Читать книгу Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege - S. J. Parris - Страница 25

The bell summoning the college to dinner at midday still clanged incessantly long after the Fellows and students had filed into the Great Hall, marking time over the susurration of urgent whispered conversations that betrayed the tension crackling in the atmosphere like the charge before a storm. Outside, the rain beat against the windows so hard that we had to raise our voices to make ourselves heard even to our neighbours.

I was disconcerted to find that a place had been saved for me at the High Table with the senior Fellows. Seated between Richard Godwyn, the librarian, and Slythurst, who made no effort to disguise his distaste at my presence among his colleagues, I could not help but be aware that the seat I occupied must surely have belonged to one of the two dead men.

The High Table was raised up on a low dais that gave me a vantage over the rest of the hall. It was a handsome room, its walls whitewashed and hung with tapestries in the French style of the last century that were clearly expensive work, though now grown somewhat faded with age. The hall was dominated by the open hearth that stood in the centre of the floor beneath an octagonal louvre set in the high timber roof, its beams blackened with soot, to allow the smoke to escape. Around the hearth was a wooden pale, wide enough for several people to sit on and warm themselves; either side of this, a long table had been set beneath the windows, where the undergraduates and junior Fellows now crammed themselves on to benches with frequent glances at the dais, murmuring among themselves about the rector’s drawn face and the second empty place at the High Table.

A skinny young man with unkempt red hair, dressed in a gown several sizes too large for him, mounted the lectern that stood beside the High Table and in a voice surprisingly sonorous for his slight frame, began to pronounce Grace. I recognised him as the boy I had watched clearing away the appurtenances of Matins in the chapel the previous day. The solemn tolling of the bell was silenced just as he opened his mouth.

‘Benignissime Pater, qui providentia tua regis,’ he began, as the rector dutifully bowed his head and clasped his hands and the rest of the senior Fellows followed suit. From beneath lowered lids, I noticed that most of the undergraduates were still watching the High Table with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. ‘Liberalitate pascis et benedictione conservas omnia quae creaveris,’ the boy continued, and I noticed with a sudden pitch of relief that Gabriel Norris was seated at the head of one of the long tables among a clutch of other young men whose quality and cut of dress marked them out as separate from their fellow scholars. I did not take seriously Slythurst’s suggestion that the instruments of murder pointed to Norris as the killer – it seemed to me rather that the use of his longbow implied his innocence, but at least now I would have the chance to speak to him after the meal. He continued to stare resolutely ahead of him, as if the deference of bowing his head in prayer would be beneath his dignity and it occurred to me that there was something altered in his appearance, though I could not quite put my finger on what it might be. On the far side of the other table, I spotted Thomas Allen, head bent so far that his nose almost touched the table, the clasped hands in front of his face gripping one another so tightly that the knuckles were bone-white.

‘Per lesum Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen,’ finished the red-haired boy, and a muttered ‘Amen’ echoed in response from the tables. The rector rose heavily to his feet and a wary silence settled over the hall.

‘Gentlemen,’ Rector Underhill began, his voice drained of its usual bombast, ‘in the life of every Christian man there come times when God, in His divine and infinite wisdom, sees fit to test our poor faith with hardships and sorrows. Just so, in the life of our little Christian community, He has chosen these days to send us painful trials, the better to anchor our faith in His Providence.’ He took a deep breath and folded his hands together in front of him in an attitude of humility. ‘It grieves me to inform you, gentlemen, so soon after the terrible accident that took the life of our dear sub-rector Doctor Mercer, that a second tragedy has intruded on our poor society. Doctor James Coverdale has been mortally wounded, it would seem in defending the college strongroom from violent robbers.’

He lowered his head; there was a moment’s pause before a rumble of whispered speculation erupted into the stillness. The rector did not try to silence them; rather, he waited until the first wave of shock and disbelief had played itself out, then raised a hand, which he held aloft until the murmuring subsided.

‘Wagers on who’ll be brave enough to be sub-rector next?’ Norris whispered to his friend, just loud enough for his voice to carry, and a ripple of tense laughter spread around the undergraduates’ tables. The rector cleared his throat sternly.

