Sacrilege gb-3

by S. J. Parris

  He opened a door on the left of the small hallway and motioned me into a long room overlooking the river and dominated by the wooden frames of three large looms, where women sat working the treadle, the mechanism clicking rhythmically as they fed the shuttle back and forth. They gave us only the briefest glance as we passed through, their eyes fixed to the coloured yarns stretched on the frames before them. Bobbin racks and contraptions for stretching thread lined the walls. I looked out of the window at the narrow creek; a man was loading bales of cloth from a small jetty at the back of the house on to a low boat. At the far end of this workshop a narrow staircase ascended to the floor above. I glanced down at the scene of industry in the workshop below as we climbed.

  “Business is good here?”

  Fleury shrugged.

  “Life is always precarious in a strange land. You know this, I think. But we can feed ourselves, for the moment, and for that I give thanks.”

  At the top of the stairs was a long landing with another staircase, even narrower, rising to the next floor. He gestured for me to climb alone.

  “In the attic,” he whispered, by way of explanation. “Keep your voices down.”

  The ceiling was low, sloping to either side under the crooked roof and I had to bend to avoid the supporting beams as I pushed open the small door at the top of the stairs. Sophia was seated at a rough-hewn table, Olivier Fleury standing by the tiny window, leaning on the sill and looking out. Both started with alarm as I slipped through the door; Sophia jumped quickly to her feet.

  “Bruno!” For a moment she gave the impression that she was about to run and embrace me, but instead she flashed me a shy smile and raised her arms before letting them fall to her sides. Olivier regarded me with that same expression of sullen disdain. “Any news? Have you found him?”

  I looked at Sophia. She had washed and, though she was still dressed in boy’s clothes, they were now clean. Her hair hung softly, almost into her eyes, its shortness at the back emphasising her long, slender neck. I noticed the days of riding in the sun had brought out a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

  “Give me a chance—I have not been here a day. But there is news—I have just come from the scene of another murder.”

  “What?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth; she stared at me, eyes wide. But my attention was distracted by a gasp from the corner of the room; it was only then that I realised there was a third person present, a young woman dressed in black, sitting on a straw mattress tucked away under the eaves. I raised my eyebrows at Sophia; she glanced briefly at the woman on the bed.

  “Hélène, Olivier’s sister,” she said, as if this was not of much interest. “But who has been murdered?”

  “Is it a child?” the woman Hélène whispered, her voice dry as autumn leaves. She had fine fair hair and the same full lips as her brother. I looked at her in surprise.

  “No—it was the apothecary from the High Street, William Fitch.”

  Hélène gave a sort of shudder and crumpled visibly, as if she had been struck. She buried her face in her handkerchief and though her shoulders shook violently she made no sound.

  “I am sorry. Did you know him well?” I asked her gently.

  “It’s not that.” Olivier glared at me, as if once again I had been the bringer of misfortune, and crossed the room to give his sister a cursory pat on the arm.

  Sophia frowned. “Everyone knew Fitch—he was something of a busybody. I kept away from his shop—he asked too many questions.” She shook her head. “But he was amiable with it. I wonder who could have wanted to kill him?”

  “The manner of it was similar to your husband’s murder—his skull was smashed. You don’t suppose they could be connected?”

  She frowned.

  “I can’t see how. Especially if my husband’s killer wanted to be sure I was blamed. Another murder in my absence would undo that.”

  “Did Sir Edward know Fitch?”

  “He knew everyone in Canterbury. But he didn’t associate with him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But he knew Ezekiel Sykes the physician well, and Sykes knew Fitch,” I mused, thinking again of Sykes’s peremptory visit to the apothecary the previous afternoon.

  Sophia made an impatient sound.

  “You are overcomplicating matters, Bruno. I have told you where you would do best to look for my husband’s killer. The poor apothecary was probably attacked by robbers, taking advantage of the fact that the city is without a justice of the peace at the moment.”

  “So the constable wants to think.”

  “Well, then.” She folded her arms. “You see the world as full of hidden connections, Bruno. Sometimes things are no more than they appear. Didn’t William of Ockham say so?” She gave me a mischievous smile, which I could not help returning.

  “Something like that. May we talk in private?”

  Sophia looked across at Olivier, who still kept a protective hand on his sister’s shoulder. Hélène had sunk into herself, her face obscured by the handkerchief and her clasped hands. He nodded curtly at me, and extended a hand to help his sister rise.

  “I hope you will find this man soon, monsieur,” he said, through clenched teeth, as he passed me. “Then you can both leave us in peace.”

  “I will do my best,” I said, with forced politeness. Hélène’s gaze flickered briefly upwards to my face, then quickly back to the floor; I reached out and touched her gently on the arm and she flinched as if I had hit her.

  “Pardon me,” I said, in French, “but why did you ask if a child had been killed?”

  Her red-rimmed eyes filled with tears; she shook her head tightly and bunched the handkerchief harder against her lips. Olivier glared at me again as he put a protective arm around her and led her to the door.

  “I have said the wrong thing, somehow,” I observed when they had gone. “Why is she so distressed?”

