Читать книгу Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege - S. J. Parris - Страница 20

I woke before dawn and lay on the narrow wooden bed watching the patterns of pale light gradually spread across the ceiling from the chink in the window drapes. I had slept fitfully, knotted up with anger at the way I had been treated by Underhill and his colleagues. During the many hours of wakefulness I had determined that it was fruitless for me to stay in Oxford, regardless of the inquest or the royal visitation; I would seek out my horse from the rector’s stables at first light and find my way to London by any means possible. I was conscious that I had found out little of use to Walsingham yet, and he would surely not appreciate the explanation that I had left in a fit of pique because I had been publicly humiliated, but I was so clearly unwelcome here that it seemed unlikely I could ever carry out his plan of gaining the Fellows’ confidence and thereby learning anything useful.

I sighed and turned on my side, wrapping myself tightly in the sheet against the draught, and allowed my thoughts to drift back to Sophia. I had lain awake the previous night, my thoughts full of her. She was a compelling enough reason to stay in Oxford and an equally compelling one to leave. I realised that it had been some time since I had been as close to a woman as I had come the evening before when she had almost fainted into my arms, and the jolt of longing that shook me at that moment had left me profoundly disconcerted. I wondered if she had felt it too; there were moments while we talked when her frank gaze had locked with mine and it seemed she wanted me to read something there, but I knew that as a guest of her father’s I must take great care how I approached her. Besides, I reminded myself, had she not spoken with a kind of pitying regret of the way her father had spent his life dependent on the patronage of great men, and was I not in the same position? I had no means to marry, no money or property of my own, nothing to offer a young gentlewoman except my affection, and I knew from experience that a father places little value on such things in his daughter’s suitors. So I could not court her respectably, and although that fleeting touch the night before had powerfully awoken my desire, I already knew that I liked her too much to think of a casual seduction. I wanted urgently to see her again, yet had no idea what I hoped might happen between us. My mind kept running back to the expression on her face when I showed her the Copernican diagram; the fleeting light of recognition in her eyes at the symbol of the wheel. What did Sophia know, and how could I persuade her to confide in me?

The chorus of birdsong became more insistent. I pulled back the sheet and crossed the room to draw the drapes and look out over the courtyard of Lincoln as the pink early light streaked across the sky in gaps between jagged clouds. The rain had given Oxford a temporary reprieve, though there was no guarantee the road to London would be passable after the weather of the past two days. The flagstones of the quadrangle gleamed under the night’s rain, puddles reflecting slashes of pale rosy sky. I could not make out the hands of the clock from my window, but thought I may as well dress anyway; as soon as the college was up and stirring I could ask Cobbett how I might go about recovering my horse. I wondered if I should say a formal goodbye to the rector, claiming I had pressing business to return to, but then I might learn that I had a legal obligation to stay and testify at the inquest; better to leave first and plead ignorance later, I thought, and I did not want to give Underhill the satisfaction of seeing that he had driven me away. Perhaps I could leave a message for Sidney on my way out of the city.

I was about to turn away from the window when a sudden movement in the courtyard caught my eye; a figure wearing a black cloak with the hood pulled up scurried from the south-west corner of the quadrangle and disappeared into the tower archway. Immediately I felt my muscles tense; I had not been able to make out who it was, but if I was quick to follow I might see who could be dashing about so furtively at such an hour. I grabbed for my shirt, and then paused, berating myself. Had I not already decided that whatever undercover comings and goings went on in this place were not my business? I would leave today, and if there was a murderer in the college they would just have to deal with it themselves; my attempts at finding the truth had been met with contempt and threats, and I wanted nothing more to do with any of it.

As I pulled on my shirt and breeches, a single bell began the doleful call to Matins and I recalled with a sinking heart that it was Sunday. The servants would probably have a day off; I would be unlikely to find anyone able to help me locate the horse and, in any case, I would have to return it to the stables at Windsor and how I might make my way back from there to London alone on a Sunday, I had no idea. In the unsparing daylight, my planned flight began to look as ill judged as it was cowardly.

