transferred it to his mouth. He glanced at his brother, then said, 'The lady still refuses to give the King an answer, she says she needs more time.'

Harsnet grunted. 'That was the tactic Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour used. Keep him dangling, it only makes the King more determined to get what he wants.'

'No.' Sir Thomas smiled, a flash of white teeth against his dark beard. 'Lady Catherine refuses because she does not want to marry him. As who would?'

'Keep your voice down,' Hertford snapped. 'Thomas, I trust you have not visited the lady again. If the King knew—'

'I haven't,' Thomas snapped back.

'I would like to go,' I said to Harsnet in a low voice. 'My arm throbs, I need some rest.'

He nodded. 'Of course. I will stay here.' He looked around. 'It is strange Reverend Yarington is not here. I am sorry you were hurt.'

'It is getting better.'

He smiled. 'Good. My wife and I look forward to meeting you tomorrow at dinner. And you will meet my children.'

'Thank you, sir. How many children have you?'

'Four. All healthy and obedient. And a good wife. You should marry, sir.'

'I do not think that is my lot.'

'You have no one, then?'

I thought of Dorothy. 'One may hope,' I said with a sad smile.

'Press your suit, Brother Shardlake. Tie the knot, like young Barak here.'

'Knot's the word for it,' he answered under his breath.

'Goodnight, sir.' I shook Harsnet's hand and turned to leave, Barak following. I frowned at him. 'That was a churlish thing to say. A knot indeed—'

Suddenly a woman screamed. 'The church! The church is on fire!'

Everyone stopped eating and talking. Through one of the windows, the surviving stained-glass one, a flickering light could be seen. It cast strange shadows on the darkened churchyard.

Reverend Meaphon was the first to step forward and grab the handle of the church door. 'It's locked!' he shouted. 'Who has the key?'

'Reverend Yarington!' Everyone looked around, but there was still no sign of the white-haired minister.

'Go to the vicarage!' someone shouted.

'He doesn't allow visitors to the vicarage,' the churchwarden said nervously, 'he is so afraid of anyone finding his copies of Luther and Calvin.'

'There's no time for that anyway. We have to get in and put out the fire.'

'Break the door down!' someone called.

Sir Thomas looked at the solid oak door, and laughed. 'You'd need a battering ram to break down that door!'

'There's a side door,' someone called. A couple of men ran round the church, but reappeared a moment later to say it, too, was locked. I looked at the window. The flames seemed brighter now.

The churchwarden Finch stepped forward. 'I've a key! I left it at home!'

'Then go and get it, you fool!' Harsnet said, giving the dithering churchwarden a push. Finch cast another horrified glance at the flickering light coming through the church window, then hurried away. Someone knelt down on the ground and started praying for the Lord to save their church, not to subject it to a second disaster.

Lord Hertford appeared beside us. He bent and spoke quietly to Harsnet. 'I think I should leave. There is nothing I can do, and there is going to be a scene here if the church is on fire.'

Harsnet nodded agreement. 'Ay, my Lord, that may be best.'

'I am staying,' Sir Thomas said. 'I want to see this.' His face was full of excitement. His brother frowned at him, then shrugged and walked swiftly away.

Harsnet was staring at the window. 'Look! The fire seems to be at one fixed spot,' he said in a low voice. 'And I smell no smoke.'

'And what's that noise?' Barak asked quietly.

Above the sound of the man praying to Heaven and the horrified murmuring of the rest of the congregation, a strange sound was faintly audible from the church. A series of muffled grunts, more animal than human.

'Dear Jesus, what is happening in there?' Harsnet asked, fear visible in his face in the dim light.

Finch ran back into the churchyard, a large key in his hand. There was a flurry of activity around the door. He unlocked it and threw it open. Half a dozen people dashed in. Then they stopped just inside. Someone gave a yell of terror. Sir Thomas Seymour lunged his way through the crowd, Barak and Harsnet and I following. We were hit by an awful stench of burning flesh, and something more: the rotting fishy smell Barak had noticed. Inside the doorway we all stopped dead at the horrific, extraordinary sight within.