‘If anyone saw anything over the weekend that might have some bearing on this horrible act or could lead to the apprehension of these evil perpetrators, you may leave word at my lodgings,’ he announced.

Norris turned back to the rector and raised a hand.

‘Rector Underhill – may we know how much was taken from the strongroom?’

The well-dressed young men among whom he sat nodded urgently; I wondered if the gentlemen commoners kept their own private wealth there too under lock and key.

The rector hesitated for a moment.

‘Ah – well – it seems that nothing was actually taken, as far as we can tell. It must be that the altercation with Doctor Coverdale frightened the thieves and caused them to take flight.’

‘An odd sort of robbery, then,’ Norris observed, his words weighted carefully. ‘To take a man’s life, all for nothing.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ said the rector solemnly. ‘A terrible waste.’

The meal passed largely in silence among those of us at the High Table, though there was no lack of fevered hypotheses being aired among the junior men seated below us. On my right, Master Godwyn kept his eyes fixed on his plate and said almost nothing, but I noticed that when he lifted his tankard to drink, his hand was trembling like a man with palsy. Slythurst, on my left, occasionally put down his knife to comment between mouthfuls on the lax security that he believed had led to the deaths of his colleagues, as if he did not know very well that in both instances the killer had gained access with a key.

‘The college should have a proper watchman on the gate,’ he opined loudly, through a mouthful of bread. ‘Cobbett is too old and too drunk to be of any use – why, a whole company of armed militia could march straight past his window and he wouldn’t notice. As for that aged mutt of his – the college needs a proper guard dog, trained to deter intruders. And the main gate should be locked at all times, so that only those with a key can be admitted.’

‘I think, Walter, that a vicious dog is probably not what the college needs at this time,’ Godwyn said wearily, raising his head for a moment. ‘And we are a community of scholars, not a prison. We cannot lock the world out nor our young men in. Besides, think of the expense in issuing all the undergraduates with keys to the main gate.’ He shook his head and seemed to retreat inwards to his own thoughts again.

‘Master Slythurst, as bursar you must be frequently burdened with the task of having new keys cut for the various locks about the college?’ I said pleasantly, attempting to cut into a slice of boiled mutton.

Slythurst flashed me a furious sideways glance, as if to let me know that he divined my implication, but in the hearing of the other Fellows, he merely said,

‘Indeed. It is a considerable expense – people are forever losing or breaking them.’

‘And must this onerous duty always fall to you, or do you sometimes charge others with the errand of visiting the locksmith?’ I continued, in the same innocent tone.

‘It is a duty I undertake myself,’ he replied, his voice tighter now. ‘Where the security of the college is concerned, one cannot be too careful.’

‘And sometimes, perhaps, it is necessary to make extra copies of keys to certain doors, to keep some in hand against future losses?’ I reached out for the jug of beer.

Slythurst scraped his chair back and rose abruptly.

‘If you have something you mean to ask of me, Doctor Bruno,’ he said, through his teeth, ‘have the courtesy to speak frankly. But at least show some discretion – or do you believe you are now made Inquisitor over us?’ He turned to his left to include the rector in his furious glare, then pushed roughly behind my chair and, without looking back, strode out of the hall in majestic offence, his gown sweeping behind him. The whispering at the lower tables ceased while intrigued eyes followed Slythurst’s progress to the door, before a fresh wave of huddled conversation rippled through their midst.

‘What has stung him?’ Richard Godwyn asked, looking up from his meat at Slythurst’s brusque departure.

‘Perhaps he is distressed by the tragic news,’ I suggested.

Godwyn blinked.

‘Who can tell? Men are harder to read than books. Perhaps Walter is plagued by remorse.’

‘Remorse?’ I asked, concentrating on my plate so as not to betray my interest.

‘He and James detested one another,’ Godwyn confided, his voice low. ‘So perhaps, now that James has died so terribly, Walter regrets the words he can never take back.’

‘Why did they hate one another?’

Godwyn sighed and shook his head sadly.

‘I never knew. I had the impression that each knew something damaging about the other, and that they were somehow unwillingly bound to one another in secrecy. But of course it is always dangerous to make such a pact with an enemy.’