I poured some water from the pitcher left on the small table and washed my face slowly; if I had to stay for one more day, I could at least try to put it to some profitable use and I would start by attending chapel. I had no wish to hear the English service for its own sake – while I found no spiritual nourishment in the Roman Mass, at least it put some effort into its theatrics, and I found the English prayer book as bland as uncooked dough beside it – but it would be a useful opportunity to observe the whole college community gathered in one place. If one of them had sent me the strange message last night, as seemed likely, it was possible that he might give himself away by looks or gestures. I thought of him now, as I splashed my face, with irritation; if he had any useful information to impart, why not make himself clearer?

James Coverdale had mentioned at the first night’s dinner that the rector was preaching a series of sermons based on Foxe’s book; if Roger Mercer’s killing was some twisted parody of martyrdom, as someone clearly wanted me to believe, it was possible that the killer had taken inspiration from the rector’s sermons. It was even possible that he would be among the congregation that morning. I shivered, pulled on my boots and, as the bell continued its solemn clang, I hurried to join the black-gowned figures heading for the central archway of the north range, under the clock, which showed the hour to be almost six.

The chapel occupied the larger portion of the first floor of the north range, to the right of the archway, and I filed dutifully up the dim stairs among the students and Fellows, the only light offered by a candle lantern suspended from the landing above. By the door I noticed a holy water stoup, long dry, as we passed into a modest, lime-washed room with a wooden-beamed roof, the floor strewn with rushes. A small altar stood at the furthest end, opposite the door, with a lectern to the right of it; candles burned on each side of the chapel and on the altar, and the men arranged themselves along the rows of hard oak benches apparently designed for maximum discomfort, to prevent anyone from drowsing during sermons. Narrow arched windows of plain glass on both sides of the small chapel filled it with early morning light that gleamed from the white walls and on the long dark hair of Sophia Underhill, who was seated on the front pew by the lectern, where she would be under her father’s watchful eye. I wondered that he allowed her to attend chapel with the scholars; her presence seemed guaranteed to distract young men from pious prayer. Then I noticed that her mother was seated beside her, her thin shoulders hunched beneath the white coif which bound her hair. Around her the senior Fellows were ranked along the front benches, with the older students – those proceeding to masters or doctors degrees – seated in the rows behind them, and the undergraduates at the back. As I hovered by the door, wondering where I should properly take my place, I had a chance to see just how small the college community was. There could not have been more than thirty men, including the senior Fellows; with lives spent in such close proximity, surely one among them had some knowledge of what had really taken place in the Grove the previous morning. Taking in the room in a swift glance, I spotted Thomas Allen and Lawrence Weston among the under graduates, though there was no sign of Norris or the loud commoner friends he had brought to the tavern; I presumed that Matins was yet another college rule they were able to buy their way out of. William Bernard and Richard Godwyn, the librarian, sat on the front bench, and I noticed John Florio in the middle, whispering animatedly to his neighbour. These were the only men I had met personally in the college, yet there was every possibility that my mysterious correspondent was someone who had yet to introduce himself.

But he must have been a member of the college, to have known where to find my chamber. I turned to glance again at the young men seated behind me and those in my line of sight returned my stare with mild curiosity; these English boys all looked the same – pale, underfed and anxious. One among them knew something he wanted to impart to me and was afraid to say outright – but which one?

I had intended to find a seat that would give me a vantage point over all those gathered, but Godwyn, seeing me hesitating at the door, smiled and gestured to a place next to him on the front bench. I could hardly refuse; conscious of all the eyes on me, including Sophia’s, I walked down the short central aisle and sat down beside Godwyn, who welcomed me in a whisper as we bent our heads to pray. I could not help noticing that both Walter Slythurst and James Coverdale were absent. When the men were all seated, they rose again as one, as the rector processed the short distance from the door to the altar followed by four young men in the white surplices of choirboys.

Looking up, I caught the rector’s eye; if he was surprised to see me among his congregants or repented of his hard words the night before, his face gave no sign of it. Instead he merely bowed his head and intoned the Our Father.

‘O Lord, open Thou my lips,’ he began, and the congregation dutifully responded,

‘And my mouth shall show forth thy praise.’

I was not familiar enough with the order of the responses to follow them fluently, and kept my voice to a whisper to avoid drawing unwelcome attention to my mistakes. Godwyn rose to read the first lesson from the Gospel of Matthew, and after he was seated again, the small choir sang a four-voice version of the Te Deum Laudamus in English, which was remarkably sweet for all its plainness.

