Читать книгу Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege - S. J. Parris - Страница 21

Trying to marshal my thoughts, I emerged into the quadrangle, now lit by the first tentative glimmers of sun I had seen since leaving London. Streaks of cloud still lingered overhead, but the determined rain of the past three days seemed temporarily to have abated. The clock above the archway to the chapel and library staircase showed it to be just gone half past eight; the college seemed ominously quiet.

I paused to look up at the windows of the rector’s lodgings, wondering which room might be Sophia’s and how I might find a way to see her again today, despite her father’s explicit ban, when I remembered with a sudden curse that I had half-promised to go hunting with Sidney and the Palatine Laski at Shotover Forest. I decided that I would walk over to Christ Church and excuse myself to Sidney in person. He would be angry, I knew, and I had every sympathy for him, being saddled with the Pole from dawn till night, but I could hardly be considered an asset to any hunting party even when my attention was not so distracted by trying to catch a killer; I had no talent for gentlemen’s sports and no opportunity to learn them in my youth, as he had. Sidney could make the necessary enquiries about hunting dogs while he was there; I reasoned I could make more useful progress by staying in the town. The two people whose confidence I most wanted to gain were Thomas Allen and Doctor William Bernard; both, I suspected, would have at least some knowledge of the underground Catholic network, which in turn may have a connection with Mercer’s death, though I knew very well that if they had any such contacts they would not admit them to me easily.

Reluctantly I returned to my own chamber, where I washed thoroughly in cold water, since the scholars of Oxford seemed to possess nothing so civilised as a bath house, reflecting that I must ask Cobbett about seeing the college barber to have my beard trimmed and the laundress to wash my shirts, as it seemed we were destined to stay at least three more days. My stomach rumbled loudly as I dressed; hunger had crept up on me while I was at my ablutions, and I took Walsingham’s purse from my travelling bag and hung it at my belt, deciding that I would venture out into the town to see if I could find any place that would sell me something to eat at this hour on a Sunday.

The courtyard was empty when I stepped out from my staircase, and seemed unnaturally quiet; apparently the students kept to themselves on Sundays. I was about to cross to the gatehouse when Gabriel Norris emerged from his staircase in the west range carrying a leather bag slung over one shoulder; instinctively I took a step back into the shadows, wishing to avoid further speculation with him about what may or may not be said at the inquest. He was dressed all in black, but it was clear even from a distance that his doublet and breeches were satin and expensively cut, and he wore a short cloak around his shoulders that gleamed with the sheen of velvet. He glanced briefly around the courtyard but appeared not to notice me, still half-hidden, before setting off with a quick tread towards the gate. Something about his haste struck me as curious; I recalled that he had turned down his invitation to hunt with Sidney today, and wondered what prior commitment could be more attractive to a young man than that? I decided then that it might be amusing to follow him, since I had planned to go into the town anyway; after his own confession about his nocturnal expeditions, and Lawrence Weston’s report of the rumours about his preferences, I half-hoped I might catch him out in some illicit tryst and prove Weston’s theory true. Then, if the right moment arose, I could make use of any such proof to dissuade Sophia away from him for good – if, indeed, he was the indifferent object of her affections.

I allowed him a few moments to gain some distance so that he would not notice me trailing behind. Waving to Cobbett through his small window, I leaned tentatively out of the main gate into St Mildred’s Lane to see Norris already some way ahead, walking at a brisk pace northwards in the direction of Jesus College. I had to half-skip to keep up with his long strides, staying close to the wall of Exeter College as we passed it, but not so much that I would seem to be doing anything other than taking a casual stroll if he happened to turn around and spot me.

The lane was clogged with mud after the past days’ rain, and Norris fastidiously sidestepped the worst of the ruts and puddles, stopping at one point to wipe a splatter of dirt from his fine leather boots with a gesture of irritation. Where St Mildred’s Lane met Sommer Lane he turned right without hesitation and after a moment’s pause I followed, keeping in the shadow of the old city wall which rose up solidly on my left like a fortress. There were few souls abroad in the street, only one or two couples in their best clothes, no doubt heading for one of the city’s many parish churches. Bells pealed from somewhere up ahead, announcing a service.

