by S. J. Parris
“Nor should I wish to impose on your hospitality,” I said, equally coldly. “And please do convey my respects to Mistress Underhill and your daughter.”
“Indeed,” he said, touching his fingertips together for a moment as he considered whether to follow this up, but instead he turned on his heels and disappeared into the shadows of the archway.
Chapter 10
The bell tolled for dinner no less mournfully than it had for Matins, jolting me out of my distracted thoughts, jotted on the notes now scattered across the table in my chamber. After my exchange with the rector I had walked to Christ Church to find, with some relief, that I had indeed missed Sidney’s hunting party. After leaving him a note apologising and explaining that I had been detained by other pressing business, I had retired to my room, where I had spent an hour or so lying on the bed trying to make the new pieces fit the puzzle. If the unguarded words of Humphrey Pritchard and Cobbett’s dark warning implied that the Catherine Wheel was the focal point for Oxford’s secret Catholic fraternity, the obvious conclusion must be that Roger Mercer knew something about that group—the days in the almanac marked with the wheel could signify meetings at the inn. Could Mercer have been planning to expose them, just as he had testified against his former friend and colleague Edmund Allen, which meant that he had to be silenced? If that were the case, then whoever had ransacked his room could have been searching for evidence that they knew he intended to use against them. Then there was Richard Godwyn, the mild-mannered librarian; he was apparently involved in receiving contraband Catholic books, but did that connect him to Rowland Jenkes and thereby to the Catherine Wheel? Could Mercer have found him out?
Determined to watch the students and Fellows closer than a hawk at dinner, I pulled on my doublet and was about to open the door when a furious knocking on it made me jump almost out of my skin. Cautiously I opened it a sliver and through the crack I saw the anxious face of Sophia Underhill, glancing fearfully over her shoulder.
“Let me in, Bruno, quickly, before anyone sees me—I need to speak to you!” she hissed, looking again down the stairwell.
“Of course,” I said, thrown, pulling the door wider to admit her. She slammed it quickly behind her and leaned against it heavily, her cheeks flushed. I saw with concern that her usual composure was in tatters; in place of her faintly cynical smile, her lip trembled though she fought hard to control it, and her eyes shone as if she might at any moment burst into tears.
“Forgive me, Bruno,” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “My father has forbidden me to speak to you, but I must disobey—there is no one else I can tell.” She stopped, her breath coming in jagged gasps as if she had been running or weeping. “Forgive me,” she repeated, then seemed to stumble as if she might faint, as she had the night before. This time I stepped forward in time to catch her and she fell gratefully against my shoulder as a sudden sob shuddered through her thin rib cage; I held my arms around her and stroked her hair as she tried to master this outburst of emotion. I could not begin to guess what she had come to tell me, but Sophia did not strike me as the sort of woman to fall prey to such distress for frivolous reasons. I could only suppose that what she wanted to say was a matter of some gravity.
When she had recovered enough to lift her head from my shoulder, she leaned back and looked me full in the face with an expression of such fearful intensity that I felt she wanted to search the depths of my soul through my eyes, and before I was even conscious of making the decision to move, almost by instinct I leaned forward and kissed her. For a brief moment, I felt her respond, her warm body softening and moulding itself to mine in my arms, her palms pressed flat against my chest, but just as suddenly she jerked back, pushing my arms away and staring at me now with a look of confused horror.
“No—oh, no, I can’t—you don’t understand,” she blurted, flapping her hands helplessly at her sides as if her distress had increased a hundredfold.
“I am sorry—” I began, but she shook her head frantically.
“No, it is I who am sorry, Bruno—I should never have—but I did not know who else I could come to.” She twisted her hands and looked at me, her eyes pleading. “I think I may be in danger.”
My heart froze. Tentatively I reached out a hand and gestured to the chair by the desk, quickly sweeping Roger Mercer’s calendar and my notes on his death under a book.
“You must tell me everything,” I said. “What kind of danger? Is it to do with Doctor Mercer?”
She hesitated, took a deep breath, and seemed about to speak when there came another urgent knock on the door. Sophia whipped around and stared at the door in fear, a hand clasped to her mouth. I waited, afraid that perhaps her father had seen her coming to my staircase and followed. After a moment, the knocking came again.
“Doctor Bruno? Are you there?”
It was a young man’s voice, not the rector’s; all the same, it would not be prudent for anyone to see Sophia in my chamber and I could not very well pretend to be out, as I would need to leave in the next few minutes for dinner in hall.
“One moment, please, I am just dressing,” I called, ushering Sophia behind one of the floor-length window drapes. The situation was so absurd it brought a weak smile to her lips. I squeezed her arm and when she was sufficiently concealed, I crossed to the door and opened it to find John Florio on the threshold, his face alert with curiosity.
