'Shouldn't we wait, sir?' Mark asked.
'We have no time for niceties.' I took the lantern from the wall. 'It's a chance to learn something about the man who found the body.'
The room was small, whitewashed and very neat, full of a rich spicy odour. A lying couch for the patients was covered with a clean white cloth. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks alongside surgeons' knives. There was a complex astrological chart on one wall, while opposite was a large cross in the Spanish style, dark wood with blood dripping from the five wounds of an alabaster-white Christ. Under a high window, on the infirmarian's desk, papers were neatly ordered in little piles and weighted down with pretty stones. I glanced at notes of prescriptions and diagnoses written in English and Latin.
I made my way along the shelves looking at the jars and bottles, all carefully labelled in Latin script. I lifted the lid from a large bowl to find his leeches, the black slimy creatures wriggling in the unexpected light. It was all as one would expect to find: dried marigolds for fever, vinegar for deep cuts, powdered mice for earache.
At the end of the top shelf were three books. One was a printed volume of Galen, another Paracelsus, both in French. The third, with a beautifully decorated leather cover, was handwritten in a strange language of spiky curls.
'Look at this, Mark.'
He peered over my shoulder at the book. 'Some medical code?'
'I don't know.'
I had had an ear open for footsteps, but had heard nothing and jumped at the sound of a polite cough behind us.
'Please do not drop that book, sir,' a strangely accented voice said. 'It is of great value to me if no-one else. It is an Arabic medical book, it is not on the king's forbidden list.'
We spun round. A tall monk of about fifty, with a thin, austere face, was looking at us calmly from deep-set eyes. To my surprise, his face was brown as an oak plank. I had seen brown men occasionally in London, by the docks, but had never found such a being staring me in the eye.
'I would be most thankful if you could give me the book,' he said in his soft, lisping voice, respectfully but firmly. 'It was given to my father by the last emir of Granada.'
I handed it to him and he bowed gracefully.
'You are Master Shardlake and Master Poer?'
'Indeed. Brother Guy of Malton?'
'I am. You have a key to my room? Normally only my assistant Alice comes in here unless I am present, lest someone mess with the herbs and potions. The wrong dose of some of these powders could kill, you see.' His eyes flickered over the shelves. I found myself reddening.
'I have been careful to touch nothing, sir.'
He bowed. 'Quite so. And how may I assist His Majesty's representative?'
'We wish to take accommodation here. You have guest rooms?'
'Certainly. Alice is preparing a room now. But most of this corridor is taken up with aged monks. They often require attention in the night and you may find yourself disturbed. Most guests prefer the abbot's house.'
'We would rather stay here.'
'As you wish. And may I help in any other way?' His tone was perfectly respectful, but somehow his questions made me feel like a foolish patient asked to check off symptoms. However strange his appearance, this was a man of presence.
'I gather you have charge of the body of the late commissioner?'
'I have. It is in a crypt in the lay cemetery.'
'We would like to view it.'
'Most certainly. In the meantime perhaps you may wish to wash and rest after your long journey. Will you be dining with the abbot later?'
'No, we will eat with the monks in the refectory, I think. But first I think we will take an hour's rest. That book,' I added, 'you are a Moor by birth?'