My quarry walked purposefully, as if he had an appointment, but there was nothing shifty about his demeanour, nothing to suggest his destination was at all out of the ordinary or that he would prefer not to be seen, and he did not walk as if the bag he carried was heavy, large as it was. I suppressed a shudder as we passed the wall of the Divinity School on our right, and just ahead, opposite the mouth of a street whose sign read Catte Street, he turned towards a small postern set into the city wall beside a little chapel. Hovering in the shadows of the houses opposite, I began to feel somewhat foolish for my sneaking pursuit.

Outside the city wall stretched a broad avenue with few houses, those that stood by the road low and shabby, each surrounded by scrubby plots of land and orchards that extended back further than I could see. The ground was rutted by the wheels of carts and horses’ hooves, and I watched as Norris crossed the lane and set off to his right, his bag swung over his shoulder, past a row of poor-looking dwellings towards open farmland. It was harder here to find any cover, so I dropped back and allowed a greater distance to open between us, keeping myself in tight to the shadow of the city wall; even so, had he turned I would not have been able to conceal my presence. After perhaps ten minutes Norris turned again to his left, down a wide road flanked on each side by orchards and fields, and here I thought of turning back, as I was obliged to leave the shelter of the wall, but my curiosity was piqued. The road was almost bare of buildings; ahead the only masonry visible was the squat tower of a little church that, as I drew closer, I saw was very ancient. Norris passed around the side of the church; beyond it rose the pale stone wall of an impressive farmhouse, three storeys high with gabled windows set into the roof, its grounds encircled by a high wall of that same golden stone. From the corner of the church I watched as Norris approached a gate set into this wall at the side of the house, and after a short while was admitted, though I did not see by whom.

I had no choice then but to turn around and retrace my steps back to the city, reproaching myself for a wasted journey. I confess I would have been delighted to see Norris meeting with some young swain, but there was nothing eventful in the trip he had made; it was to be expected that a rich young man should have acquaintance among Oxford’s grander families, and the farmhouse looked as if it belonged to people of wealth. I had learned nothing of any use, and it was only as I walked back past the fields, taking my time now and savouring the scent of wet earth and fresh leaves that drifted to me from the orchards, that I remembered what Lawrence Weston had said about Norris keeping his own horse outside the city wall. No doubt he had been on his way off for a ride, and I felt particularly thankful that I had not been caught stalking him and been obliged to explain my own foolishness.

But I was enjoying the air after the rain and the sensation of freedom that the open countryside outside the city brought after the oppressive closeness of Lincoln College, with all its intrigues and undercurrents of malice that had somehow led to the death of poor Roger Mercer. I was not eager to return too soon to that walled-in quadrangle, with all those windows like so many hostile eyes, watching my every move, so I decided to walk back the long way around the outside of the great city wall and see what more I could discover of my surroundings while looking out for an inn that might serve me some hot food.

I was almost level with the old church of St Mary Magdalen, at the side of a crooked building that looked as if it might once have been a tavern but was now fallen into disrepair, when a sudden gust of wind ripped along the street, scattering the last few scraps of blossom from the nearby trees. I started at a violent creak from above and looked up to see an old painted sign swinging violently on its rusty hinges, groaning as if it might come loose at any moment; it was then that I jolted backwards with a cry of shock, because the sign over my head, though its paint was faded and flaking so badly that the picture was barely visible, depicted a spoked wheel, identical to the symbol in Roger Mercer’s calendar and the astronomical diagram slipped under my door.

