by S. J. Parris
His hesitation was just long enough; before he could raise his arms, I swung the solid base of the candlestick at his temple. My aim was good; there was a sickening crunch and he fell backwards, blood spurting from the gash, matting his fair hair. His large body crumpled to the floor; he appeared to be knocked out cold. The widow held up her hands in fright and shook her head violently, her mouth working in terrified silent protest; holding the candlestick aloft again so that she cowered into a corner, I wrested the knife from Humphrey's belt, threw the candlestick back at her feet with a last warning look, and darted through the door into the corridor. All down the crooked stairs and across the inn yard I fully expected to see Jenkes at any moment and kept the knife levelled in front of me lest he appear, while glancing back over my shoulder to see if Humphrey might have revived to pursue me, but it seemed fortune was on my side at last; I emerged from the gates of the inn yard into the street without seeing a soul. The sky was still dark, etched with streaks of moonlight between the clouds, and I rested for a moment against the wall of a house to catch my breath, realising that in all the frenzy I had not stopped to remove the scarf gagging me. Now I extracted it and, holding one end in my teeth, wrapped it gingerly around my burned hand. The pain made me briefly dizzy, so that I feared my legs might buckle beneath me, and once the temporary exhilaration of my escape had subsided, I realised with a falling sensation that my purse had been stolen and I had no means of getting past the watchmen at the north gate. Worse still, I thought, what if they knew Jenkes well and had been tipped by him to watch out for me? In this city, it was impossible to know who was a friend.
The square tower of St. Michael's church at the north gate rose above the battlements of the city wall, its silhouette a landmark as I crept along under the eaves of houses until I was forced to break my cover and run across the broad street that lay parallel to the city wall. I looked wildly from side to side as I dashed over, anticipating the sight of Jenkes at any moment, but the street was still and empty. At the gate I paused, but could think of no other means of gaining the city again; the wall was far too high and sheer to be scaled and all the other gates would be guarded too at this hour. My only choice was to wait until first light, when the gates would be opened to traders, by which time Jenkes or Humphrey would likely have caught up with me, or to try and persuade the watchmen I had already paid to let me back. I banged with the flat of my good hand on the small door set into the high oak gates but there was no reply. I hammered harder and called out, and at last a bleary face appeared behind the small iron grille. Eventually I heard the scrape of a bolt and the small door opened.
I murmured my gratitude, glancing around again for signs of movement in the dark streets, and as soon as I was out of the guard's sight, I picked up my pace and ran the short way up St. Mildred's Lane, holding tight to the handle of Humphrey's knife. Never had I been so glad to see the tower of Lincoln College looming above me. Gently I tapped on the narrow window of Cobbett's room. After a pause, I tapped again.
"Cobbett!" I hissed, as loudly as I dared. "It is I, Bruno-open the gate!"
I was greeted only by silence. Hoisting myself up to the sill, I peered in and saw the old porter lolling in his chair, his chin slumped on his chest and his mouth gaping, a skein of dribble hanging from his lower lip.
"Cobbett!" I called again, tapping the window harder, but he did not stir. Cursing under my breath, I stepped back and looked up at the college walls; all the windows were dark and I wondered whether I dared risk waking anyone else by calling louder. I did not want to be left in the street outside the college; that would be one of the first places Jenkes would choose to look for me. Then, as the clouds shifted and a thin ray of pearly moonlight broke through, I remembered another possibility and hoped my guess was right. The very furthest window on the west range belonged to Norris's room; though it appeared closed, I managed to jam the fingers of my good hand inside the frame and found that it had indeed been left unlatched. As far as I could see into the darkness, the lane appeared to be empty in both directions. As I heaved myself up and levered myself sideways through the narrow opening, flinching as I scraped my burned hand against the frame, I prayed that neither of the room's occupants had returned during the evening.
