He sighed. 'No one really knows. The gospels say Our Lord died first, but he had been tortured beforehand.'
'The misleading power of paintings and statues,' I said. 'And there is a paradox here, is there not?'
'What do you mean, sir?'
'That hand belonged to a thief. Now his relic, which people paid to view until that was forbidden as usury, is itself stolen.'
'It may be a paradox,' Brother Gabriel replied quietly, 'but to us it is a tragedy.'
'Could one man carry it?'
'Two men bear it in the Easter procession. A strong man could carry it, perhaps, but not far.'
'To the marsh, perhaps?'
He nodded. 'Perhaps.'
'Then I think it is time I had a look out there, if you would show me the way.'
'Certainly. There is a gate in the rear wall.'
'Thank you, Brother Gabriel. Your library is fascinating.'
He led me back outside and pointed to the cemetery. 'Follow the path through there, past the orchard and the fish pond, and you will see the gate. The snow will be thick.'
'I have my overshoes. Well, no doubt we shall meet again at supper. You will be able to meet my young assistant again then.' I smiled disingenuously. The sacrist blushed and lowered his head.
'Ah — yes, indeed—'
'Well, Brother, I thank you for your help and your frankness. Good day.' I nodded and left him. When I glanced back he was walking slowly back towards the church, head bowed.
CHAPTER 12
I passed the workshops and turned through a little gate into the lay cemetery. In daylight it seemed smaller. The headstones of locals who had paid for a place here, or visitors who had died within the walls, lay half-buried in the snow. There were three other large stone family tombs similar to the Fitzhugh crypt we had visited the night before. At the far end rows of fruit trees raised bare arms to the sky.
These crypts, I reflected, would make good hiding places. I ploughed my way towards the nearest, unhitching the abbot's key ring from my belt. I fumbled among the keys with cold, stiff fingers until I found one of the right size that fitted.
I tried each crypt in turn, but there was nothing hidden among the white marble tombs. The stone floors were dusty and there was no sign any of them had been visited for years. One belonged to a prominent Hastings family whose name I remembered as another ancient line wiped out in the civil wars. And yet those buried here would be remembered, I reflected, recalling the monks reciting their private Masses; remembered as names memorized and chanted to the empty air every day. I shook my head and turned back towards the orchard, where starveling crows cawed in the skeleton trees; I was glad of my staff as I stumbled among the gravestones.
A wicket gate led me into the orchard and I picked my way between the snow-laden trees. Everything was still and silent. Out here in the open, I felt that at last I had space to think.
It was strange to be inside a monastery again after so many years. When I was a pupil at Lichfield I had been a mere cripple-boy, of no account. Here I had the powers of a commissioner of Lord Cromwell, greater powers than any outsider had ever had over a religious house. Yet now as then I felt isolated, alone, disliked. The different element here was their fear of me, but I had to handle my authority carefully, for when men are frightened they close up like clams.