“Master Florio!” I said, forcing brightness into my voice. “What brings you here?”
“Have I disturbed you, Doctor Bruno?” he asked, peering around me to survey what he could see of the room. “I can come another time if you have company—I thought I heard voices.”
“That is an unfortunate habit I have of talking aloud to myself,” I said. “It is the only way I can be sure of winning a disputation.”
He laughed warmly and shook his head. “As for that, you were hardly given a fair fight, Bruno, and those of us who are not blinded by prejudice know that. I have come to see if you dine at high table this evening? We have hardly had any time to talk and I should like to stake my claim to your company at dinner.”
“Oh—yes, certainly.” My eyes flickered toward the curtain and I made an effort to draw them back to Florio. “But, I wonder if you would mind—first I must use the…ah…the pot before I leave.”
“Oh—of course. I can wait for you downstairs.”
As I pulled the door to, I could hear his feet shuffling on the landing for a few moments before descending. When I was sure he had reached the bottom of the stairs, I drew back the curtain and Sophia stepped into the light, a smile on her face despite herself.
“I feared I would be caught here all night,” she grinned.
“I could think of worse fates,” I said, and regretted it instantly when she responded with a sad, embarrassed smile.
“I am sorry,” I said, flustered, “I thought it would not do your reputation nor mine any good if you were found here. But first you must tell me of this danger. Has someone threatened you? Is it because you know something?”
Her eyes snapped up, shocked. “About what? What would I know?”
“I only thought—because there has been one violent death in the college—”
“That is nothing to do with me,” she said, with surprising sharpness. Then she sighed and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “It is all too complicated, Bruno—I can’t tell you now if you must rush away. I will wait and explain another time.”
“But”—I took her gently by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eye—“do you fear someone will hurt you?”
She bit her lip and twisted away.
“Remember I said I dreamed of some great adventure that would change everything? You told me to be careful what I wished for.” She fell silent for a moment. “How do you know if you can trust someone, Bruno? I mean, if you must trust them with your life?”
“The answer is that you cannot know until they have proved themselves. But what has happened t
o you, Sophia? Who is it you are afraid to trust?”
“This is all just foolishness.” She knit her fingers together and glanced up at me as if embarrassed. “I am sorry, Bruno—I should not have troubled you.”
“It is no trouble—” I turned sharply at the sound of a creak on the landing outside, though I had not heard footsteps climbing the stairs.
“Go, then,” she said, pushing me toward the door. “I will leave when I am sure it is safe. I am used to sneaking about the college by now.” She forced a smile. “And, Bruno—I am sorry about …you know.”
“It is I who should be sorry. I did not mean to impose on you.” I stopped, awkwardly rubbing my thumb along my lower lip, unsure of what best to say.
“You did not,” she whispered, shyly. “The fault is mine. I was drawn to you from the first, but there is nothing I can do about it now. You can’t understand, Bruno. Perhaps I will have a chance to explain everything, but you had better go or my father will send someone else to find you.”
I squeezed her gently by the shoulder once more, not knowing what else to do, and she reached up and softly placed a kiss on my cheek.
“You are certain you will be all right?” I asked, pausing at the door.
She nodded. “I will wait a few moments and then slip out. They will all be in hall by then.”
“I meant—the danger you spoke of?”
She pressed a finger to her lips then and nodded, gesturing for me to go. I took a last look at her and closed the door behind me, silently furious with Florio for his ill-timed interruption.
Outside, the bell had stopped and the quadrangle was empty; a murmur of conversation drifted through the tall mullioned windows of the great hall, all lit with the glow of many candles as I followed Florio reluctantly to the door, thinking of Sophia.
AFTER THE MEAL I returned to my chamber to consider how I might find an opportunity to speak again with Sophia. Her outburst earlier had troubled me greatly; if, as I had suspected, she knew more than she was willing to share about the circumstances of Roger Mercer’s death, then it was all too likely that she was in serious danger, especially if Mercer was killed to silence him. But who was this mysterious person she was being asked to trust with her life? And then there was that kiss. I stood before the fireplace and glared at the man in the glass, his unshaven chin and unruly hair, and frowned at him in disapproval. I had behaved like a boor, I told myself; she had come to me in distress because she believed I knew how to listen, and instead I had thrown myself on her like a stag. My reflection looked back with large, dark eyes that seemed to venture a counterargument: she had wanted me to hold her, she had at first responded when I kissed her, before some pang of conscience or honour abruptly obliged her to step back. She felt drawn to me, she had said, and yet would not explain her sudden change of heart. Was this obstacle that I could not understand her preexisting affection for someone else? Was that connected to her fears? Damn Florio, I thought bitterly, though I had appreciated the young Anglo-Italian’s friendly manner and his breezy conversation, as the other Fellows seemed sunk in introspection and had spent the meal throwing apprehensive glances at Mercer’s empty chair.
