‘Good day, sirs – could you direct me to Mr Warley’s rooms?’
The smaller man turned towards me. His face was flushed with anger, and he was breathing rapidly. ‘I’m Warley,’ he snapped.
‘May I speak privately to you?’
Warley glanced at the other man. ‘Of course,’ he said in a tight, hard voice. ‘I’m quite at leisure.’
Burbrough’s colour darkened. ‘By God, you’ve not heard the last of this.’
‘I fear you’re right, sir.’
Burbrough marched away, striding with heavy footsteps across the court towards a staircase in the far corner. Warley stared after him.
‘My name’s Marwood, sir. I come from Whitehall, and I’ve a letter for you.’
He turned to me, his head on one side, his eyes widening a fraction as he took in my scars. ‘What’s this?’ he said brusquely.
‘When you’ve seen the letter, you’ll know.’
‘Very well.’ His dark eyes moved over me. ‘You’d better come to my rooms.’
We walked across the court. Warley was a neat man with darting movements and a silk gown that fluttered as he walked. His lips were tightly compressed, perhaps with anger.
‘From Whitehall, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are employed there?’
‘At the Board of Red Cloth.’ Glancing back, I went on, ‘You intend to build the chapel there, sir?’
Warley threw me a suspicious glance. ‘Yes.’
‘I understand that the architects are Dr Wren and Mr Hakesby.’
He stopped. ‘But how can you know that? It’s not public knowledge yet, or it shouldn’t be.’
‘I saw Mr Hakesby two days ago.’
‘Where?’
‘In London. I’ve also seen a sketch for the chapel’s design.’
‘He showed it to you?’ The anger was gone, replaced by an enthusiasm that was almost boyish in its intensity. ‘It will be such a fine thing when it’s finished. The most elegant in Cambridge. So you know Mr Hakesby. How does he do?’
‘Not too well at present, sir,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure he will be better soon.’
‘His ague is bad? Poor man – it comes and it goes, but he manages wonderfully. I know Dr Wren thinks very highly of him.’
‘So the new chapel will fill the whole of that side of the court?’
‘Not exactly.’ Warley waved at the old building. ‘Though we’ll start by pulling down East Building over there. It’s been standing empty for years, and in any case it was always mean and inconvenient. Look at it, sir – how that old fool Burbrough can think it worth saving is beyond all comprehension.’
I saw Warley’s point. The low, steep-roofed range was propped up with buttresses. The brickwork was thick with ivy, dusty after the dry summer. Several tiles were missing from the roof, and the glass in some of the small windows was broken.
‘In the place of that shameful ruin,’ Warley went on, ‘we shall have an open arcade the entire width of the court, with a fine new gallery for the Master above it, all faced with stone and with a pediment above. We shall have a clock, perhaps, and a cupola set on top to crown all. I would like a cupola myself but Dr Wren is not convinced. What do you think?’
‘Definitely with a cupola,’ I said, thinking that all this would cost a great deal of money, and that Burbrough’s doubts were understandable.
‘And through the arcade we shall be able to walk directly into our gardens, which lie behind. And then, here, in the centre’ – Warley spread out his arms to show me – ‘we shall have the chapel itself. But its entrance will be most cunningly set within the arcade so it does not break the run of it or the gallery above. Indeed, sir, it will be the neatest and most convenient thing you ever saw.’
‘I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation,’ I said. ‘Not everyone shares your enthusiasm for the scheme.’
Warley walked on, his excitement draining away. ‘Dr Burbrough is the Vice Master. He’s old-fashioned in all things.’
‘In politics, too?’ I suggested. ‘Religion?’
‘Yes.’ Warley glanced at me, and I knew he had taken my meaning. He hesitated, prudence fighting a losing battle against his anger with Burbrough. ‘He got his fellowship under the Commonwealth,’ he burst out. ‘If you ask me, he’s a Presbyterian at heart, and with Calvinist and republican leanings. And he dislikes me intensely into the bargain.’
