Читать книгу Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege - S. J. Parris - Страница 23

The rain’s steady rhythm against my window panes woke me early on Monday morning even before the chapel bell had summoned the men of Lincoln to Matins. A thick cover of cloud had returned in the night and the sky was the colour of slate, the quadrangle slick with puddles; again I had been too preoccupied to sleep well. Sidney and I had sat up late into the night exchanging theories, but we had only a cat’s cradle of speculation and nothing conclusive to untangle one thread from another. I needed to find a means of speaking to Sophia Underhill before the day was much older; either she had taken Mercer’s almanac and my notes from my desk, or someone had seen her leave my room and taken his chance, surmising that the door would be unlocked.

As I swung my legs over the side of the bed, I glimpsed something white on the floor beneath it and reached down to retrieve a piece of paper. Turning it over, I saw that the writing on it was my own; it was the copy I had made of the strange code at the back of Mercer’s calendar, and my efforts to write some basic sentences using it, a task I had set myself before falling asleep the night before last. The paper must have slipped under the bed and escaped the attention of whoever – I was reluctant to believe it could have been Sophia – had taken all the other notes from my desk while I was at dinner. At least, then, I still had a copy of the code – but I was no closer to tracking down any letters Roger Mercer might have written or received using it. I was now certain that the person who searched Mercer’s room before me, and perhaps Slythurst after me, had been looking for just such letters or documents; what I did not know was whether either searcher had found them.

Sidney was burdened for the day with the entertainment of the palatine, but had promised to look into Gabriel Norris’s connection with the Napper family and see what he could discover about William Napper’s hunting party when the dog went missing. My task was to visit Jenkes’s shop in Catte Street on the pretext of purchasing some books, to see what I could learn about his illicit business there, and then to brace myself for another meal at the Catherine Wheel in the hope of further conversation with Humphrey Pritchard. I suffered a slight twinge of conscience at the thought of manipulating the trust of a simple-minded pot-boy – but I had a job to do, and I tried to concentrate on the long view, as Walsingham had instructed. Unlike my employer, however, I was not a natural politician, and the idea of sacrificing individuals to the hazy concept of the greater good did not sit easily with me. Before I could turn my attention to any of this, however, I needed to find a way to speak to Sophia.

I had decided not to attend Matins – one show of piety during my visit was enough, I felt – and instead spent the early part of the morning trying to read by my window in the hope that I might see Sophia if she crossed the quadrangle on one of her regular visits to the college library. I knew that the rector would never admit me if I asked to speak to her directly, so my best hope was to wait and see if she would venture out when the students were all at public lectures – assuming that her father would still allow her that privilege. My stomach moaned at the lack of breakfast, but I dared not go in search of food in case I missed Sophia.

It was shortly before nine that I saw her emerge from the rector’s lodgings; my heart gave an involuntary leap and I quickly gathered my cloak to catch up with her, but she did not cross the courtyard towards the library. She was dressed more formally than usual, in an ivory gown with embroidered sleeves, the hood of her short cape drawn up around her face against the rain, and she walked with a determined step towards the gatehouse. Hastily I locked the door to my chamber, though I had left nothing there of value, just to be sure, and had folded the paper with the code inside my doublet. Walsingham’s purse hung heavy at my belt. If I should be attacked in the street, I would lose everything, I thought grimly, but at least it wouldn’t matter if the room was searched in my absence. I scrambled down the stairs and charged across towards the tower archway, slipping on the wet flagstones, but when I reached the main gate and stepped out into St Mildred’s Lane, there was no sign of her in either direction. She could not have moved fast enough to have disappeared from the street, I reasoned; concluding that I must have mistaken her destination, I returned to the college, closing the gate behind me, when I heard the low murmur of a woman’s voice coming from the porter’s lodge.

Knocking gently, I opened the door to see Sophia in all her fine clothes crouched on the damp floor with the old dog’s head cradled in her lap; as I entered she raised her head and smiled politely at me as if we had only a passing acquaintance, before returning all her attention to fondly mussing the dog’s ears. A low growl of contentment emanated from Bess’s throat as she nuzzled her head deep into Sophia’s skirts. Oh to be a dog, I thought, and immediately reprimanded myself.

‘Morning, Doctor Bruno,’ Cobbett said affably from his position of authority behind his table. ‘You seem in a rush today.’

‘Oh – no, I – good morning, Mistress Underhill,’ I said, bowing slightly.

Sophia looked up briefly, but this time her expression was preoccupied and she did not smile.

‘Doctor Bruno. I think poor Bess is growing blind, Cobbett,’ she said, barely looking at me. I guessed she must be ashamed of what had happened the night before.

‘Aye, she’s not long for this world,’ Cobbett agreed, as if he had long been resigned to the idea. ‘Sophia loves that dog,’ he added, for my benefit. I blinked, surprised at the familiarity with which he, as a servant, referred to the rector’s daughter in her presence. Sophia noticed my look and laughed.

‘You are shocked that Cobbett does not call me Mistress, Doctor Bruno? When I first arrived at Lincoln College, I was thirteen years old and my brother fourteen. We had no company of our own age and the Fellows of the college were not used to having children around, they made it very clear they disliked our presence. Cobbett and his wife were the only ones who were kind to us. We spent half our time in here chatting and playing with Bess, didn’t we, Cobbett?’

‘Aye – distracting me from my post,’ the old porter said gruffly, with obvious affection.

‘I didn’t know you had a wife, Cobbett,’ I said.

‘Not any more, sir. The good Lord saw fit to take her these five years back. She was the college laundress for years, and a damned fine one. Still, this is how the world turns. And soon my old Bess will be gone, too.’ He sniffed heartily and turned his face away to the window.

‘Don’t say that, Cobbett, she’ll hear you,’ Sophia said, pretending to cover the dog’s ears.

‘You are dressed very finely this morning, Mistress Underhill,’ I ventured.

She made a face.

