We shouldered our way through the onlookers. There were forty or fifty adults crowded round in the snow, old widows and beggars and cripples, some wearing little more than rags and blue-faced with cold. A separate group of whey-faced children was gathered round the plump figure of Mistress Stumpe. The smell from the crowd, even on this cold day, was dreadful. The sea of wretches, who had trudged the mile from the town, bowed and crossed themselves at the monk's words. He stopped abruptly as I appeared at his side.

'What are you doing?' I snapped.

'Just – just distributing the doles, sir-'

'You are asking those poor souls to worship that piece of wood.'

Brother Edwig scuttled forward. 'Only in r-remembrance of the saint's g-goodness, Commissioner.'

'He called on them to pray to the statue! I heard him! Take it away, now!'

The monks lowered the statue and hastily bore it off. Brother Jude, thoroughly shaken, signalled for the baskets to be brought forward. Some of the townspeople were grinning openly.

The almoner called out again in a flustered voice. 'Come forward for your dole and meats.'

'No shoving now,' Bugge shouted as, one by one, the destitute approached. Each was given a tiny silver farthing, the smallest coin of the realm, and something from the baskets. There were apples, loaves of bread, thinly sliced bacon.

Brother Edwig was at my side. 'We m-meant no harm with the s-saint, sir. It is an old ceremony, we forgot its implications. We will am-mend it.'

'You had better.'

'W-we give charity every month. It's in our f-founding charter. The m-meat, these p-people wouldn't see any otherwise.'

'With all your income I would have thought you could spare more funds than this.'

Brother Edwig's face darkened with sudden anger. 'And Lord Cromwell would have all our money, for his cronies! Is that charity?' He bit off the words without a trace of a stutter, then turned and walked quickly away. The crowd looked at me curiously as the monks went on handing out scraps, and the pittancer's bag chinked, slowly emptying.

I sighed. My anger at the spectacle had got the better of me, now everyone would know there was a king's commissioner here. I felt utterly exhausted after my outburst, but crossed over to where Mistress Stumpe stood by the roadside with the children, waiting for the adults to finish. She curtsied.

'Good morning, sir.'

'A moment, Mistress, if you would. Over here.'

We walked a little way from the children. She eyed me curiously.

'I want you to look at this, tell me if you recognize it.' My back to the crowd, I produced the silver chain I had taken from the corpse's neck. She grabbed at it with an exclamation.

'The St Christopher! I gave it to Orphan when she came here! Sir, have you found her-?' She broke off at my expression.

'I am sorry, Mistress,' I said gently. 'It was found on a body pulled from the fish pond this morning.'

I had expected tears, but the old woman only clenched her hands into fists.

'How did she die?'

'Her neck was broken. I am sorry.'

'Have you found who did it? Who was it?' Her voice broke, became a thin screech. The children looked round anxiously.

'Not here, madam. Please. This is not to be told abroad yet. I will find who did it, I swear to you.'

'Revenge her, in God's name revenge her.' Goodwife Stumpe's voice faltered, and then she did begin to cry, softly. I took her gently by the shoulder.

'Say nothing yet. I will send word by Justice Copynger. Look, the adults are finished. Try to compose yourself.'

The last of the adult doles had been given, and a line of people was already heading back along the road to town, ragged black figures like crows against the stark white snow. Goodwife Stumpe nodded to me quickly, took a deep breath and led the children over. I went back through the gate to where Mark stood waiting. I feared she might break down again, but the overseer's voice was steady as she encouraged the children to step forward. Brother Edwig had disappeared.

I entered the dark church quietly, closing the big door carefully behind me. Beyond the rood screen candles were flickering, and I could hear the monks' voices chanting a psalm. The evening service of Vespers was in progress.

After leaving Mistress Stumpe I had told Mark to go to the abbot and order him to ensure Brother Gabriel did not leave, and to arrange for the cleaning of Singleton's grave. I wanted the pond, too, drained on the morrow. Mark had been reluctant to give orders to Abbot Fabian, but I told him if he was to make his way in the world he would have to get used to dealing with those of high station. He went off without further comment, his manner stiff-backed again.

I had stayed in our room; I needed time alone to think. I sat before the fire as darkness began falling outside. Exhausted as I was, it was hard not to fall asleep before the warmth of the crackling logs. I stood up and splashed water over my face.

The launderer's confirmation that Gabriel's robe had been stolen was a grievous disappointment, for I had thought to have our man. I was still certain he was holding something back. Mark's words came back to mind and surely they were true: Gabriel had nothing about him of the brutal savage our murderer must be. Savage, I thought; where had I had heard that term before? I remembered; it was how Goodwife Stumpe had described Prior Mortimus.

The bells began their clangour; the monks would be in service now for an hour. At least, I reflected, that would provide an opportunity to do what Singleton had done, and I myself should have done earlier: investigate the counting house while Brother Edwig was out of the way. Despite my exhaustion and the weight of anxiety upon me, I realized I felt better in myself, less sluggish of mind somehow. I took another dose of Brother Guy's potion.

I made my way quietly down the dim nave, invisible to those chanting behind the rood screen. I put my eye to one of the ornamented gaps in the stone, fashioned to give lay people in the congregation a tantalizing glimpse of the mystery of the Mass being performed on the other side.

Brother Gabriel was conducting, apparently absorbed in the music. I could not but admire the skill with which he led the monks in the chanting of the psalm, their voices rising and falling in harmony as their eyes moved between his directing hands and the service books on their lecterns. The abbot was present, his face sombre in the candlelight. I remembered his last despairing whisper: 'Dissolution.' Looking over the monks I saw Guy and, to my surprise, Jerome next to him, his white Carthusian habit standing out in contrast to the Benedictine black. They must be letting him out for services. As I watched, Brother Guy leaned over and turned a page for the crippled Carthusian. He smiled, and Brother Jerome nodded with thanks. It struck me that the infirmarian, with his austerity and devotion, might be one of the few at Scarnsea of whom Jerome might approve. Were they friends after all? They had not seemed so when I had come upon Guy dressing Jerome's wounds. My eye turned to Prior Mortimus, and I saw he was not chanting, but staring fixedly before him. I remembered he had been horrified, and angered too, at the sight of the girl's body. Brother Edwig, in contrast, was singing lustily, standing between Brother Athelstan and his other assistant, the old man.

'Which of them?' I whispered under my breath. 'Which of them? God, guide my poor brain.' I felt no answering inspiration. Sometimes in those desperate days it seemed God did not hear my prayers. 'Please let there be no more deaths,' I prayed, then silently rose and left the church.