I was still staring moodily into the mirror when the door to my chamber was flung open without ceremony and I turned with a start to see Sidney, his tall frame filling the doorway, a short green cape slung from one shoulder and brandishing a bottle of wine in his right hand.
“I have escaped from the Pole for one evening only!” he announced triumphantly, slamming the door behind him, pulling the cork from the bottle with his teeth while scouring the room for drinking vessels. Finding none, he eventually sat down on the chair beside the writing desk under the window and took a long swig from the bottle.
“Just as if we were students again, Bruno,” he smiled, raising the bottle to me in a mock toast. “So.” He pointed a finger at me sternly. “You abandoned me to Laski all day, so you had better have some worthwhile news for me, Bruno, or I shall consider it poor sport of you. What the hell have you been up to?”
He held out the bottle and I drank gratefully, before giving him a brief account of all that had happened since the previous night. I showed him the papers I had found under my door, then told him of my discovery in the library, my unexpected stumbling across the Catherine Wheel Inn, Cobbett’s curse of Rowland Jenkes, Coverdale’s threats to me and subsequent disappearance, and finally Sophia’s fear that she may be in danger. I tried to convey this latter in a neutral tone, saying nothing of my interest in her or of my badly judged attempt to kiss her, but still a smile curved across Sidney’s face and his eyes took on that old lascivious gleam.
“No wonder you have shunned my company, Bruno, you sly fox,” he said, cuffing me on the shoulder as he rose to reclaim the bottle. “So the rector has a daughter, eh? No such luck for me at Christ Church—all I have to look at are jowly old men and spotty boys. Are you practising the old Italian magic on her?”
I smiled, but looked away. “The fact that she thinks she may be in danger is my only concern,” I said, ignoring his snort of derision. “She would not say, but I suspect it may be connected to the murder of Roger Mercer, and if that in turn is connected to this nest of Catholic conspirators at the Catherine Wheel—”
“Then you must investigate the Catherine Wheel at the first opportunity,” Sidney said, passing the bottle back, considerably lighter. “That is a job I cannot do—my face is too well-known. It was for this that Walsingham wanted you, Bruno—you can pretend to be one of them. Gain their trust, work your way in among them. You have some excellent leads, I must say. The books, that boy parroting the Litany of the Saints. They may simply meet to say Mass, or they may be plotting against the government with the backing of France or Spain. Find out what you can.”
I nodded, though the thought of trying to dupe Jenkes and his hard-faced cohorts at the Catherine Wheel was not one to take lightly.
“And now,” Sidney continued, standing and stretching his long arms above his head, “I have some news for you. The keeper of Shotover Forest is indeed missing a hunting dog. One of five Irish wolfhounds hired for a hunting party a week ago—the gentleman in question reported that the dog had been startled by a noise and taken flight. Apparently they searched the forest for it but to no avail.”
“Did he tell you the gentleman’s name?” I asked eagerly.
“He certainly did,” Sidney said, leaning casually on the mantelpiece, proud of his information. “It was a Master William Napper of Holywell Manor, Oxford. But any huntsman will tell you that a trained wolfhound wouldn’t just bolt like that—they have better discipline than most of the queen’s soldiers.”
“Napper?” I jerked my head up, surprised. “That is strange.”
“Why so?”
“Your new friend Master Norris—I think he stables his horse at Holywell Manor. I saw him heading there this morning.”
Sidney put his head on one side to consider this, and at the same moment I noticed something that made my heart drop like a stone.
“That is a coincidence. The family are well-known, of course,” he continued, ambling back to the window to peer across the courtyard, “but William Napper has always been what we call a church papist—he toes the line, attends service like a good citizen, even if everyone knows he holds a different faith in his heart. It is the younger brother, George, who has gone looking for trouble. He studied in Rheims and is currently detained at the Wood Street Counter in Cheapside. Curious that young Norris should associate with them. I suppose we must keep an eye on him as well.” He turned to face me. “Bruno, are you even listening to me?”
“One moment, Philip.” I was not the neatest of men, but I was certain I had not left the books and papers on the desk in the state of disarray that I now observed. Rising quickly from the bed, I lifted a few sheets to confirm my suspicion, then began frantically rifling through the papers that remained. Someone had already searched my desk; Roger Mercer’s almanac and all the theori
es I had jotted down about his death were gone.
“Sophia,” I whispered, disbelieving.
Chapter 11
The rain’s steady rhythm against my windowpanes 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 Roger’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 Roger’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—and I was still reluctant to believe it could have been Sophia—had taken all the other notes from my desk while I was out with Florio the night before. 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 Roger’s room before me, and perhaps Slythurst after me, had been looking for just such letters or documents. What I still did not know was whether either searcher had found them.