Giordano Bruno 03 - Sacrilege

by S. J. Parris

  “I quite understand—murder is no small matter. Though I suppose that is a hazard of being a magistrate,” I said, conversationally, as I watched him measure a quantity of dried leaves in his little scales. “The family of some felon he had convicted, out for revenge, I guess.”

  “Ah, not in this case,” Fitch said, leaning closer over the bench, his eyes bright. “It was the wife—all of Canterbury knows it. She ran away the very same day and took a good deal of his money too.”

  “Really? What reason would she have to kill him?”

  He put his head on one side and looked at me oddly, then gave a bleat of laughter.

  “From that remark, I deduce you have no wife, signor.” He laughed again at his own joke, then shrugged. “They say she had a lover, but then they always like to say that. Pretty thing, she was. But she’s led the law a merry dance, I can tell you—they’ve had the hue and cry out for her since it happened, but they can’t find so much as a hair of her head. No, she’s long gone—over the water, if she’s any sense.” He grinned, as if delighted by the audacity of the crime. “Now—do you want to take the leaves as they are or shall I make you up an infusion while you’re here? If you take it here, I’ll add a few fennel seeds—good against cramps of the gut. I have some spring water heating in the back room, it won’t take a moment.”

  “Thank you, I’d be grateful,” I said, thinking that the man’s evident love of gossip could prove useful. He emptied the mint leaves into a small dish and disappeared through the door into the back of the shop. I wiped a trickle of sweat from my temples with the sleeve of my shirt and waited. Eventually he emerged carrying an earthenware beaker wrapped in a cloth.

  “Careful, it’s hot. That’s sixpence for the whole—I haven’t charged you for the water,” he added.

  I fished in my purse for the appropriate coin, which he examined closely, holding it up to the light.

  “No offence,” he said, seeing me watching, “but we get all sorts of foreign types passing through from the Kentish ports, and I can’t trade with their coins. Not that I have anything against you lot, though many do. I like variety—keeps life interesting, doesn’t it?” He tucked the coin into a moneybag at his belt. “I’d have liked to travel myself, if I’d had the means.” He reached to a shelf under the bench and produced a large ledger, which he opened and thumbed through to the current page. Dipping the pen in the ink, he recorded the transaction meticulously. “May I take your name?”

  “My name?”

  I must have reacted more suspiciously than I intended, because he looked taken aback.

  “Just for my shop records, signor. Helps me to remember what was sold and when, in case of any shortfall. I’ve a dreadful memory, you see.” He tapped the side of his head and offered an encouraging smile.

  “Oh.” I hesitated. “Savolino.”

  Beside the amount received he dutifully inscribed “Savolino,” then glanced up and smiled again, as if to prove to me that this had had no ill effect.

  “Did they ever find the lover?” I asked, sipping at the steaming cup. The concoction smelled refreshing and tasted pleasant enough, though the heat made more beads of sweat stand out on my face.

  “Well.” He folded his arms and leaned against the bench as if settling in for the tale. “The son made a great noise, pointing his finger hither and yon, but nothing came of it. If he had a better character himself, his accusations might have stuck, but he’s been in so much trouble, that one, it was only ever his father’s money and position that kept him safe from the law. He’s not respected in the town. You couldn’t keep Master Nicholas Kingsley out of the Three Tuns long enough to notice what was going on under his own roof. Supposed to be studying the law himself, he was, up in London—well, that was a good joke. He was thrown out of his studies for drink and brawling. Ended up back here doing exactly the same at his father’s expense, God rest him.”

  I drained the beaker. “It must have been a sore disappointment to his father.”

  “Well, they always were an odd family,” Fitch said, squinting into the middle distance where spirals of dust eddied in the sunlight, as if trying to remember something.

  “How so?”

  He shook his head dismissively. “Ah, goodwives’ gossip, most of it. His first wife was wealthy—she died of an ague, oh, ten years back. People whispered, as they always will, that he’d done her in, though as far as I know they had no reason to say so. But then maybe a year later he hired a maidservant, Sarah Garth, young girl from the town, and she’d not been there more than a few months when she took sick and died as well.”

  “Sickness is common enough everywhere, is it not?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

  “Aye, of course, but folk found it strange that neither Sir Edward nor his son took ill with whatever she had. Still—in his defence, he brought in Doctor Sykes to treat the girl at his own expense. But they’ve taken no servants from that day to this, except their old housekeeper, Meg Turner. And there’s another thing.” He leaned farther across the bench and lowered his voice. “My late wife’s niece, Rebecca, she helps out Mistress Blunt on her stall at the bread market.”

  He paused for effect; I bent towards him and nodded conspiratorially, as if I were quite familiar with the relationships of all these people.

  “Not more than six months past, Rebecca was asked to run an errand, take a package of bread out to Sir Edward Kingsley’s house—you know, the old priory out past the North Gate.”

  “I don’t know it, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, he leased the prior’s house of St. Gregory’s as was. Grand old building—the only bit of the priory left standing now, apart from the burial ground. Anyhow, she was walking through the graveyard to the door, and that’s where she heard it.”

