by S. J. Parris
“What arrant nonsense!” Slythurst exclaimed, now fully over his initial shock, it seemed. “Roger is attacked by a dog and you read into that the mimicry of a martyrdom? What murderer would go to such lengths? I rather think your brain is fevered, Doctor Bruno. This, I grant you”—he gestured at the punctured corpse of James Coverdale hanging from the candle bracket—“is clearly some horrific violence against poor James by a madman, but these fanciful patterns will not help us catch a dangerous intruder! I can only guess that someone tried to break into the strong room, James tried to stop him, and this was the result.”
He paused, breathless, hands on his hips as if daring me to challenge this hypothesis.
“A thief who stopped to paint pictures in a dying man’s blood?” I said, returning his insolent stare. “And none of the doors have been forced, nor have these chests been tampered with. You said yourself that both the strong room and the door to the outer room were locked when you returned this morning,” I reminded Slythurst. “Who would have had a key to the strong room?”
“The three of us,” Slythurst said, indicating the rector and the bloody corpse in the corner of the room. “Each of us has a key to open the strong-room door, but the principal coffers here have three padlocks apiece, so that the rector, the bursar, and the subrector must all be present to open them. We call them the chests of the three keys. The bulk of the college funds are kept in these. The trunks containing account books and deeds I can open alone.”
“A safeguard against embezzlement,” the rector added.
“So Doctor Coverdale must have unlocked the door himself and let the killer in,” I mused, “and his killer could have locked it afterward using Coverdale’s own key.”
“He must have been forced to open it at knifepoint by a robber,” Slythurst speculated.
“But that would have been fruitless if he could not then open the coffers on his own,” I said.
“A robber would not know that. Perhaps that’s why he was killed,” Slythurst said. “The thief flew into a rage because he did not believe James couldn’t open the chest. That must be it!”
He seemed remarkably keen to discount my theory that Coverdale’s death was connected to Roger Mercer’s, I thought, and wondered if that was just because he could not stand to concede that I might be right in anything or because it suited him to throw up a false trail. After all, he was one of the two people with a key to the strong room.
“When were either of you last here?” I asked.
Slythurst glanced anxiously at the rector, who appeared lost in his own thoughts and was making every effort to avoid looking at the body.
“With respect, Doctor Bruno, have you been appointed to investigate this crime, that you should start questioning us as if you were the magistrate?”
“Oh, just answer him, Walter, he is trying to help us,” said the rector wearily, to my surprise. “For myself, I have not been up here since last Tuesday, when we took out the monies and papers for the college attorney. Is that right, Walter, was it Tuesday?”
“That was the last time we were all here together,” Slythurst agreed, shooting me a look of distaste. “I was last here on the evening of Saturday, just before the disputation, when James let me in to collect the papers I needed relating to the management of our estates in Aylesbury, together with some money for the journey and sundry expenses when I arrived. I left for Buckinghamshire first thing on Sunday morning and have not been near the strong room until my return just now, which you witnessed. There—am I in the clear?” he added, his eyes flashing with sarcasm.
“That is not for me to say.” I shrugged. “What time did you collect the papers on Saturday evening?”
“Just before the disputation, I told you, so I suppose some time around half past four. I wanted to have everything in order for my journey the next day because I knew the dinner at Christ Church would end late and I did not want to have to disturb James when I returned.” He flicked a brief glance then at Coverdale’s bizarre corpse and lowered his head.
I crossed the room back to the body with its protruding arrows and considered it again from various angles, touching my finger to the bloodstains on the shirt, which left a thick residue.
“This body could well have been here since Saturday night,” I said. “The blood is dry and the stiffness that sets in after death has already passed—he is beginning to rot. If the weather had been warmer the decay would be more advanced, we would not be able to breathe in this room. But I have remembered something—Doctor Coverdale was summoned early from the disputation, one of the students brought him an urgent message. I wonder then if he was lured back to his death.”