‘My mother has roused herself sufficiently to go visiting,’ she said, in a tone that conveyed exactly what she thought of that idea. ‘We are to call upon an acquaintance of hers in the town whose own daughter, though two years younger than me, is recently betrothed to be married. So she and I will no doubt entertain one another on the lute and virginals, while our mothers extol the many blessings and virtues of marriage and we all revel in her success. As you may imagine, I can hardly contain my excitement.’ She said this with a perfectly straight face, though Cobbett misunderstood her sarcasm.

‘Why, Sophia, you have no need to feel hard done by – you know you may have any husband you wished if you would only put your mind to it,’ he said. He meant to be reassuring, but I did not miss the shadow that passed across her face then, as if his words caused her some secret pain.

I had no chance to speculate further, however, as at that moment there was a great thundering of footsteps on the flagstones outside and the door to the porter’s lodge crashed open with such force that it hit the wall behind and juddered so hard I feared it might splinter. In the doorway stood Walter Slythurst, the bursar, shaking like an aspen leaf, his face so deathly white and his eyes protruding with such terror that you would have thought someone had a knife at his back. He looked thoroughly drenched and dishevelled, and was wearing a thick cloak and riding boots all spattered with mud; I remembered that he had been away overnight and wondered if he had been attacked on the road.

‘Fetch …’ he choked, and the effort of speech made the veins in his neck stand out like knotted cords under the sallow skin. ‘Fetch the rector. The strongroom – he must see this – horror.’ Suddenly he leaned forwards and vomited on the stone floor, one hand grasping the wall to keep himself upright.

Cobbett and I exchanged a glance, then the old porter began ponderously to heave himself out of the chair. I stepped forward; it was clear that the situation required more urgency than Cobbett could give it.

‘I will go for the rector,’ I said, ‘but what should I tell him has happened?’

Slythurst shook his head frantically, his lips pressed into a white line as if he feared his stomach might rise again. He jerked his head towards Sophia.

‘A monstrous crime – one I cannot speak of before a lady. Rector Underhill must see …’ he broke off again, his breath suddenly coming in jagged gasps as his knees buckled beneath him and he began shivering wildly as if it were the depths of winter. I had seen these effects of a severe shock before, and knew he must be calmed down.

‘Sit him down, get him a strong drink,’ I said to Cobbett. ‘I’ll find the rector.’

‘I can go for him if you like, he is at work in his study this morning,’ Sophia offered, rising quickly to her feet; as she stood, she clapped a hand to her brow and stumbled just as she had before. I caught her arm and she clutched my shoulder gratefully, then quickly withdrew her hand as a glance briefly passed between us acknowledging our moment of intimacy last night. She leaned against the wall, but her face had turned almost as pale as Slythurst’s; the rank stench of his vomit was rising in the small room, and, perhaps prompted by the smell, Sophia tried to reach the door, but had only partly opened it before she too leaned forward and vomited in the doorway.

Cobbett rolled his eyes mildly, as if this were all part of the job.

‘Will you take your turn too, Doctor Bruno, before I go for a pail of water?’ he said wearily.

In truth, I could feel my own stomach rising with the smell, and I was glad to get out.

‘Do not move – I will be back with the rector in a moment,’ I said, from the doorway.

‘No one must go near the tower,’ Slythurst croaked. His violent shaking was beginning to subside; Cobbett had produced one of his bottles of ale and poured the bursar a good measure in one of his wooden cups.

My frantic hammering on the rector’s door brought Adam the old servant running to open it; when he saw it was me, his face twisted into a sneer of open dislike.

‘Back again, Doctor Bruno?’

‘I need to see the rector urgently,’ I panted, ignoring his tone.

‘Rector Underhill cannot see you this morning, he is extremely busy. And the ladies are out,’ he added, with an emphasis that implied he knew just what I was after.

‘Christ’s blood, man, did you not hear me? The matter is urgent – I will fetch him myself if I must.’ I shouldered my way past him through the dining room and thumped on the door of the study.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ the rector blustered, throwing it open. ‘Doctor Bruno?’

‘He forced his way in, sir,’ Adam whined, waving his hands ineffectually behind me.

‘You must come immediately,’ I said. ‘Master Slythurst has discovered something in the strongroom – he called it a monstrous crime. He was too much affected by what he saw – I was sent to bring you as a matter of urgency.’

The rector’s eyes widened in fear and his jowls trembled.

‘A theft, you mean?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said quietly. ‘A theft does not generally make a grown man heave up his breakfast. I guess Slythurst has seen something more – disturbing – to make his stomach turn like that.’

The rector stared at me.

‘Not another …?’

‘We will not know, sir, until you come to investigate.’

Underhill nodded mutely, then gestured for me to lead the way.

When we reached the west range, Slythurst was already waiting by the door to the sub-rector’s staircase; some of the colour seemed to have returned to his cheeks but he had not yet regained his composure.

‘You must steel yourself, Rector,’ he said, his voice still hoarse. ‘I returned this morning from my business in Buckinghamshire – I left at first light and had only just now returned to college. I thought to take the revenues I had brought from our estates straight up to the strongroom before I changed. I knocked for James but there was no reply, so I went to Cobbett for the spare key to his room. The inner door to the strongroom was locked, as usual, but when I opened it, I found …’ His eyes bulged again and he shook his head, his teeth firmly clenched.

‘Found what?’ the rector asked, as if he did not want to be told the answer.

Slythurst only shook his head and pointed to the stairwell. The rector turned to me awkwardly.

‘Doctor Bruno, perhaps you would …? You have shown us a clear head in such situations before.’

I nodded; the rector was a coward at heart, comfortable ruling his little domain of books, where men snipe at their enemies with rhetoric, but out of his depth when the violence became real. He clearly feared what he was about to witness; suddenly the funny Italian was not so laughable, and he wanted me at his side. Slythurst gave me a sideways glance through narrowed eyes; it seemed that, despite his shock, he had not forgotten his dislike of me and would have preferred me not to be included, but he was in no state to argue with the rector.

