Free Fludd: A Novel by Hilary Mantel Page B

reached the rusting iron gate that gave on to the moorland paths. He stood for a moment, looking up into the wild landscape and the rushing sky, and as he turned away he felt the first drops of rain on his face.
    He put up the providential umbrella and retraced his steps down the lane. Before he had time to turn up the collar of his cape, a thick and viscid-seeming mist had crept up around him. In the failing light the dirty windowpanes seemed opaque, as if thinly curtained with lead. Shivering, he huddled against a wall and studied his map again; another footpath, branching off the one that had brought him there, would take him across the former allotments and bring him out within ten minutes, he calculated, at the back of the convent.
    He must pay his courtesy call on the nuns soon, in fact today; otherwise they might be offended. No doubt, out of Christian charity, they would offer him some hot chocolate; buttered biscuits perhaps; even teacakes and jam. They would be glad of a visitor. Climbing once more over the stile, he smiled to himself, and with fresh heart picked up his feet out of the thickening mud.
    The parlour in the convent was both stuffy and cold, and smelled mysteriously of congealed gravy. It was little used; Fludd sat by the empty fireplace, on a hard chair, waiting for Mother Purpit. Under his feet was dark, shiny linoleum in a pattern of parquet squares, relieved by a red fireside rug. Over the mantelpiece, Christ hung in a heavy gilt frame, thin yellow tongues of light streaming from his head. His ribcage was open, neatly split by the Roman spear, and with a pallid, pointed finger he indicated his exposed and perfectly heart-shaped heart.
    Against the far wall was a big, heavy chest with a stout-looking
iron lock; oak, it might be, but varnished with a heavy hand over the years, so that its surface seemed sticky and repelled the light. I wonder what is in that chest, thought Fludd. Nuns’ requisites; now what would they be?
    Tired of waiting, he shifted on his chair. The chest tempted him; his eyes were drawn to it, back and back again. He got up, froze in mid-movement as the chair creaked; then took courage, and crept across the room. He tested the lid of the chest, gingerly; it didn’t give. He shifted it an inch, to see how heavy it was: very.
    There was a footstep behind him. He straightened up, smiling easily. Mother Perpetua cleared her throat—too late to give a friendly warning, but just in time to make a point—then crossed to the tall, narrow windows and drew the curtains. “Night’s drawing in,” she observed.
    “Mm,” Fludd said.
    “Our clothes,” Purpit said. She indicated the chest. “It is our clothes that we brought with us when we left the world. I keep the key.”
    “About your person?”
    Purpit declined to answer. “It is a responsibility,” she said, “overseeing the welfare of so many souls.”
    “So you are both headmistress and superior of the convent, are you?”
    Purpit tossed her veil, as if to say, who else could do it? Father Fludd studied the chest. “Could I look into it, do you think?” he asked.
    “Oh, I don’t think so.”
    “Is there some rule to forbid it?”
    “I should think there is.”
    “Is it your nature to assume so?”
    “I must. Suppose the bishop were to find out?” Mother Perpetua came up behind him and stooped over the chest, proprietorially. Then she cast an eye up at him, sideways, from behind the jutting
edge of her headdress. It was as if a blinkered horse had winked. “Still, Father, I suppose I might make an exception. I suppose I might be prevailed upon.”
    “After all,” Fludd said, “there cannot be any harm in looking at empty clothes. And there must be some curious modes in that box.”
    Perpetua patted the lid of the chest; she had a large hand, with prominent knuckles. “I could gratify you,” she said. “Your curiosity. After all …” She eased herself to the vertical, and let her eyes wander over him. “I