by S. J. Parris
Chapter 9
In the privacy of my chamber at the inn, with the door firmly locked against the solicitous attentions of the landlady, I sat on the low bed, my legs crossed under me, hunched over a new sheet of paper with the letter and the cipher spread out before me, but when I applied myself to the first lines, I had another surprise. As I pressed on, it became clear that Langworth’s correspondent was writing to him in Spanish. This was curious in itself, given that it was dated from Paris, but as the sense slowly emerged from the mass of numbers like a picture appearing out of fog, I felt a smile stealing across my face as I guessed at the identity of the author. More than once I had to pause, wiping lines of sweat from my brow and shaking my head in disbelief at what I read.
As for this our most blessed and holy enterprise, wrote the author of the letter from Paris, His Catholic Majesty King Philip urges our brothers in England to remain steadfast and to regard the present difficulties as temporary.
God has delivered into our hands the Prince of Orange, whose death is surely the blow that will topple the fragile edifice of the heretic church in Europe. With English troops committed to the war in the Netherlands, Elizabeth’s defences will be weakened. At that moment, we will pray most fervently for a miracle from Saint Thomas, by the grace of God. As a sign of his good faith King Philip entrusts to the servants of the blessed saint his holy oil in readiness.
More pious exhortations followed, to trust in God and continue to serve him with patience in this matter.
We thank you for your recent news of my lord H and pray God grant his freedom, which we expect any day.
I sat back on my heels and breathed out slowly to steady myself. “Bernadino de Mendoza,” I whispered into the stifling air of my small room, as if speaking his name aloud would provide confirmation of my suspicions. For who else would be writing in his mother tongue from Paris but the gruff Spanish ambassador whom I had met the previous autumn at Salisbury Court? It was the nobleman Mendoza who had brought the promise of King Philip’s support to the invasion conspiracy, giving the fantasies of Henry Howard and the Duke of Guise some prospect of becoming reality. Queen Elizabeth had expelled him from London at the beginning of this year when his part in the plot was discovered, and I knew King Philip had sent him directly to Paris, where he had joined forces with Guise and his Catholic League, as well as those exiled English Catholics who still dreamed of putting Mary Stuart on the English throne.
So Langworth was corresponding with Mendoza. Harry Robinson must be ignorant of this, or Walsingham would have mentioned it. I pursed my lips and breathed out slowly. The conspirators who had gathered at Salisbury Court the previous autumn had been routed, but it seemed those who had driven the plot were still trying to keep it alive, waiting for the right moment to revive it. Langworth had as good as said so to Samuel. Now, this letter implied, the murder of William of Orange would hasten that moment; if the queen sent English troops to support the Protestants in the Netherlands, England’s own defences would be weakened against a joint attack by Spain and Guise’s French army. We will pray most fervently for a miracle from Saint Thomas, Mendoza had underlined. A pious figure of speech, or something more concrete? And what was the “holy oil”?
Whatever the meaning, I needed to send the information to Walsingham as quickly as possible. I carefully folded the original ciphered letter together with my translation of it and the code I had copied and tucked them all back into my purse, lest anyone should find their way into my chamber. For obvious reasons, I had little faith in locks, though I turned the key anyway. In the passageway downstairs I was intercepted by the landlady, Marina, before I could reach the door. She gave a squeal of delight, as if I were a long-anticipated surprise, and scolded me playfully for my absence at breakfast.
“Why, we hardly see you, Master Savolino, you are so busy with your affairs. Quite the mystery, you are. What can keep you abroad in the city at all hours, I wonder?” She sent me a look laden with innuendo from beneath her eyelashes. I returned a patient smile. “And here you are off out again! Where to this time, may I ask?”
I was tempted to reply that she may not, but knew from experience that it is prudent to keep on the right side of your host.
“I have a sudden desire to eat an orange,” I said. “I was going out to the market—unless you sell them here?” I raised my eyes in the direction of the taproom. She swatted at me in mock outrage.
“Do I look like an orange-girl to you?”
Orange-sellers, at least in London, were widely regarded as prostitutes. I glanced down at the mound of bosom straining against her corset and back up to her garishly painted mouth. With a basket of oranges under her arm she would not have looked out of place in a London theatre or pleasure-garden, save perhaps for her age, which was hard to judge under the makeup.
“Not at all. I meant no offence.”
“None taken.” She giggled again, then beckoned me back along the passage. “But just for you, I’m sure I can find an orange tucked away somewhere. They’re expensive, mind.”
“I will pay, of course.”
“Oh, you can make it up to me later.” She winked.
God in heaven. I smiled again, more nervously this time, and followed her along the shadowy corridor towards the kitchen, wondering what price she had in mind.
“Here,” she said, pushing past the cook and kitchen maid and bending to rummage in a large basket before emerging triumphant, a small, wizened orange in her hand. “Careful eating that in your room, Master Savolino,” she said, making her voice husky. “You could get very sticky. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, won’t you?”
I thanked her, then hurried back to my room as fast as I could, aware that she was watching me until I reached the stairs. Marina was harmless, I was sure, but the mere fact that she had decided to take a special interest in me was a disadvantage when I had hoped to pass unobserved at the inn.