The stairs creaked unexpectedly under my feet, making the rector jump; though there was hardly any light in the stairwell, I could make out marks on the threshold of Doctor Coverdale’s room as I entered the door Slythurst had left open. Holding a hand out behind me, I bent to take a closer look and saw that the stains were smudged footprints leading from the tower room. I touched a finger to one of the marks and it came away with a sticky, rust-coloured coating which, when I sniffed it, could only be blood, though it was not fresh. I turned to look at my companions with a grim expression; below me, the rector’s round white face, pale as the moon in the shadowy stairwell, flinched but nodded me onwards.

The low door at the back of the tower room was also swinging open; inside it, I found a narrow spiral staircase barely wide enough for a man to pass, curving upwards to the top of the tower. Halfway up there was a small arched doorway, whose studded oak door had been left ajar by Slythurst in his flight from the sight within. The smell of death was unmistakeable now, stinging my nostrils as I approached the threshold; the rector gave a strangled cry as he cowered behind me. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped into the college strongroom; immediately I gagged and cried out at what I saw, and felt the rector’s hand grasp at the back of my jerkin as he jostled to see through the doorway. Here, then, was the answer to the mystery of what had happened to Doctor James Coverdale.

The strongroom seemed more claustrophobic than the sub-rector’s room below it, though much of that had to do with the smell; the dimensions of the walls were almost the same, but the wooden-beamed ceiling was lower and the two windows, one facing into the quadrangle and the other towards St Mildred’s Lane, were smaller and narrower, a single perpendicular arch letting in little light on this overcast day. Along each wall stood a number of heavy wooden chests of varying sizes, all painted with heraldic devices, girded with iron bands and fastened with formidable padlocks – the coffers containing the college revenues. To the left of the window that faced into the college was James Coverdale. His wrists had been bound together and tied over his head to an iron bracket fixed into the wall for candles. He was naked except for his linen undershirt, and his head slumped downwards so that his chin rested on his chest, which was drenched with blood, now matted and dried – he had not died in the past few hours, it seemed. But the most extraordinary aspect, the sight that had made me cry out in shock, was that he had been shot numerous times with arrows from a close range. Nine or ten stuck out from his torso at various points, giving him the appearance of a pincushion – or an icon. I knew immediately what I was witnessing; so, it seemed, did the rector, who tightened his grip on my sleeve so that I could feel his hand trembling. I glanced sideways at him as he stared in unblinking horror at the corpse of a second colleague in two days; his lips were working rapidly and I thought at first that he was uttering a silent prayer, until I realised that he was trying to speak but could not make his voice obey him. When eventually he managed to pronounce the word, it was the one that had leapt instantly to my own mind:

‘Sebastian.’

‘Sebastian who?’ said Slythurst impatiently. He was still lingering behind us on the stairs, his eyes averted, as if reluctant to enter the room a second time.

‘St Sebastian,’ I said quietly.

The rector nodded absently, as if in a trance.

‘“He was commanded to be apprehended, and that he should be brought into the open field where, by his own soldiers, he was shot through the body with innumerable arrows”,’ he recited hoarsely; I had no doubt that the words belonged to Foxe. ‘And look.’ He lifted a trembling hand and pointed. On the wall beside the window, raggedly traced with a finger dipped in the dead man’s blood, was the symbol of a spoked wheel.

‘And there is the weapon,’ Slythurst said decisively, entering the room and pointing at the wall beneath the window, where a handsome carved English longbow, inlaid with green-and-scarlet tracery, had been left leaning beside an empty quiver decorated in similar fashion, as if the killer had placed it there calmly and carefully when his work was done.

‘But that is Gabriel Norris’s longbow,’ the rector croaked in disbelief. ‘I told him to have it locked away here the other morning, after he shot the dog.’

‘Then we have our killer,’ Slythurst asserted, nodding a full stop to his pronouncement.

I took a couple of paces towards the body, crouching to peer up at the face.

‘These arrows did not kill him,’ I said.

‘Oh? You think he died of a fever?’ Slythurst seemed to have regained his old manner remarkably quickly; I sensed his impatience with my presence in what he regarded as his domain.

‘Quiet, Walter,’ said Underhill sharply, and for once I was grateful to him. ‘Go on, Doctor Bruno.’

‘His throat has been cut,’ I said, and clenching my teeth I grasped Coverdale’s abundant hair and lifted the head so that the dreadful face was visible. The rector gave a little squeal into his handkerchief; Slythurst winced and turned away. The dead man’s eyes were half closed, a rag stuffed into his mouth as a gag, and his throat had been sliced straight across. The wound pulled open as I lifted the head, and from its sticky edges I could see that the incision was a botched job, though it had, in the end, achieved its aim; his neck was scored with the nicks and scratches of aborted cuts, as if the killer had taken several attempts to hold his knife steady and in the right place, suggesting that he was not a practised assassin.

‘Who would have such a weapon?’ the rector asked tremulously. ‘All the university men are forbidden to carry daggers in the city precincts.’

‘A razor could have done it,’ I said grimly. ‘Or a small knife, if it was sharp enough.’

‘Then why shoot him like a boar afterwards?’ asked Slythurst, daring to step slightly nearer. ‘And the picture – is that a message?’

‘The rector has already told you,’ I said. ‘For show. This is a parody of the martyrdom of St Sebastian, just as Roger Mercer’s death was supposed to mimic the martyrdom of St Ignatius. I do not think you can pass this one off as an accident, Rector,’ I added, turning to Underhill, who had sat down heavily on one of the sturdy chests, his face in his hands.