I tumbled through the window, landing awkwardly on the large wooden chest beneath. I froze for a moment, listening for the sound of breathing or movement from the bedchamber beyond, but the stillness was that of an empty room, I was certain. The faint moonlight from the window facing into the quadrangle outlined the shapes of furniture. The floor seemed to be littered with debris and after some tripping and fumbling across the surfaces of dressers and tables, I managed to locate a tinderbox that had been left on an ornamental table under the window. Striking it, I lit a stub of candle on the desk and looked around to see the room in a state of chaos, just as Roger Mercer's room had been on the morning he was killed. Clothes had been flung from the wardrobe, books and papers scattered, and all the drawers of Norris's fine writing desk pulled open and emptied. I slumped down on the settle by the long-cold fireplace, its cushions all thrown about the hearth, and tried to make myself breathe calmly for the first time in what felt like hours as I gathered my frayed thoughts. My shoulders ached insistently, my burned hand was throbbing, and the cut at my throat stung, though it was not deep, but now that I was out of immediate danger I found I was able to think more sharply and clearly. Not that the danger had passed, of course; Jenkes had already decided that I knew too much to be left alone, and once he discovered my escape he would almost certainly try to track me down before I could speak to anyone. In case he succeeded, I needed to communicate everything I knew to Sidney as soon as possible. From my conversation with Humphrey, a theory had begun to take shape in the back of my mind about the murders, still hazy, like figures seen through fog. If my guesswork was correct, then I thought I knew where I might find the answers. And if Jenkes was to be believed, I had to get there before dawn, before Thomas Allen was silenced for good.
First, though, I needed to get word to Sidney, so that he would at least know where I had gone and the suspicions that had led me there; my hope was that he would be able to follow if I did not return-even though I knew that by then it might be too late.
Without wasting any more time, I began to comb through the mess of paper and books on Norris's writing desk for a quill to set down my thoughts for Sidney as briefly as I could before setting off in pursuit, but I could find no ink. Inside the first open drawer, I discovered a stick of vermilion sealing wax and several sheets of fine-quality writing paper. The candle I had lit was burning low; as I glanced quickly around the room to see if there was another to hand, my eye fell on the chest beneath the window. The solid padlock that had secured it was hanging open; it had clearly been forced. Grabbing the dying candle, I prised open the heavy lid, but the trunk appeared to contain only linen undershirts. Undeterred, I rummaged through swathes of cloth until my fingers scraped the wooden base of the trunk and probed into all four corners, yielding nothing. I cursed silently; it seemed anything of value here had already been taken. I brought the candle close and flung out all the contents, scattering them about the floor until I could bring the candle into the depths of the chest and confirm that it was truly empty.
"Merda!" I was about to close the lid when I noticed a small corner of the wood cut away in the floor of the chest, barely wide enough to slip in a fingernail. Setting down the candle, I pulled Humphrey's kitchen knife from my belt, leaned into the trunk, and was just able to insert the tip of the blade into the gap and work it upward, my heart pounding. There was a soft click, and I felt the wood loosen. I pushed down and the false bottom lifted up easily; reaching into the compartment beneath, my fingers brushed a sheaf of papers before closing on something sharp that pricked my skin, making me draw my hand back quickly in case it was a trap. Reaching in again, more gingerly this time, I pulled out the offending object into the dim light and gave a low whistle when I realised what I
held.
It was a short-handled whip with perhaps forty or fifty cords tied to the end, each cord the length of about half a yard and studded with hard knots. Through each of these many knots was threaded a short piece of crooked wire bent into a hook, and many of these hooks bore traces of dried blood and torn flesh. I shuddered at the cruelty of the instrument, while at the same time it was as if the scales fell from my eyes and the suspicions that had formerly floated in thick fog suddenly emerged in almost total clarity.