‘Yesterday, gentlemen,’ the rector went on, staring resolutely over the heads of his congregation, apparently excluding his wife and daughter from his address, ‘sudden violent death intruded most horribly into our little community. I know that the tragic attack on our dear friend Roger Mercer as he walked at prayer in the Grove has shaken all of us to the core, and I know too that when such a dreadful accident occurs, we can all too easily allow our brains to grow heated with the shock and indulge in all manner of wild speculation.’ Here he flashed a pointed glance at me, so quickly as to go almost unnoticed. Doctor Bernard cracked his bony knuckles together; the snap was startling in the still room.

‘It would be more profitable,’ the rector continued over-loudly, as if he were speaking to a much larger gathering, ‘if, instead of unhelpful rumour, we allowed some good to come from this tragedy by concentrating our minds on the brevity of our lives in contrast to the vastness of eternity, and looked to our own standing before God. Let us mourn Roger, as is right and proper, but let us also learn from his death and ask ourselves, would we face death assured of our own salvation, if it should come upon us as suddenly?’

‘It almost sounds as if he expects another tragedy,’ I whispered to Godwyn; Underhill glanced up and frowned angrily from behind his lectern, though he could not have heard my words.

‘Let us return, then, as we have in recent weeks, to Master Foxe’s account of the persecutions of the early believers, our forefathers in faith in the days when the Church was pure. Not so that we may pay them idolatrous reverence as saints, as the Roman Church does, for they were only men and women like us, but so that we might emulate their faith and better understand the long and venerable history of suffering for Christ and of standing firm, as those martyrs of Reform have done in this troubled century of ours. Let us ask ourselves, as we consider today the story of Alban, the first English martyr, if we truly believe that the preservation of the faith is the highest good. For these are turbulent days, my friends,’ he continued, his voice rising slightly as he leaned over the lectern to fix his listeners with a stern eye. ‘Our English Church is besieged on all sides by those who would drag us back to Rome. You young men sitting before me today are the future leaders of Church and State, and you do not know how you may be called upon to fight for both in the years to come. Will you be resolute, even in the face of death? Will you defend our liberties from the idolaters and tyrants who would tear them from us? I pray it may be so.’

From the benches behind me, a collective movement could be heard; the sound of several rows of young men drawing themselves up proudly in response to this rallying cry. I found something disturbing in Underhill’s tone; there was a barely suppressed fanaticism to it, but his words reminded me of Walsingham’s.

The rector’s homily was more of a lecture than a sermon, though it was a relief to find that his talent for expounding on a text was greater than his talent for debating ideas. But as he spoke, I became so lost in my own speculation that I barely noticed when he pronounced the final collect, and was only dislodged from my reverie by Godwyn nudging me apologetically as the men around me all stood. The rector and his choir filed out and the congregation shuffled and stretched as they made ready to leave. One young man with violently red hair and a face peppered with freckles, who looked barely old enough to be away from his mother, busied himself at the front of the chapel, tidying away the accoutrements of the service, closing the large bible on the lectern and snuffing out the candles around us. As she drew towards me, Sophia smiled and seemed about to speak, but her mother, noticing the look that passed between us, pinned her daughter firmly by the elbow and led her towards the door. Sophia glanced once over her shoulder and there seemed to be something imploring in her expression, but I might have imagined that.

‘I am sorry to have poked you so unceremoniously, Doctor Bruno,’ Godwyn whispered, as the red-haired young man clearing the chapel approached us and handed Godwyn the last remaining flickering candle, ‘but I feared you were having some trouble following our Book of Common Prayer – the manner of our service must seem very strange to you.’

‘Not so strange,’ I replied, watching as Sophia passed out of sight before turning back to him with a smile, ‘you have borrowed a great deal of it from us, after all.’

He gave a small, polite laugh.

‘But tell me, did you not think our little choir sings well?’ he asked brightly as we walked towards the door, making a shield of his hand to protect the candle as the draught from the stairs assaulted it.

‘I have heard choirs twice their number make a poorer job of the psalms,’ I said truthfully.

‘The arrangement is by Master Byrd, Her Majesty’s own composer,’ he said, looking pleased at the praise.

‘A Catholic himself, is he not?’

Godwyn looked aghast.