‘What arrant nonsense!’ Slythurst exclaimed, now fully over his initial shock, it seemed. ‘Roger is attacked by a dog and you read into that the mimicry of a martyrdom? What murderer would go to such lengths? I rather think your brain is fevered, Doctor Bruno. This, I grant you –’ he gestured at the punctured corpse of James Coverdale hanging from the candle bracket – ‘is clearly some horrific violence against poor James by a madman, but these fanciful patterns will not help us catch a dangerous intruder! I can only guess that someone tried to break into the strongroom, James tried to stop him, and this was the result.’

He paused, breathless, hands on his hips as if daring me to challenge this hypothesis.

‘A thief who stopped to paint pictures in a dying man’s blood?’ I said, returning his insolent stare. ‘And none of the doors have been forced, nor have these chests been tampered with. You said yourself that both the strongroom and the door to the outer room were locked when you returned this morning,’ I reminded Slythurst. ‘Who would have had a key to the strongroom?’

‘The three of us,’ Slythurst said, indicating the rector and the bloody corpse in the corner of the room. ‘Each of us has a key to open the strongroom door, but the principal coffers here have three padlocks apiece, so that the rector, the bursar and the sub-rector must all be present to open them. We call them the chests of the three keys. The bulk of the college funds are kept in these. The trunks containing account books and deeds I can open alone.’

‘A safeguard against embezzlement,’ the rector added.

‘So Doctor Coverdale must have unlocked the door himself and let the killer in,’ I mused, ‘and his killer could have locked it afterwards using Coverdale’s own key.’

‘He must have been forced to open it at knifepoint by a robber,’ Slythurst speculated.

‘But that would have been fruitless if he could not then open the coffers on his own,’ I said.

‘A robber would not know that. Perhaps that’s why he was killed,’ Slythurst said. ‘The thief flew into a rage because he did not believe James couldn’t open the chest. That must be it!’

He seemed remarkably keen to discount my theory that Coverdale’s death was connected to Roger Mercer’s, I thought, and wondered if that was just because he could not stand to concede that I might be right in anything, or because it suited him to throw up a false trail. After all, he was one of the two people alive with a key to the strongroom.

‘When were either of you last here?’ I asked.

Slythurst glanced anxiously at the rector, who appeared lost in his own thoughts and was making every effort to avoid looking at the body.

‘With respect, Doctor Bruno, have you been appointed to investigate this crime, that you should start questioning us as if you were the magistrate?’

‘Oh, just answer him, Walter, he is trying to help us,’ said the rector wearily, to my surprise. ‘For myself, I have not been up here since last Tuesday, when we took out the monies and papers for the college attorney. Is that right, Walter, was it Tuesday?’

‘That was the last time we were all here together,’ Slythurst agreed, shooting me a look of distaste. ‘I was last here on the evening of Saturday, just before the disputation, when James let me in to collect the papers I needed relating to the management of our estates in Aylesbury, together with some money for the journey and sundry expenses when I arrived. I left for Buckinghamshire first thing on Sunday morning and have not been near the strongroom until my return just now, which you witnessed. There – am I in the clear?’ he added, his eyes flashing sarcasm.

‘That is not for me to say.’ I shrugged. ‘What time did you collect the papers on Saturday evening?’

‘Just before the disputation, I told you, so I suppose some time around half past four. I wanted to have everything in order for my journey the next day because I knew the dinner at Christ Church would end late and I did not want to have to disturb James when I returned.’ He flicked a brief glance then at Coverdale’s bizarre corpse and lowered his head.

I crossed the room back to the body with its protruding arrows and considered it again from various angles, touching my finger to the bloodstains on the shirt, which left a thick residue.

‘This body could well have been here since Saturday night,’ I said. ‘The blood is dry and the stiffness that sets in after death has already passed – he is beginning to rot. If the weather had been warmer the decay would be more advanced, we would not be able to breathe in this room. But I have remembered something – Doctor Coverdale was summoned early from the disputation, one of the students brought him an urgent message. I wonder then if he was lured back to his death.’

‘I do recall that he did not attend the dinner for the palatine that night,’ the rector murmured, ‘and I thought it strange because he had been looking forward to it – he likes to make an impression on men of state. Liked.’ He corrected himself quickly, shaking his head. ‘Oh, God in heaven!’ It was a cry of genuine anguish, though not, I felt, of grief for his colleague, and his voice rose to a frantic pitch. ‘You are right, Doctor Bruno, we shall not be able to keep the manner of this death secret. There will be a full investigation, the coroner and the magistrate will be called – the college will be ruined! I can think of several of our benefactors who will not want their names associated with a place of such iniquity – they will withdraw funds and give them to other foundations less blighted by evil deeds. This is truly the work of the Devil! To make a mockery of the Christian martyrs in such monstrous fashion.’ He buried his face in his hands and I thought for a moment he was sobbing, but he was only trying to master his breathing.

‘Well, it is the work of someone who can wield a longbow,’ I said pragmatically. ‘Though I think at this distance even I could hit a target that was tied to the wall and already dead, so we are not necessarily looking for someone with any great skill in archery. Whoever it was has staged this murder very carefully so that we would link it to the other.’

‘So that you would link it,’ said the rector. ‘Foxe, the false martyrdoms – this is your theory, Doctor Bruno.’

‘It was suggested to me by someone unknown,’ I reminded him.

‘Yes, don’t you see? That paper you showed me, cut from Foxe. This –’ he gestured wildly at the corpse in the corner – ‘has been done for your benefit, knowing that you would understand the reference.’ He stared at me incredulously, as if it were my theory that had delivered Coverdale to his fate.

‘But the killer could not have known that I would be around at this precise moment to witness the discovery,’ I objected. ‘Yet – it does seem that he wanted to make sure you would not miss the martyrdom reference this time and fail to make the connection with Roger Mercer’s death.’

‘So it must be the same person?’ The rector looked up at me, his eyes filled with anxiety.

‘Norris owns a razor, you know,’ Slythurst spoke up suddenly. ‘Shaves himself every day, if you please.’

I considered, rubbing my own beard.

