by S. J. Parris
"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.
"I clean his shoes every day," he said, a wary note in his voice. "Why did you want to see Gabriel?"
"I wanted to ask when he took his longbow to the strong room."
Thomas looked mildly surprised at the question, but shrugged carelessly before wiping his hands on his shirt front.
"I took it, on Saturday morning. Gabriel was furious-he said the rector had commanded him to give it up, after he'd done them a service, too, shooting that mad dog."
"So you took it there yourself?"
He blinked at my tone, then shook his head. "I went to do so, but as I was crossing the quadrangle I was seen by Doctor Coverdale and Doctor Bernard, who were standing by the stairs to chapel. They stopped me and asked what I was doing with such a weapon in college. When I explained, Doctor Coverdale told me that I could leave it outside his door on the landing and he would see that it was safely locked away."
"Did Doctor Bernard hear this exchange?"
"He was standing right beside Doctor Coverdale, so I presume so." Thomas looked puzzled.
"Could anyone else have overheard?"
"I don't know. There were a few people in the courtyard coming and going, but I don't recall anyone stopping by us. What is the problem, Doctor Bruno, if I might ask?" He was twisting the dirty cloth now between his hands, his face searching mine keenly.
"Oh, there is no problem," I said, airily. We looked at each other in awkward silence for a moment.
"Doctor Bruno," Thomas said, stepping closer and lowering his voice, "I hope this will not sound presumptuous, but there is something I would speak to you about urgently. It is a matter of some importance, and I do not know who else I may confide in here."
The hairs on my neck prickled. Could it be that Thomas knew something of the murder?
"Please, speak freely."
"I meant…somewhere private."
"Are we not alone here?" I asked, looking around the empty room.
He shook his head and pressed his lips into a tight line, twisting the cloth between his hands. "Away from college, sir. I would not have us overheard."
I hesitated. I did not really have time to spare-my priority was to find the boy who had called Coverdale out of the disputation-but the expression of pained urgency on Thomas's face convinced me that whatever he needed to unburden must be serious.
"Very well, then. Have you broken your fast this morning? Perhaps we could find ourselves a tavern where we might eat and talk at more leisure." I realised that I had not eaten in all the consternation over Coverdale's murder and my stomach was groaning bitterly.
His face slackened. "Sir-I'm afraid I do not have the means for visiting taverns."
"But I do," I said, "and surely you may eat with me if I invite you?"
"I'm afraid it would not do your standing in Oxford any good to be seen with me, sir," he said dolefully.
"To be honest, Master Allen, my standing in Oxford is not worth a horse's shit at the moment," I said. "But to hell with them-let us enjoy a good breakfast, if we can find one, and take the consequences afterward, and you may tell me what is on your mind."
"You are kind, sir," he said, following me through the door, which he stopped to lock behind him.
As we drew near to the tower archway, I stretched up to look at James Coverdale's blank window, though it was too high to see anything. The rain had eased a little and glimpses of light showed behind the clouds.
"Are you all right, Doctor Bruno?" Thomas asked, following my gaze, his angular face politely solicitous. "You seem disturbed this morning. Has something happened?"
I looked at him, gathering my scattered thoughts. Thomas had not yet heard the news of Coverdale's murder, but by the time we returned the college would be abuzz with rumour and speculation. If he knew anything of value, I would need to take advantage of these few unguarded moments.
"Yes. Yes, I am fine. Let us go."
We walked in silence down St. Mildred's Lane toward the High Street. Though Thomas was a good five inches taller than I, he walked with such a hunched posture, as if hoping to make himself less noticeable, that we appeared almost the same height. His worn air of defeat made it impossible not to feel pity for the boy. As if reading my thoughts, he turned his face briefly to me, his hands wrapped deep in the sleeves of his frayed gown.
"It is good of you to take time to listen to me, sir. With the difference in our positions, I mean."
"If we are to talk of positions, Thomas, let us not forget that you are the son of an Oxford Fellow and I am the son of a soldier. But I have little interest in such distinctions-I still dare to hope for a day when a person is judged by his character and his achievements rather than for his father's name."
"That is a bold hope," he agreed. "But to most people in this town, si
r, I will always be the son of an exiled heretic."
"Well, I am an exiled heretic, so I win."
He looked me in the eye then, and smiled properly for the first time since I had met him, before his face turned sombre again.
"All the same, you are a friend of kings and courtiers, sir," he reminded me.
"Well, after a fashion, Thomas. If you mean King Henri of France, he liked to surround himself with philosophers, it flattered his intellectual vanity. Kings do not have friends in the same way as you or I."
"I have no friends at all, sir," he responded, his voice subdued. There was a long pause while we both looked for something to say. "In any case, you are friends with Sir Philip Sidney, and that is something."
"Yes," I agreed, "I am fortunate to count Sidney a friend. Is that why you wished to speak to me-so that I might petition him for your father's sake?"
Thomas was silent for a moment, then he stopped walking and fixed me with a serious expression.
"Not for my father's sake, sir. For my own. There is something I must tell you, if you will promise me your discretion?"
I nodded, intrigued. At the place where St. Mildred's Lane met the High Street, we paused and looked to left and right along the rows of uneven timber-framed houses and the pale stone fronts of the college buildings; at this hour the street was almost deserted, rain still lightly pricking the surface of the water pooled in cart ruts.
"The Flower de Luce is just along the street," Thomas said, gesturing to our left, "but it is expensive, sir." He pulled anxiously at the hem of his gown.
"Well, no matter," I said, brightly, reaching to my belt to cup the reassuring weight of Walsingham's purse against my palm as we began to walk in the direction he had indicated. "But I do not know the taverns of Oxford. Tell me, do you know anything of an inn called the Catherine Wheel?"
I glanced innocently at Thomas as I said this; the fear that flickered over his face was unmistakable, but he quickly assumed a neutral countenance.
