The silence was broken by a sudden harsh voice.

'Fools! There will be no new building. Do you not know that the world has at last rolled down to its end? The Antichrist is here!' The Carthusian had half-risen from his bench. 'A thousand years of devotion to God, in all these houses of prayer, is ended. Soon there will be nothing, empty buildings and silence, silence for the Devil to fill with his roaring!' His voice rose to a shout as he fixed everyone in turn with bitter looks. The monks averted their eyes. Turning in his place, Brother Jerome lost his balance and fell sprawling across the bench, his face contorted with pain.

Prior Mortimus rose, slamming his hand on the table. 'God's death! Brother Jerome, you will leave this table and keep to your cell till the abbot decides what is to be done with you. Take him out!'

His neighbours lifted the Carthusian under the arms, hauled him quickly to his feet and hustled him from the refectory. As the door closed behind them, an exhalation of held breaths sounded across the room. Prior Mortimus turned to me.

'Once again, my apologies on behalf of the community.' There was a mumble of assent along the tables. 'I only ask you to excuse the man on the grounds that he is mad.'

'Who does he think is the Antichrist, I wonder? Me? No, Lord Cromwell more likely, or perhaps His Majesty the King?'

'No, sir, no.' There was an anxious murmur along the obedentiaries' table. Prior Mortimus set his thin lips.

'If I had my way, Jerome would be turned out of doors tomorrow to cry his madness in the streets till he was put in the Tower, or more likely the Bedlam, for that's where he belongs. The abbot only keeps him because he needs the favour of his cousin Sir Edward. You know of Jerome's connection with the late queen?' I nodded. 'But this is too much. He must go.'

I raised a hand, shaking my head. 'I take no official note of a madman's babble.' I felt a palpable sense of relief along the table at my words. I lowered my voice again, so only the obedentiaries could hear. 'I would have Brother Jerome kept here, I may wish to question him. Tell me, did he treat Master Singleton to such discourse as I have had?'

'Yes,' the prior replied bluntly. 'When he first arrived Brother Jerome accosted him in the yard and called him perjurer and liar. Commissioner Singleton gave as good as he got, calling him a Roman whoreson.'

'Perjurer and liar. That's more specific than the general abuse he's given me. I wonder what he meant?'

'God alone knows what madmen ever mean.'

Brother Guy leaned forward. 'He may be mad, Commissioner, but he would never have been capable of killing Commissioner Singleton. I have treated him. His left arm was wrenched out of its socket on the rack, the ligaments shredded. His right leg is scarcely better and his balance is gone, as you saw. He can scarcely carry himself, yet alone wield a weapon to sever a man's head. I have treated the effects of official torture before, in France,' he added in quieter tones, 'but never before in England. I am told it is a new thing.'

'The law permits it in times of extreme threat to the State,' I replied, stung. I saw Mark's eyes on me and read disappointment, sadness. 'Regrettable though it always is,' I added with a sigh. 'But to return to poor Singleton. Brother Jerome may have been too infirm to kill, but he could have had an accomplice.'

'No, sir, never, no.' It was a chorus along the table. I read only fear in the officials' faces, anxiety not to be associated with murder and treason and their terrible penalties. But men, I reflected, are adept at concealing their true thoughts. Brother Gabriel leaned forward again, his thin face furrowed with anxiety.

'Sir, no one here shares Brother Jerome's beliefs. He is a blight on us. We wish only to carry on our life of prayer in peace, loyal to the king and in obedience to the forms of worship he dictates.'

'There at least my brother speaks for all,' the bursar added loudly. 'I say "Amen" to that.' A chorus of 'Amens' followed along the table.

I nodded in acknowledgement. 'But Commissioner Singleton is still dead. So who do you think killed him? Brother Bursar? Brother Prior?'

'It was p-people from the world outside,' Brother Edwig said. 'He was on his way to meet someone and he disturbed them. Witches, Devil-worshippers. They broke in to desecrate our church and steal our relic, came across poor Singleton and killed him. The person he was to meet, whoever he was, no doubt took fright at the tumult.'

'Master Shardlake hazarded the killing may have been done with a sword,' Brother Guy added. 'And such people would be unlikely to carry weapons lest they be discovered.'

I turned to Brother Gabriel. He sighed deeply, running his fingers through the straggly locks below his tonsure. 'The loss of the hand of the Penitent Thief – it is a tragedy, that most holy relic of Our Lord's Calvary – I shudder to think what abominable uses the thief may be putting it to now.' His face looked drawn. I remembered the skulls in Lord Cromwell's room and realized again the power of relics.

'Are there known practitioners of witchcraft hereabouts?' I asked.

The prior shook his head. 'A couple of wise women in the town, but they're just old crones who mutter incantations over the herbs they peddle.'

'Who knows what evils the Devil works in the sinful world?' Brother Gabriel said quietly. 'We are protected from him in this holy life, as well as men can be, but outside-' He shivered.

'Then there are the servants,' I added. 'All sixty of them.'

'Only a dozen living in,' the prior said. 'And the premises are well locked at night, patrolled by Master Bugge and his assistant under my supervision.'

'Those who live in are mostly old, loyal servants,' Brother Gabriel added. 'Why would one of them kill an important visitor?'

'Why would a monk or a villager? Well, we shall see. Tomorrow I wish to question some of you.' I looked down a row of discomfited faces.

The servants came in to remove our plates, replacing them with pudding bowls. There was silence until they left. The bursar took a spoon to the sugary confection in his bowl. 'Ah, wet suckets,' he said. 'Welcome and warming on a cold night.'

There was a sudden loud crash from the corner of the room. Everyone jumped and turned to where the novice had collapsed in a heap on the floor. Brother Guy rose with an exclamation of disgust, his habit billowing round him as he ran to where Simon Whelplay lay still on the rush matting. I stood up and joined him, as did Brother Gabriel and then, with an angry expression, the prior. The boy was as white as a sheet. As Brother Guy gently lifted his head, he moaned and his eyes flickered open.

'It's all right,' Brother Guy said gently. 'You fainted. Have you hurt yourself?'

'My head. I banged my head. I am sorry-' Tears glistened suddenly in the corners of his eyes, his thin chest shook and he began to weep most piteously. Prior Mortimus snorted. I was surprised at the anger that appeared then in Brother Guy's dark eyes.

'No wonder the boy weeps, Master Prior! When was he last properly fed? He is naught but skin and bone.'

'He has had bread and water. You are well aware, Brother Infirmarian, that is a penance sanctioned by St Benedict's rule…'

Brother Gabriel turned on him furiously. 'The saint did not intend God's servants to be starved to death! You have been working Simon like a dog in the stables, then making him stand in the cold for hours on end.' The novice's crying turned to a violent fit of coughing, his pale face suddenly puce as he struggled for breath. The infirmarian cocked a sharp ear to the wheezing sounds from his chest.

'His lungs are full of bile. I want him in the infirmary now!'

The prior snorted again. 'Is it my fault he's as weak as water? I gave him work to toughen him up. It's what he needs-'