Looking at the stone cadaver I had a sudden vision of Orphan's decomposed body rising from the water, then of the diseased rickety children at Smeaton's house. I had a sudden sick feeling that our revolution would do no more than change starveling children's names from those of the saints to Fear-God and Zealous. I thought of Cromwell's casual mention of creating faked evidence to hound innocent people to death, and of Mark's talk of the greedy suitors come to Augmentations for grants of monastic lands. This new world was no Christian commonwealth; it never would be. It was in truth no better than the old, no less ruled by power and vanity. I remembered the gaudy, hobbled birds shrieking mindlessly at each other and it seemed to me like an image of the king's court itself, where papists and reformers fluttered and gabbled, struggling for power. And in my wilful blindness I had refused to see what was before my eyes. How men fear the chaos of the world, I thought, and the yawning eternity hereafter. So we build patterns to explain its terrible mysteries and reassure ourselves we are safe in this world and beyond.
And then I realized that blinkered thinking of another sort had blinded me to the truth of what had happened at Scarnsea. I had bound myself to a web of assumptions about how the world worked, but remove one of those and it was as though a mirror of clear glass were substituted for a distorting one. My jaw dropped open. I realized who had killed Singleton and why and, that step taken, all fell into place. And I realized I had little time. For a few moments more I sat with my mouth open, breathing heavily. Then I roused myself and rode as fast as the nag would go, back to the place where, if I was right, the last piece of the puzzle lay: the Tower.
===OO=OOO=OO===
It was dark by the time I rode over the moat again, and Tower Green was lit by flaming torches. I almost ran into the Great Hall and made my way again to Master Oldknoll's office. He was still there, carefully transferring information from one paper to another.
'Master Shardlake! I trust you've had a profitable day. More than mine, at least.'
'I must speak urgently to the gaoler in charge of the dungeons. Can you take me straight there? I've no time to wander round trying to find him.'
He read the importance of the matter from my face. 'I'll take you now.' He picked up a great bunch of keys and led me off, taking a torch from a passing soldier. As we passed through the Great Hall he asked if I had ever been to the dungeons before.
'Never, I'm glad to say.'
'They are grim places. And I've never known them busier.'
'Yes. I wonder what we are coming to.'
'A country full of godless crime, that's what. Papists and mad gospellers. We should hang them all.'
He led me down a narrow spiral staircase. The air became sharp with damp. There was green slime on the walls, fat beads of water running down it like sweat. We were below the level of the river now.
At the bottom was an iron gate, through which I saw a torchlit underground chamber where a little group of men stood round a paper-strewn table. A guard in Tower livery came over to us and Oldknoll addressed him through the bars.
'I have one of the vicar general's commissioners here, he needs to see Chief Gaoler Hodges at once.'
The guard opened the gate. 'Over there, sir. He's very busy; we've taken in a load of Anabaptist suspects today.' He led us over to the table, where a tall thin man stood checking papers with another guard. On both sides of the chamber there were heavy wooden doors with barred windows, from one of which a loud voice issued, calling out verses from the Bible.
'Behold I am against them saith the Lord of Hosts, and I will burn the chariots and the sword shall devour thy young lions…'
The gaoler raised his head. 'Shut your mouth! Do you want a whipping?' The voice subsided and he turned to me, bowing. 'Your pardon, sir, I am trying to sort the delations for all these new prisoners. Some of them are to go before Lord Cromwell for interrogation tomorrow, I don't want to send him the wrong ones.'
'I need information about a prisoner who was here eighteen months ago,' I said. 'Do you remember Mark Smeaton?'
He raised his eyebrows. 'I'm not likely to forget that time, sir. The queen of England in the Tower.' He paused, remembering. 'Yes, Smeaton was down here the night before his execution. We had instructions to separate him from the other prisoners, he was to have some visitors.'
I nodded. 'Yes, Robin Singleton came to make sure he was keeping to his confession. And there were other visitors. Would they be recorded?'
The gaoler exchanged a look with Oldknoll and laughed. 'Oh yes, sir. Everything's recorded nowadays, isn't it, Thomas?'
'At least twice.'
The gaoler sent one of his men off, and a few minutes later he returned with a heavy log book. The gaoler opened it.