‘Because of the royal mandate?’
‘You’ve heard about that too? You’re well informed. Yes. It’s true that I wasn’t elected to the fellowship in the usual way. There happened to be a vacancy and I was selected for it by royal mandate. In fact, the Master was brought in by royal mandate as well. The crown has a perfect right to do that, just as it has the right to vary our statutes or command the university to award honorary degrees. But Burbrough hates it when the King interferes with the university, and when it’s his own college it’s even worse.’ Warley raised his chin and added defensively, ‘The King is perfectly entitled to exercise his mandate if he wishes. Don’t you agree, sir?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Jerusalem was a hotbed of Puritan dissent during the late disturbances,’ Warley went on. ‘The university as a whole was. God be thanked, that’s all changed since the King came into his own again. But there are still a few men like Burbrough that linger like a bad smell from Cromwell’s time.’
Warley went into the staircase and led me up to a sitting room on the first floor.
‘Smith?’ he called as he went in.
The windows overlooked the court on one side and a secluded garden on the other. It was a pleasant, airy room, though the furniture was scuffed and old-fashioned. The floorboards were covered with rush matting. There was a solitary rectangle of Turkey carpet, faded and threadbare, before the fireplace.
‘Will you take a glass of wine, sir?’ Warley didn’t wait for an answer but raised his voice again. ‘Smith? The Madeira, if you please, and two glasses.’
There was no reply, apart from a soft, broken whimper, like an animal in pain.
Warley muttered under his breath. He flung open a door beyond the fireplace, which stood ajar. He stopped on the threshold. ‘God’s breath—’
I crossed the room and looked over his shoulder. The doorway led to a closet furnished plainly with book-laden shelves, a tall cupboard and a desk scattered with papers. An elbow chair lay on its side against the wall. An old man lay sprawled beside it.
‘What mischief’s this?’ Warley said, clutching at the jamb.
I pushed past him and knelt down. The man’s thin grey hair was matted with blood on the left-hand side of his scalp, and it had streaked the skin of his face. He moaned as I touched him.
‘Smith!’ Warley cried. ‘What happened? Did you fall?’
The servant continued to whimper. I put my arms under him and lifted him into a sitting position on the floor. He was as light as a child; I felt the bones under his skin.
I glanced up at Warley. ‘Pick up the chair.’
He obeyed. Between us, we picked Smith up and lowered him into the chair. He slumped into its embrace, with his head lolling to one side. Warley fired questions, a rapid and almost incoherent fusillade. Smith was incapable of replying.
‘Find something to stop the blood.’ I ordered. ‘Linen. A shirt, perhaps.’
Warley stared wildly at me. ‘What?’
‘A shirt,’ I snapped.
He left the room. I looked about me. The papers on the desk were disordered, and some of them had been pushed to the floor. I noticed a box tucked into the corner beyond the desk. It was askew, and a padlock lay on the floor beside it, partly concealed by the side of the cupboard. I picked it up. It was locked, and still attached to a hasp that was bent out of shape.
Warley came back with a shirt over his arm.
‘Press it against the wound on your servant’s head to stop the bleeding.’
He obeyed, glancing down at the pad
lock in my hand. ‘By God, sir – have they opened the box?’
I tugged out the strongbox into the centre of the room. There was a metallic scraping sound as I did so. A poker had been lying on the floor behind it, and I guessed it had been used to lever off the padlock. The box was a simple affair bound with two strips of iron. The padlock had been its only security, enough to deter a prying servant but not a serious thief. I lifted the lid. There were papers inside and a leather bag.
‘Can you tell what’s missing?’
‘Wait,’ Warley said. ‘We must find the Master, the Dean, and—’
‘In a moment.’
He pushed between me and the box, forcing me to step back. ‘I don’t know who you are, and—’
‘Then look at this letter,’ I said.
‘But for all I know, you’re in league with—’
‘Enough, sir,’ I said, tiring of his objections. I took the shirt from him, folded it and held it against Smith’s head, which was already bleeding much less. ‘Forgive me if I seem rude, but there may well be more to this than simple theft. You must find out what’s been taken. But first, read this.’