“I do recall that he did not attend the dinner for the palatine that night,” the rector murmured, “and I thought it strange because he had been looking forward to it—he likes to make an impression on men of state. Liked.” He corrected himself quickly, shaking his head. “Oh, God in heaven!” It was a cry of genuine anguish, though not, I felt, of grief for his colleague, and his voice rose to a frantic pitch. “You are right, Doctor Bruno, we shall not be able to keep the manner of this death secret. There will be a full investigation, the coroner and the magistrate will be called—the college will be ruined! I can think of several of our benefactors who will not want their names associated with a place of such iniquity—they will withdraw funds and give them to other foundations less blighted by evil deeds. This is truly the work of the Devil! To make a mockery of the Christian martyrs in such monstrous fashion.” He buried his face in his hands and I thought for a moment he was sobbing, but he was only trying to master his breathing.
“Well, it is the work of someone who can wield a longbow,” I said, pragmatically. “Though I think at this distance even I could hit a target that was tied to the wall and already dead, so we are not necessarily looking for someone with any great skill in archery. Whoever it was has staged this murder very carefully so that we would link it to the other.”
“So that you would link it,” said the rector. “Foxe, the false martyrdoms—this is your theory, Doctor Bruno.”
“It was suggested to me by someone unknown,” I reminded him.
“Yes, don’t you see? That paper you showed me, cut from Foxe. This”—he gestured wildly at the corpse in the corner—“has been done for your benefit, knowing that you would understand the reference.” He stared at me incredulously, as if it were my theory that had delivered Coverdale to his fate.
“But the killer could not have known that I would be around at this precise moment to witness the discovery,” I objected. “Yet it does seem that he wanted to make sure you would not miss the martyrdom reference this time and fail to make the connection with Mercer’s death.”
“So it must be the same person?” The rector looked up at me, his eyes filled with anxiety.
“Norris owns a razor, you know,” Slythurst spoke up suddenly. “Shaves himself every day, if you please.”
I considered, rubbing my own beard. “A razor and a longbow. Someone is keen for the evidence to point to Norris, that seems clear.”
“You think it could not be him?” the rector asked, still looking up at me like a child craving reassurance.
“From the little I know of Norris, I cannot believe he would commit so showy a murder and then leave behind a weapon that points directly to himself. Besides, what could be his motive?”
“James hated the commoners, he was always railing against them. You heard him yourself at the rector’s supper,” Slythurst said.
“Hardly a reason for one of them to kill him,” I retorted. “On the other hand, someone who bitterly resented the presence of commoners might think to kill two birds with one stone, as you English say—to despatch Doctor Coverdale for some reason yet unknown and leave evidence incriminating Norris at the same time. There were marks on the staircase, footprints—if we had more light I could examine them, but I fear the rain will have washed away the trail outside by now.”
“Walter, c
ould you go down and ask Cobbett for a lantern? Doctor Bruno is right—we must look at the room carefully before we jump to any conclusions, and it is too dim. And a basin of water,” the rector added. “We must wash that mark from the wall before the coroner is called.”
Slythurst’s eyes widened. “Surely, Rector, that mark is part of the evidence? It may have some significance—we should not tamper—”
“Those are my instructions, Walter. Now please do as I ask.”
Slythurst looked from me to the rector with momentary outrage at being ordered like a servant, but unable to think of any reason for defiance, he turned on his heel and a moment later we heard his footsteps thundering down the stairs.
“Doctor Bruno?” With a great effort, Rector Underhill heaved himself to his feet and grasped me by both wrists. His bombast was all deflated and he looked old and frightened; I found I pitied him the scandal that would break in the wake of this second death. “You saw this, and I did not. I dismissed your theory about Foxe—it seemed to me preposterous, and it suited me to avoid damage to the college by allowing myself to be guided by others, James chief among them, in presenting Roger’s death as an accident. But I must humble myself and acknowledge that you were right—it seems a madman is targeting the Fellows in these horrible travesties of Christian martyrdom. Perhaps if James and I had not scoffed at your idea, he would not be dead.”