‘A razor and a longbow. Someone is keen for the evidence to point to Norris, that seems clear.’

‘You think it could not be him?’ the rector asked, still looking up at me like a child craving reassurance.

‘From the little I know of Norris, I cannot believe he would commit so showy a murder and then leave behind a weapon that points directly to himself. Besides, what could be his motive?’

‘James hated the commoners, he was always railing against them. You heard him yourself at the rector’s supper,’ Slythurst said.

‘Hardly a reason for one of them to kill him,’ I retorted. ‘On the other hand, someone who bitterly resented the presence of commoners might think to kill two birds with one stone, as you English say – to despatch Doctor Coverdale for some reason yet unknown, and leave evidence incriminating Norris at the same time. There were marks on the staircase, footprints – if we had more light I could examine them, but I fear the rain will have washed away the trail outside by now.’

‘Walter – could you go down and ask Cobbett for a lantern? Doctor Bruno is right – we must look at the room carefully before we jump to any conclusions, and it is too dim. And a basin of water,’ the rector added. ‘We must wash that mark from the wall before the coroner is called.’

Slythurst’s eyes widened.

‘Surely, Rector, that mark is part of the evidence? It may have some significance – we should not tamper—’

‘Those are my instructions, Walter. Now please do as I ask.’

Slythurst looked from me to the rector with momentary outrage at being ordered like a servant, but unable to think of any reason for defiance, he turned on his heel and a moment later we heard his footsteps thundering down the stairs.

‘Doctor Bruno?’ With a great effort, Rector Underhill heaved himself to his feet and grasped me by both wrists. His bombast was all deflated and he looked old and frightened; I found I pitied him the scandal that would break in the wake of this second death. ‘You foresaw this, and I did not. I dismissed your theory about Foxe – it seemed to me preposterous, and it suited me to avoid damage to the college by allowing myself to be guided by others, James chief among them, in presenting Roger’s death as an accident. But I must humble myself and acknowledge that you were right – it seems a madman is targeting the Fellows in these horrible travesties of Christian martyrdom. Perhaps if James and I had not scoffed at your idea, he would not be dead.’

‘If it’s any consolation, Rector,’ I said, patting his hand gently, ‘I think Doctor Coverdale was already dead by the time you were ridiculing my theory on Saturday night. But I will say it again – someone in Lincoln College knows who did this. He is very likely one of your number.’

‘You are determined that it is the same killer?’ He was still grasping my sleeve.

‘It seems so.’

‘Then there may be more victims to come, unless he is stopped?’

‘I don’t know, Rector. Until we know why these two were made martyrs, we cannot predict this murderer’s intent, or what he hopes to gain by making his handiwork so ostentatious.’

‘Doctor Bruno …’ The rector’s voice cracked, and he hesitated, trying to breathe evenly. ‘I know the college cannot hope to keep this hidden from the world. But these murders will be the end of my rectorship – perhaps of the college. We are not as wealthy as some and if the benefactions dry up, the rich students will look elsewhere. And it is not just for myself that I fear, Doctor Bruno – what are the prospects for my daughter if I no longer have Leicester’s favour? Hm?’

He shook my arm with some force, as if this might extract a quicker answer.

‘Your daughter has her own qualities to recommend her, with or without the earl’s patronage.’

Underhill shook his head.

‘That is not how it works in society, as you must know. Among the good families of Oxford she is spoken of as ungovernable. It is only my standing with the earl that makes her any kind of prospect – without that, no respectable man will take her to wife. She should not be in such a place as this if her mother will not chaperone her, but I am a foolish, indulgent father and I cannot bear to send her away. Yet every day she spends in this college damages her reputation further.’ He took a deep breath and I saw that shock had forced all his emotions to the surface; I half expected him to break down weeping, but he gathered himself and continued, ‘The Earl of Leicester must hear this dreadful news, of course, but how much better it would go for us if he were not to learn of it until we could also present him with a murderer apprehended. Do you see?’

‘You must hope your coroner and magistrate work quickly then,’ I said, pretending not to guess at his meaning.

‘That is the thing – they do not. And they lack the subtlety to comprehend a crime of this nature. I fear they would blunder into corners of college life that would seem curious to all except men of learning, like ourselves. Whereas you …’ He let his implication hang in the air, regarding me with an expression of wary hope.

‘I, sir?’ I raised my eyebrows with exaggerated surprise. ‘A foreigner? A Catholic? A man reported to practise magic, who openly believes the Earth goes around the Sun?’

Underhill lowered his eyes, and released his grip on my arms.

‘I beg your forgiveness for my hasty words, Doctor Bruno. Fear breeds such prejudices, and we are a fearful nation in these times. And now fear visits us even in this sanctum of learning …’ His voice died away and he looked helplessly towards the far window, away from Coverdale’s corpse.

‘Are you asking my help in finding this killer?’ I said briskly.

He turned to me, a faint hope in his small watery eyes.

‘In ordinary circumstances, I would not think of imposing on a guest – but it seems this killer wants you involved. The paper you showed me – I thought someone was making sport with you, but with this –’ he raised a hand again behind him towards the body – ‘perhaps you can draw him out before there is any more blood spilled.’

‘Then you believe he will find more victims?’ I said, perhaps too sharply.

He turned to me and blinked rapidly, shaking his head.

‘I only meant – because it seems clear we are dealing with a fiend who is either possessed or mad—’

Just at that moment, there was a scrape and a dull thud from behind us; from the corner of my eye I glimpsed a sudden movement and whipped around to see Coverdale jerk and shift position. The rector shrieked and grabbed my arm again; I heard myself gasp, and for one hideous moment a cold dread washed through me as I wondered if he was not yet dead and had been hanging there in mortal agony all this time. But as I steadied my breathing and took a hesitant step forward, I realised that the knot in the rope holding him to the sconce had begun to slip.

