‘What about your family?’
‘I worry for them day and night. I’ve had no word from them. Rush offered to have my letter delivered to them, but I doubt it ever got there. Yet they’re probably safer without me. If Rush’s men came calling for me, they would all be in danger. I want to go home, but Abraham’s death has changed things. He thought this message was important and he was right. I must decrypt it.’
‘If that’s what you want, Thomas. Now, Rush or not, there is a vicious murderer in Oxford, so we’ll stay here until dark. Would you care to show me the cipher and what you’ve been able to do?’
Better to keep the mind occupied, thought Thomas, as Simon well knows. ‘Very well, I’ll explain.’
It was a long afternoon. When darkness eventually fell they left the room together, taking only the message and Thomas’s papers. The courtyard was empty and Simon diverted Silas’s attention while Thomas slipped out, then joined him outside the gate. Even Silas must not know where Thomas was going. They walked quickly to Merton, taking care to keep their distance from anyone passing in the street. At Merton, Simon took Thomas to his room in the little quadrangle behind the chapel, and left him there while he went to arrange for food and drink, and to find a pallet for Thomas’s bed.
Thomas slept little. The image of sightless, eyeless Abraham, his chest and face bloody, his hands tied and his throat cut, had imprinted itself on his mind. It was a different sort of horror, and even more terrible than what he had seen at Newbury. Abraham had been his friend. He might have admitted to knowing about the message or he might not. It was of no account. The old man had suffered beyond imagining, and Thomas could do nothing about it. He could only grieve.
Simon, too, slept little. He asked Thomas to repeat the account of his being knocked down in the street, and he asked about Rush’s questions relating to Thomas’s work. He gave Thomas the impression that he knew something more, something not even Abraham had known. He did not say what, and Thomas lacked the will to ask. Simon would tell him if he wanted to.
Next morning, having hidden the papers in Simon’s Bible, they left Merton for the coroner’s house. In order not to attract attention, Simon walked well behind Thomas, and kept an eye out for danger. At the corner of Cornmarket and Ship Street, where the coroner’s house stood, Thomas suddenly stopped and ducked into a doorway. Not knowing why, Simon did the same, and waited until Thomas emerged before going on. Thomas waited for him to catch up.
‘It was Rush, Simon. He’s back. I saw him leaving the coroner’s house.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘I don’t think so. He was hurrying.’
‘Good. Well, you’ll have to visit the coroner or he’ll be suspicious. I’ll wait outside for you.’
When Thomas knocked on the coroner’s door, it was opened immediately. Henry Pearson was waiting for him. Without saying a word, he led Thomas to a back room, empty but for a low table on which lay Abraham’s body, covered by a grey cloth. Pearson raised the cloth. ‘Do you recognize this man?’ he asked briskly.
‘I do. It’s Abraham Fletcher.’
Pearson replaced the cloth and ushered Thomas out of the room. Indicating for Thomas to follow him, he opened the door to another room and went in. This too was bare of furniture but for a small desk and two chairs.
‘While you are here, Master Hill,’ said Pearson, ‘I have some questions to ask you.’ He remained standing and did not offer Thomas a chair.
‘Very well,’ replied Thomas, ‘although I believe I have told you everything I know.’
‘That we shall soon ascertain. I have examined the body and established the cause of death as the severing of the deceased’s windpipe with a very sharp blade. The cut was clean. Before he died, his face and chest were cut with the same weapon, and his eyes removed, probably also with the same blade. The eyes were not at the scene of the murder. There are marks on his wrists consistent with their being tied with rope, no doubt in order to restrain him. There are also signs that a rag or cloth was stuffed into his mouth to prevent his crying out.’
Thomas felt his knees give, and reached for a chair to steady himself. The coroner ignored his distress.
‘Can you confirm that you were the first to find the body?’
‘I can. Silas Merkin and I.’
‘Quite. You used Merkin’s key to enter the room?’
‘We did. When there was no answer to my knock, I fetched him.’
‘Were you surprised that there was no answer?’
‘I was. Abraham was blind, but his hearing was good. And he seldom left his rooms.’