‘Well – yes, he is, but that is not why I admire him,’ he said quickly. ‘If the queen can tolerate his faith for the sake of his music, I do not see why we should not do the same.’

‘Quite. And of course, your own reading of the gospel was given with true poetic expression,’ I added, in a devout tone.

‘Thank you. That duty should fall to the sub-rector, but Doctor Coverdale did not arrive for Matins this morning, so the rector asked me to step in at the last moment.’

Instead of following the crowd of undergraduates down the stairs, he crossed the landing to a low wooden door opposite the chapel’s entrance, one hand still cupped around his candle, and gestured to me to follow.

‘I remember you expressed an interest in our library, Doctor Bruno – would you like to take a look, now you are here? Unless you are impatient to break your fast, of course,’ he added. ‘Perhaps you would not mind holding this for a moment?’

He handed me the candle and took a ring of keys from his belt, selecting the largest.

‘I should be delighted,’ I said, following him, though I was more interested by his news about Coverdale. ‘Is Doctor Coverdale away, then?’

‘Well, if he is, he gave no one any warning,’ Godwyn said, sounding piqued as he turned the key stiffly in the lock and pushed open the heavy door, which groaned as if in complaint at being disturbed.

I remembered the boy who had come to summon Coverdale in the middle of the disputation the previous evening, and Cobbett’s report that Coverdale had returned to college as if in an almighty haste. It was curious, then, that Cobbett had not mentioned his leaving again – unless he had somehow slipped away in the night, or early in the morning. I wondered if his disappearance could have anything to do with the inquest into Roger Mercer’s death and his threats to me over my testimony.

‘Strange. I noticed the bursar, Master Slythurst, was also absent,’ I added lightly.

Godwyn made a dismissive gesture as he closed the door behind me.

‘Slythurst is often away, it’s part of his duties – he has to check the college’s estates regularly, and they are scattered about the country, some several days’ ride. I believe he left for Buckinghamshire this morning as he has some business there, but we expect him back tomorrow. Now then – here we are.’ He spread his arms expansively to encompass his domain, and smiled encouragement, as if urging me to admire it as much as he did.

The library took up the first floor of the north range on the west side of the central staircase, directly opposite the chapel but slightly smaller in proportion. Like the chapel, it had a rush-covered floor and wooden beams in the roof, and was laid out in the style of the last century, with long wooden lecterns at which readers would stand to study the large manuscript books secured by brass chains to a brass rod running beneath the desks. There were four of these lecterns on each side of the chapel, secured to the wall between the arched windows. At each end of the room, wooden benches stood against the wall and at the far end, a small writing desk was placed under the last window overlooking the courtyard; Godwyn strode towards it and carefully placed his keys beside an inkwell before turning to me to retrieve his candle.

‘Which books are of particular interest to you, Doctor Bruno, or shall I just begin by showing you our most valuable manuscripts?’ he asked over his shoulder, as he made his way methodically down the length of the room, lighting candles in the holders at the end of each lectern and in the wall niches between the windows.

‘This is not your whole collection, surely?’ I asked, gesturing to the books that lay chained to the reading desks.

‘Oh, goodness, no – these are only the older books that must be chained up, I regret to say, for fear of theft, and the ones the students use most frequently. They are largely works of scholastic theology and are extremely valuable, many of them part of our original benefactor’s gift.’

‘Dean Flemyng, from his travels in Italy,’ I said thoughtfully, nodding. ‘And where do you keep the prohibited books?’

Godwyn blanched and stared at me, a puzzled frown creasing his high forehead. He looked almost frightened.

‘But we keep no prohibited books here, Doctor Bruno. What can you mean?’

‘Come now, Master Godwyn,’ I said, holding out my palms to show I meant no offence. ‘Every university library I have known keeps some books away from the inquisitive eyes of the students. Books that only the senior members are judged able to understand?’

Godwyn’s relief was visible.

‘Oh! Yes, of course – we have a number of books available only to the junior and senior Fellows, which they may borrow and take away to read in their own rooms. We keep them in the chests in this room here.’ He crossed to a door in the wall behind his desk and opened it, revealing a small chamber annexed to the library. Though it was shadowy inside, by the faint light of his candle I could make out several large trunks lining the walls. ‘I thought for a moment you referred to heretical books,’ he added, with a self-conscious laugh.