‘It’s all right, Rector Underhill,’ I said gently. From the juddering of his clasped hands around my arm I could tell that he was experiencing his own delayed shock and could do with some of Cobbett’s strong ale himself. ‘It was only the rope. But we must take the body down.’

‘Why did he come here in only his underclothes?’ the rector wondered softly, still shaking his head as I helped him to sit again on the largest chest.

‘Well, it seems clear that he came up here under duress – perhaps his killer surprised him as he was changing,’ I offered, as something caught my eye by the window. Next to the longbow, a pile of black material had been neatly folded and placed on the floor. I walked over and picked it up; it was a long academic gown, its cut and trim indicating the degree of Doctor of Divinity, and it was stiff with dried blood, especially on the front and sleeves.

‘That is James’s own gown,’ Underhill said, turning away.

‘I think our killer must have put this on over his own clothes while he carried out the act,’ I mused. ‘I had wondered how someone could have walked away through the college with his clothes bespattered with such a quantity of blood as this killing must have made.’

Footsteps echoed on the stairs below and a moment later Slythurst appeared carrying a lantern. He glared at me briefly before handing it to the rector, who was still trembling and wringing his hands. I took the lantern before he had a chance to drop it and a brief smile flickered across his dry lips. The bursar appeared to interpret Underhill’s inertia as an invitation to assume responsibility for the situation.

‘We must, in the first instance, send for the coroner to remove this body so that the strongroom may be cleaned and returned to its proper purpose and the inquest can be carried out so that poor James may have a Christian burial. His family must be notified – I believe he has a brother in the Fens somewhere, is that not so, Rector?’ On receiving no answer, he continued as if he had not expected one: ‘And I think it would be politic when we announce the death to give out that he was attacked by an unknown thief trying to break into the strongroom – we do not want the students indulging in any more idle speculation.’ He shot me a warning glance.

‘That is wise, Walter,’ said the rector, turning his attention back to Slythurst with a distant, puzzled expression, as if he barely recognised him. ‘That will give you a little time in hand, won’t it, Bruno?’ He turned to me with the same look of vague anxiety.

Slythurst snapped his head around.

‘Time for what?’

‘Rector Underhill has asked me to look into the circumstances of the two deaths and see if I can find any connection,’ I said, returning his stare with a level gaze.

Slythurst’s face blanched with fury and his lips almost disappeared.

‘With the greatest respect, Rector,’ he stuttered, choked with indignation, ‘is that prudent? Doctor Bruno may have a lively imagination, but it can hardly be sensible to involve an outsider –’ he pronounced the word with icy scorn – ‘in a matter which so intimately affects the life of the college. What may come to light …’ He paused, eyeing me as a muscle twitched in his cheek, then changed tack. ‘Besides, he will be gone in a few days.’

‘He is already involved, Walter,’ the rector said sorrowfully. ‘Doctor Bruno received a communication relating to Roger Mercer’s death from someone who appears to know something – perhaps even the killer himself.’

‘Students playing pranks, surely,’ Slythurst snapped, his eyes darting from the rector to me with undisguised anger. ‘I would speak to you further about the wisdom of this, Rector – in private.’

Underhill nodded wearily.

‘We will speak, Walter, but first there is much to do and we must work together. Fetch the water – I will clean the wall myself. I want no trace of that left, and I trust that neither of you will mention it? Perhaps you could find a suitable messenger to take a letter to the coroner,’ he said to Slythurst. ‘I will go to my library now and write it. Doctor Bruno, how do you wish to proceed?’

I wished the rector had not mentioned my mysterious letter; I still did not trust Slythurst. We had only his word that he had collected his papers from the strongroom on Saturday evening before the disputation, and I was not sure how much his word was worth, after his deliberate lies over the searching of Roger Mercer’s room. If anyone had easy access to the sub-rector’s room and the tower strongroom, it was the bursar. Whatever my correspondent knew, the fewer people who learned that he – or she – had tried to share it with me, the better. And now the killer himself wanted this murder explicitly linked to the Catherine Wheel – and the rector wanted that link washed away. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. The one element that seemed clear was that Coverdale’s early exit from the disputation was a key to his murder.

‘I would like to find the student who delivered the message to Doctor Coverdale during the disputation, to find out what drew him back to college so urgently.’

Underhill nodded.

‘I will make enquiries. But I beg both of you – say nothing of this to the students until I have the chance to make an announcement at dinner. By then I will try to find a way to explain it with the least alarm – if that is possible.’

‘Before that, Rector Underhill,’ I added, ‘I think I should call on Gabriel Norris. If he delivered his bow and arrows to the strongroom as you commanded, we need to learn when, and whether Doctor Coverdale let him in. And I think you should go to your study, take a large glass of your strongest drink and gather your thoughts for a moment before you decide what to do next.’

‘It is a fine day when the rector of an Oxford college is told how he may proceed by an Italian papist,’ muttered Slythurst, but the rector coughed and looked embarrassed and grateful at the same time.

We descended the stairs gingerly, I leading the way with the lantern and pausing to examine the traces of bloody footprints still visible on the stone steps. Faint traces also remained on the floor of Coverdale’s rooms below, but otherwise both the main room and the adjoining bedchamber in the tower were neat and orderly. I crossed and examined the door that led out to the courtyard staircase.

‘The room was locked this morning when you arrived?’ I asked Slythurst again.

He snorted impatiently.

‘I have already told you that three times. I assumed James had gone out and I wanted to deposit the monies and deeds I had brought from Aylesbury so I borrowed the spare key from Cobbett and let myself in. What is it you are trying to imply, Doctor Bruno?’

‘Only that there is no sign of the door to the tower staircase or this main door to Doctor Coverdale’s room being forced,’ I said. ‘So he must have willingly admitted his killer – or been killed by someone already in possession of a key.’

Slythurst aimed at me a look of such venom then that I could easily believe him capable of murder. I turned to Underhill, his face painted in eerie shadows from the flickering light of the lantern.