With the door to my chamber locked again, I worked quickly, squeezing the juice from the orange into the shallow dish that had held the candle by my bed. I took a quill and new sheet of paper from my bag and dipped the sharpened nib into the juice. While it was still fresh, I copied out the decoded letter, noting that it was sent to Langworth and reproducing the author’s signature symbol, in the hope that Walsingham would be able to corroborate it as Mendoza’s. Underneath I wrote out the cipher, so that he would have it for future reference.
I waved the paper, watching as the juice dried and the words slowly faded to nothing, leaving the sheet blank, if a little warped. It was an old trick, well known to those familiar with secret correspondence; if the letter were to fall into the hands of anyone suspicious of its contents the first thing they would do would be to hold it up to the flame of a candle to see if there was a hidden message. I could only hope that no one would suspect the weavers of carrying intelligence to London, if they agreed to take the letter.
When the paper was dry, I wiped the nib of the quill, took some real ink, and scribbled a short note to Sidney on the other side, one that would not look unusual if anyone were to glance at the letter. “I am enjoying the sights of Canterbury and have hopes that my research into ecclesiastical history will soon bear fruit,” I wrote, hoping he would pick up on the mention of fruit. “I expect to be here a little longer as there is much work still to be done and it would cheer me to hear from you soon. Your messenger will find me at the Cheker of Hope, where I have much news for him.” I paused, the pen hovering over the paper, wondering if I should add more. The crucial thing was that Walsingham should know the invasion conspiracy was still active in Paris; it might make the queen think twice before committing troops to the war in the Netherlands. By suggesting that Sidney send his own private messenger with any letters, I was also implying that the usual channels of communication with Canterbury were not to be trusted. I signed the letter “Filippo” and sealed it.
This time it was Olivier’s sister Hélène who opened the door at the weav
ers’ house. She ushered me in quickly, her face pinched with anxiety. From behind her I heard the rhythmic clatter of the looms and women’s voices.
“Wait here. I will fetch my brother.”
“I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” I said, as she turned towards the stairs. “I didn’t know about your son.”
She lowered her eyes, twisting her fingers together.
“How could you? No one here cares to know.” She fell silent for a moment, then raised her eyes and I saw they were full of tears. “Why does God test us like this?” she burst out, her fists clenched. “When all we have ever done is try to defend His truth?”
I shook my head. “I cannot defend or explain Him, I’m afraid. That’s why I gave up theology.”
“Sometimes it begins to look as if He is on the side of the Catholics after all. May God forgive me,” she added quickly, glancing around in case anyone had overheard.
“I often think He has turned His back on our petty squabbles altogether.”
She gave me a brief, sad smile.
“My Denis. He was all I had,” she whispered, the sudden passion gone out of her, seeming to shrink her again. “Why would they take him?”
“What makes you think someone took him?” I asked.
She shrugged, helpless.
“I don’t know … Another boy was found dead not long before. On a rubbish heap. Cut in pieces.”
“I had heard. But there is no reason to suppose they are connected, is there?”
“The worst is not knowing. It makes you imagine …” She rubbed brusquely at her cheek with the sleeve of her dress. “But it does no good to dwell on it. Let me find Olivier.”
Olivier, when he arrived, seemed irritated to see me again, but he reluctantly agreed to pass on my letter to one of the weavers who would be leaving for London the following day. I handed him some coins for the man’s trouble and told him the message must be carried urgently to Sir Philip Sidney at Barn Elms, assuring him that the letter was a request for more resources that would allow us to leave Canterbury all the sooner. I asked after Sophia, and he told me curtly that she was sleeping.
“You can’t keep coming to this house,” he said as I was leaving, his hand resting on the latch. “My father is afraid you will be noticed. Tomorrow morning I will come and find you at the Cheker and you can give me your news then.”
I strongly suspected that this was a ruse to keep me away from Sophia, but for the moment, with her safety still dependent on his family’s goodwill, there seemed little point in arguing. I merely nodded and asked him to find me there at breakfast.
It was almost time for me to dine with Harry, but on my way back through the town I made a detour in search of a locksmith. The keys I had taken from Langworth’s hidden chest were weighing down my pouch. I could only hope that the treasurer had been so occupied with the dean’s interest in his ledgers that he had not had time to return to his secret room and notice anything was missing. If I could make copies of the keys and restore the originals to the strongbox while Langworth was out at the chapter meeting, there was a chance that my theft might go undiscovered for the moment. Without any clue as to what the keys might open, I was guessing in the dark, but the fact that they had been so carefully hidden meant they must have some significance. There was always a chance that one had been taken from Sir Edward Kingsley’s belt as he lay dying. Somehow, I must contrive to find a means of trying the lock of his mysterious cellar during my visit to St. Gregory’s later that night.
Tom Garth waved me through the main gate into the cathedral precincts, after I had held up my hands to show him I had no knife at my belt. This time I had thought it prudent to tuck the knife inside my boot. Now that I knew I had an enemy within the cathedral, I had no intention of making myself any more vulnerable than I already felt, working here alone, a stranger and a foreigner with Harry Robinson my only ally—Harry, whom I was not sure I could trust and who I knew did not trust me.