‘No, no – I understood those had been rooted out by the queen’s commissioners some time ago.’

He nodded, a little sadly.

‘There was a great purge of the university libraries in ’69. Anything that had survived the previous purges under Her Majesty’s father, and then her brother and sister, was taken away. Books that, between you and me, Doctor Bruno, were no more heretical than any other, but there was great suspicion cast over the university after the Catholic resurgence in Bloody Mary’s time and the colleges must all be seen to expel anything with so much as a taint of unorthodoxy. The collection here was badly depleted, I’m sorry to say.’

‘The notion of heresy changes with reliable frequency according to who happens to be in charge,’ I agreed. ‘But what happened to the books that were deemed dangerous?’

He looked at me blankly, as if he had not considered the question before.

‘I presume they were burned, though if they were, it was not publicly. I doubt they could have been sold openly once they were on the forbidden list. I was an undergraduate then, so I was only dimly aware of the commission – too busy sweating over my Greek and trying not to think about girls – but I would have remembered if there had been a book-burning.’ He smiled fondly at the image of his younger self. ‘You would need to ask William Bernard – he was librarian at the time.’

‘Really?’ This was indeed valuable news, and I thought it curious that Bernard had not mentioned it during our discussion about books at the rector’s table on my first night. My blood quickened; could that irascible old man have squirrelled away somewhere a cache of books judged too dangerous for the minds of young men destined to shape the future of England? And was there the ghost of a chance that among his acquisitions from a certain Florentine bookseller more than a hundred years earlier, Dean Flemyng might have picked up a manuscript whose value he did not recognise, but whose existence William Bernard had seemed unusually eager to deny?

I breathed deeply, trying not to betray my agitation. It was almost certainly too much to hope that the manuscript I sought was here, but it was not beyond the bounds of possibility. If anyone knew whether an uncatalogued Greek book had been part of the Dean’s original bequest, it would be William Bernard, who had been in the college longer than anyone, who read Greek and would know exactly what he had in his hands, should he have unearthed it. The challenge would be persuading him to confide in a stranger; the old man was wily as a stoat and already suspicious of me for my apparent disobedience to all religions.

Godwyn had finished lighting his candles and turned to me, clasping his hands like an anxious host.

‘Perhaps you would like to see our copy of Cicero’s De Officiis, which Dean Flemyng copied in his own hand?’ he ventured, gesturing to one of the lecterns at the far end. ‘I light the candles because, although it is Sunday, many of the scholars like to spend it here in quiet study. The undergraduates may not take books to their rooms, you see.’

‘Do you, by any chance, keep a copy of Master Foxe’s book among your loan collection?’ I asked as I followed, in as off-hand a manner as I could.

‘The Actes and Monuments?’ He looked surprised. ‘Yes, I have the 1570 edition, the second printing, though it may be out with someone at the moment – did you want to see it?’

‘May I? I was interested in reading further after the rector’s sermon this morning.’

‘You are welcome to read it,’ he said, doubtfully, ‘though I’m afraid you will not find Foxe very generous to those of your faith. But I must ask you to look at it here in the library – only the Fellows are permitted to sign the books out, you see. That way we have some surety if they come back the worse for wear.’

‘The books, or the Fellows?’ I said.

Godwyn laughed politely, and led the way to one of the large wooden trunks in the small back room. As he crouched to lift out a pile of books, I noticed a smaller chest, tucked away into the corner and fastened with a padlock. Godwyn stacked the volumes carefully on the floor, then reached again into the chest and handed me a fat volume, plainly bound in cloth.

‘I have seen a copy in the library in Paris,’ I said, turning the book over in my hands, ‘but I have not read it in detail. The rector’s sermon whetted my appetite. And the story of Ignatius – that too is among the tales of the early martyrs?’

‘Yes, indeed – the ten primitive persecutions under the Romans,’ he said, tilting his head slightly as if he found my question strange. ‘All in Book One.’

Just then, the door opened and all the candles wavered along the lecterns as the red-haired young man who had been tidying the chapel earlier leaned in and coughed nervously.

‘Master Godwyn, sir? Rector Underhill wants to speak with you about a private matter, if you have a moment.’

Godwyn looked anxiously at me, then back to the boy.