I reached again into the secret compartment and pulled out the sheaf of papers I had felt earlier. It proved to be a package of dog-eared letters, dirty and tied with fraying ribbon. The topmost paper bore the unmistakable imprint of a bloody thumb. One glance at the faded ink of the uppermost letter confirmed that these were written in a combination of symbols and numbers, but I did not need to decipher them to know that these were the letters for which Roger Mercer and James Coverdale's room had been searched. Tied together with the bundle of letters was another document, this one on older vellum and sealed with wax. The seal was still intact and in the fading light its mark was indistinct, but I hesitated only a moment before breaking the seal and unfolding the document, holding it next to the candle stub. The flame was so faint now that it barely illuminated the elaborate curling script, but the first line was enough to make my breath seize for a moment in my throat.
"Pius Bishop, servant of the servants of God, in lasting memory of the matter: Regnans in excelsis," it began, and I almost dropped it, my hands had begun to shake so hard. I knew immediately what I held. This was perhaps the most damning paper an Englishman could possess: a copy of the papal bull issued by Pope Pius V some thirteen years ago, declaring Queen Elizabeth of England a heretic and containing her sentence of excommunication from the Catholic church. It ended by forbidding the queen's subjects from recognising or obeying her as monarch; in those words, Pius had all but called for her to be overthrown. This was the papal bull that some of the more extreme Catholics in the European seminaries regarded as a licence to assassinate the queen in God's name; even to bring a copy into this country was high treason and would earn the one who carried it a traitor's death. I exhaled slowly, then froze as I thought I heard a scuffling sound outside the window. Had I walked directly into another trap? Whoever had ransacked this room had undoubtedly been looking for these papers, just as he had been searching for them in Mercer's room, yet he had not found the chest's secret compartment. Perhaps he was still watching the room and had seen my candle. I held my breath and caught another distinct movement outside; then a high, unearthly scream rent the air, followed by another, a sound like nothing so much the shriek of an infant in pain, and I sank back to the floor, trembling and laughing at my own skittishness; it was only a pair of foxes fighting in the lane.
But the disturbance had brought me to my senses and reminded me that there was no time to waste. I tied the package of letters in one of the linen shirts from the chest, where I also found a travelling cloak that I hastily fastened around my shoulders, my own having been left at the Catherine Wheel. After some scrabbling I located an inkwell under the detritus on Norris's desk and scribbled a hasty note to Sidney explaining where the items had been found and where I was going. This done, I reached inside my shirt and pulled out the sheet of paper with the copy of the code from Mercer's almanac; this I folded inside the note to Sidney and sealed it as best I could with the sealing wax I had found in the drawer, though I had no ring to imprint on it. Then I grabbed the package, blew out the guttering candle, lifted the latch of the door to the stairwell and found it locked fast. Whoever had turned over the room in Norris's and Allen's absence must have let himself out afterward with his own key, unless he too had climbed in the window. Cursing again, I wrestled open the window above the desk that gave onto the courtyard, struggled onto the sill, encumbered now by my bandaged hand and the package I was trying to hold secure under the other arm, and eased myself through, unfortunately catching the cloak on the window latch at the last minute and falling through sideways with a thud and a muffled cry.
I lay quietly for a moment in the hope that my movements had gone unheard, looking up at the marbled sky above the roofs, already turning from velvet black to a dark indigo behind the streaks of cloud. If the sky was growing lighter, I needed to get this business done and hurry out of the city before dawn. It was too dark to make out the hands of the clock; the quadrangle remained blanketed in the stillness of the dead hours. Nothing stirred. Somewhere distant the fox cried again, and I was about to pick myself up when I saw the lantern. It approached me at a quick pace from the buildings opposite, held up by a hooded figure who stopped, looming over me, and lowered the light to the level of my face.
"Well, well, Doctor Bruno. Helping yourself again? This is becoming quite a habit. What will your explanation be this time, I wonder? I can hardly wait to find out."
I could not see Walter Slythurst's face, but his malevolent smirk was apparent in every icy word.
Chapter 18
Slythurst tried to pull me up roughly by the arm, but I twisted away from him, curling my body around the package lest he try to wrench it from me.