I had not expected the door even to open, the place looked so derelict from the front, but when I turned the handle it groaned open to allow me a glimpse of one low-ceilinged room smelling of must and damp and furnished with a few rickety tables and benches. A pervasive chill hung in the air; the hearth that filled one wall was piled with cold ashes and the handful of customers conversed in muted tones, hunched over their pots of beer as if they were half-ashamed to be found in such a place. It was not an inn to welcome passers-by. I closed the door gently behind me and took a seat at a table in a dingy corner next to the serving-hatch, blood pounding in my chest, aware that my entrance had attracted the attention of the other guests. With a stab of surprise, I recognised, in a group of four men across the room who were staring and whispering behind their hands, the pock-faced man with no ears I had seen outside the Divinity School before the disputation – the man I was certain James Coverdale had also recognised. ‘No one of significance,’ Coverdale had said. The earless man did not join in with the muttering of his companions but merely regarded me, unblinking, over their heads with that same cool, insolent gaze, as if he knew me. I met his look for a moment before looking quickly away, noticing that his eyes were as striking as his face; a blue so pale and translucent they seemed almost lit from within, the way sunlight shines through water in the Bay of Naples.

His stare was so disconcerting that I lowered my own eyes, anxious not to provoke any confrontation, but it was clear that this was not a place where a stranger could take a quiet drink without his presence arousing an unspoken but palpable reaction. When I looked up again, a sturdy-looking woman of perhaps forty in a stained apron was standing in front of me, her arms folded. She had stringy greying hair scraped back from her square-jawed face and her brown eyes were sceptical.

‘What’ll you have, sir?’

‘A pot of ale?’

She nodded curtly, but continued to stand there appraising me.

‘You are not a familiar face, sir, what brings you to the Catherine Wheel?’

‘I was hungry, I saw your sign and thought to stop for food.’

Her eyes narrowed further.

‘You are not from hereabouts, I think.’

‘I was born in Italy,’ I said, meeting her stare as frankly as I could. She pursed her lips and nodded.

‘Friend to the pope?’

‘Not personally,’ I said, and finally her face softened a little and she almost smiled.

‘You understand my meaning, sir.’

‘Will my answer determine whether or not you bring me the beer?’

‘Just like to be sure we have the right kind of people here, sir.’

I looked around the tap-room; a less salubrious crowd it would be hard to picture. I was reminded of the roadside inns I had been forced to make use of during my flight from San Domenico.

‘I was raised in the Church of Rome,’ I said evenly. ‘I don’t know if that makes me the right kind of person, but I promise it does not affect the coins in my purse.’

She seemed to concede then, and half-turned as if to go.

‘What do you call yourself?’ she asked, as an afterthought.

‘Filippo,’ I said, surprised at the ease with which the name slipped out; it had come almost as a reflex. Perhaps it was the memory of those years as a fugitive, when I had travelled under my birth name, knowing that to own my identity could be fatal. Here, in this gloomy tavern among the sidelong glances and murmurs, instinct had prompted the same need for caution. ‘Filippo il Nolano.’

The landlady seemed satisfied. She nodded, unfolded her arms and made a slight dipping movement which might almost have been a curtsey.

‘Joan Kenney, widow, at your service. Will you eat, sir?’

‘What have you?’

‘Pottage,’ she said firmly.

I had by that time been in England long enough to know that pottage was a sludgy concoction produced by mixing oatmeal with the juice left over from stewing meat, something that should rightly be served to livestock but which the English seemed to find an indispensable addition to any table.

‘No meat?’ I asked hopefully. ‘It is Sunday.’

‘We have pottage, sir. You may take it or leave it.’

Reluctantly, I said that I would take it.

‘Humphrey!’ she called, and a door opened beside the serving-hatch to admit a young man with fair curly hair holding a dirty dishcloth in his hands. Though he was at least six feet tall and probably in his twenties, he looked first at the landlady and then at me with the blank, open face of a child eager to please, and I guessed he was probably slow-witted.

‘Fetch Master Nerlarno some pottage and a pot of ale quick as you can, and don’t even think of imposing on him with your idle chatter,’ she snapped, and Humphrey nodded furiously, with exaggerated up and down movements of his head as a child might, twisting the cloth in his hands as he looked at her. ‘He’s Welsh,’ the landlady added darkly, as if this explained much.

While the boy disappeared to the kitchen, the woman crossed the room and leaned over the table to whisper something to the earless man, who inclined his head and nodded sagely without taking his eyes off me.