  “Heard what?”

  “A dreadful cry.” He gazed at me solemnly to let his words take effect. “She’ll swear to it—freeze your blood, she says. So frightened, she was, she dropped the bread and ran all the way back to the Blunts’ shop.”

  My chest tightened; surely it could only have been Sophia, crying out as her husband administered one of his beatings. Again I pictured it, and the stoical, dull-eyed expression on her face when she related the story. I made an effort to unclench my jaw.

  “A woman screaming, was it?”

  “No.” He held up a forefinger as if to admonish me. “That’s just it—she said it wasn’t like any human sound she’d heard. When she told the story, she was fairly shaking for pity. Well, of course, the graves are still there, so you can imagine how a young girl’s imagination runs wild. She said the noise came from beneath her feet, from the very graves themselves.” He smiled indulgently. “Anyhow, she wouldn’t set foot near the place again. Mind you, nor will any other maid in Canterbury since Master Nicholas came back from London—he’ll do his best to grope any woman he can get his hands on, even in broad daylight.” He frowned in disgust and I mirrored his expression in sympathy.

  “Though he is a rich man now, I suppose, with his father dead. Some woman might be glad of his attentions eventually,” I ventured.

  “Ha! He’s not got a penny till his father’s last testament is sorted out,” Fitch said, as if pleased by the justice of this. “Sir Edward had lately changed his bequests, but I understand nothing can be cleared up until the wife is found and tried, since she is one of the beneficiaries. Naturally, if she’s proved guilty, it’s all forfeit to Master Nicholas, but the law must take its course.” He rolled his eyes; I smiled in solidarity. If there is one thing that can unite men from all walks of life and all countries, it is a shared contempt of lawyers.

  “You are very well informed, Master Fitch, I must say.” I half turned, reluctantly sensing that I could not prolong my visit much further.

  “Everyone gets sick, Signor Savolino,” he said sagely. “Rich or poor—everyone in this city, or their servants, has to pass through my door at some point, like it or no. So there’s not much goes on that I don’t get to hear ab
out.” He tapped his nose and gave me a knowing wink.

  I laughed, but his words made me uneasy. Was he implying something? The apothecary may prove a rich source of gossip, but it did not take much wit to realise that, if I were to stay in Canterbury, in a very short time he would make me his business too. I wondered what more he might know and whether his stores of knowledge were for sale to the right bidder.

  I was about to bid him good day when the street door was flung open to admit a broad man dressed in the long robe of a physician, tied up at the collar despite the heat. Over his mouth and nose he wore a mask with a curved protuberance like the beak of an exotic bird, like a character in the commedia. Above the mask his eyes were small and beady; they rested on me with an air of suspicion.

  After staring at me for a few moments, he turned to the apothecary and pulled the mask down to reveal a heavily jowled face glistening in the light.

  “Fitch, I expected you after dinner, did you not get my message? I sent a boy this morning.” He gave me a brisk nod as he swept past and leaned his considerable bulk over the counter.

  “Very good, Doctor Sykes,” the apothecary said, unruffled, inclining his head in a gesture of deference. “We were just talking about you. Still wearing your defence against the plague, then?”

  The doctor narrowed his eyes, unsure if he was being mocked. “Well, I am not dead of it yet. Aromatic herbs,” he said, for my benefit, pointing to his beak. “Keeps the plague miasma at bay. William, I must speak business with you.” He tapped on the ware bench, his voice impatient. “In private.”

  “I have not forgotten, Doctor Sykes—just let me finish up with my customer. I was telling our Italian visitor here how many prominent citizens you attend in Canterbury, and how your services are so much in demand.”

  Sykes turned to look me full in the face at this, peering closer as if he were shortsighted. The ring of fat between his jaw and his collar protruded as he did so, putting me in mind of a toad puffing out its throat.

  “Quite so. Which is why I do not have time to stand about in idle chatter. Italian, you say? What brings you to Canterbury? Do you have friends here?”

  “I stay with Doctor Harry Robinson at the cathedral. We have friends in common and I wished to see your beautiful city.”

  Sykes squinted, nodding. “Ah, yes, Harry. Well, you are welcome to Canterbury, sir. And now, if you would excuse us. Fitch—close the shop behind this gentleman, would you, while we go inside?” He gave me an oily smile.

  Fitch hurried to obey, ushering me towards the door with an apologetic gesture.

  “Come back first thing tomorrow, signor, if your stomach is not cured.” He held the door for me, with another of his jerky little bows. “I will offer again my tonic and you won’t regret it, I swear.”

  “Thank you—I may take you up on that,” I said, with every intention of revisiting the talkative apothecary as soon as possible.

  As I stepped back into the dust and bustle of the street I heard Sykes hissing, “Who was that?”

