by S. J. Parris
Frantic, I glanced around the room. The only possible hiding place was under Langworth’s bed. I pulled the tapestry across the door, scuffed the traces of my blood away with my foot and, as quietly as I could manage, pressed myself prostrate on the floor and wriggled flat under the bed, holding my breath. The space under the bed frame was thick with dust, but the boards were warped by age and I found a gap between two of them wide enough to press one eye against. I was directly above the front room of the house, Langworth’s study. Below I could see the desk where I had found the penknife I now clutched in my bleeding fingers. As I watched, a packet was flung down onto the desk and the figure of the treasurer in his black robe crossed my line of vision.
“Well, then,” he said. “That is everything.”
“You are certain?” I could not see the face of his interlocutor and dared not move to try and see better. I remained frozen, pressed to the floor, making my breath as shallow as I could.
“Everything I could find,” Langworth replied. “It was not easy—the place was left in such disarray.”
“You did not attract attention, going there?”
The other man’s voice seemed disturbingly familiar. Langworth gave a cold laugh.
“The apothecary’s sister-in-law stands to inherit—she is a superstitious woman and would not set foot in a place befouled by murder until it had been blessed by a man of the church.”
“And now?”
“Tacere et fidere, my friend.” Langworth’s voice grew impatient. “The threads are all unravelled. We can only bide our time and wait for news. For now, the best thing we can do is to have faith, and keep our mouths shut.”
“We must experiment further, if we hope for success,” his companion said, lowering his voice. “There are other places to buy—”
“In time,” Langworth snapped back. “There have been enough deaths lately, the town is alert. They will blame a vagrant for Fitch and hang him at the assizes in a few days. Then they will forget. Meanwhile, have you not seen the tide of refugees fleeing the plague rumours?” He folded his long fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “There will be chance enough for experiments in the days to come. God will provide. Besides,” he added, moving back towards the desk and out of my sight, “nothing can be done while the Italian is here, prying. You saw him this morning, I suppose?”
“Not today. Was he here?”
The second man spoke sharply and as he stepped forward and I was able to glimpse him, my stomach constricted and I swear for a moment my heart stopped beating. It was Samuel, Harry Robinson’s servant. A chill washed my whole body, as if I had been hit by a cold wave, as I realised the implications of this: Langworth knew exactly who I was. When he greeted me politely by my false name at the gate, he had been mocking me; if Samuel was his confidant, he must have known my identity even before I arrived. The Italian. My careful pretence was meaningless; I already had an enemy in the heart of the cathedral, an ally of Henry Howard’s who must know my part in his patron’s imprisonment. This changed everything; I could no longer imagine that I was passing unnoticed through Canterbury. Langworth must be as suspicious of me as I was of him and would be waiting for an opportunity as we danced around each other, trying not to reveal our hands.
“I saw him by the gatehouse this morning, as I was leaving,” Langworth said, his voice sharp. “He said Harry was taking him to the library.”
“He has not called,” Samuel said. “Harry is at home. Perhaps he went by himself.”
“Well, let him occupy himself there if he wishes, he can do little harm,” Langworth said, dismissive. “It will serve to keep him above ground, at least. Watch him. What does Harry make of him thus far, out of interest?”
Samuel was now directly beneath me; I saw him shrug.
“Harry is wary of him.”
“And rightly so.”
“He fears this business with Kingsley’s murder is a pretext. There are rumours from London, you know, that the queen will send forces to the Netherlands.”
“Let us hope they are true. This is just the news our friends in Paris are waiting for.”
“They say Walsingham plans to dissolve the richest cathedral foundations to raise money for this war. Starting with Canterbury, to set an example.”
Langworth appeared again beneath my spy-hole.
“And the last thing Harry wants is for the foundation to be dissolved. Where else would he find so comfortable a situation?” His voice was cold.
“All Harry cares about is preserving things as they are. He fears the Italian is really here to find evidence of his own incompetence.”