He took the letter and broke the seal. Lady Quincy’s letter was short – no more than a few lines, though I couldn’t read them from where I stood. I was taking a chance, for I had no idea of the contents. He read it quickly, folded it and thrust it into his pocket.
‘So this lady, sir,’ he said. ‘My Lady Quincy – she says she travels on the King’s business?’
‘Yes. As do I.’ I spoke with all the assurance I could muster.
‘She asks me to call on her.’
‘At the Rose Tavern. As soon as we can. But before we go, sir, we must help your poor servant. And I want to know if anything’s missing from this box.’
Warley gave me the shirt. He knelt beside the box and emptied it. The leather bag was heavy, and its contents shifted as he lifted it. Almost certainly money – so this was not the work of an ordinary thief. I was reminded of the search at Alderley’s apartments in Fallow Street: the impression it had given of someone searching for a particular item, of someone who wasn’t interested in the usual fruits of robbery.
‘A folder of papers is gone.’
‘What was in it?’
He shook his head. ‘Forgive me, sir, but that’s none of your business.’
‘Sir,’ whispered the servant. He was looking from his master to me, his face puzzled. ‘Sir …’
‘What happened?’ Warley demanded. ‘Who did this?’
‘I didn’t see his face properly. He knocked – I opened the door to him – and he hit me.’
‘You must have seen him,’ Warley said angrily.
‘Only his gown. The sleeve was over my face when he dragged me in here. That’s when he hit me again.’
Smith covered his eyes with his hands and began to weep the tired, helpless tears of old age. They mingled with the dried blood that had trickled from his scalp.
‘Gown?’ Warley said. ‘What sort of gown?’
‘MA, sir.’
‘You’re sure he wasn’t a member of this college?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When did this happen?’ I asked.
‘While the gentlemen were having dinner in hall.’
I turned to Warley. ‘Did you come back here after dinner?’
He shook his head. ‘No – Dr Burbrough and I fell to disputing about the new chapel, and we went out to inspect the East Building after dinner. We had been talking – arguing, I’m afraid – for some little time when you came upon us.’
I felt an unwilling admiration for the stranger in the MA gown. He had put his faith in his academic dress, knowing that the gown made him unremarkable in this setting. He had chosen his time with care, when the fellows were at dinner. He had been bold, too, entering in broad daylight.
‘He can’t have been one of us,’ Warley said. ‘All of us in residence were at dinner. The porter must have admitted him – I shall ask him at once.’
A man of impulse, he took a few steps towards the door.
I laid a hand on his arm to detain him. ‘Are there other gates in and out of the college apart from the main one on the other side of the hall?’
‘Yes,’ Warley said. ‘Three others. But we pride ourselves on our security. The college and entire gardens are surrounded by a high wall.’
‘Do porters watch the other gates?’
‘Not usually. But they’re kept locked. Only the fellows have keys.’ He turned to the window and pointed. ‘There’s one down there.’
‘And your key, sir?’
‘Why, it’s on the ring with the others. Smith, you had them while I was out – where are they?’
‘On the mantelpiece, sir. Where you left them.’
Warley stepped quickly into the sitting room and went over to the fireplace. ‘Still there,’ he said over his shoulder.
At my suggestion, Warley gave the servant a glass of the Madeira intended for us. Leaving the man to recover, we went downstairs.
‘Poor fellow,’ Warley said. ‘He isn’t usually here at this hour, but he started late today.’
‘In the normal course of things, your rooms would have been empty?’
Warley nodded. He looked worried. His temperament was mercurial, and his moods showed on his face.
‘Which suggests,’ I said as we walked across the lawn, ‘that whoever did this knew the ways of this college.’
‘This place seems so tranquil from the outside.’ He glanced at me. ‘Rational and benevolent in its ways, far from the troubles of the world beyond its gates. But believe me, sir, Jerusalem has its secrets.’