The boy, Humphrey, returned promptly with a bowl of tepid grey slurry which he slopped half across the table, and a wooden cup of beer topped with a film of grease, and stood by the table smiling energetically down at me.

‘Thank you,’ I said eventually, and when he still didn’t leave, I wondered if I was supposed to tip him.

‘Are you from Italy?’ he asked, in a lilting voice, crouching so that he was at my eye level and considering me with his head on one side.

‘That’s right,’ I said, poking the contents of my bowl with a piece of bread. They seemed to have congealed already.

‘Say something in Italian then,’ Humphrey said, as if challenging me to impress him, the way a child might challenge a street conjuror. I thought for a moment.

‘Non darei questo cibo nemmeno al mio cane,’ I said, smiling pleasantly but keeping my voice low, just in case. His eyes lit up with as much wonder as if I had produced a coin from the air and his broad face creased into a smile.

‘What does it mean?’

‘Oh – it is hard to translate directly. It was a compliment on your delicious food.’

He leaned in very close, so that his breath was tickling my ear. He smelled overwhelmingly of onions.

‘I don’t know Italian,’ he whispered, ‘but I do know Latin.’

‘Good for you,’ I said indulgently, expecting a string of nonsense, for it was impossible that a simple-minded pot-boy could truly have been educated in Latin. He nodded hard, his face serious.

‘Ora pro nobis,’ he hissed into my ear, then drew back to look at me expectantly, proud of himself, awaiting my approval.

I felt my own eyes widen then, and fought to keep my face steady; a faint light of understanding was beginning to spread over the questions that jostled in my mind.

‘That is very good, Humphrey – do you know any more?’ I whispered back. He beamed and leaned in again, but at that moment the landlady’s shrill voice broke in.

‘Humphrey Pritchard! Did I not tell you to leave the poor gentleman alone? Ha’n’t you got work to do? He don’t want to listen to your foolishness – let him enjoy his meal in peace.’ With this misplaced optimism, she appeared suddenly at Humphrey’s shoulder, cuffed him lightly around the back of the head and shoved him towards the kitchen. Though he was twice her size, his face crumpled with guilt and he scurried away, his big body hunched miserably.

The landlady wiped her hands on her apron and forced a smile.

‘He wasn’t saying anything, ah – offensive, I hope?’ she asked, but I thought I caught a note of anxiety in her voice.

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘He was only asking if the food was all right.’

Her eyes narrowed.

‘And is it?’

‘Mm. Thank you.’

She looked at me for a moment as if she wanted to add something, then nodded curtly and disappeared into the kitchen, where I heard the sound of muffled voices, hers berating poor Humphrey and his raised in protest.

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair; I forced as little of the grim stew as possible through my clenched teeth, conscious all the while of the level stare of the earless man and his cronies in the corner. I half-hoped he would at least come across and confront me, perhaps explain why he looked at me with such interest or familiarity, but he remained in his seat, stirring only occasionally to lean across and murmur something to one of his companions.

I kept my eyes on my plate, my mind chasing after fragments of conversation. Ora pro nobis. Pray for us. The words written in code in the back of Roger Mercer’s almanac. A prayer of intercession, a fragment of the Ave Maria or the Litania Sanctorum, for where else would an uneducated man like Humphrey learn Latin except from the responses of the Mass? So young Humphrey Pritchard had either overheard or taken part in Catholic liturgies. Had he heard those words through association with people he knew from the tavern? That would explain why his employer was so keen to keep him from talking to strangers. And why had Mercer written out that same phrase in code? A password, perhaps, or a sign to be recognised among co-conspirators. Was the Catherine Wheel some kind of meeting place or safe house for secret Catholics – was that what my enigmatic correspondent at Lincoln College was trying to steer me towards?

I realised that I had been staring at the earless man as I contemplated this; almost as if he had been stirred into life by my thoughts, at that moment he rose to his feet, brushed down his doublet and called to the landlady to settle his bill.

