sound. The soft glow from the stained-glass windows of the church made coloured patterns on the ground. I noticed strange little motes dancing in the light, and was puzzled for a moment before realizing it had started to snow again. The flags of the cloister yard were already speckled with white. Brother Guy led us across.
‘You found the body, I believe?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Alice and I were up tending Brother August, who had a fever and was in much distress. I wanted to give him some warm milk and went to the kitchen to fetch some.’
‘And that door is normally kept locked.’
‘Of course. Otherwise the servants, and I regret also the monks, would help themselves to food whenever they wanted. I have a key because I often need things urgently.’
‘This was at five o’clock?’
‘The clock had struck a little before.’
‘Had Matins begun?’
‘No, Matins is sung late here. Usually towards six.’
‘St Benedict’s rule prescribes midnight.’
He smiled gently. ‘St Benedict wrote his rule for Italians, sir, not people who have to live through English winters. The office is sung and God hears it. We cut through the chapter house now.’
He opened another door and we found ourselves in a large chamber, its walls richly painted with biblical scenes. Stools and cushioned chairs were dotted around, and there was a long table before a roaring fire. The room was warm and musty with body odour. About twenty monks sat around; some were talking, some reading, and half a dozen were playing cards at a table. Each monk had a pretty little crystal glass by his elbow, filled with green liquid from a large bottle of French liqueur that stood on the card-players’ table. I looked round for the Carthusian, but there was no white habit among the black; the straggle-haired sodomite Brother Gabriel and Mortimus the sharp-eyed bursar were also absent.
A thin-faced young monk with a wispy beard had just lost a game, judging by his annoyed expression.
‘That’s a shilling you owe us, Brother,’ a tall, cadaverous monk said cheerfully.
‘You’ll have to wait. I will need an advance from the chamberlain.’
‘No more advances, Brother Athelstan!’ A plump old brother sitting nearby, his face disfigured by a warty growth on one cheek, wagged a finger at him. ‘Brother Edwig says you’ve had so many advances you’re getting your wages before you’ve earned them—’ He broke off, and the monks hastily rose to their feet and bowed to me. One, a young fellow so obese even his shaven head was lined and puckered with fat, knocked his glass to the floor.
‘Septimus, you dolt!’ His neighbour prodded him sharply with his elbow, and he stared round with the vague glance of the simple-minded. The monk with the disfigured face stepped forward, bowing again obsequiously.
‘I am Brother Jude, sir, the pittancer.’
‘Master Matthew Shardlake, the king’s commissioner. I see you are enjoying a convivial evening.’
‘A little relaxation before Vespers. Would you care for some of this fine liqueur, Commissioner? It is from one of our French sister houses.’
I shook my head. ‘I still have work to do,’ I said severely. ‘In the earlier days of your order, the day’s end would have been taken up with the Great Silence.’
Brother Jude hesitated. ‘That was long ago, sir, in the days before the Great Pestilence. Since then the world has fallen further towards its end.’
‘I think the English world does very well under King Henry.’
‘No, no—’ he said hastily. ‘I did not mean—’
The tall thin monk from the card table joined us. ‘Forgive Brother Jude, sir, he speaks without thinking. I am Brother Hugh, the chamberlain. We know we need correction, Commissioner, and we welcome it.’ He glared at his colleague.
‘Good. That will make my work easier. Come, Brother Guy. We have a corpse to
‘You found the body, I believe?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Alice and I were up tending Brother August, who had a fever and was in much distress. I wanted to give him some warm milk and went to the kitchen to fetch some.’
‘And that door is normally kept locked.’
‘Of course. Otherwise the servants, and I regret also the monks, would help themselves to food whenever they wanted. I have a key because I often need things urgently.’
‘This was at five o’clock?’
‘The clock had struck a little before.’
‘Had Matins begun?’
‘No, Matins is sung late here. Usually towards six.’
‘St Benedict’s rule prescribes midnight.’
He smiled gently. ‘St Benedict wrote his rule for Italians, sir, not people who have to live through English winters. The office is sung and God hears it. We cut through the chapter house now.’
He opened another door and we found ourselves in a large chamber, its walls richly painted with biblical scenes. Stools and cushioned chairs were dotted around, and there was a long table before a roaring fire. The room was warm and musty with body odour. About twenty monks sat around; some were talking, some reading, and half a dozen were playing cards at a table. Each monk had a pretty little crystal glass by his elbow, filled with green liquid from a large bottle of French liqueur that stood on the card-players’ table. I looked round for the Carthusian, but there was no white habit among the black; the straggle-haired sodomite Brother Gabriel and Mortimus the sharp-eyed bursar were also absent.
A thin-faced young monk with a wispy beard had just lost a game, judging by his annoyed expression.
‘That’s a shilling you owe us, Brother,’ a tall, cadaverous monk said cheerfully.
‘You’ll have to wait. I will need an advance from the chamberlain.’
‘No more advances, Brother Athelstan!’ A plump old brother sitting nearby, his face disfigured by a warty growth on one cheek, wagged a finger at him. ‘Brother Edwig says you’ve had so many advances you’re getting your wages before you’ve earned them—’ He broke off, and the monks hastily rose to their feet and bowed to me. One, a young fellow so obese even his shaven head was lined and puckered with fat, knocked his glass to the floor.
‘Septimus, you dolt!’ His neighbour prodded him sharply with his elbow, and he stared round with the vague glance of the simple-minded. The monk with the disfigured face stepped forward, bowing again obsequiously.
‘I am Brother Jude, sir, the pittancer.’
‘Master Matthew Shardlake, the king’s commissioner. I see you are enjoying a convivial evening.’
‘A little relaxation before Vespers. Would you care for some of this fine liqueur, Commissioner? It is from one of our French sister houses.’
I shook my head. ‘I still have work to do,’ I said severely. ‘In the earlier days of your order, the day’s end would have been taken up with the Great Silence.’
Brother Jude hesitated. ‘That was long ago, sir, in the days before the Great Pestilence. Since then the world has fallen further towards its end.’
‘I think the English world does very well under King Henry.’
‘No, no—’ he said hastily. ‘I did not mean—’
The tall thin monk from the card table joined us. ‘Forgive Brother Jude, sir, he speaks without thinking. I am Brother Hugh, the chamberlain. We know we need correction, Commissioner, and we welcome it.’ He glared at his colleague.
‘Good. That will make my work easier. Come, Brother Guy. We have a corpse to
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