‘Could it be something to do with land leases?’ I asked, remembering suddenly the aborted conversation at the rector’s dinner on my first night, when Coverdale had insinuated that the bursar was implicated in the rector’s deals with Leicester to give away valuable revenues. ‘Perhaps Doctor Coverdale knew of some corrupt scheme of that kind?’

Godwyn only turned his large, sad eyes on me slowly.

‘I suppose that is possible. I do know that James thought he had reason to distrust Walter – sufficiently to try and persuade the rector that he should not continue in his position.’

‘Coverdale had tried to get rid of Slythurst?’ I whispered, leaning as far away from the rector as I could.

‘He told the rector he did not think Walter trustworthy – I know this only because the rector came to ask me my opinion of him. I said I had never found any warmth in the man, but I had no reason to believe he was failing in his duties.’

‘And that was Coverdale’s suspicion – that he should not be trusted with the college funds?’

‘I presume so,’ Godwyn said innocently. ‘I cannot think what else it might have been.’

‘Something to do with his religion, perhaps?’

Godwyn laid a warning hand on my arm then. ‘Some questions are best left unspoken, Doctor Bruno. I have no reason to believe Walter Slythurst is anything other than loyal to the English Church. But in any case, he is safe now – the dead take their secrets with them.’ He raised his head to the window for a moment, then turned to me, laying down his knife, and dropped his voice even further. ‘But this story of robbers in the strongroom – it troubles me greatly.’

‘You do not believe it?’

‘With anyone else it could be believed, but James, you see – I would not wish to speak ill of a late colleague, but anyone who knew James would tell you he was the most terrible coward. He was the very last man on earth who would take it upon himself to tackle armed thieves single-handed. This is why it seems so – strange.’

‘What is your explanation?’ I asked, bending my head closer to his.

‘I do not know,’ he said warily. ‘But that is two of us dead in as many days. It is enough to make one afraid.’

I was about to ask who he meant by ‘us’, when William Bernard leaned around from Godwyn’s right and fixed me with his watery eyes.

‘You ask a great many questions, Doctor Bruno.’

‘Two tragedies in two days, Doctor Bernard – such coincidences provoke many questions, do you not think?’ I replied.

‘It is obvious. God is punishing the college for her perfidy in religion. He will not be mocked,’ Bernard said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

‘You mean to imply that Doctor Coverdale needed to be punished?’

Bernard’s eyes lit up with anger.

‘I imply no such thing, sorcerer. Only that we are all suffering the wrath of God for our disobedience. He is pouring out his judgement upon us, and who can say where His justice will fall next?’

‘Where do you predict, Doctor Bernard?’ I said, leaning closer.

‘Enough questions!’ Bernard said, banging his bony fist hard on the table so that ale sloshed over the rim of his cup.

‘William,’ Godwyn said, laying his hand over Bernard’s, his tone placatory. Bernard shook him off angrily and retreated into simmering silence.

The rector leaned across on my left, his brow creased.

‘Discretion is all, Bruno.’ His anxious glance took in the animated talk of the young men at the lower tables. ‘Speak to them away from the students. Let us give them no further cause for gossip. The worst of this must be contained for as long as possible.’

He waved a hand then to his right, and the red-haired boy once again mounted the lectern to read a passage from the great copy of the Bishop’s Bible tethered there by its brass chain. The lesson was from Ezekiel, but the boy’s declamation did little to dampen the conversation among the students; though I could not make out individual discussions, from the pitch of their voices and the brightness of their eyes, it was clear that a second violent death in the college had occasioned more excitement than dread.

After the meal, as the students began to file out, breaching all etiquette I leapt to my feet and pushed my way through to catch up with Gabriel Norris, who was calling out to Thomas Allen to wait for him outside. Norris had just passed through the hall door into the narrow passageway to the courtyard when I reached out and clapped him between the shoulder blades. He gave a sharp howl of pain – quite disproportionate, I thought, since I had only struck him with the flat of my hand, but when he turned I saw that his jaw was clenched tightly as if he were biting back further exclamation. I laid a hand on his arm.

‘Forgive me – I did not mean to startle you.’