“So poor Harry finds himself caught between the Devil and the deep sea,” Langworth mused, without a trace of sympathy. “The spy fears he is spied on by his own spymaster.” He gave a dry laugh. “What a fitting irony.”
“He has warned the Italian away from you,” Samuel added.
“I doubt that will stop him,” Langworth said, folding his arms and cupping his chin in his right hand. “Do not make the mistake of underestimating our friend Bruno, as my lord Howard did. He is devilishly clever and sly as a fox.”
“Nevertheless, if he is determined to unearth Kingsley’s murderer …”
“Yes. That could be awkward.” Langworth paced across the room and was again lost to my narrow field of vision. Samuel turned to follow his direction, and I found myself looking down onto the shiny disk of pink skin at his crown, barely covered by the meagre strands of black hair he scraped over it. I felt an instinctive revulsion. Langworth’s voice continued, from over by the window. “How much did the wife know, that is the question.”
“Nothing, Kingsley always said.”
“I’m not sure I believe that. She may have been sharper than Kingsley realised. After all, the damned fool didn’t even have the wit to look behind him on a dark night,” Langworth added, an unmistakable anger in his tone. “Walsingham would not send someone like Giordano Bruno here for the murder of a provincial magistrate, you can be sure of that. It can only be that the girl told him something significant—something she may have observed without Kingsley’s knowledge. And there are others at St. Gregory’s whose silence cannot be taken for granted.”
“The boy, you mean?”
Langworth snorted.
“Nicholas has eyes only for whores and cards. No, I am thinking of the housekeeper. If anyone has seen what they should not, it would be that beady old bird.” He fell silent for a moment, then clapped his hands together briskly, as if he had come to a sudden decision. “I had better pay another visit to St. Gregory’s. Before the Italian asks too many questions. Find Sykes for me—I may have need of his skills.”
“And then should I follow the Italian?”
Langworth paused, weighing up his alternatives.
“Damnation—I had forgotten that there is a meeting of the chapter today at one, and I have certain accounts that must be arranged beforehand.” He shook his head impatiently. “And I dine with the mayor tonight. No—St. Gregory’s will have to wait until tomorrow. Take a message to Sykes, tell him I want him here after Evensong. Watch the Italian, by all means, report his conversations with Harry. I have an idea of how to keep him out of trouble, if we need to.”
“And where shall I find you?”
“In the treasury. I shall go there presently, once I have put this in a safe place.” I could not see what he meant by “this,” but as he crossed the room again I saw that he had picked up the packet he had been holding when he first came in. “By the cross, this heat is too much.”
“We shall have a storm soon,” Samuel observed.
Langworth grunted assent and I heard the sound of the latch being drawn on the front door. I tried to swallow but my throat felt as if it were filled with dust; Langworth would be coming up here at any moment and would surely notice anything awry. I wanted urgently to check that I had rearranged the tapestry over the door just as it had been, but I dared not move a muscle.
“G
od will reward your loyalty, Samuel,” Langworth said, on the threshold.
“I hope not to wait quite so long,” Samuel replied, and both men gave a low, knowing laugh. The door closed, and my bladder tightened as I heard the first creaking tread on the staircase.
Langworth’s worn leather shoes passed directly in front of me as he crossed the room to the door behind the tapestry. I breathed out as silently as I could, watching the small bloom of dust that rose under my nostrils as I did so. I kept my lips pressed tightly together so that I should not sneeze. A bunch of keys jangled in his hand, then I heard the sound of one being fitted into the lock. One more heartbeat and Langworth would discover that his secret room had been left unlocked; one more—but before I heard the click of the key turning, there came a peremptory knock at the door from downstairs. Langworth appeared to hesitate, but the banging came again, more urgently. I heard him tut, then he threw the packet onto the bed and hurried down the stairs. It was only when I heard him lift the latch on the front door that I realised how much I was shaking.
“Dean Rogers. Good morning. To what do I owe the honour?” Langworth’s voice rose from the room below; he sounded surprised and not at all pleased to see his visitor.