  Sophia sat down at the table again and rubbed the back of her neck. She looked suddenly weary.

  “That poor girl. Widowed at eighteen—her husband was killed during the massacre in Paris. She was pregnant when they fled to England and her son, Denis, was born here. Six months ago, he disappeared.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Just that—he went out on an errand for his grandparents and never returned. He was only eleven.” She bit her lip and I noticed how she knotted her fingers together, though she kept her expression controlled, her gaze concentrated on a point on the wall. I guessed she was thinking about her own lost son and the sorrow of a mother.

  “So that was what Olivier meant when he said they had enough grief already.” I pulled up a stool opposite her. “They reported it, I suppose? There was a search for the boy?”

  “They reported it to my husband as the local justice—that was how I first met Olivier. He refused to give up—he came to the house every day until finally Sir Edward had to threaten him with arrest for trespass. There was a search, but since the Huguenots are not regarded by many in the town as true citizens, you may imagine how little effort was made. They told the family he had probably just run off to be a ship’s boy.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  She shrugged.

  “I never met the boy. The family say he would not have done so. But Hélène has talked herself into believing the worst, because of the other child that was found.”

  “What other child?”

  “It was last autumn, before I arrived here, a few months before her son went missing. The body of a young boy, around the same age, was found dismembered on a midden outside the city walls. He was a beggar child, they said. But Hélène has seized on it to fuel her belief that her son has been killed too.”

  “What do you think?”

  She gave me a long look and sighed heavily.

  “I think it’s terrible, naturally, but …” She reached out and laid a hand gently over mine. “Bruno, you don’t need to unravel every unsolved death in this town. Just
the one you came for, remember? Have you spoken to Nicholas Kingsley yet?”

  “I will be a guest at his house tonight.”

  She squeezed my hand, her eyes bright. “I knew you would manage this, Bruno. You will find something there to clear me, I’m certain of it.”

  I regarded her with a serious expression.

  “You are very determined that it should be Nicholas. And he is equally determined that it was you.”

  “Well, obviously.” She removed her hand. “As I have said, if I am convicted of killing his father, he will inherit instead.”

  “But if I find evidence to incriminate him, you become a wealthy widow. Am I right?”

  She leaned across the table and fixed me with that look, her eyes flashing.

  “And would I not deserve that, after everything I have suffered?”

  “Of course. But you will inherit regardless of who the real killer turns out to be, surely, provided it can be proved? I can’t produce evidence against Nicholas just because you want it to be him.”

  “But who else would have a motive for killing Sir Edward and ensuring I am blamed, if not him? Especially after his father’s will was changed.”

  “Tell me about the will, then.”

  “Before Sir Edward married me, Nicholas was his only next of kin and stood to inherit everything. But about a month before my husband was murdered, he made a new testament. Rights to his property and all the income from his estates was made over to me to be passed to our children, whenever they should arrive.” She broke off and made a face of disgust at the idea. “Nicholas was given a small allowance—barely enough for the lowest kind of food and board.”

  “But your husband had no affection for you. Why would he do that?”

  “To humiliate his son, I suppose. He had spent so much on Nicholas’s education, only for him to drink and gamble away his chances of a profession in the law. He said he had given Nicholas ample chance to change his ways, and the best way to make him grow up was to close his purse.”

  I nodded. “I can see that would have made Nicholas furious. But angry enough to beat his own father to death?”

  Sophia rested her chin on her hand.

  “I could believe it. To murder his father and have me executed for it would have been a fine revenge on both of us—with the advantage of removing any obstacle to his inheritance.”

  “And it rests entirely between you and Nicholas? No one else stands to benefit from Sir Edward’s will?”

  “Not that I know of, but then, I never read the document. I only know because Sir Edward took great pleasure in telling Nicholas and me of the changes over dinner. Perhaps he thought it would encourage me to hurry up and give him a better son.”

  “Then why did Nicholas mention the Widow Gray?”

  “I don’t know. What did he say?”

  “She was one of the people he said would not take his inheritance from him, when he was in his cups last night.”

  Sophia looked uncomfortable.

  “There is gossip about her in the town …” Her voice trailed off. “But who knows if there is any substance to it.”

  “Your husband knew her?”

  She nodded.

  “Could she have been his mistress?”

  She shrugged, expressionless.

  “Maybe. She has a son, I know that much. A boy of about twelve.”

  I nodded. If the boy was Sir Edward’s bastard, that might explain why Nicholas Kingsley thought the widow wanted money from the estate.

  “Sir Edward’s friends—the ones who visited him for those secretive meetings. Might any of them have wanted him dead? Had they fallen out, perhaps?”

  Sophia looked at her hands for a long moment. Eventually she raised her head.

  “Bruno, those are powerful men you are talking about. If you start poking into their business, you’ll draw unwelcome attention to yourself and they’ll find a way to stop you.”

  “I thought you wanted me to ask questions?”