‘Doctor Bruno!’ he said, exhaling with forced calm before removing his arm and fastidiously brushing the silk of his sleeve in case I had marked it. ‘What must you think of our college – it is becoming quite the charnel-house, is it not? At least you and I cannot blame ourselves for failing to save this life, eh – they have taken my bow, in any case, so I could not have played the hero again. And what weather!’ he added, with the same inflection, as if the rain and Coverdale’s murder were alike examples of everyday vexations. It was then that I realised why he looked different; he appeared to be growing a beard. At least, his handsome face bristled with the growth of a couple of days; fair as he was, his beard grew darker and would soon be thick and full.

‘You are growing a beard, Master Norris?’ I observed.

‘Well, not on purpose,’ he said with irritation, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin. ‘But I have not been able to find my razor these past two days, and I will not trust my chin again to the college barber. He has the finesse to take off a limb on the battlefield, which I believe is where he had his training, but I allowed him to shave me once and I nearly came away without my nose. What say you, Doctor Bruno – will a beard suit me? It looks well enough on you, but you are dark—’

‘It is unlucky that you have lost your razor, Master Norris, just after you had Thomas sharpen it for you,’ I said evenly, cutting off his prattling. Immediately I felt him tense beside me. When he spoke, his voice was harder, as if he had dropped his dandyish air.

‘What? Is that a crime now? And what business is it of yours?’ He took a step closer so that his face was inches from mine, and there was quiet menace in his voice.

‘Peace, Master Norris. I am only enquiring for the rector who might keep weapons in college.’

‘A razor is not a weapon,’ he said scornfully, then stared at me then for a long moment, and suddenly a light of understanding dawned on his face; he let go of my clothes, still staring but now as if he were looking beyond me, as if an explanation only he could read were inscribed on the wall over my shoulder. ‘Do you mean to say Coverdale was killed with such a weapon?’

When I did not answer, he nodded, his face suddenly hard.

‘I see. And you have been questioning Thomas about my razor,’ he said, his eyes narrowed. ‘Well, then, I must speak to Thomas. You may find me in my room later, Bruno, I do not have time to spare now,’ he said, dismissing me with a terse nod before bending his head into the rain to cross the courtyard. I was about to follow him when I felt a hand on my own sleeve and turned impatiently to find Lawrence Weston behind me with an eager gleam in his eye. Beside him stood the red-haired boy who had read the lesson at dinner.

‘I said I would find him for you, Doctor Bruno, and so I have,’ Weston said, with a note of triumph. ‘It was Ned, the bible-clerk.’ He elbowed the skinny boy forward. I looked blankly from Weston to his friend.

‘What was?’ I asked.

‘Ned,’ Weston said again, impatiently. ‘Who brought the message to Doctor Coverdale during the disputation. You promised me a shilling,’ he added accusingly, as if I had already tried to cheat him.

‘So I did,’ I said, reaching for the purse at my belt. Ned’s freckled face stretched in indignation.

‘Why should you have a shilling, Weston,’ he protested, ‘when you don’t know a thing about the business?’

‘You shall have a shilling too,’ I said, to soothe him, wishing I had learned more about the value of these English coins before I started handing them out so freely; I had a feeling I may have set my price too high. ‘Well, then? Who asked you to take the message to Doctor Coverdale on Saturday night, to draw him out of the disputation early?’

I realised that in my anticipation I had grasped the boy’s shoulders and was half shaking him. He regarded me with a puzzled frown.

‘Well – he did, sir. Doctor Coverdale, I mean.’

‘What? That makes no sense.’

Ned shrugged.

‘That’s all I know, sir. Before we left college on Saturday night, he cornered me and gave me a groat – he is not so generous as you, sir … I mean, was not – to call him out of the disputation halfway through, on the pretence of an urgent message.’

‘Did he say why?’

Ned shook his head.

‘Only that he had to return to college early but he needed an excuse to walk out.’

‘He did not say if he was meeting someone?’

Ned wriggled impatiently under my hands.

‘He said nothing else, sir. I took my groat and did as I was bid, and that was all I knew of it until just now.’ Suddenly his eyes grew large with the drama of the event. ‘Do you think that’s when they got him, sir, when he came back to college early?’

