I put the bottle in my robe and followed him down the corridor. Looking at the fringe of black, woolly hair round the dark crown of his head, I reflected he was right in one respect: if the monasteries were dissolved he would have no safe haven in England any more; even his spicy odour was different from the common stink. He would have to beg a licence to go abroad, to a Spanish or French monastery. And he might not be given one, those countries were our enemies now. If the monastery went down, Brother Guy had more to lose than any of them.

The monks were processing into the church, led by the abbot. Brother Guy left me to join his brethren. Among a couple of other latecomers I saw Prior Mortimus and Brother Edwig hurrying across the cloister yard from the counting house. I remembered what Goodhaps had said about the two of them running the place. And yet I had seen no signs of friendship between them. The prior moved along at a fast walk, kicking up the snow, the little bursar half-running to keep up. Mark joined me. Old Goodhaps was by his side, casting glances at the sky, which was grey again.

'Good morning, Master Shardlake. Do you think it will snow?' he asked anxiously. 'I want to be on the road once the service is over.'

The road to Scarnsea is passable. Now come, we shall be late.'

I led the way into the church. The monks had filed past the rood screen into the choir stalls, I could hear them coughing and shuffling. On our side of the screen Singleton's coffin, still open, had been set on some chairs. Some way off another coffin stood surrounded by candles: Simon Whelplay's. The abbot stood by Singleton's coffin; not too near, for as we approached we caught again the smell of decay.

'If you lay mourners would sit with the coffin while the Dirige is offered up,' he said solemnly, 'and afterwards bear the coffin to the churchyard. Prior Mortimus has offered to be the fourth bearer. If, er-' he glanced at my hump – 'you are able to take the weight.'

'I am quite capable,' I said sharply, though I winced at the thought.

'I can't,' Dr Goodhaps piped up. 'I have arthritis in my shoulder, I should be in bed a week-'

'Very well, Dr Goodhaps,' the abbot said wearily. 'I will find a monk to be the fourth bearer.' For the first and last time I exchanged a look of sympathy with Abbot Fabian over the old man's head. Then he bowed and walked behind the screen, and we took our seats behind Singleton's coffin. Goodhaps coughed and buried his nose in a handkerchief.

The service began. That morning, for all I sat behind the stinking coffin of a murdered man, I found myself lulled along by the monks' beautiful, polyphonic chant. The psalms, and the Latin readings from Job, struck a chord.

And thou sayest, how doth God know? Can he judge through the dark cloud? Thick clouds are a covering to him, that he seest not; and he walketh in the circuit of heaven.

Thick clouds indeed, I thought. I am still in a fog here. I shook myself angrily. This would not do, where was my resolution? And then something occurred to me that I had not considered before, though I should have, Mark and Dr Goodhaps sat on either side of me; the old man still with the handkerchief to his nose while Mark stared before him, lost in thought. I nudged him.

'Will Alice be in the infirmary this morning?' I whispered.

'I believe so.'

'Good.' I turned to Goodhaps. 'And I would like you to come there too before you leave.' He gave me a put-upon look.

I turned back to the service. The chanting ebbed and flowed, dying out at last to silence. The monks filed out of the choir and a servant who had been waiting in the church hurried over and took up the coffin lid. I looked for the last time at Singleton's hard face and had a sudden memory of him in court, the fiery words and lively sweeps of the arm, the passion for argument. Then the lid was screwed down and his face was put in darkness for ever. The prior and a squarely built, middle-aged monk appeared and Mark and I bent with them to take the weight of the coffin. As I lifted it I felt something move within. Mark turned to me, his eyes wide.

'His head,' I whispered. 'It's slipped away.'

We bore the coffin from the church, horribly conscious of the head and the piece of wood rolling about inside, the monks following behind in a long procession. On the way out I saw Brother Gabriel standing over Novice Whelplay's coffin, praying fervently. As we passed he looked up at us with blank, despairing eyes.

We walked through the snow, the deadbell tolling in our ears, to the lay churchyard, where a grave had been dug, a brown slash in the white expanse. I glanced at Prior Mortimus beside me; his hard face wore an expression of unaccustomed thoughtfulness.

Servants were waiting with spades; they took the coffin and laid it in the grave. Snowflakes began falling silently in the grey morning, dusting the excavated earth as the final prayers were said and holy water sprinkled over the coffin. As the first clods banged down, the monks turned and processed silently back to the church. As I followed them, the prior fell into step beside me.

'They can't wait to be out of the cold. If they'd had the watches I've had in winter weather-' He shook his head.

'Indeed?' I asked with interest. 'Were you once a soldier?'

'Do I seem that rough to you? No, Master Shardlake, I was once the town constable at Tonbridge. I helped the sheriff arrest wrongdoers, watched for thieves on winter's nights. And in the day I was a schoolmaster. Does that surprise you, that I should be a scholar?'

I inclined my head. 'A little, but only because you cultivate a rough manner.'

'I don't cultivate it, I was born with it.' He smiled sardonically. 'I am from Scotland; we don't have your smooth English ways. We don't have much at all beyond fighting, not in the border country I come from. Life there is a battle, cattle-raiding lords fighting each other and you English.'

'What brought you to England?'

'My parents were killed when I was a boy. Our farm was raided – oh, by another Scots lord, not the English.'

'I am sorry.'

'I was at school at Kelso Abbey then. I wanted to go far away and the fathers paid for me to go to an English school. I owe everything to the Church.' His mocking eyes for once were serious. 'The religious orders stand between the world and bloody chaos, Commissioner.'

Another refugee, I thought, another beneficiary of Brother Guy's international community.

'What made you take orders?'

'I tired of the world, Commissioner, of how people are. Children forever fighting and avoiding lessons unless ye keep them well whipped. The criminals I helped catch, all the stupid greedy men. A dozen more waiting to be caught for every one tried and hanged. Ach, man is a fallen creature, far from grace and harder to keep in order than a pack of dogs. But in a monastery at least God's discipline can be kept.'

'And that is your vocation on earth? To keep men disciplined?'

'Is it not yours? Do ye not also feel outrage for that man's murder? Are ye not here to find and punish his killer?'

'The commissioner's death outraged you?'

He stood and faced me. 'It is a further step to chaos. You think me a hard man, but believe me the Devil's reach is far and even in the Church men like me are needed to keep him at bay. As the king's law seeks to keep order in the secular world.'

'What if the laws of the world and the Church conflict?' I asked. 'As they have in recent years?'

'Then, Master Shardlake, I pray some resolution may be found so Church and prince may work in harmony again, for when they fight they allow the Devil in.'

'Then let the Church not challenge the prince's will. Well, I must return to the infirmary. I will leave you here, you will be returning to the church. For the funeral of poor Novice Whelplay,' I added meaningfully.