  Chapter 6

  I took a narrow road leading off the High Street in the direction of the cathedral tower, keeping my kerchief tied close around the lower half of my face in the hope of avoiding too much attention. As I walked, I glanced about me as unobtrusively as I could. Now that Fitch had mentioned the presence of the constables I felt even more conscious of how oddly I must stand out. Where the street opened into a small market square with a stone cross in its centre, I noticed a ginger-haired man in dark breeches and doublet loitering with an air of purpose, restless eyes flitting from right to left along the streets branching away from the square, hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Was this one of the parish constables? Behind him, incongruous between two ordinary-looking houses, rose a great gatehouse with two octagonal towers four storeys high, built of pale stone intricately carved in the perpendicular style, a row of escutcheons and Tudor emblems painted in bold heraldic colours spanning the width of it above the gateway. Through the larger of the two open doors, a central arch high enough to admit horses and carts, I glimpsed for the first time the precincts of the famous cathedral.

  I pulled the cloth from my mouth and stepped into the shade of the gatehouse, conscious of the man with the sword watching me from across the square with less than friendly curiosity. I met his eye briefly and looked away to find myself face-to-face with a tall, broad-set man in a rough tunic, who barred my way through the gate, crossed his thick arms over a barrel-like chest, and demanded to know my business in the cathedral.

  “I am here to see the Reverend Doctor Harry Robinson,” I offered, with an ingratiating smile.

  “Expecting you, is he?” He didn’t move.

  “Yes, he is. And I carry a letter of recommendation from a mutual friend at the royal court in London.”

  His round face twitched with uncertainty; I guessed he was in his mid-twenties, though there were already creases at the corners of his eyes that deepened with anxiety. I brought out the paper and pointed at the imposing wax seal.

  “The crest of Sir Philip Sidney, nephew to the Earl of Leicester,” I added, for effect. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, then nodded.

  “Do you go armed, sir?”

  I held my palms out, empty. “Only this little knife.” I indicated the sheath at my belt.

  “I must ask you to leave it with me. No weapons in the cathedral precincts, by order of the dean. Not after …” He hesitated, then appeared to think better of it and held out his hand for the knife. I noticed his left hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage with rust-coloured patches of blood on it.

  “There was a murder, I understand.” I unstrapped the knife from my belt and passed it over.

  “Yes, sir.” A guarded expression tightened his features. “The dean has taken precautions now, though. There is a watchman who patrols the precincts after dark, and the gate is always kept locked, so you need not be concerned on that account.”

  “A little late for the poor fellow who was struck down,” I remarked lightly. “Robbers, I suppose?”

  “I couldn’t say.” He shifted his large bulk uneasily from one foot to the other, scratching at his patchy stubble. “If you go to the right of the cathedral, past the conduit house, you will see a row of narrow lodgings before you get to the Middle Gate. Doctor Robinson’s is the fourth along.” He pointed through the gateway; unlike the apothecary, he showed little appetite for talk of the murder.

  “Thank you. What is that handsome building opposite?” I gestured towards a large red-brick mansion visible through the archway, just to our left.

  “The Archbishop’s Palace.”

  “I heard he is never here.”

  “You heard right. The dean lives there mostly.”

  He fell silent again, squinting up at the sky and absently weighing my knife in his hands.

  “Take care of that. I am very attached to it.”

  He frowned, as if I had insulted his competence, and stepped aside to let me pass, though I could feel him watching me as I entered the sacred precincts of what had been one of the greatest churches in Christendom.

  Stepping out of the gatehouse into sunlight, I almost forgot my purpose as I took in the sight before me. I am no stranger to beauty in architecture; my travels have taken me through many of the finest cities of Europe—though not always by choice. I have taken Mass in the towering basilicas of Rome and Naples, walked the streets of Padua, Geneva, and Toulouse, attended services at the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris in the company of the king of France. But the austere beauty of this proud monument to England’s faith made my breath catch in my throat. The spires of its great towers rose perhaps two hundred feet above me, stone pale as ivory against the fierce blue of the summer sky, gilded by the afternoon sun so that it seemed lit as if by divine light. Its height, its severe perpendicular lines, its vast windows all contributed to an overwhelming grandeur that could not help but make you shrink into yourself a little. What effect must its splen
dour have had on the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who first set eyes on this view after days of dragging their weary feet across the English downs? A cathedral such as this one, I thought, was intended to humble onlookers; a testament to the glory of God, perhaps, but more obviously to the might of the Church that built it. Standing at the foot of its bell tower, you could never forget your own insignificance. By the same token, might not the men who held positions of authority here also develop a distorted sense of their own power?

  The precincts were empty, shadows stretching out across the dusty path that curved around the length of the cathedral. I glanced up at the sky; it must be midafternoon, not yet late enough for Evensong, but it seemed odd to see so little activity in what, to judge by the number of lodgings crowded around the inner wall of the precincts, must still be a busy community. The gatekeeper’s directions led me to a row of tall, narrow houses, well-kept but plain, with small leaded windows facing the cathedral and a stretch of garden in front separating them from the walkway. At the fourth, I followed the path that led alongside the garden—which boasted two scrawny apple trees and what appeared to be a vegetable patch—and knocked firmly on the door.

  After some moments it was opened by a tall man with a narrow face and thinning black hair. He was perhaps nearing forty, and looked at me down the length of his nose with an expression that suggested I had interrupted something important.

  “Doctor Robinson?”