“John—sorry to disturb, I’m sure you’re busy. It’s about the chapter meeting this afternoon.” The dean’s tone was apologetic. “I wondered if I might have a quick look at the accounts ledgers ahead of the meeting?”
“Well—I shall be presenting the accounts myself this afternoon—I’m not sure that it would be particularly—”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” the dean said pleasantly, but firmly. “I’m afraid I don’t have a head for figures, John, not like you, and there’s always so much to take in at these meetings. I thought it would be easier for an addle-pate like me to try and understand the expenditure before we get there.”
Clever old fox, I thought, smiling to myself as I recalled what Harry had said about the persistent rumours of Langworth playing fast and loose with the treasury accounts. The dean meant to put his treasurer on the spot. While Langworth began to explain at length why the ledgers might prove difficult to understand, I held my breath and slid as silently as I could so that my head was poking out from under the bed and glanced at the door behind the tapestry. Langworth had left the key in the lock, an iron ring with several others dangling from it. I eased myself out a little farther into the room, still flat on my stomach, praying that no creaking board would give me away. The heat in the room seemed to press about my face like a damp cloth; sweat dripped into my eyes.
“I do appreciate that,” the dean was saying, “but it would put my mind at rest before addressing the chapter …”
I crawled on my belly across the floor, one hand on the keys at my own belt so that they would not scrape on the boards, until I could reach up to the lock of the door into the back room. Hoping that my knife had not damaged the mechanism, I turned the key. To my relief I heard the bolt slide into place with a dull thud.
“The account books are all in the treasury, of course,” Langworth was explaining to the dean, his voice growing defensive. “I was on my way over there.”
“Then I shall accompany you,” the dean said, just as pleasantly. “Shall we go now?”
Langworth hesitated.
“Of course. Although I realise I have left my keys in my chamber—do go on ahead, if you wish.”
“No matter,” said the dean pleasantly. “I can wait a moment.”
Langworth’s heavy footsteps sounded again on the stairs; I scrambled back under the bed, my heart pounding in my throat, pressing a hand over my mouth as the dust scuffed up by my sudden movement itched its way into my eyes and nose. The counterpane that hung over the bed was still swaying when Langworth stormed into the room, unlocked the hidden door, threw the packet he had left on the bed into the back room, and locked the door again, muttering under his breath. I heard the flap of heavy material as he rearranged the tapestry and the metallic clink of the keys as he tossed them in his hand on his way out. Though I had fallen out of the habit of regular prayer, I offered a silent thanks to Providence for the appearance of the dean.
When I was certain that they had left the house, I crawled out from my hiding place, brushing the dust from my clothes, and crept back down to the study, again bending low so that I would not be visible to anyone passing the window. I hesitated by the desk as I replaced the penknife, first wiping the traces of my blood from its blade. There was ink in the inkwell, and paper. How long was Langworth likely to be in the treasury with the dean—long enough for me to copy the letter I had tucked into my purse? My hands were still trembling from our near-encounter. I forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply. Now that I knew Langworth and the other canons would be occupied at the chapter meeting that afternoon, I decided the lesser risk would be to take the letter away to copy and attempt to return the original later while he was out, trusting that he would not check the contents of his secret chest carefully in the meantime.
Outside, the sound of voices carried across from the cathedral. People were evidently abroad in the precincts; the service must have ended. I needed to leave Langworth’s house now, while I still had time; Harry would be expecting me for dinner soon and I wanted to return to the Cheker and copy the coded letter first—though I had no idea how I could send it to London, now that I knew Samuel could not be trusted. My jaw tightened at the thought of dissembling in front of Harry’s servant, as if I were ignorant of his treachery. I must find a way to speak to Harry alone, I thought, but I feared he would not believe me about Samuel, and I would lose his trust and goodwill if he knew I had defied his warning to keep away from Langworth. Worse still—and my mouth dried at the thought—I could not discount the possibility that Harry knew about Samuel. Perhaps he was even in league with Langworth, or at best turning a blind eye; it would not be the first time one of Walsingham’s contacts had betrayed his trust and, though I found it hard to believe of Harry Robinson, I knew I must remain wary. The hardest part of working for Walsingham was knowing whom to trust.