‘Alas, Widow Kenney, I must leave you for now – though it is the Sabbath, business presses as always,’ he announced, and I was surprised to hear that he had an educated accent. It made a disconcerting contrast with his appearance, which gave him the look of a common criminal. Once again, I had to reprimand myself for making hasty judgements on a man’s manner or looks. I waited until the door had swung shut behind him before following suit; if Widow Kenney saw anything suspicious in my haste to leave, it was indistinguishable from her habitual expression, and she thanked me flatly as I threw some coins on the table and hurried out of the door, craning my neck in both directions along the street in the hope that I would still have the earless man in sight.

I was in luck; he had almost reached the top of the street by the church. Keeping again to the shadow of the buildings on my left, I told myself that this pursuit was far more worthy of one of Walsingham’s agents, and I found I was relishing the drama of the moment and the rush of adrenalin in my veins.

The earless man crossed the broad street and passed under the North Gate, by the church of St Michael and the Bocado prison. I followed him at a safe distance along Sommer Lane, past the front of Exeter College and the rear wall of the Divinity School; at one point, I had the sense that someone was following me and turned sharply, but there were only a handful of people in the street, all going about their business without apparently taking any notice of me, so I put it down to heightened nerves and kept my eyes fixed on the earless man.

At the corner of the University Schools, he turned right into the narrow lane called Catte Street, where the houses stood closer together, the timber-framed upper storeys overhanging the road so that it stood in shadow, keeping the ground still wet underfoot. From the abundance of painted signs jutting out from the buildings, groaning gently in the wind, it was clear that this was a commercial street; closer inspection revealed businesses catering to the needs of an academic community: printers, stationers, makers of robes and regalia and a number of book dealers and binders, all shuttered and closed.

The earless man slowed his pace and I followed suit, just as I noticed a figure coming towards us from the other direction, dressed in a black academic gown and velvet cap. He carried himself stiffly, like an old man, and his steps were halting, as if he found walking effortful. The earless man stopped in front of a narrow shop front with grimy windows and raised a hand in greeting; the figure in the cap made a small gesture of acknowledgement in return. I ducked into a doorway just as he drew level with the shop and removed his cap, checking the street as if anxious not to be seen, and I realised then that it was Doctor William Bernard. Without speaking, the earless man removed a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the dingy shop; I shrank back further out of sight as, with a last glance in both directions up the street, he held the door open for Doctor Bernard and followed him in through the low doorway. The door closed and I heard the lock click behind them. The shop had no sign above, but as I stepped out from the doorway and drew as close as I dared, though it was unlikely that much of the street could be seen through the thick film of dirt encrusting the diamond panes of the only window, I saw that painted above the doorway, in small but carefully wrought letters, were the words R. Jenkes. Bookbinder and Stationer.

Turning from the shop, I slammed straight into a tall man with a hat pulled down low over his face, almost causing him to fall over.

‘Scusi,’ I said instinctively, as he too muttered an apology and hurried away up the street. The sight of his retreating back left me oddly unsettled; I wondered that I had not noticed him in the street before. Could he have stepped out from one of the shops? It seemed unlikely; all were closed, and I remembered the moment before I turned into Catte Street, when I had sensed I was being followed. The man turned down a side alley without looking back. I had seen almost nothing of his face except that he had a dark beard; I could not recall if any of the earless man’s companions from the Catherine Wheel had had a dark beard, but I had not observed them closely and they had been sitting with their backs to me. Why would I have been followed from the tavern, I wondered, unless it was because my presence there alone had aroused their suspicions, or because I had made it so obvious that I was in turn eager to follow the earless man?

I made my way back down Catte Street towards the city wall, my thoughts spinning. Who was that earless man, who had associates among the tavern low-lifes and the doctors of Lincoln College? If he was Jenkes the bookbinder himself, that might explain his connection with the academics, but it was curious that Bernard should choose a Sunday to do business with a stationer; indeed, the old doctor had looked very much as if he hoped not to be seen. Were I to seek the most obvious explanation, I might reason that if the Catherine Wheel was a known meeting place for recusants, and since Bernard was a sympathiser with the old faith, and the one man who linked the two dealt in books, was it not highly likely that I had stumbled upon some connection to the city’s underground trade in banned books, of which Walsingham had spoken with such fury? Except that I had not stumbled upon it, I reflected; someone had deliberately and cryptically pointed me to this discovery, someone who had also made sure I linked it with Roger Mercer’s death, and I must find out the source of this information, and what he feared from making himself known.