It was not yet noon and I had hoped for a chance to talk to Harry alone while Samuel was preparing the meal, but before I could reach his house I spotted him by the Middle Gate, leaning on his stick and deep in conversation with a tall man, almost completely bald and wearing a black clerical robe. Harry nodded a greeting and his companion turned with a flustered expression, his hands folded inside the sleeves of his gown.
“Good day to you,” Harry announced with a cheerful smile as I approached. “Dean Rogers—may I introduce you to the esteemed Doctor Filippo Savolino, a scholar of Padua and Oxford and friend of the Sidney family, who is visiting me from London for a few days?” He gave a little flourish with his outstretched hand; I had the impression that he relished the chance to remind the dean of his connections at court.
I bowed to Dean Rogers, curious to see the man who had unknowingly saved me from discovery in Langworth’s bedchamber earlier. He had a long, equine face, large brown eyes and a harried air about him, as though he were constantly worried that he ought to be somewhere else. He smiled as he shook my hand.
“It is a pleasure to welcome you to Canterbury, Doctor Savolino,” he said. “I hope we will have the honour of seeing you at divine service here during your visit?”
“I look forward to it. I have heard glowing reports of your music.”
“Mm.” He looked vaguely up at the towers of the cathedral behind me. “You will find our services conducted according to the letter of the queen’s edicts. You know, the archbishop says there has been talk of Her Majesty visiting Canterbury as part of her summer progress next year. Perhaps a favourable report from her friends at court may help to influence her in that direction?” His smile grew brighter, but his eyes were sharp.
I inclined my head in acknowledgement.
“It is some years since she has favoured us with a visit,” he persisted, “but I’m sure she would appreciate the many ways in which we endeavour to maintain the preeminence of our cathedral, while also fulfilling our duties in the community—ah, education of the poor, and so on …” His words trailed off into a little nervous laugh; it sounded as though he had rehearsed this speech and used it before.
They are all afraid of losing their place, I thought. No wonder my presence here makes Harry nervous.
“I’m sure she would,” I said, “and I will mention as much to the Sidney family on my return.” The dean smiled gratefully and I could not resist adding, “Though she may like to postpone her visit until there are fewer unnatural deaths here.”
He blanched.
“I pray you—our recent tragedy is no matter for joking, Doctor Savolino. It was a dreadful shock to everyone that one of our most respected citizens could be struck down on hallowed ground, but I can assure you that such an occurrence is quite without precedent—”
“Saving Thomas Becket, of course,” Harry remarked.
The dean looked irritated.
“There is no need for anyone to fear on that account—our magistrate was killed by his wife in cold blood, for profit, and she will pay the price as soon as she is found. As for the unfortunate death of the apothecary this morning, to which I suppose you refer—it is a clear case of robbery and assault, of which I’m sure you see far worse in London. I’m afraid the influx of refugees makes such things a hazard.” He smiled again, as if everything were now cleared up, but the way he twisted his fingers together betrayed his agitation. “Well, I have much to do before this afternoon’s chapter meeting. You must do me the honour of dining at my table soon, Doctor Savolino. We are always glad of new company.”
I glanced at Harry; he sucked in his cheeks and looked away. Why was he so set against the idea of my sharing a table with the dean and the other canons, I wondered.
“You’re early,” Harry said, after the dean bade us good morning and strode away in the direction of the Archbishop’s Palace. “Samuel is not yet back from his morning’s errands. You may as well come in, though.”
This was welcome news to me. When we were inside the house, Harry gest
ured me into the small parlour and offered me the same seat I had occupied the day before. He pulled up a chair opposite and leaned forward, hands resting on his knees.
“You heard about the apothecary’s murder, then?”
“More than heard. I found him.”
“You are not serious?”
I told him briefly of my visit to the apothecary earlier and my encounter with the constable. Harry’s face grew grave.
“This is a bad business,” he said, lowering his voice. “The whole town is talking about the murder, and you are first witness to finding the body. You could hardly have contrived to make yourself more noticeable. Soon everyone will know your name. Think yourself lucky if they don’t try and pin the deed on you.”
“Me?” I laughed, assuming it was one of his dry jokes, until I saw his expression. “Why should they suspect me?”
Harry rolled his eyes.
“Look at yourself. Your skin, your accent. People here like the idea of murderous foreigners. Much easier than accepting one of their neighbours might be a killer.”
I nodded grimly.
“Well, I will have to rely on the truth. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill the apothecary?”
Harry shrugged.
“Most likely someone felt he cheated them. Maybe he sold them a remedy that didn’t work, or prescribed a fatal dose. Apothecaries do nothing but guess, for all they pretend to be men of physic.” He chuckled, but this time I did not join in. “In any case, what concern is it of yours?”
“A fatal dose,” I repeated. Dosis sola facit venenum. Had Fitch poisoned someone with a fatal dose of belladonna? He had certainly been afraid of doing so, according to the notes that were burned the night he was killed. “I wondered if his death might be connected to Edward Kingsley’s.”
Harry frowned.