‘You would not mind if I step out for a minute, Doctor Bruno? I am sure I may trust you not to steal the books.’ He laughed nervously.

I waved a hand, eager to examine the Foxe.

‘Your books will be safe with me, Master Godwyn.’

‘Might I ask you to wait until I return, then? The library must not be left open and unattended, you see.’ He looked apprehensive. I assured him that I would guard the place with my life and he followed the red-haired boy out with an anxious backwards glance, closing the door softly behind him.

I settled myself at Godwyn’s large desk and opened the volume of Foxe at Book One, but as I did so, I realised that the librarian had left his bunch of keys behind. A thought struck me; glancing briefly at the door, I grabbed the keys and found among them a small iron key of the size to open a padlock. In the back room, I knelt by the locked chest and fitted it to the lock; to my surprise, it sprung open smoothly to reveal a pile of black cloth. As I lifted this out, I saw that it was an academic gown, placed there to conceal the books beneath. I picked up the topmost volume; it was bound in aged calfskin and felt fragile to the touch, its corners frayed, but it was the title page that caused me to draw a sharp breath and check instinctively once more to make sure I was alone.

It was a copy of the executed Jesuit Edmund Campion’s Ten Reasons, and the printer’s mark showed it had come from Rheims. There was no doubt that this book, Campion’s staunch defence of the Catholic faith, was prohibited in England, and certainly in Oxford; beneath it I found other texts and pamphlets equally distasteful to the English authorities, by Robert Persons, William Allen and other Catholic writers out of Europe. I leafed through them for a moment, my pulse quickening, until I was startled by a creaking timber from the library behind me and remembered that Godwyn would soon be returning. I searched quickly to the bottom of the chest but there were no books in Greek; these were forbidden books of a different sort. Replacing them quickly and recovering them with the gown, I locked the chest in haste and returned the keys, then seated myself quickly at Godwyn’s desk in case he should return.

I concentrated my attention on the Foxe, flicking hastily through the pages in search of the story of Ignatius. The task was not difficult; there, on page forty-six, I found what I had anticipated – a gap in the paper the length of two lines of print, cut so neatly as to leave the surrounding text intact. Only the text that had been pushed under my door was missing, the incision as precise as only a bookbinder’s knife or similar instrument could make. Or a pen knife, I thought suddenly, catching sight of Godwyn’s quill and inkwell on the desk in front of me. But that could hardly narrow the search; every scholar in the college must own one of those.

The latch clicked and Godwyn reappeared, pulling the door shut behind him and shaking his head to himself.

‘I am sorry to abandon you, Doctor Bruno – Rector Underhill wanted to discuss which of poor Roger Mercer’s books should be given to the library’s collection. Did you find what you wanted?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘I fear the rats have been at your books, Master Godwyn,’ I replied, beckoning him closer and turning to the ravaged page forty-six, which I held open in front of him. He looked from me to the book with incomprehension for a moment, before a flush of outrage spread over his sagging features.

‘But whoever would do such a thing?’ he exclaimed, then glanced over his shoulder as if someone might have overheard. ‘How did you know …?’

‘I found the missing lines pushed under my door last night.’

‘But – why?’ Godwyn continued to stare at me as if he feared my wits had fled.

‘Look at the passage,’ I whispered.

He raised the book closer to his face and skimmed the page. When he looked up at me again his expression was one of severe shock.

‘Ignatius,’ he whispered. ‘I am the wheat of Christ – I forget the exact words, but that is the missing part, is it not? Something about the teeth of wild beasts.’

I nodded. He looked at the book again and exhaled carefully, as if trying to control his response.

‘Ah. You think this is a reference to Roger’s death?’

‘I think that is what whoever sent me those lines wishes me to conclude, yes.’

He closed the book and frowned, so that the lines in his brow formed deep runnels.

‘Why you, Doctor Bruno, if that does not seem rude?’

I hesitated again, unsure again how much to reveal.

‘I was among the first to arrive in the Grove yesterday morning after Doctor Mercer was attacked by the dog.’ I dropped my voice even further until it was barely audible. ‘On the evidence of what I saw, I suggested that his death may not have been an accident.’

Godwyn’s eyes widened until his eyebrows threatened to disappear.