A MAN IN a white clerical robe was chained to a stone pillar in the nave and he was on fire, blazing like a human torch in the darkness though there was no fuel stacked around him, no visible reason why he should be burning. In the doorway someone fainted, and others sank to their knees and called out to the Lord. Barak and Sir Thomas Seymour went forward, Harsnet and I following. The heat from the burning man was so intense we had to stop seven or eight feet away. I shall never forget that dreadful sight. It was Reverend Yarington who was burning there, his clothes already charring, red burned flesh showing through, blood trickling into the flames with a sizzle. He stared at us in terrible agony, and I saw he was gagged, a cloth tied round his mouth with string. The sounds we had heard were his muffled howls.

He watched with bulging eyes the bulk of his congregation who stood horror-struck, until someone shouted, 'Water! Get water!' Three men rushed out of the church, and I saw Yarington's bulging eyes turn to follow them. But it was too late, it had been too late before we ever entered the church. Even as we watched, the flames engulfed Yarington's head. I gazed with horror as that proud head of white hair caught light, becoming a yellow halo for a second then vanishing with a hiss. As the flames began to rip his face apart, his head slumped forward, and the terrible grunting noise ceased.

'No smoke,' Harsnet said in a shaking voice beside me. 'No smoke and no fuel. This is the devil's work.'

The men who had run out returned with buckets of water and torches. They lit the plain whitewashed interior of the church, the black thing chained to the pillar. They threw the water over Yarington, and the flames went out with a sizzle and a hiss. Thin trails of smoke now began to rise from parts of the body. Sir Thomas Seymour stepped boldly forward and looked into the burned face. 'He's dead,' he said. He stepped back. 'Ugh, he stinks.'

I looked at Yarington's body slumped in its chains, the white clothes melted into burnt flesh. Someone turned away to vomit. Even Barak, whose stomach was of iron, looked pale. It was not just the sight, but the smell, roasted flesh mixed with that stink of rotten fish. I looked at the floor. There were spots of some thick liquid there. I bent and hesitantly put my finger to one of them, lifting it and sniffing hesitantly.

'Fish oil,' I said quietly. 'He was covered in fish oil, probably the oil from those great fishes that is being sold everywhere.' I turned to Harsnet. 'That was the fuel.' I looked again at the face, though my stomach heaved. The gag was burned into his face now. The cottar Tupholme had been gagged. I guess that Yarington had been drugged, was unconscious when he was brought in here and chained to the pillar. He would have woken with a shock to find himself on fire.

Around us people were speaking in horrified whispers, clinging to each other, women crying. Harsnet looked at the body of the vicar, taking deep breaths. Quietly, he quoted from the Book of Revelation:

'And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power was given unto him to burn men with heat of fire.'

Barak walked over to the side door and pulled at the handle, confirming it was locked. Already I could see the familiar picture: Yarington overpowered somewhere, rendered unconscious, the killer using the vicar's own keys to lock them both inside the church, then escaping through the side door when poor Yarington was set alight, locking it after him.

'The killer knew we would be here,' I said. 'How could he know that?'

'Jesu, he's right,' Harsnet said. 'This spectacle was meant for us as well as the churchpeople. But it cannot be coincidence that we are here too. My vicar. My poor vicar.' Tears started to his eyes.

'Taunting us,' I said bitterly. 'Again. Playing with us, showing we are helpless.'

Someone stepped forward to try and loosen the chains, but when he touched the metal he pulled his hand away with a yelp. It was still burning hot. Meaphon stepped forward. He took off his cassock and threw it gently over Yarington's ruined head.

Harsnet looked round at the shocked congregation. 'Listen to me, all of you!' he said. 'I will investigate this outrage, the murderer will be caught! But until then say nothing — nothing — of what has happened here tonight! It would only give comfort to our enemies.'

There were murmurs from the crowd.

'Nothing, do you hear! If this news spread it could cause a panic.

'We are all under threat enough!' Harsnet's west country accent was prominent. 'Finch, I make you responsible for people keeping silence until I return. Bring down the minister's poor body when the chains have cooled enough.' Harsnet turned back to Sir Thomas and Barak and me. 'Come,' he said quietly. 'All of you. We must see the Archbishop at once.'