‘Why were you calling on him?’
‘Abraham taught me mathematics and philosophy. He was a good friend and a fine scholar. I came to Oxford to visit him before he died. We spent the mornings together discussing philosophy and books.’ It was the story they had agreed.
‘I see. And how long have you been in Oxford?’
‘I arrived some four weeks ago.’
‘Indeed? A long visit.’
‘I enjoy Oxford, even in time of war, and I enjoyed Abraham’s company. I am unmarried. I saw no need to hurry home.’
‘Where is your home, Master Hill?’
‘I live in the town of Romsey, in Hampshire.’
‘A long journey, not to be lightly undertaken.’
‘Long enough. The more reason not to make it again too soon.’
‘I believe Master Fletcher was killed during the night before he was found. Perhaps six hours earlier. Where were you at that time?’
‘Asleep in my room, naturally.’ Thomas was fast losing patience. ‘Master Pearson, do you suspect me of this unspeakable crime? For heaven’s sake, Abraham Fletcher was my friend.’
‘So you say. I am of the opinion that the murderer resided in the college. A stranger would have been noticed.’
‘The college is full of soldiers and their families. Which of them would want to kill an elderly scholar, and why?’
‘Why, indeed? The motive is as yet unclear, but I have received information that Master Fletcher performed certain services for the king. Services important to the conduct of the war. If this became known to a traitor, he might have been in danger.’
And I know who you received it from, thought Thomas. Tobias Rush, a murderer and a traitor. ‘I know nothing of such matters.’
‘I have also been informed that you were recently found drunk in the street.’
‘Drunk in the street? Nonsense. I was knocked into a shit-filled drain by three boys. I was quite sober.’
‘Were there any witnesses to this?’
‘I expect so. There were people in the street. Someone must have seen it happen.’
‘I shall make inquiries. Meanwhile, Thomas Hill, a coroner’s jury will be summoned to examine the death of Abraham Fletcher. I have no doubt that the jury will reach a verdict of murder. I also have no doubt that you had the means, and probably the motive, to commit this awful crime, and that the jury will send you to the Court of Assizes to stand trial for murder. While I conduct further investigations, you will be held at Oxford Castle. Guard!’
Before Thomas could protest, two guards who must have been waiting outside threw open the door.
‘Bind the prisoner and take him immediately to the castle. He is to be held there until I order his release or transfer elsewhere.’
When his hands were tied and he was marched out of the house, the terrible truth hit Thomas. Rush had bribed the coroner, and he really was being taken to one of the most notorious gaols in England. He shouted for help, and was struck in the face for his trouble. Outside, he searched frantically for Simon. At first he could not see him, and was almost panicked into calling out again. Then Simon appeared briefly from behind a wall, signalled that he had seen Thomas and disappeared again. He must have feared that they were being watched.
At the castle, the coroner’s guards told the gatekeeper their business, and they were escorted through the castle yard to a thick oa
k door on the other side. The gatekeeper unlocked it, and Thomas was manhandled into a dingy guardroom, where a pox-scarred man with a huge belly sat eating a chicken leg. His guards handed their charge over to the fat gaoler. ‘Room for a small one? Shouldn’t be here long. He’ll be off to the Assizes for murder.’
‘We’ll fit ’im in somewhere,’ replied the gaoler, through a mouthful of chicken. ‘If ’e’s a murderer, we’d better chain ’im.’ He took an iron ring attached to a short chain from a row hanging on the wall, and locked it round Thomas’s neck. ‘That’ll keep ’im out of trouble.’
The guards left, and Thomas was led by the chain to a flight of stone steps which spiralled up the ancient tower of the castle. The steps were so narrow that the gaoler could only just squeeze himself up them. The iron ring was rusty and cut into Thomas’s neck, and his hands were still bound. His legs were shaking and his eyes refused to focus. From inside low doors leading off the steps at intervals came the sounds of human beings in pain. In this tower, prisoners-of-war, convicted criminals and men awaiting trial were all thrown in together. The prison made no distinctions. The stench of filth and misery was overpowering. At the fourth door, the gaoler stopped. He unlocked the door with a key from a bunch tied to his waist, pulled Thomas inside, kicked something out of the way and forced Thomas to his knees. He fastened the chain with a lock to another chain hanging from the wall, unbound Thomas’s hands and left. The door clanged shut, and Thomas was in darkness.