‘But – they said the gate was unlocked – the wild dog strayed in—’

‘My hypothesis was not widely taken up by your colleagues. But it seems that someone else wants to strengthen my conviction that his death was by design.’ I gestured to the book in his hands. Godwyn scrutinised its cover with as much disbelief as if it had spoken aloud, then turned his keen eyes back to me.

‘You think someone is trying to imply that Roger was martyred?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Someone certainly wants me to notice a similarity in the manner of his death, but why should Doctor Mercer be considered a martyr?’

Godwyn looked at me in silence for a long while as my whispered question hung in the air.

He shook his head sharply. ‘I cannot think.’

‘Who would have access to the books in that back room?’ I asked.

‘Well, all the Fellows have a key to the library, but they are not supposed to take any books on loan without first checking with me and signing the ledger. The students may only use the library when I am present to keep an eye on them, but – well, I am not always as scrupulous as I might be in that regard.’ He looked guilty for a moment. ‘If I need to pop out and there are a few students here deep in their work, it seems harsh to lock them out if only for a short while. It’s not as if they can easily steal a book, and I would trust them to take care of the library.’

‘Well, it seems your trust in someone was misplaced,’ I said.

Godwyn’s face clouded, as if he was only now registering the gravity of the assault on library property.

‘But I was here in the library until about quarter to five yesterday afternoon, when I locked up and left for the disputation, along with the students who were here.’

‘And you did not leave the library unattended before a quarter to five?’

‘Anyone would think you were a magistrate, Doctor Bruno, with all these questions,’ he said, forcing a smile, but his eyes were guarded. ‘I may have had to go and use the privy during that time, I really can’t remember, but I’m sure I would not have been gone long enough for anyone to achieve this.’ He banged the cover of the Foxe with his palm. ‘It has been very carefully done, I do not think it was a rushed job by someone looking over his shoulder all the while.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘And no one could have come in while you were out at the disputation?’

‘Well, as I say, the Fellows all have keys, but they were out at the disputation too,’ he said, though his eyes swerved away from mine as he said it.

All except James Coverdale, I thought, but I had already dismissed him as the person most eager to persuade me away from the theory of murder.

‘No one else at all has a key?’

‘Only the rector. Oh – and, of course …’ Here he hesitated and his demeanour became awkward.

‘Who?’ I pressed.

‘Mistress Sophia has the use of her father’s key sometimes,’ he said, cupping a fist against his mouth as if he were about to cough. ‘She has a fancy that she can be as good a scholar as any and he indulges her in it. I suspect it comes of the loss of his son – though, of course, that is his business.’ He shook his head. ‘Mind you, I would not allow any daughter of mine such freedom, if I had one, for women’s minds are not made for learning and I confess I fear for her health – but I must be thankful that he only permits her to visit at times when the scholars are unlikely to be present. Otherwise she has them all panting after her like dogs in season, Doctor Bruno, and I don’t want my library used for that sort of thing – at least with her own key, she can come in when the young men are out at public lectures.’

‘Does she use the library when you are not here to supervise?’

‘Oh, I expect so,’ Godwyn said, as if the matter were out of his hands. ‘If she has her father’s permission I can hardly gainsay him – besides, she is not going to steal the books, is she?’

No, I thought, but might she have used her key to gain access last night, knowing the whole college would be at the Divinity School for over an hour? She had not betrayed a flicker of recognition when I mentioned the quotation, but that was not in itself proof of ignorance. But why on earth would Sophia write to me anonymously and then feign ignorance when she had a chance to discuss the matter with me alone? The person who had written to me was clearly anxious not to be identified as the source of the information, scant as it was – could it be that Sophia knew something about someone in the college, but could not be seen overtly to denounce him? Could that someone be her own father?

‘Thank you, Master Godwyn,’ I said, rising from his chair to take my leave.

‘Oh, but I have not yet shown you our illustrated manuscript of St Cyprian’s letters which Dean Flemyng also brought out of Florence,’ he began, his eyes clouding with disappointment. I studied his face as I apologised for leaving, reflecting that those large, melancholy eyes lent his face an air of disarming frankness. But I now knew that Godwyn was also a man hiding his own secrets, and I reminded myself that I must not trust the face that any of them presented to me or to the world. As William Bernard had so pointedly told me that first night, no man in Oxford was what he seemed.