I walked back past the Divinity School and turned left into St Mildred’s Lane; the gatehouse tower of Lincoln College loomed up on my left, squat and pale against the sky. As I passed through the main gate and under the tower arch, I heard a knocking on the window of the porter’s lodge and looked around to see Cobbett waving for me to come in.

‘Feller come looking for you just now, Doctor Bruno,’ he said, wheezing furiously, as if he had been the one carrying the urgent message. ‘Servant from Christ Church, wanted to know if you’re going hunting at Shotover this afternoon.’

I cursed quietly; in all the excitement of my discovery of the Catherine Wheel, I had completely forgotten my promise to Sidney and my intention of excusing myself in person. At least now, with any luck, I would be too late to join them.

‘I can’t,’ I said, half to myself. ‘I suppose I had better go and leave a message for my friend.’

‘No,’ said Cobbett, sympathetically. ‘I didn’t think you looked the hunting sort. Bit short for a longbow, if you don’t mind my saying.’

I only nodded and turned to leave. Then I suddenly remembered Sidney’s advice about the college porters and their storehouse of information, and the bottle of ale we had bought to encourage Cobbett to talk freely, which was still sitting in my room.

‘Would you like a drink, Cobbett?’ I asked.

‘Why, it’s almost as if you read my own thoughts, Doctor Bruno.’ He flashed his knowing, gummy grin. ‘I was just thinking I’m parched near to the death. Almost witchcraft, that is.’

‘No witchcraft, I assure you. I know a thirsty man when I see one. Wait for me here a moment,’ I said, smiling, and he sat back heavily on his chair.

‘Oh, I won’t go nowhere, don’t you worry. Might even see if I have a clean cup. Not used to guests, are we, Bess?’ he said, gently scratching the old dog behind her ears. She made a small gurgling noise from the back of her throat.

When I returned with the bottle, Cobbett pulled out the stopper eagerly and poured a generous amount into two wooden cups placed on his table for the occasion. I tried not to look too closely at the state of the cup he passed me, his round face creased into a smile of satisfaction as he indicated to me to pull up a low stool tucked into the corner of his small room.

‘Good ale and good company,’ he said, when he had taken a long draught from his cup and swilled it around his mouth before swallowing noisily. ‘Now then. I sense you have a question. I can read minds too, you know.’ He winked.

With Cobbett, I had decided, my best course would be to match his frankness; he would see straight through any pretence.

‘Have you ever come across a bookbinder in Catte Street by the name of Jenkes?’ I asked.

Cobbett threw back his head and launched into one of those fits of guffaws that made me fear for his health. When he had recovered from the wheezing he turned an incredulous look on me and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Holy God and all his saints, Doctor Bruno, what have we done to you?’ He shook his head, still laughing. ‘You arrive in Oxford in the company of the highest men in the land, and in a matter of days you’re consorting with the most notorious rogue in the city! Stay well away from Rowland Jenkes, that’s all I have to tell you.’

‘How, notorious? A mere bookbinder?’

‘Not a mere anything, Rowland Jenkes. A papist and a sorcerer.’

‘Really?’ My interest was piqued now; Cobbett knew an eager audience when he saw one.

‘Have you never heard of the Black Assize?’ he said, adopting a portentous tone.

I shook my head.

Cobbett leaned forward with all the relish of a grandfather preparing a tale to frighten small children.

‘Well, now,’ he said, and a frustrating extended pause followed while he drained his cup and generously poured himself another. ‘Six years ago, summer of 1577 it was, and cursedly hot, Rowland Jenkes was arrested for sedition and imprisoned in Oxford castle, where they keep prisoners until the local Assizes are held.’