CHAPTER 10
EVEN THE BLACKEST darkness could not hide the pool of shit and vomit in which Thomas was sitting, or the noxious slime that ran down the wall behind his back. His stomach heaved, and he added his own contribution to the pool. As his eyes adjusted to the meagre light from a tiny window high up on one wall, he began to make out the shapes around him. They sat, chained as he was, around all four walls of the cell and, unchained, back to back in the middle. In a space no more than twenty feet by fifteen, he counted forty bodies, including three that were so small they could only be children, not one of which could move a muscle without sloshing about in a sea of muck. No one spoke, or even raised a head to look at the new arrival. Some were moaning, a few weeping. Most were silent. Chained or unchained, every prisoner sat, knees up and head down, in whatever space he could get. There was scant room to stretch a leg, never mind lie down. Not that lying in six inches of piss and shit held much attraction. Thomas looked to his right, and, with a shock, saw that the thing the gaoler had kicked out of the way was a body. A dead one. And as the cell became clearer, he realized that it was not the only dead body. There were certainly four others, and might be more. It was hard to be sure. He rested his head on his knees and closed his eyes. Smell, sound and touch, he could not avoid. Taste and sight, he would try to. It was at least something to concentrate on.
After a while, the door was unlocked and the fat gaoler waddled in. He grabbed a boy by the hair and dragged him outside. The boy went without a sound. Again, no one showed the slightest interest. For all they cared, the boy might be going to the gallows or on his way home.
They cared when he was brought back, however. They heard his screams coming up the steps, and they saw him tossed like a doll into the cell. Holding his hands out in front of him, the boy sat and howled. For the first time, someone spoke.
‘Shut up, boy, or I’ll snap your neck.’
‘They burned my hands,’ wailed the child. ‘They tied leaves and twigs between my fingers and burned them.’
‘Piss on them. That’ll cool them down.’
Thomas had heard of this. The governor’s fire, it was called. Torture for pleasure, and on a boy of no more than ten. Gradually, the boy’s howls became sobs, then stopped altogether. He slumped to the floor and lay still. The first voice spoke again.
‘If I ’ad a knife, I’d eat the little bugger.’
‘Me, too.’
‘’e’s only a runt. Wouldn’t be enough on ’im to go round.’
God in heaven, thought Thomas, how in the name of everything holy did I get here? He knew, of course. It was the very unholy Rush. With the king away, he thought he could get away with anything. First Pole, then Abraham, now him. Whatever was in it, Rush wanted that message. It was more than a routine despatch, much more. Somewhere hidden in it was information of critical importance to the outcome of the war. A peace proposal, perhaps, or news of help from the Dutch? Or something more devious? Simon must keep it hidden until he got out of here and could work on it again.
Some time later the door to the cell was unlocked and the fat gaoler came in again, this time carrying a heavy-looking cudgel. A younger man, who might have been his son, followed with two loaves of bread, which he threw on the floor.
‘Dinner time,’ croaked the gaoler. ‘Eat up. Too skinny and you’ll go slow on the rope. And be grateful. Remember I ’ad to pay for it from me own pocket.’
Even before the gaolers had left, an unchained boy leapt on a loaf and sank his teeth into it. He had barely done so when he was knocked aside by a large, black-bearded man, whose arms were just long enough to reach the bread. No one else got a bite, and Thomas did not see where the other loaf went. It hardly mattered. He was not yet hungry enough to take a mouthful of stale, shit-covered bread.