I cast a last glance over the desk and as I did so, it was as if something distant echoed in my brain, an instinct that prompted me to take a second look. I picked up the first of the papers—a balance sheet, with columns of numbers, scribbled calculations beneath. Under a couple of pages of similar notes, I found another sheet itemising expenditure for the month of May 1584, an unremarkable list of outgoings for a cathedral foundation: Alms; Bread; Candles; Dean’s kitchen; Eucharist (sundries)… I stared at the paper; something seemed odd about it. I almost laughed aloud as the realisation dawned. The list was alphabetical, and beside each item listed was a figure, set out as the number of shillings and pence paid. Could it be …? Where better to hide a cipher based on the substitution of numbers for letters than among balance sheets? Holding my breath, glancing all the time at the window, I took the stolen letter from my purse and checked the numbers at the top of the page: 1271584 76201536.
Matching the numbers against the figures in the expenses column, I tried to make sense of the first set, but no matter how I divided the numbers up, there was no combination of letters that made any sense. Frustrated, I bit my lip; I had been so certain of my sudden flash of insight. I tried the next long number. Seven … the only item on the list beginning with 7 was “Parish priests—7s 6d.” Seven and six—P. “Alms” was listed as twenty shillings, but there was no payment corresponding to fifteen, or one-and-five. I cursed under my breath and glared at the list as if to intimidate it into giving up its secrets. It seemed my imagination had overreached; this was nothing but an ordinary accounting sheet and I was being a fool. I was about to replace it when I noticed that “Incense” was set down at five shillings. Incense? Though I was not well versed in the theological disputes of the English church, I knew that the use of incense was a vexed question; some thought it too close to the ornaments of the Church of Rome, while others argued that it had never been explicitly prohibite
d and was therefore acceptable in Protestant services. I had not noticed any smell of incense on either of the occasions when I was inside the cathedral, so its inclusion on the list of outgoings struck me as odd. I scanned back over the list to see if anything corresponded to the number 1, and realised that I had overlooked “Repairs (sundries),” listed at one pound. That gave us P-A-R-I … Heart racing, I searched the list and found what I had hardly dared hope for—the payment for “Scholars” was 3s 6d. So if I was right, and this balance sheet was indeed the cipher, the second word at the top of this letter was “Paris.” What, then, was the first? I began again, cursing when every combination I matched against the balance sheet resulted in no recognisable word. I blinked slowly and tried to look at the numbers with fresh eyes, until I realised with a start that the last four numbers made sense together as a group: 1584. This first group of numbers, then, was not a word but a date—the twelfth of the seventh, 1584. A letter sent from Paris on 12 July—my instinct was right. In haste, I scrabbled on Langworth’s desk for a new sheet of paper and dipped his quill in the inkwell, hoping he would not notice it had been recently used. As quickly as I could, I copied the cipher, put my copy and the letter into my pouch again, and replaced the original balance sheet in the pile of papers, feeling triumphant. It was only then that I noticed I had been careless; a smear of blood from my cut finger marked the bottom of the cipher page. There was nothing I could do about it now, though, except to hope that he would not notice until much later.
I had to trust to luck in climbing out of Langworth’s back window, but fortunately no one passed along the path while I was making my escape and I emerged from behind the row of houses unobserved, as far as I could tell. The air felt thick and heavy with humidity and the blue of the sky had grown hazy with a thin gauze of cloud. Samuel was right, I thought; it seemed we would have a storm soon. I decided to take the letter I had borrowed from Langworth back to my room at the Cheker, make the copy, and decipher it as quickly as possible. I recalled Sophia mentioning that the Huguenot weavers travelled regularly to London to sell their cloth; perhaps one of them could be persuaded to take a letter to Sidney for a fee.