‘The tower will need to be sealed until the body is removed in any case,’ I said. ‘If you post one of the college servants at the foot of the staircase, we will soon learn if anyone tries to go near it. The killer may try to come back, perhaps to look for something in the room. But I would like to have a look around myself, to see if the killer left any trace behind him.’

‘Yes. Yes, that seems sensible.’ The rector’s face was drawn and flustered. ‘I must send for the coroner. Walter – you are now the most senior official here under me, I will need your help in deciding what we tell the college community. Perhaps you could come with me to my lodgings? And tell Cobbett to set one of the kitchen men by the tower stairs.’

Slythurst nodded and scuttled off down the stairs to the porter’s lodge. Underhill turned back and I sensed something unspoken in the long look he gave me.

‘The arrows were shot after he died, you say?’

‘It is hard to tell, but I think the blood came mostly from the throat wound. If he was not yet dead, he was near it – I think he would not have been sensible of what was happening, if that is what you mean to ask.’

‘So it would have been quick?’ the rector asked, almost hopefully.

I hesitated, but decided it would be kinder not to dwell on the hacking I had seen at Coverdale’s neck. The coroner would find it out soon enough.

‘It was a terrible death, I will not pretend otherwise. But I have seen men with their throats cut before – they do not linger in this world.’

Underhill regarded me with his head on one side. The candle in the lantern was dying and the room enfolded in shadows again despite the early hour; it seemed to me that the smell of decay was rising from the tower stairs behind us.

‘You have lived a strange life for a philosopher, Doctor Bruno,’ he said softly. ‘Ours must seem a soft and sheltered life to you. I thought it was so, until this week. I have hidden here from the world, thinking an Oxford college a place of sanctuary. Now I have turned a blind eye for too long, and it will be the destruction of me and my family.’

‘Rector Underhill,’ I said, leaning in towards him, ‘if there is anything you know or suspect, anything at all that may have a bearing on these deaths, do not hide it. To what have you turned a blind eye?’

He glanced nervously over his shoulder to the door, a quick, rodent movement, then leaned in closer, his round face lit from beneath by the lantern.

‘Your friend, Sir Philip …’

‘What of him?’

‘He must not learn of this. You will promise me, Doctor Bruno, that you will not speak to him of what is happening within these walls? He is Leicester’s nephew, he would feel compelled to tell him all.’

At that moment footsteps echoed from below and Slythurst reappeared. Underhill shook his head at me tightly to warn me not to say anything further, then looked from me to the bursar apprehensively before turning to the door.

‘Walter?’

‘It occurs to me, Rector,’ Slythurst began, folding his hands together unctuously, ‘that if Doctor Bruno is to examine this room, it might be best if I help him. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, after all.’

‘Very well. But I have need of you, Walter – come to my lodgings as quickly as you can afterwards.’

He gave me a last, imploring look, before closing the door behind him. His footsteps echoed on the stairs as he descended to the courtyard with a heavy tread.

Slythurst crooked his head back and gave the room a cursory glance.

‘What is it you think you will find here, then?’

‘I had thought, Master Slythurst, that you would have a better idea than I of what a man might hope to find in this room,’ I said smoothly.

He turned to me then, his lips curled with undisguised contempt.

‘And I might well ask what you took from this room, Bruno, the last time you and I found ourselves here among a dead man’s things? What souvenir did you carry away then?’

‘I took nothing,’ I said mildly, but I turned my face away all the same and stepped towards the window. Rain drove hard against the pane, washing in rivulets down the glass, blurring the view.

‘Is that so?’ He spoke through his teeth now, and I heard him close at my shoulder. ‘You may have duped the rector into giving you his trust, Bruno, but I see you for what you are.’

‘And what is that?’ I asked, folding my arms across my chest as if I did not care one way or another.

‘You are one of those men who thinks himself gifted enough to live by charm and wit alone rather than by hard work. You seek to ingratiate yourself with men of high position so that you may live in the gilded shadow of their favours. You arrive here flaunting your fame and your patronage from courtiers and kings, but this is the University of Oxford, sir – we are not impressed with such baubles. And you will get no position here, no matter how much you seek to involve yourself in matters that are not your business.’ Spume had gathered at the corners of his lips by the end of this address and he paused to collect himself, his eyes still blazing with a hatred that surprised me with its force.

‘You think I am angling for a position here?’ I repeated, incredulous.

‘I do not see why else you would be seeking to make yourself indispensable to the rector by meddling in these deaths,’ he snapped back.

‘No – you would not see, because you could not imagine exerting yourself for any reason than your own immediate profit.’ Unfolding my arms, I stepped right across to him until I stood only a few inches from his face, daring him to look me straight in the eye. ‘Let me tell you something, Master Bursar. I was a fugitive in my own country for three years. I saw men murdered as casually as boys throw stones at birds, cut down for the shoes they wore or the few coins they carried, and I saw the law look the other way because it was too much effort to bring anyone to justice – because to the law, the dead men were as worthless as those who killed them, who would probably be killed tomorrow in their turn. And I believe that no man’s life is worth so little that, if it is ended by violence, the crime should be shrugged away and a murderer left unpunished. That is why I involve myself, Master Slythurst – it is called justice.’ The vehemence of my reply was at least equal to his, but although he took a step back, the look he fixed on me was subtly mocking and it was I who looked away first, conscious that all my high-minded words were so much hot air. My interest in finding this killer was above all to prove myself to Walsingham and the Earl of Leicester, because this was my first mission, and there would be reward and preferment if I were successful. ‘Let us return to the matter in hand,’ I said brusquely. ‘We are supposed to be holding one another accountable, after all.’

