'I can't,' Dr Goodhaps piped up. 'I have arthritis in my shoulder, I should be in bed a week—'
'Very well, Dr Goodhaps,' the abbot said wearily. 'I will find a monk to be the fourth bearer.' For the first and last time I exchanged a look of sympathy with Abbot Fabian over the old man's head. Then he bowed and walked behind the screen, and we took our seats behind Singleton's coffin. Goodhaps coughed and buried his nose in a handkerchief.
The service began. That morning, for all I sat behind the stinking coffin of a murdered man, I found myself lulled along by the monks' beautiful, polyphonic chant. The psalms, and the Latin readings from Job, struck a chord.
And thou sayest, how doth God know? Can he judge through the dark cloud? Thick clouds are a covering to him, that he seest not; and he walketh in the circuit of heaven.
Thick clouds indeed, I thought. I am still in a fog here. I shook myself angrily. This would not do, where was my resolution? And then something occurred to me that I had not considered before, though I should have, Mark and Dr Goodhaps sat on either side of me; the old man still with the handkerchief to his nose while Mark stared before him, lost in thought. I nudged him.
'Will Alice be in the infirmary this morning?' I whispered.
'I believe so.'
'Good.' I turned to Goodhaps. 'And I would like you to come there too before you leave.' He gave me a put-upon look.
I turned back to the service. The chanting ebbed and flowed, dying out at last to silence. The monks filed out of the choir and a servant who had been waiting in the church hurried over and took up the coffin lid. I looked for the last time at Singleton's hard face and had a sudden memory of him in court, the fiery words and lively sweeps of the arm, the passion for argument. Then the lid was screwed down and his face was put in darkness for ever. The prior and a squarely built, middle-aged monk appeared and Mark and I bent with them to take the weight of the coffin. As I lifted it I felt something move within. Mark turned to me, his eyes wide.
'His head,' I whispered. 'It's slipped away.'
We bore the coffin from the church, horribly conscious of the head and the piece of wood rolling about inside, the monks following behind in a long procession. On the way out I saw Brother Gabriel standing over Novice Whelplay's coffin, praying fervently. As we passed he looked up at us with blank, despairing eyes.
We walked through the snow, the deadbell tolling in our ears, to the lay churchyard, where a grave had been dug, a brown slash in the white expanse. I glanced at Prior Mortimus beside me; his hard face wore an expression of unaccustomed thoughtfulness.
Servants were waiting with spades; they took the coffin and laid it in the grave. Snowflakes began falling silently in the grey morning, dusting the excavated earth as the final prayers were said and holy water sprinkled over the coffin. As the first clods banged down, the monks turned and processed silently back to the church. As I followed them, the prior fell into step beside me.
'They can't wait to be out of the cold. If they'd had the watches I've had in winter weather—' He shook his head.
'Indeed?' I asked with interest. 'Were you once a soldier?'
'Do I seem that rough to you? No, Master Shardlake, I was once the town constable at Tonbridge. I helped the sheriff arrest wrongdoers, watched for thieves on winter's nights. And in the day I was a schoolmaster. Does that surprise you, that I should be a scholar?'
I inclined my head. 'A little, but only because you cultivate a rough manner.'
'I don't cultivate it, I was born with it.' He smiled sardonically. 'I am from Scotland; we don't have your smooth English ways. We don't have much at all beyond fighting, not in the border country I come from. Life there is a battle, cattle-raiding lords fighting each other and you English.'
'What brought you to England?'
'My parents were killed when I was a boy. Our farm was raided — oh, by another Scots lord, not the English.'