Giordano Bruno 01 - Heresy

by S. J. Parris

  “I would like to find the student who delivered the message to Doctor Coverdale during the disputation, to find out what drew him back to college so urgently.”

  Underhill nodded. “I will make enquiries. But I beg both of you—say nothing of this to the students until I have the chance to make an announcement at dinner. By then I will try to find a way to explain it with the least alarm—if that is possible.”

  “Before that, Rector Underhill,” I added, “I think I should call on Gabriel Norris. If he delivered his bow and arrows to the strong room as you commanded, we need to learn when, and whether Doctor Coverdale let him in. And I think you should go to your study, take a large glass of your strongest drink, and gather your thoughts for a moment before you decide what to do next.”

  “It is a fine day when the rector of an Oxford college is told how he may proceed by an Italian papist,” muttered Slythurst, but the rector coughed and looked embarrassed and grateful at the same time.

  We descended the stairs gingerly, I leading the way with the lantern and pausing to examine the traces of bloody footprints still visible on the stone steps. They were still faintly visible on the floor of Coverdale’s rooms below, but otherwise both the main room and the adjoining bedchamber in the tower were neat and orderly. I crossed and examined the door that led out to the courtyard staircase.

  “The room was locked this morning when you arrived?” I asked Slythurst again.

  He snorted impatiently. “I have already told you that three times. I assumed James had gone out and I wanted to deposit the monies and deeds I had brought from Aylesbury so I borrowed the spare key from Cobbett and let myself in. What is it you are trying to imply, Doctor Bruno?”

  “Only that there is no sign of the door to the tower staircase or this main door to Doctor Coverdale’s room being forced,” I said. “So he must have willingly admitted his killer—or been killed by someone already in possession of a key.”

  Slythurst aimed at me a look of such venom then that I could easily believe him capable of murder. I turned to Underhill, his face painted in eerie shadows from the flickering light of the lantern.

  “The tower will need to be sealed until the body is removed in any case,” I said. “If you post one of the college servants at the foot of the staircase, we will soon learn if anyone tries to go near it. The killer may try to come back, perhaps to look for something in the room. But I would like to have a look around myself, to see if the killer left any trace behind him.”

  “Yes. Yes, that seems sensible.” The rector’s face was drawn and flustered. “I must send for the coroner. Walter—you are now the most senior official here under me, I will need your help in deciding what we tell the college community. Perhaps you could come with me to my lodgings? And tell Cobbett to set one of the kitchen men by the tower stairs.”

  Slythurst nodded and scuttled down the stairs to the porter’s lodge. Underhill turned back and I sensed something unspoken in the long look he gave me.

  “The arrows were shot after he died, you say?”

  “It is hard to tell, but I think the blood came mostly from the throat wound. If he was not yet dead, he was near it—I think he would not have been sensible of what was happening, if that is what you mean to ask.”

  “So it would have been quick?” the rector asked, almost hopefully.

  I hesitated, but decided it would be kinder not to dwell on the hacking I had seen at Coverdale’s neck. The coroner would find it out soon enough.

  “It was a terrible death, I will not pretend otherwise. But I have seen men with their throats cut before—they do not linger in this world.”

  Underhill regarded me with his head to one side. The candle in the lantern was dying and the room enfolded in shadows again despite the early hour; it seemed to me that the smell of decay was rising from the tower stairs behind us.

  “You have lived a strange life for a philosopher, Doctor Bruno,” he said quietly. “Ours must seem a soft and sheltered life to you. I thought it was so, until this week. I have hidden here from the world, thinking an Oxford college a place of sanctuary. Now I have turned a blind eye for too long, and it will be the destruction of me and my family.”

  “Rector Underhill,” I said, leaning in toward him, “if there is anything you know or suspect, anything at all that may have a bearing on these deaths, do not hide it. To what have you turned a blind eye?”

  He glanced nervously over his shoulder to the door, a quick, rodent movement, then leaned in closer, his round face lit from beneath by the lantern.

  “Your friend, Sir Philip—”

  “What of him?”

  “He must not learn of this. You will promise me, Doctor Bruno, that you will not speak to him of what is happening within these walls? He is Leicester’s nephew, he would feel compelled to tell him all.”

  At that moment footsteps echoed from below and Slythurst reappeared. Underhill shook his head at me tightly to warn me not to say anything further, then looked from me to the bursar apprehensively before turning to the door.

  “Walter?”

  “It occurs to me, Rector,” Slythurst began, folding his hands together unctuously, “that if Doctor Bruno is to examine this room, it might be best if I help him. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, after all.”

  “Very well. But I have need of you, Walter—come to my lodgings as quickly as you can afterward.”

  He gave me a last, imploring look, before closing the door behind him. His footsteps echoed on the stairs as he descended to the courtyard with a heavy tread.

  Slythurst crooked his head back and gave the room a cursory glance.

  “What is it you think you will find here, then?”

  “I had thought, Master Slythurst, that you would have a better idea than I of what a man might hope to find in this room,” I said smoothly.

  He turned to me then, his lips curled with undisguised contempt.