‘What manner of sedition?’

‘I’m coming to that, hold your horses,’ Cobbett grumbled. ‘Well, on this occasion he’d been found to be distributing seditious books, you know – papist books, ones they don’t allow to be printed here. Shipping them in illegally from France and the Low Countries – they say he has some Flemish blood, but that might just be gossip and I never pay any mind to gossip.’

‘No,’ I said, nodding sincerely.

‘No. Well, he was arrested for the books and some witnesses popped up to say they’d heard him speak treasonable words against the queen. But it was during his trial the terrible business happened. He was brought to the Shire Hall, just outside the prison wall, with all the other prisoners to be tried before the Lord High Sheriff and the Lord Chief Baron. Naturally, he was found guilty and just at the moment his sentence was pronounced, the courtroom was filled by the most foul stench you could imagine, such that everyone in the room thought as how they might choke or faint with it.’

He paused again for refreshment, and I found myself jigging impatiently on the edge of my stool.

‘And then?’

‘Well, now, you will hardly credit this but I know folk who saw it with their own eyes, Doctor Bruno,’ Cobbett whispered, his own eyes growing wide with the momentum of his story. ‘Every man on that jury died within a few days. Not only them, but every man jack in that courtroom, all of them, stone dead before a week was out. The sheriff, the baron, the sarjeants – all of them. Three hundred men died in Oxford over the course of a month. Then it was all over as quick as it come. But, here’s the thing …’ He leaned in even closer, so that his chin was almost in his beer. ‘Not a one of the prisoners who was in the Assize that day died, nor any woman nor child. Now, you can’t tell me that was any natural plague.’

‘A curse, then?’

‘The curse of Rowland Jenkes,’ Cobbett said reverently. ‘While he was locked up, awaiting the Assize, he was permitted to walk out with a keeper, you understand. Well, the story goes Jenkes visited an apothecary with a list of ingredients. The apothecary noted they were all mightily poisonous, and asked why he had need of them – Jenkes replied it was on account of the rats gnawing at his books in the shop while he was incarcerated, see? Anyhow, he procured these ingredients and it’s thought he made a wick covered in this filthy potion, and fired it up the moment he was condemned.’

‘Where would a condemned prisoner hide a tinderbox and flint about his person in a courtroom?’ I asked. ‘Is it not more likely it was some gaol fever brought in by the prisoners?’

Cobbett looked disappointed that I had not entered into the spirit of the legend.

‘Well, I don’t know about that, sir. All I know is good Christian folk cross the road if they see Rowland Jenkes in this town, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same.’

‘What about the seditious books? Is he still in that trade?’

‘Who knows what he does, sir – I told you, everyone leaves him alone now. I dare say he gets up to all sorts, but what jury would dare bring him to trial now?’

He refilled his cup and made a show of offering to pour some for me, but was clearly pleased at my refusal.

‘What was his punishment?’ I asked.

‘Nailed by the ears to the pillory,’ Cobbett said with relish. ‘And you know what he did?’

I had already guessed, but didn’t want to deprive him of this part of the story, so I shook my head and looked expectant.

‘Stayed there an hour, he did. Then one of his acquaintance brought a knife, and calm as you like, he cut his own ears off in front of all the gathered townsfolk and walked free. They said he didn’t even cry out. Left his ears still hanging on the post, if you can imagine.’

I winced; Cobbett nodded sagely.

‘That’s the kind of man Rowland Jenkes is. Don’t get mixed up with that lot, Doctor Bruno.’

‘Which lot? Do you mean the Catherine Wheel tavern?’

Cobbett stared at me as if I had cursed his entire family to his face.

‘Christ alive – what have you been up to, Doctor Bruno? Seriously, sir – even mentioning the name of that place will bring you trouble.’

‘How do you mean?’ I said, thinking that to play the ignorant foreigner might serve me best here.

‘Listen.’ Cobbett dropped his voice to a whisper and beckoned me closer. ‘Folk that go to the Catherine Wheel don’t go there for the food or the beer, if you take my meaning.’