‘You didn’t see if he met anyone outside the Divinity School after you gave him the message? A man with no ears, perhaps?’

‘No, sir, but I know the man you mean,’ Ned said, his freckled face lighting up as if he had answered a difficult examination question. ‘But it was Master Godwyn was meeting him outside the Divinity School, not Doctor Coverdale.’

‘Godwyn?’ I repeated, uncomprehending.

‘Yes, I saw him meet the man you mean, the bookseller Jenkes, outside the Divinity School while I was waiting to give the false message to Doctor Coverdale. But then I followed Doctor Coverdale all the way back to college after that. I thought I’d take the chance to skip off early myself – no offence, sir,’ he added, looking suddenly guilty; I shook my head briefly.

‘You missed nothing, I assure you. But Coverdale – you saw him go straight to his room?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s to say, I saw him going into his staircase.’

‘And you saw nothing else unusual? No one abroad in the college?’

‘No, sir. Only—’

‘What?’ I asked, my voice rising higher as I shook him urgently.

‘Well – I have a room above the library, as I have serving duties there and in the chapel. It’s how I pay for my studies, sir,’ he explained, a little sheepishly. ‘Well, as I was climbing the stairs to my room, I heard voices from behind the door.’

‘In the library? Whose voices?’

‘I don’t know, but I heard a man’s voice raised as if he was angry. I couldn’t catch the words, though. I just crept past the landing up to my attic as quiet as I could, but they must have heard my tread on the stairs because they fell silent for a moment. Then when I heard the library door close a few minutes later, I tried to look down from my window into the quad to see who it was so I could report them to Master Godwyn.’

‘Could it have been Master Godwyn himself, returned early?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. They both had cloaks on with hoods up, so I couldn’t tell.’ He shrugged, as if it was of no great interest.

‘Thank you, Ned.’

Defeated, I let go of his shoulders and rummaged again in my purse for another shilling. Next time I needed information, I thought, I would remember to make it a groat. Ned snatched it gladly and grinned; as his fist closed around it, I glanced across the courtyard to see Slythurst emerging from the stairway that led to the library and chapel. He shot me a look of pure loathing and hurried through the curtain of rain in the direction of the rector’s lodgings. So Godwyn had also left the disputation early, in order to meet Jenkes. Could they have returned to the college together in search of Coverdale? Or might they have had other business in the library, perhaps involving those illegal books?

People continued to shove and press around us as they peered out into the courtyard, trying to decide whether to wait for the rain to ease. I braced myself and skittered across the courtyard into the downpour, weaving around the dispersing crowd of students. Under the tower archway, a small crowd had gathered to watch with interest the arrival of three men in long cloaks and tricorn hats, shaking the water from their shoulders. One carried an official-looking staff with a brass carved head, and I supposed these must be the constables and the coroner, come to retrieve the body. Rector Underhill stood behind them, twisting his hands fretfully while Slythurst tried to keep the undergraduates at bay. I wondered if the rector would tell the coroner about the martyrdom of St Sebastian, or leave him to draw his own conclusions.

‘Dio buono, amico mio – what a day!’ exclaimed a voice behind me. I turned to see John Florio pulling a cloak tightly around his shoulders as if preparing to brave the weather. ‘You never saw rain like this in Naples, I’ll wager?’

‘Not even Noah saw rain like this,’ I replied grimly, casting a glance heavenwards.

‘Are you going out?’ he said, taking my arm and fixing me with an oddly expectant look as I followed him through the gate into St Mildred’s Lane. ‘Perhaps we could walk together,’ he went on eagerly, without waiting for an answer, ‘I am headed for Catte Street to enquire after some French books I have ordered from a dealer there, and I must say, I will be glad to get away from the college even for an hour, despite this weather. This dreadful attack has left us all quite shaken. Why don’t you come with me? His shop would interest you, I think – his real trade is bookbinding, but he has good contacts with printers in France and the Low Countries and there are often interesting imports to be found, obscure texts that you won’t find elsewhere, if you can tolerate the man himself.’