“If it’s any consolation, Rector,” I said, patting his hand gently, “I think Doctor Coverdale was already dead by the time you were ridiculing my theory on Saturday night. But I will say again—someone in Lincoln College knows who did this. He is very likely one of your number.”
“You are determined that it is the same killer?” He was still grasping my sleeve.
“It seems so.”
“Then there may be more victims to come, unless he is stopped?”
“I don’t know, Rector. Until we know why these two were made martyrs, we cannot second-guess this murderer, or what he hopes to gain by making his handiwork so ostentatious.”
“Doctor Bruno—” The rector’s voice cracked, and he hesitated, trying to breathe evenly. “I know the college cannot hope to keep this hidden from the world. But these murders will be the end of my rectorship—perhaps of the college. We are not as wealthy as some and if the benefactions dry up, the wealthy students will look elsewhere. And it is not just for myself that I fear, Doctor Bruno—what are the prospects for my daughter if I no longer have Leicester’s favour? Hm?” He shook my arm with some force, as if this might extract a quicker answer.
“Your daughter has her own qualities to recommend her, with or without the earl’s patronage.”
Underhill shook his head. “That is not how it works in society, as you must know. Among the good families of Oxford she is spoken of as ungovernable. It is only my standing with the earl that makes her any kind of prospect—without that, no respectable man will take her to wife. She should not be in such a place as this if her mother will not chaperone her, but I am a foolish, indulgent father and I cannot bear to send her away. But every day she spends in this college damages her reputation further.” He took a deep breath and I saw that shock had forced all his emotions to the surface; I half expected him to break down weeping, but he gathered himself and continued. “The Earl of Leicester must hear this dreadful news, of course, but how much better it would go for us if he were not to learn of it until we could also present him with a murderer apprehended. Do you see?”
“You must hope your coroner and magistrate work quickly then,” I said, pretending not to guess at his meaning.
“That is the thing—they do not. And they lack the subtlety to comprehend a crime of this nature. I fear they would blunder into corners of college life that would seem curious to all except men of learning, like ourselves. Whereas you—” He let his implication hang in the air, regarding me with an expression of wary hope.
“I, sir?” I raised my eyebrows with exaggerated surprise. “A foreigner? A Catholic? A man reported to practise magic, who openly believes the earth goes around the sun?”
Underhill lowered his eyes, and released his grip on my arms. “I beg your forgiveness for my hasty words, Doctor Bruno. Fear breeds such prejudices, and we are a fearful nation in these times. And now this fear visits us even in this sanctum of learning …” His voice died away and he looked helplessly toward the far window, away from Coverdale’s corpse.
“Are you asking my help in finding this killer?” I asked briskly.
He turned to me, a faint hope in his small, watery eyes. “In ordinary circumstances, I would not think of imposing on a guest—but it seems this killer wants you involved. The papers you showed me—I thought someone was making sport with you, but with this”—he raised a hand again behind him toward the body—“perhaps you can draw him out before there is any more blood spilled.”
“Then you believe he will find more victims?” I said, perhaps too sharply.
He turned to me and blinked rapidly, shaking his head. “I only meant—because it seems clear we are dealing with a fiend who is either possessed or mad—”
Just at that moment, there was a scrape and a dull thud from behind us; from the corner of my eye I glimpsed a sudden movement and whipped around to see Coverdale jerk and shift position. The rector shrieked and grabbed my arm again; I heard myself gasp, and for one hideous moment a cold dread washed through me as I wondered if he was not yet dead and had been hanging there in mortal agony all this time. But as I steadied my breathing and took a hesitant step forward, I realised that the knot in the rope holding him to the sconce had begun to slip.
“It’s all right, Rector Underhill,” I said gently. From the juddering of his clasped hands around my arm I could tell that he was experiencing his own delayed shock and could do with some of Cobbett’s strong ale himself. “It was only the rope. But we must take the body down.”