‘I have learned that much for myself,’ I said, with feeling. ‘But do you know if any of the Fellows or students of Lincoln might ever go there?’

Cobbett narrowed his eyes, sucked in his jowly cheeks and considered me for a moment, as if weighing up how much he should reveal to this funny, nosy outsider. He seemed about to answer, when the door to the lodge was flung open and Rector Underhill strode in, his gown billowing about him. Surprise flickered briefly over his face at the sight of his guest drinking beer with the porter, but he composed himself quickly and smiled.

‘Good afternoon, Doctor Bruno,’ he said, warily polite. ‘Cobbett, I wondered if you might have seen anything of Doctor Coverdale today? It seems he is not to be found anywhere, but he gave me no warning that he would be away.’

‘I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him, sir, not since last night,’ Cobbett said, moving the bottle and cups to the floor under his chair, rather too late to hide them from the rector’s notice.

Underhill flared his nostrils in irritation.

‘Well, the moment you see him pass through that gate, would you kindly tell him to come straight to my room, I wish to speak to him urgently.’

‘Will do, sir,’ Cobbett said dutifully.

‘Might I have a brief word with you outside, Doctor Bruno?’ Underhill said, turning to me with a pointed glare.

‘Certainly.’ I rose with some effort from the rickety stool, nodded to Cobbett, who sent me a broad wink in return, and followed the rector into the tower archway.

‘I would appreciate it if you didn’t encourage the servants to drink while they are at work. That one in particular needs no help.’ He pursed his lips. I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to forestall me. ‘I hope you will join us for supper in Hall tonight? We are all rather subdued since the death of poor Roger and your presence would certainly enliven High Table.’

‘Thank you, I would be delighted,’ I replied, matching his tone of polite insincerity.

‘Good. We dine at six thirty, but you will hear the bell, I’m sure.’

Before he disappeared into the archway by the hall that led to his lodgings, I called him back.

‘Rector Underhill? I was wondering – I went for a walk this morning, after chapel, to get some air and admire your beautiful city better.’

He folded his hands together and watched me carefully.

‘I hope you found the experience gratifying?’

‘Oh, yes. But I went outside the city wall and got myself somewhat lost, I’m afraid. I passed through the gate by the Lady Chapel and took a right turn, and after a short distance of passing fields and orchards, the road turned to the left and I saw a very fine manor house beside a little church that appeared very ancient. I only wondered what the place might be?’

The rector thought for a moment, then appeared to judge this question innocent enough to merit a straight answer.

‘By the Smythgate? I believe you must mean the church of St Cross, which is indeed of great antiquity. The house would be Holywell Manor, it is the only residence of any size in that direction. The well itself is supposed to be Saxon. It used to be a place of pilgrimage but obviously that papist custom is discontinued.’

‘Ah. Well, thank you for satisfying a tourist’s curiosity. A seat of the local gentry, I suppose?’

Underhill pursed his lips.

‘Well. They are gentry of sorts, I suppose, but they are hardly well-regarded in Oxford society. It is owned by the Napper family – the father was once a Fellow of All Souls, but he is long dead, and the younger son, George, lies in prison at the Wood Street Counter in Cheapside.’

‘Really? For what crime?’

He frowned, perhaps now suspicious of my interest.

‘For refusing to attend church, I believe. But really, I cannot stand here gossiping like a laundress, I must prepare to take Evensong at All Saints.’ At the archway to his lodgings, he turned back to me. ‘Oh, and – Doctor Bruno? I shall see Magistrate Barnes this evening at church, so I hope we shall know by tomorrow when to expect the inquest into poor Doctor Mercer’s accident. Let us pray it is soon,’ he added, smiling thinly. ‘I should not wish to detain you in Oxford any longer than is necessary.’

‘Nor should I wish to impose on your hospitality,’ I said, equally coldly. ‘And please do convey my respects to Mistress Underhill and your daughter.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, touching his fingertips together for a moment as he considered whether to follow this up, but instead he turned on his heels and disappeared into the shadows of the archway.