  “And I might well ask what you took from this room, Bruno, the last time you and I found ourselves here among a dead man’s things? What souvenir did you carry away then?”

  “I took nothing,” I said mildly, but I turned my face away all the same and stepped toward the window. Rain drove hard against the pane, washing in rivulets down the glass, blurring the view.

  “Is that so?” He spoke through his teeth now, and I heard him close at my shoulder. “You may have duped the rector into giving you his trust, Bruno, but I see you for what you are.”

  “And what is that?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest as if I did not care one way or another.

  “You are one of those men who thinks himself gifted enough to live by charm and wit alone rather than by hard work. You seek to ingratiate yourself with men of high position so that you may live in the gilded shadow of their favours. You arrive here flaunting your fame and your patronage from courtiers and kings, but this is the University of Oxford, sir—we are not impressed with such baubles. And you will get no position here, no matter how much you seek to involve yourself in matters that are not your business.” Spume had gathered at the corners of his mouth by the end of this address and he paused to collect himself, his eyes still blazing with a hatred that surprised me with its force.

  “You think I am angling for a position here?” I repeated, incredulous.

  “I do not see why else you would be seeking to make yourself indispensable to the rector by meddling in these deaths,” he snapped back.

  “No—you would not see, because you could not imagine exerting yourself for any reason than your own immediate profit.” Unfolding my arms, I stepped right across to him until I stood only a few inches from his face, daring him to look me straight in the eye. “Let me tell you something, Master Bursar. I was a fugitive in my own country for three years. I saw men murdered as casually as boys throw stones at birds, cut down for the shoes they wore or the few coins they carried, and I saw the law look the other way because it was too much effort to bring anyone to justice—because to
the law, the dead men were as worthless as those who killed them, who would probably be killed tomorrow in their turn. And I believe that no man’s life is worth so little that, if it is ended by violence, the crime should be shrugged away and a murderer left unpunished. That is why I involve myself, Master Slythurst—it is called justice.” The vehemence of my reply was at least equal to his, but although he took a step back, the look he fixed on me was subtly mocking and it was I who looked away first, conscious that all my high-minded words were so much hot air. My interest in finding this killer was above all to prove myself to Walsingham and the Earl of Leicester, because this was my first mission and there would be reward and preferment if I were successful. “Let us return to the matter in hand,” I said brusquely. “We are supposed to be holding each other accountable, after all.”

  Though the room was neater than the last time I had been there, it had been left in a state of transition, and I felt a sudden pang of loss for James Coverdale, who had barely enjoyed one day as subrector before he met as grisly a fate as his predecessor. I had found little to like about the man, but it was a horrific death to have come knocking on the door of the room that he had coveted for so long, just as he was in the process of unpacking his belongings. Slythurst occupied himself straightaway with the bundles of paper on Coverdale’s desk; I did not like this, as I guessed that any clue as to what had happened to Coverdale on Saturday night would probably be found among his documents, and I was about to suggest that we divide the work of looking through the desk, when I noticed a smudged bloodstain almost in the hearth.

  Crouching to look closer, I saw that one brick in the fireplace, to the right of the hearth, was slightly out of alignment, protruding from the wall as if it were not joined by mortar. I was just able to grip its sides by my fingertips, though I did not have quite enough purchase to ease it from its place, and as my fingers slipped and I grazed my knuckles, I gave a small cry.

  “What have you there?” Slythurst jerked his head up, dropping the book he had been perusing, and rushed to crouch at my side. I licked the blood from my scraped fingers and tried again. With some patience, I gently worked the brick from one side to the other, feeling it give a little more each time as it crunched against the bricks on either side.

  “Come on, man!” Slythurst muttered. “Shall I try?”

  “I have it,” I snapped, and in a few moments the brick was free, revealing a dark cavity built into the side of the fireplace. I thrust in my hand and rummaged as far as I could, but all I felt was the brickwork at the back of the hole. “Nothing,” I said, bitterly, sitting back on my heels.

  “Out of the way,” Slythurst barked, elbowing me roughly to one side. His skinny arm seemed to disappear farther into the recess, but though he seemed determined to prove me wrong, he too withdrew his hand empty. “Devil take him, that whoreson!” he cursed, rubbing his knuckles.

  “Well, whoever came this time knew where to look,” I said grimly, my knees cracking as I stood. “And it seems he found what he came for.”

  “To hell with it!” Slythurst spat. He appeared to be taking the discovery of the empty hiding place as a personal injury. I wondered if the cavity in the fireplace had contained whatever Slythurst had been searching for after Roger Mercer’s death—it was not a large space but it could easily have concealed a bundle of letters or documents—and if his anger was therefore directed at himself for not having found it on his previous search. But this time there was no sign of a frenzied rummage through Coverdale’s belongings; whoever killed Coverdale had evidently known of the loose brick and moved straight to take whatever was hidden there, after first washing Coverdale’s blood from his hands. But this could only mean that whoever had searched the tower room before I arrived on Saturday morning, while Roger was still in the garden being savaged by the dog, had not known of the hiding place, and was therefore not the same person who had killed Coverdale. Neither, by this reckoning, could it be Slythurst, unless he was a supremely skilled actor; he was, after all, the only other person who could legitimately demand a key to the subrector’s room and no one would be able to confirm or deny the precise time of his departure for Buckinghamshire, or his return.

