Dissolution (Matthew Shardlake Mysteries) by C. J. Sansom

and servants bustling to and fro and talking business with monks in the shaved heads and black habits of the Benedictines; habits of fine wool, I noticed, with good leather shoes showing underneath. The ground was packed earth, littered with straw. Big lurcher dogs ran everywhere barking and pissing against the walls. As with all those places, the atmosphere of the outer court was of a business rather than an enclosed refuge from the world.
     
    To the right of the church the inner wall separated off the claustral buildings, where the monks lived and prayed. Against the far wall stood a separate, one-storey building with a fine herb garden before it, plants staked out and carefully labelled. That, I guessed, would be the infirmary.
     
    ‘Well, Mark,’ I asked quietly, ‘what do you think of a monastic house?’
     
    He kicked out at one of the big dogs, which had approached us with raised hackles. It backed off a little, to stand barking angrily. ‘I had not expected anything so large. It looks as if it could support two hundred men in a siege.’
     
    ‘Well done. It was built to provide for a hundred monks and a hundred servants. Now everything - buildings, lands, local monopolies - supports just thirty monks and sixty servants, according to the Comperta , on the fat of the land.’
     
    ‘They’ve noticed us, sir,’ he murmured, and indeed the cur’s continued barking had drawn eyes from all over the courtyard - unwelcoming eyes, quickly averted as people whispered to each other. A tall, thin monk, leaning on a crutch by the church wall, was staring fixedly at us. His white habit with its long scapular in front contrasted with the plain black of the Benedictines.
     
    ‘A Carthusian, unless I’m mistaken,’ I said.
     
    ‘I thought the Carthusian houses were all closed, with half the monks executed for treason.’
     
    ‘They were. What’s he doing here?’
     
    There was a cough at my elbow. The gatekeeper had returned with a stocky monk of around forty. The fringe round his tonsure was brown streaked with grey and he had a hard, strong-featured, ruddy face, whose lines were softened with the sags and pouches of good living. A badge of office showing a key was sewn onto the breast of his habit. Behind him stood a nervous-looking red-haired boy in a novice’s grey robe.
     
    ‘All right, Bugge,’ the newcomer said in the harsh clear accent of the Scots, ‘back to your duties.’ The gatekeeper reluctantly turned away.
     
    ‘I am the prior, Brother Mortimus of Kelso.’
     
    ‘Where is the abbot?’
     
    ‘I fear he is out just now. I am his second in command, responsible for the daily administration of St Donatus.” He gave us a keen stare. ‘You have come in response to Dr Goodhaps’s message? We have had no messenger to tell us you were coming, I fear there are no rooms ready.’ I took a step back, for a ripe odour came from him. I knew from my own education by the monks how rigidly they clung to the old notion that washing was unhealthy, bathing only half a dozen times a year.
     
    ‘Lord Cromwell sent us at once. I am Master Matthew Shardlake, appointed commissioner to investigate the events reported in Dr Goodhaps’s letter.’
     
    He bowed. ‘I welcome ye to St Donatus Monastery. I apologize for our gatekeeper’s manners, but the injunctions require us to keep as separate as possible from the world.’
     
    ‘Our business is urgent, sir,’ I said sharply. ‘Kindly tell us, is Robin Singleton truly dead?’
     
    The prior’s face set and he crossed himself. ‘He is. Struck down most foully by an unknown assailant. A terrible thing.’
     
    ‘Then we must see the abbot at once.’
     
    ‘I will take ye to his house. He should be back shortly. I pray ye may cast light on what has happened here. Bloodshed on consecrated ground, and worse.’ He shook his head and then, with a complete change of manner, turned and snapped at the boy, who was staring at us with wide eyes. ‘Whelplay,