We fell into step through the filthy streets, Florio speculating wildly in Italian about the assault on Coverdale, gesticulating with his hands as he talked, while I nodded and murmured agreement in the few pauses he left to draw breath. At the corner of St John Street and Catte Street, I suddenly heard shouting and peals of coarse laughter rang out across the street; we both turned to see a gang of apprentice boys by the Smythgate jostling one another and pointing in delight, jeering and calling out insults. Florio steered me by the elbow away from them as they yelled, ‘Papist whoresons! Get out of England!’

‘Ignore them,’ Florio muttered, quickening his pace as one of the boys reached down to throw a stone and another spat in our direction. They followed us for a few paces but did not have the nerve for more than shouting and eventually grew bored with their baiting.

‘They are not over-fond of foreigners here,’ I observed as we ducked gratefully into the scant shelter of the overhanging upper storeys of the houses in Catte Street. Florio gave me a rueful glance.

‘It is an excuse to make trouble. To the ignorant, all foreigners are Catholics who want to slaughter them in their beds. I live with this all the time, and I was born here. Forget about it, amico mio. Look, we are almost here.’

‘What is this book dealer’s name?’ I asked, though I had already guessed.

‘Rowland Jenkes,’ Florio called over his shoulder, since there was not room for us to walk two abreast and still have the meagre respite offered by the eaves. ‘You will hear of him before long, I’m sure. He is greatly reviled in the town – they call him a necromancer – but you know how people gossip. Jenkes will find you books that could not be had without travelling to France yourself – and that is of particular value to me. There are those who would not step foot in his shop and will spread malicious talk about any Fellow who does, but I try to close my ears to all that. I have enough trouble here already as un inglese italianato, as you have seen. Here we are,’ he finished, pointing to the low shop front where I had seen William Bernard and Jenkes enter the day before. The shutters were open now, but the windows looked no less dark and forbidding.

Florio hesitated, then laid a hand on my arm.

‘Forgive me, but before we go in, I must ask you, Doctor Bruno, if you read my note?’ he whispered, his eyes bright with urgency and apprehension.

I stared at him, speechless.

‘Your note?’

‘Yes. I left you a note. Did you not receive it?’

‘Well – yes, but – I did not realise it came from you.’ I was still looking at him with incredulity; if the mysterious letter had come from Florio after all, it could only mean that he had vital information about the killings. Why, then, had he not told someone in authority what he knew? Then I remembered what Thomas Allen had said about the rumours of a government spy in the college; Florio, with his languages and his high-born contacts, would be just the sort of man Walsingham might make use of. Perhaps, then, he was afraid to reveal his cover and had been waiting until he could make contact with Sidney and me. I continued to stare at him, waiting for some further clarification. He looked slightly perplexed.

‘Oh. I had thought it would be clear, for obvious reasons. I am sorry for any confusion.’

‘But, Florio,’ I said, clutching his arm and drawing him in closer; the water from the overhanging timbers above cascaded in sheets to the sodden ground and I had to raise my voice to be heard. ‘Why did you not come and speak to me about this in person?’

He lowered his eyes as if abashed.

‘It is a delicate matter, Doctor Bruno – I thought it best that I approach it in a more formal manner. One must observe propriety in such things.’

‘Propriety be damned, Florio – two men have died and there may be more to follow!’

He looked at first startled, then his expression turned quickly to fear.

‘But, Bruno – you think there will be more deaths? What makes you say so?’

‘We cannot know, until we learn what links these two victims and discover the killer’s motive – do you not agree? And there I think you have something to tell that could illuminate the matter, am I right?’

Florio stared at me then with a look of utter incomprehension, but before he could reply, the door beside us opened and Rowland Jenkes stood on the threshold of his shop, surveying us with his habitual expression of amused detachment.

‘Buongiorno, signori,’ he said, in that sly, educated accent that so belied his ravaged face, while effecting a little bow that I took to be sarcastic. ‘Not the weather to be standing out of doors, Master Florio. Please, come in, and bring your friend.’ He moved backwards and made a grandiose gesture with his arm to usher us in. Florio looked at me for a moment longer, then lowered his dripping cloak and stepped inside.