He sat against the slimy wall, and tried to think of Margaret and the girls. But he could not. The walls of the gaol would not let him. He could see only gangs of men, serfs and slaves, digging out the foundations of this place, lowering down stone and bricks and timbers on ropes, clambering down rickety ladders to dig and build foundations, and watching a great castle slowly emerge. They had built well. The castle and its tower had stood for five hundred years. How many men had died in it? How many had died in this very cell? If it stood for another five hundred years, how many more would die here? He wondered who had designed the castle, where the stone had come from, where the iron had been forged. He wondered how long it had taken to build and how many men had toiled on it. Gazing at the stone walls, he wondered about the mason who had built it. Was he tall, short, fat, thin? How did he speak? Did he have a family? How old was he when he worked here? What tools had he used?
Realizing that he was doing just as he did when faced with a new cipher, Thomas smiled and tried something else. Starting from the top left corner, he began counting the stones in the wall. He counted along the rows, noting that the odd-numbered rows began with a small stone and the even-numbered ended with one. The same occurred where a row met the door. He counted two hundred and sixteen stones in the wall. Building a wall must be like decrypting a cipher. It had to be done stone by stone. One stone out of place and the wall would be weak, and would fall. One mistake in a decryption, and the system would fail. Lay a strong foundation, take careful measurements and lay one stone squarely on top of another. Check your work regularly. Wall building and decryption. Much the same.
By the following evening, Thomas was ravenous. No more bread had been brought by the gaolers, and no bodies removed. His stomach was racked with cramps, and he longed to stand or stretch his legs. But whenever he tried to, his legs were grabbed and twisted until he moved them back. He tried to think about the cipher. He saw letters and stones, shapes and patterns. He saw Vigenère’s square as a rippling wave and as a wall of stones. He knew that something important was eluding him, but lacked the strength to search for it. He fell into a sleep which was not a sleep. He saw shapes and heard noises, but he could not tell whether they were real or imagined. He no longer noticed the stench, or the sounds of men retching and defecating. His world began at the wall behind his back and ended at his toes.
Some time that night, the door was opened and the fat gaoler came in again. He unlocked Thomas’s chain and pulled him roughly to his feet. Thomas immediately fell, and was hoisted up by his arm. He struggled to stand.
‘You’ve a visitor, ’ill. Downstairs.’
Thank God. Simon, or even Jane. The gaoler tied his hands behind his back with a short length of rope, and led
him by the chain around his neck through the door and down the stone steps to the guardroom.
‘’ere ’e is, sir. I’ll be outside.’
Thomas went in and heard the gaoler lock the gate behind him. In the room were a small table and two chairs. On one of them sat Tobias Rush.
‘Master Hill,’ said Rush, not bothering to stand. ‘I’m greatly distressed to find you here. Do sit down.’ As always, Rush was all in black, hands resting on the silver-topped cane. Thomas sat. ‘News of your arrest reached me only yesterday. I came as soon as I could.’
It was a lie. Thomas stared at him and said nothing.
Rush continued. ‘Master Pearson, the coroner, tells me that there is evidence against you for the murder of Abraham Fletcher. I could scarcely believe it, and told him so. Absurd, I said. Why would Thomas Hill murder Abraham Fletcher?’ He paused. ‘Did you murder Master Fletcher, Thomas?’
You know I did not, Rush, because you did, thought Thomas, saying nothing. Rush’s voice turned menacing.
‘Nothing to say? Then let me assist you. The coroner believes that the murderer resided in the college. An intruder would have had difficulty hiding and would have been noticed. His inquiries have turned up nothing to suggest this. On the contrary, he is certain that the murderer was well known to Master Fletcher. As to motive, the culprit was obviously looking for something, and was prepared to kill to get it. I wonder what that could have been. Have you any idea, Thomas?’
Still Thomas remained silent.
‘No? Let me remind you that you are suspected of a murder for which you have no alibi. Whatever secret Abraham Fletcher was guarding, it would have been dangerous to someone, and who is to say that that someone isn’t you? And I warned you to guard your tongue. Oxford is full of spies and traitors to the Crown. No one is above suspicion, even a lady-in-waiting to the queen.’ He sneered. ‘Now the coroner suspects you of being one of them. If you do not confide in me, there is little I can do to help you. At the very least, you will hang.’
The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) Page 17