Though the room was neater than the last time I had been there, it had been left in a state of transition, and I felt a sudden pang of loss for James Coverdale, who had barely enjoyed one day as sub-rector before he met as grisly a fate as his predecessor. I had found little to like about the man, but it was a horrific death to have come knocking on the door of the room that he had coveted for so long, just as he was in the process of unpacking his belongings. Slythurst occupied himself straight away with the bundles of paper on Coverdale’s desk; I did not like this, as I guessed that any clue as to what had happened to Coverdale on Saturday night would probably be found among his documents, and I was about to suggest that we divide the work of looking through the desk, when I noticed a smudged bloodstain almost in the hearth.

Crouching to look closer, I saw that one brick in the fireplace, to the right of the hearth, was slightly out of alignment, protruding from the wall as if it were not joined by mortar. I was just able to grip its sides by my fingertips, though I did not have quite enough purchase to ease it from its place, and as my fingers slipped and I grazed my knuckles, I gave a small cry.

‘What have you there?’ Slythurst jerked his head up, dropping the book he had been perusing, and rushed to crouch at my side. I licked the blood from my scraped fingers and tried again. With some patience, I gently worked the brick from one side to the other, feeling it give a little more each time as it crunched against the bricks either side.

‘Come on, man!’ Slythurst muttered. ‘Shall I try?’

‘I have it,’ I snapped, and in a few moments the brick was free, revealing a dark cavity built into the side of the fireplace. I thrust in my hand and rummaged as far as I could, but all I felt was the brickwork at the back of the hole. ‘Nothing,’ I said, bitterly, sitting back on my heels.

‘Out of the way,’ Slythurst barked, elbowing me roughly to one side. His skinny arm seemed to disappear further into the recess, but though he seemed determined to prove me wrong, he too withdrew his hand empty. ‘Devil take him, that whoreson!’ he cursed, rubbing his knuckles.

‘Well, whoever came this time knew where to look,’ I said grimly, my knees cracking as I stood. ‘And it seems he found what he came for.’

‘To hell with it!’ Slythurst spat. He seemed to be taking the discovery of the empty hiding place as a personal injury. I wondered if the cavity in the fireplace had contained whatever Slythurst had been searching for after Roger Mercer’s death – it was not a large space but it could easily have concealed a bundle of letters or documents – and if his anger was therefore directed at himself for not having found it on his previous search. But this time there was no sign of a frenzied rummage through Coverdale’s belongings; whoever killed Coverdale had evidently known of the loose brick and moved straight to take whatever was hidden there, after first washing Coverdale’s blood from his hands. But this could only mean that whoever had searched the tower room before I arrived on Saturday morning, while Mercer was still in the garden being savaged by the dog, had not known of the hiding place, and was therefore not the same person who had killed Coverdale. Neither, by this reckoning, could it be Slythurst, unless he was a supremely skilled actor; he was, after all, the only other person who could legitimately demand a key to the sub-rector’s room and no one would be able to confirm or deny the precise time of his departure for Buckinghamshire, or his return.

Slythurst appeared impatient to leave; plainly he had decided that there was nothing more of use to be found.

‘I do not see what further purpose we achieve here,’ he muttered, moving towards the door and clinking the keys as if this were a signal that my time was up. ‘I am needed by the rector, and I must lock this room, so if you have done—’

‘Tell me, Master Slythurst,’ I said, ‘do you believe our killer has found whatever you yourself were hoping to find here after Roger Mercer’s death?’

The look he gave me dripped with contempt.

‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I did not take a key from a man’s pocket as he breathed his death rattle, like some,’ Slythurst said, his face very close to mine so that I could smell the sourness of his breath.

‘I only ask, because it would seem that two men have died for whatever was hidden in that hole, and I’m assuming you know what it was,’ I said.

‘One might think that would be warning enough to the over-curious,’ he replied, with a smile that cut through his thin face like wire. ‘I must go to the rector. You might do well to get on with finding the owner of the murder weapon. That would seem a useful place to start your enquiries, Doctor Bruno, since you have been good enough to offer the college your services.’

As I passed him in the doorway with a last look of disdain, I found myself fervently wishing that Slythurst would prove to be the killer so that I could have the enormous pleasure of seeing that sarcastic sneer wiped from his sallow face, and immediately tried to shake myself free of such dangerous prejudice.

At the foot of the staircase, a large stocky man with almost no neck stood blocking the archway through to the quadrangle; he started when he heard the noise behind him and his hand moved swiftly to his belt. I could not help smiling when I saw he carried some kind of kitchen fork there as a makeshift weapon; this, then, was the guard appointed to keep the tower sealed.

‘Peace, Dick,’ Slythurst said, holding up a hand. The man lowered his head deferentially and moved aside to let us pass into the rain that still fell in steady sheets, splashing from spreading puddles between the flagstones of the courtyard; I pulled my jerkin up around my ears and made to step out into the deluge when three students came running and laughing out of the adjacent staircase, holding their leather satchels over the heads against the weather. I recognised one of them as Lawrence Weston, the boy who had escorted me to the disputation on Saturday evening, and I reached out to accost him.

‘Master Weston, I wonder if I may ask your assistance?’ I began urgently. He looked somewhat taken aback, and I realised that in my haste I had grabbed hard on to the sleeve of his gown.

‘I will help if I can, Doctor Bruno,’ he said uneasily, for my manner clearly struck him as out of sorts. ‘Let us step out of the rain, though.’ He motioned me back into the shelter of the staircase he had just left. I noticed Slythurst watching our exchange with suspicion; when I caught his eye, he quickly pulled his gown around him and scuttled off towards the rector’s lodgings opposite.

‘There was a boy, a student,’ I said to Weston, once we were under shelter, ‘who delivered a message to Doctor Coverdale during the disputation on Saturday night, that caused him to leave immediately after he read it. Do you know who the boy was?’

‘How should I know, sir?’ he replied, perhaps sounding more ungracious than he had intended, for he then said, ‘I mean, I could ask around, if it is important.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, turning to leave. ‘There will be a shilling for you if you find him.’

Weston looked briefly impressed, and nodded before rejoining his friends. I braced myself to run into the courtyard.