We made our way to the porter’s lodge.
‘Who has come through in the last few hours?’ Warley asked. ‘Anyone in an MA gown, for example?’
‘This gentleman’s the only one who’s come into college since midday, sir,’ the porter said, peering up at me through bushy eyebrows.
‘Are you sure?’ Warley said. ‘Could you have been distracted? Or in the necessary house?’
‘No, sir,’ growled the porter, whose surliness was not confined to visitors. ‘No one came through apart from him.’ He jabbed his thumb at me.
‘I’ve been robbed. If a stranger tries to leave, hold him here and send for me.’
I drew Warley aside. ‘We should check the other gates.’
He looked sharply at me and for a moment I thought he would object. But he gave a nod and led me into the gardens behind the college buildings. There was a small gate set in the wall of the Master’s Garden, but that was firmly locked and bolted. So was the second gate, which was on the other side of the college, beyond a large pond.
The third gate was in the separate Fellows’ Garden. This was the one which Warley had shown me from the window of his sitting room. The garden was a pleasant place with gravelled walks set between low hedges, a shady arbour planted with vines, and another, much smaller pond shaded by a willow.
As we entered, Warley muttered under his breath and stopped sharply. ‘That fool Burbrough’s here.’
The older man was walking along a path. He was reading a book and appeared not to have noticed us. He did not look up as Warley and I crossed the garden to the gate in the wall. Like the other two gates had been, it was locked.
‘The thief must still be here,’ Warley said. ‘Somewhere in college.’
‘Perhaps.’ Something black caught my eye at about shoulder level. I bent down. It was a scrap of cloth that had snagged on the head of the nail securing the latch. I lifted it off. ‘Or perhaps not.’
As I spoke, I straightened up and turned. Dr Burbrough was standing by the pond and looking at us with his head lowered, like a bull about to charge.
‘Doctor? A word with you, if you please.’
Warley walked quickly towards him, with me a pace behind.
‘Changed your mind about that wretched chapel?’ Burbrough said as we drew near. ‘We are taught to believe in mirac
les.’
‘Someone has broken into my rooms.’
‘Really?’ Burbrough sounded curiously unconcerned. ‘When?’
‘During dinner or afterwards, when I was talking to you.’
‘Terrible. I blame the times we live in, sir – we’ve lost all sense of right and wrong in this country.’
‘And Smith was attacked,’ Warley said.
Burbrough’s expression changed. ‘What? Why was he there at dinnertime?’
‘He was behind in his work.’
‘What happened? Is he badly hurt?’
‘He answered a knock at the door, and the intruder hit him – he lost consciousness, I believe. He’s awake, but in a bad way. Bleeding from the head, and very shaken. It’s a wonder he wasn’t killed.’
‘That is intolerable!’ Burbrough said, his voice rising in volume with every syllable. ‘A harmless old man, who’s served the college loyally all his life. Why, he used to be my own servant. I must have known him for twenty years or more.’
He glared at us as if we had been responsible for the attack. He wheeled about with a flurry of his gown and stalked out of the garden.
I stared after him. How strange Burbrough’s questions had been, I thought. Not merely the questions themselves, but the order in which they had been asked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I WATCHED LADY Quincy fail to work her magic on Mr Warley.
She was a woman who was aware of the men around her, and the men generally repaid the compliment, with interest. But Warley was different. He sat stiffly at the table in her sitting room at the Rose. He sipped his wine and nibbled a biscuit as if discharging a painful duty. The emotions he had shown so readily at Jerusalem – his anger with Burbrough, for example, his enthusiasm for the chapel plans – might never have existed. Perhaps he was still shaken by the events of the last hour. Or perhaps a man who did not care for the society of women.
Lady Quincy was sitting opposite him, while I was perched on a stool by the window, a witness but apart. She had sent her maid and the boy Stephen away, and the three of us were alone. I had had no opportunity to talk privately to her, so she had not heard about the stranger in the MA gown and the robbery at Jerusalem.
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