Revelation

'Then do it, do it! I'm past caring! To hell with you all! I'm going back to my customers!' He started walking to the door. Barak made to step in front of him, but I shook my head. Lockley left, moving quickly for a fat man. Mrs Bunce hesitated, then looked at us beseechingly.

'Francis is not strong in his mind, sir,' she said. 'What he says is right, all his life he has been pestered by people who think they are better than he is.'

'So have most people,' Barak answered unsympathetically.

'But Francis can't take it, it affects him. I have tried to help him, but I think it has ended by him seeing me as another — persecutor. Though I'm not, I love him.' She looked at us bleakly.

'All right, madam, leave us,' I said.

When she had gone Barak said, 'We should arrest him.'

'We don't have the authority.' I sighed. 'We'll tell Harsnet what's happened. My guess is he'll send some men up tonight, when the tavern is closed.'

'Could he be our man?' Barak asked. 'Most people would be terrified at the prospect of arrest, but he seemed hardly to care. His own woman said he is not quite right in himself.'

I shook my head. 'Running a tavern is a full-time job. He couldn't possibly have done what the killer has done without Mrs Bunce knowing. And I can't see him killing Roger or the others, I just can't see it.'

'You don't know.'

I looked at him seriously. 'If the killer was Lockley, do you think he would let us take him alive? No, let Harsnet deal with him.'

Chapter Twenty-seven

WE DECIDED TO ride back down to Westminster from Smithfield; it would take less time than riding the horses back home and catching a wherry. We rode along Holborn, right out into the countryside, taking a short cut over the fields to Drury Lane. A pair of hares were boxing in the field, jumping wildly about. 'Spring is truly here,' Barak said.

'Ay, yet I seem to feel cold all the time these days, as though winter has lingered on in me.'

I FELT ANXIOUS as we rode down into Westminster, with all its noise and smells and danger. Under the old bell-tower in the Sanctuary we saw a group of gypsies had set up a stall, a piece of brightly coloured canvas showing the moon and stars with a table in front. Two were playing flutes to attract attention, while at the table an old woman was telling fortunes from the cards. Barak stopped to look, and indeed with their faces almost as dark as Guy's and their fantastic costumes of embroidered turbans and bright, trailing scarves, the gypsies were an arresting sight. These colourful newcomers to our shores were expelled by the King some years ago, but many had escaped and some had gravitated to the Sanctuary. They seemed to be doing a good trade, though a black-clothed man stood on the fringes of the crowd, waving a Testament and denouncing them for heathenish practices. The crowd ignored him; the Sanctuary was not a godly place.

'Come on,' I said, looking nervously over the crowds. 'I don't want to stop here, make a target.'

Barak nodded and pulled on Sukey's reins. We rode past the railing preacher. 'Woe to those who follow the ways of the devil!' he cried.

We rode down into the southern precinct. We had seen from the clock tower in Palace Yard that we were a good hour and a half early for our meeting with Harsnet. We turned towards Cantrell's house. Nearby a pack of wolfish dogs nosed and picked at a pile of rubbish on the corner. I knocked loudly on the door under the faded carpenter's sign while Barak tied the horses to the rail. I was unhappy at leaving them there but we had no choice and Sukey at least would neigh and kick if a stranger tried to untie her. Once again footsteps approached slowly from within, but this time they stopped before reaching the door and Cantrell's voice called out in timorous, cracked tones.

'Who's there? I am armed!'

'It is Master Shardlake,' I called out. 'The lawyer who was here before. What is the matter?'

There was a brief pause, then the bolt was drawn back and the door opened a few inches. Cantrell's thin face looked out; he peered closely at us from behind those thick spectacles that magnified his eyes. 'Oh, sir,' he said with relief. 'It is you.' He opened the door wider. I stared at a long piece of wood he held in his hand. On the end was a large smear of what looked like dried blood.

'Someone attacked me,' he said.

'May we enter?' I asked gently. He hesitated, then opened the door wide to allow us in. The sour, unwashed smell hit us again.

He led us into the bare parlour. A wooden plate with the remains of a greasy meal lay on the table, a pewter spoon black with dirt beside it. I saw the dirty window giving on to the yard was broken. There was glass on the floor.

Cantrell sat down on one of the hard chairs, facing us. We sat at the table. I avoided looking at the filthy plate. I saw rat-droppings in a corner. Cantrell's face looked strained and miserable, several spots coming out on his forehead beneath the greasy blond hair. He placed the stick on the floor.