"You will explain yourself this time, Bruno," he said, anger replacing his usual cold sarcasm as I struggled against his grip and he tried to reach for the package. It was too much of a coincidence that he should be awake and dressed at this hour of the night; he must have been watching Norris's room. "What is it you have taken from that room? I must see it. I demand you hand it over to me." There was a hectic urgency in his voice and I saw genuine alarm in his eyes as he looked at the bundle in my hand. Could it be that he knew the importance of what I carried?
"Demand all you like," I gasped, lashing out with my bandaged hand, "but I cannot give this to you."
"I am a senior Fellow of this college," Slythurst spluttered, trying to keep his dignity, "and you must acknowledge my authority here. If you have taken something of value from a student's room, it must be shown to the rector." His tone was shrill with panic. Again he tried to snatch it; again I jerked away from him. I saw that he was determined to have it, and knew that it must not fall into the hands of the rector; both Slythurst and Underhill, I thought, were quite capable of destroying any evidence they thought might make things difficult for the college, and my discovery in Norris's room would be the end of Underhill if it was made public. Slythurst studied me for a moment, his mouth set in a grim line, then he put his lantern on the ground and rushed at me with both hands free. He was surprisingly strong for a thin man and almost knocked me over as he lunged for the package, but I kicked backward while covering the bundle with both arms, my foot landing hard in his stomach. Winded, he doubled over, and before he could gather himself for his next assault, I threw a punch with my bandaged right hand, catching him on the chin and sending a bolt of pain up my arm. He stumbled back, then unexpectedly rallied and threw himself forward at my legs, knocking me to the ground. I heard my back crunch as I hit the flagstones and I tried to wrestle the package beneath me but he had the advantage of weight and quickly straddled me, pinning me to the ground. His face was almost in mine as he grasped the papers; I feared he would tear them as he tried to prise them from my grip and a sudden surge of anger redoubled my efforts to protect them.
"Hand those to me, Bruno-you are meddling in matters you do not understand," he hissed through his teeth; I could smell his sour breath in my nostrils.
"You do not even know what I have here," I spat back, clutching the papers to my chest.
"Whatever you have removed from a student's room is the property of the college in that student's absence," he whispered, still pompous even as he scrabbled at my hands.
"Why do you want it so urgently?" I hissed back. "Because you didn't manage to find it when you turned the room upside down yourself? Do you always help yourself to keys while Cobbett is sleeping?"
"The question, Bruno," he said, his nostrils flaring, "is how you knew what to look fo
r and where to find it? It can only be that you are part of the papist conspiracy. But who would expect otherwise of an Italian? The rector is a gullible fool but I always saw through you."
"It is you who is out of your depth," I grunted back, bucking my back to try and throw him off balance, "but I am no papist and those who matter know that."
"You will give me those papers, Bruno," he panted, shifting his weight so that he was bending right over me, his nose almost touching mine, "or I will rouse the whole college. With three of our number newly dead, you will be locked up in the Castle prison before you have a chance to fashion your latest implausible tale."
So Slythurst was against the papists, I thought, as his knee dug into my chest. Then why was he so keen to cover up evidence of the murders? What did he want with the papers I was now fighting to keep out of his grasp, that he had ransacked first Mercer's and now Norris's room in search of them? Whatever his purpose, I knew no one must have those papers but Walsingham, and that I must deliver them to Sidney by my own hand. As I felt the package begin to slide from my damaged hand, I mustered all the reserves of strength I had left. Clenching my jaw, I sat up as far as I could, my face so near to Slythurst's that it might have seemed I was about to kiss him, then drew my head back slightly and jerked it sharply up, so that my forehead hit him squarely in the nose with a smart crack. He let out a howl, clutching both hands to his nose, and I took the opportunity to throw him off balance and roll away. A dull pain swam across my head and my vision blurred, but it seemed he had come off the worse; when he took his hand away I saw his nose was bleeding copiously. Above my head another light approached, swaying, accompanied by a slow shuffle of footsteps.