  Slythurst appeared impatient to leave; plainly he had decided that there was nothing more of use to be found.

  “I do not see what further purpose we achieve here,” he muttered, moving to the door and clinking the keys as if this were a signal that my time was up. “I am needed by the rector, and I must lock this room, so if you have done—”

  “Tell me, Master Slythurst,” I said, “do you believe our killer has found whatever you yourself were hoping to find here after Roger Mercer’s death?”

  The look he gave me dripped with contempt. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I did not take a key from a man’s pocket as he breathed his death rattle, like some,” Slythurst said, his face very close to mine so that I could smell the sourness of his breath.

  “I only ask, because it would seem that two men have died for whatever was hidden in that hole, and I’m assuming you know what it was,” I said.

  “One might think that would be warning enough to the over-curious,” he replied, with a smile that cut through his thin face like wire. “I must go to the rector. You might do well to get on with finding the owner of the murder weapon. That would seem a useful place to start your enquiries, Doctor Bruno, since you have been good enough to offer the college your services.”

  As I passed him in the doorway with a last look of disdain, I found myself fervently wishing that Slythurst would prove to be the killer so that I could have the enormous pleasure of seeing that sarcastic sneer wiped from his sallow face, and immediately tried to shake myself free of such dangerous prejudice.

  At the foot of the staircase a large, stocky man with almost no neck stood blocking the archway through to the quadrangle; he started when he heard the noise behind him and his hand moved swiftly to his belt. I could not help smiling when I saw he carried some kind of kitchen fork there as a makeshift weapon; this, then, was the guard appointed to keep the tower sealed.

  “Peace, Dick,” Slythurst said, holding up a hand. The man lowered his head deferentially and moved aside to let us pass into the rain that still fell in steady sheets, splashing from spreading puddles between the flagstones of the courtyard. I pulled my jerkin up around my ears and made to step out into the deluge when three students came running and laughing out of the adjacent staircase, holding their leather satchels over the heads against the weather. I recognised one of them as Lawrence Weston, the boy who had escorted me to the disputation on Saturday evening, and I reached out to accost him.

  “Master Weston, I wondered if I may ask your assistance?” I began urgently. He looked somewhat taken aback, and I realised that in my haste I had grabbed hard onto the sleeve of his gown.

  “I will help if I can, Doctor Bruno,” he said, uneasily, for my manner clearly struck him as out of sorts. “Let us step out of the rain, though.” He motioned me back into the shelter of the staircase he had just left. I noticed Slythurst watching our exchange with suspicion; when I caught his eye, he quickly pulled his gown around him and scuttled off toward the rector’s lodgings opposite.

  “There was a boy, a student,” I said to Weston, once we were under shelter, “who delivered a message to Doctor Coverdale during the disputation on Saturday night, that caused him to leave immediately he read it. Do you know who the boy was?”

  “How should I know, sir?” he replied, perhaps sounding more ungracious than he had intended, for he then said, “I mean, I could ask around, if it is important.”

  “Thank you,” I said, turning to leave. “There will be a shilling for you if you find him.”

  Weston looked briefly impressed, and nodded before rejoining his friends. I braced myself to run into the courtyard.

  Chapter 12

  Gabriel Norris’s room was on the ground floor in the west range, tucked behind the staircase, his door marked with
a painted name sign. I knocked hard and was certain I heard some movement within, but a few moments passed and still no one answered. I knocked again and called out Norris’s name. There was a hasty scuffling of feet and the door swung open to reveal Thomas Allen. He had evidently been engaged in some of his servant’s duties, as his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he clutched a dirty cloth between his hands.

  “Oh—Doctor Bruno,” he exclaimed, and his face reddened violently as he bunched the cloth into a ball, looking flustered.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Thomas—I see you are at work. I was looking for Master Norris.”

  “He is not here,” Thomas said, still looking perturbed, then glanced over his shoulder as if to check the truth of his own assertion. Through the open door I glimpsed a comfortable chamber, furnished as a parlour with a high-backed wooden settle in front of the fire. Compared to the austerity of most scholars’ rooms the chamber offered a distinct sense of luxury. Windows on one side opened onto the lane and on the other to the quadrangle and filled the room with light even on this bleak day. Beneath the outer window was a heavy trunk, iron-bound and secured with a solid padlock.

  “He is out at the public lectures, I expect. I was just cleaning his shoes,” Thomas added, defensively.

  “Do you not attend the public lectures too?”

  “Not when there is work to be done,” he snapped. I was surprised at his manner, but knowing how sensitive he could be about his role as a servant, I supposed he did not like to be seen at his menial tasks.

  “His shoes needed cleaning urgently today, then?” I asked, as a thought struck me. Thomas must have caught something in my tone because he frowned and his shoulders seemed to tense.