  “Yes, but—what good will it do anyone if they have you arrested? Better that you concentrate your search—”

  “On Nicholas Kingsley?” I stood up, and took a few paces, before rounding on her again, frustrated. “But what if it isn’t him? What if someone killed your husband, not for his money, but for some other reason—revenge, or because he crossed them? You would not want an innocent man to die, surely, however obnoxious he may be. Think—who else might have wanted him dead? What about Tom Garth?”

  “Tom Garth? Oh—from the cathedral. What has he to do with it?”

  “He held a grudge against the Kingsley family. Last night I heard him talk of taking the law into his own hands. And he is gatekeeper at the cathedral—he could easily have killed Sir Edward that night.”

  “But Tom Garth had resented Sir Edward for years, since his sister died. Why would he suddenly take it into his head to kill him now? And why would he leave a woman’s bloodied gloves where they would be found to have me blamed?” She shook her head. “I think you are wandering from the path here, Bruno.”

  I ran both hands through my hair.

  “Look, you said you wanted me to find the truth—that’s why you dragged me here. Now you are telling me what I should find!”

  “Lower your voice.” Her jaw was tight with anger. She took a deep breath. “Very well. His regular supper companions at home were the physician Sykes, the mayor of Canterbury, and the cathedral treasurer—”

  “John Langworth.”

  She looked surprised.

  “You know him?”

  “We have met. You know that Langworth is suspected of Catholic sympathies? Did your husband share his feelings? What about Sykes?”

  “I don’t know!” She looked nettled. “I never heard my husband express any religious view that was other than orthodox. You have to understand, Bruno—I was concentrating on surviving.”

  “I know,” I said, attempting to sound soothing.

  We looked at each other in silence for a moment, until she dropped her gaze to the table.

  “It was Langworth who brought me the news of my husband’s death, and his belongings.”

  “And Langworth who found the body.” I thought again of Harry’s warning. Langworth’s close connection to Henry Howard should have made me more inclined to heed the general view that to cross the treasurer was an act of wilful self-sabotage; instead it made me more determined that he should not be allowed to hide behind the reputation he had tried to create.

  Sophia looked up at me, apprehensive.

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “I was thinking aloud.” I brushed her objection aside as a thought occurred to me. “Do you think your husband knew that people heard you screaming? Visitors to the house, I mean.”

  “Screaming?” she said, as if the idea were absurd. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

  “When he beat you.”

  “But I never screamed.” Her voice became very steady and quiet. “He told me if I made a sound he would make it a thousand times worse. Then it became a matter of pride—not to cry at all, to take it all without flinching.” She picked at the skin around her nails and I saw the muscles in her jaw tense.

  “Perhaps you cried out without realising it,” I suggested. Her scathing look told me what she thought of that idea.

  “I didn’t scream,” she repeated firmly, closing her eyes. After a moment she opened them again and looked at me. “What makes you say that I did?”

  “A girl delivering something to the house says she heard someone screaming in the grounds. Who could it be, if not you?”

  Sophia shook her head. “Foxes? The house is surrounded by a burial ground grown wild—there must be dens by the dozen.”

  “Perhaps.” I sighed. She was right; I needed to concentrate first on the obvious instead of chasing after every chance rumour I caught about Sir Edward. I recalled the girl Rebecca’s noisy grief outside the apothecary’s shop earlier; pe
rhaps, as he had suggested, what she heard was no more than the effects of an overactive imagination.

  “Stop pacing, Bruno, it’s tiring to watch you,” Sophia said gently, after a few moments. Then she pushed her stool back and crossed the room to block my path. “Have I asked the impossible?” she whispered, a sad smile hovering at her lips as she rested her hands on my arms, just below the shoulder. It was not quite an embrace, more a gentle restraint.

  “I am certain he was killed by someone he knew. It shouldn’t be impossible to find that person—I would wager any amount that he is still here in Canterbury.”

  “Don’t wager too much, Bruno, you will be penniless at this rate.”

  “I know it.” I laughed softly and placed my hands on her thin shoulders.

  “I just want it to be over,” she whispered. “You understand.”

  “I will move heaven and earth to find this man for you, Sophia, if it is in my power. I have said I will.” I placed a finger under her chin and gently tilted her face upwards to me. For a moment, as she looked me directly in the eye, I thought I glimpsed her with her defences down, open and vulnerable.

  She nodded without speaking, and her lips parted slightly; a pulse quickened in my throat. Almost imperceptibly, I felt her fingers tighten on my arms as the space between us seemed to grow smaller; before I had time to think of the consequences, I found myself leaning towards her, my mouth barely an inch from hers, and to my surprise she did not turn her head or pull away. For an instant I felt her breath warm on my chin, then the door opened. Olivier slipped into the room, his scornful expression for once seeming justified.

  “Pardon me,” he said drily, in French. “My father says you are talking too loudly. He is afraid the women downstairs will hear you.” He was looking at Sophia; she lowered her eyes, and let go of my arms.

  “Over the sound of the looms?” My anger at the interruption was hot in my voice. I wondered if he had been listening at the door. He merely returned my look, naked dislike in his eyes, and I saw, whatever Sophia might say about their friendship, this boy regarded me as a rival. The thought gave me a small stab of joy. I forced a smile.