“Why did he come here in only his underclothes?” the rector wondered softly, still shaking his head as I helped him to sit again on the largest chest.
“Well, it seems clear that he came up here under duress—perhaps his killer surprised him as he was changing,” I offered, as something caught my eye by the window. Next to the longbow, a pile of black material had been neatly folded and placed on the floor. I walked over and picked it up; it was a long academic gown, its cut and trim indicating the degree of doctor of divinity, and it was stiff with dried blood, especially on the front and sleeves.
“That is James’s gown,” Underhill said, turning away.
“I think our killer must have put this on over his own clothes while he carried out the act,” I mused. “I had wondered how someone could have walked away through the college with his clothes bespattered with such a quantity of blood as this killing must have made.”
Footsteps echoed on the stairs below and a moment later Slythurst appeared carrying a lantern. He glared at me briefly before handing it to the rector, who was still trembling and wringing his hands. I took the lantern before the rector had a chance to drop it and a brief smile flickered across Slythurst’s dry lips. The bursar appeared to interpret Underhill’s inertia as an invitation to assume responsibility for the situation.
“We must, in the first instance, send for the coroner to remove this body so that the strong room may be cleaned and returned to its proper purpose and the inquest can be carried out so that poor James may have a Christian burial. His family must be notified—I believe he has a brother in the Fens somewhere, is that not so, Rector?” On receiving no answer, he continued as if he had not expected one. “And I think it would be politic when we announce the death to give out that he was attacked by an unknown thief trying to break into the strong room—we do not want the students indulging in any more idle speculation.” He shot me a warning glance.
“That is wise, Walter,” said the rector, turning his attention back to Slythurst with a distant, puzzled expression, as if he barely recognised him. “That will give you a little ti
me in hand, won’t it, Bruno?” He turned to me with the same look of vague anxiety.
Slythurst snapped his head around. “Time for what?”
“Rector Underhill has asked me to look into the circumstances of the two deaths and see if I can find any connection,” I said, returning his stare with a level gaze.
Slythurst’s face blanched with fury and his lips almost disappeared.
“With the greatest respect, Rector,” he stuttered, choked with indignation, “is that prudent? Doctor Bruno may have a lively imagination, but it can hardly be sensible to involve an outsider”—he pronounced the word with icy scorn—“in a matter which so intimately affects the life of the college. What may come to light …” He paused, eyeing me as a muscle twitched in his cheek, then changed tack. “Besides, he will be gone in a few days.”
“He is already involved, Walter,” the rector said sorrowfully. “Doctor Bruno received a communication relating to Roger Mercer’s death from someone who appears to know something—perhaps even the killer himself.”
“Students playing pranks, surely,” Slythurst snapped, his eyes darting from the rector to me with undisguised anger. “I would speak to you further about the wisdom of this, Rector—in private.”
Underhill nodded wearily. “We will speak, Walter, but first there is much to do and we must work together. Fetch the water—I will clean the wall myself. I want no trace of that left, and I trust that neither of you will mention it? Perhaps you could find a suitable messenger to take a letter to the coroner,” he said to Slythurst. “I will go to my library now and write it. Doctor Bruno, how do you wish to proceed?”
I wished the rector had not mentioned my mysterious letter; I still did not trust Slythurst. We had only his word that he collected his papers from the strong room on Saturday evening before the disputation, and I was not sure how much his word was worth, after his deliberate lies over the searching of Roger Mercer’s room. If anyone had easy access to the subrector’s room and the tower strong room, it was the bursar. Whatever my correspondent knew, the fewer people who learned that he—or she—had tried to share it with me, the better. And now the killer himself wanted this murder explicitly linked to the Catherine Wheel—and the rector wanted that link washed away. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. The one element that seemed clear was that Coverdale’s early exit from the disputation was a key to his murder.