by S. J. Parris
Sidney was still burdened with the entertainment of the palatine, but had promised to look into Gabriel Norris’s connection with the Napper family and see what he could discover about William Napper’s hunting party when the dog went missing. My task was to visit Jenkes’s shop in Catte Street on the pretext of purchasing some books, to see what I could learn about his illicit business there, and then to brace myself for another meal at the Catherine Wheel in the hope of further conversation with Humphrey Pritchard. I confess to a slight twinge of conscience at the thought of manipulating the trust of a simple-minded potboy—but I had a job to do, and I tried to concentrate on the long view, as Walsingham had instructed. Unlike my employer, however, I was not a natural politician, and the idea of sacrificing individuals to the hazy concept of the greater good did not sit easily with me. Before I could turn my attention to any of this, however, I needed to find a way to speak to Sophia.
I had decided not to attend Matins—one show of piety during my visit was enough, I felt—and instead spent the early part of the morning trying to read by my window in the hope that I might see Sophia if she crossed the quadrangle on one of her regular visits to the college library. I knew that the rector would never admit me if I asked to speak to her directly, so my best hope was to wait and see if she would venture out when the students were all at public lectures—assuming that her father would still allow her that privilege. My stomach moaned at the lack of breakfast, but I dared not go in search of food in case I missed Sophia.
It was shortly before nine that I saw her emerge from the rector’s lodgings. My heart gave an involuntary leap and I quickly gathered my cloak to catch up with her, but she did not cross the courtyard toward the library. She was dressed more formally than usual, in an ivory gown with embroidered sleeves, the hood of her short cape drawn up around her face against the rain, and she walked with a determined step toward the gatehouse. Hastily I locked the door to my chamber, though I had left nothing there of value, and folded the paper with the code inside my doublet. Walsingham’s purse hung heavy at my belt. If I should be attacked in the street, I would lose everything, I thought grimly, but at least it didn’t matter if the room was searched in my absence. I scrambled down the stairs and charged across toward the tower archway, slipping on the wet flagstones, but when I reached the main gate and stepped out into St. Mildred’s Lane, there was no sign of her in either direction. She could not have moved fast enough to have disappeared from the street, I reasoned. Concluding that I must have mistaken her destination, I returned to the college, closing the gate behind me, when I heard the low murmur of a woman’s voice coming from the porter’s lodge.
Knocking gently, I opened the door to see Sophia in all her fine clothes crouched on the damp floor with the old dog’s head cradled in her lap. As I entered she raised her head and smiled politely at me as if we had only a passing acquaintance, before returning all her attention to fondly mussing the dog’s ears. A low growl of contentment emanated from Bess’s throat as she nuzzled her head deep into Sophia’s skirts. Oh to be a dog, I thought, and immediately reprimanded myself.
“Morning, Doctor Bruno,” Cobbett said affably from his position of authority behind his table. “You seem in a rush today.”
“Oh—no, I—good morning, Mistress Underhill,” I said, bowing slightly.
Sophia looked up briefly, but this time her expression was preoccupied and she did not smile.
“Doctor Bruno. I think poor Bess is growing blind, Cobbett,” she said, barely looking at me. I guessed she must be ashamed of what had happened the night before.
“Aye, she’s not long for this world,” Cobbett agreed, as if he had long been resigned to the idea. “Sophia loves that dog,” he added, for my benefit. I blinked, surprised at the familiarity with which he, as a servant, referred to the rector’s daughter in her presence. Sophia noticed my look and laughed.
“You are shocked that Cobbett does not call me Mistress, Doctor Bruno? When I first arrived at Lincoln College, I was thirteen years old and my brother fourteen. We had no company of our own age and the Fellows of the college were not used to having children around—they made it very clear they disliked our presence. Cobbett and his wife were the only ones who were kind to us. We spent half our time in here chatting and playing with Bess, didn’t we, Cobbett?”
“Aye—distracting me from my post,” the old porter said gruffly, with obvious affection.
“I didn’t know you had a wife, Cobbett,” I said.
“Not anymore, sir. The good Lord saw fit to take her these five years back. She was the college laundress for years, and a damned fine one. Still, this is how the world turns. And soon my old Bess will be gone, too.” He sniffed heartily and turned his face away to the window.
“Don’t say that, Cobbett, she’ll hear you,” Sophia said, pretending to cover the dog’s ears.
“You are dressed very finely this morning, Mistress Underhill,” I ventured.
She made a face. “My mother has roused herself sufficiently to go visiting,” she said, in a tone that conveyed exactly what she thought of that idea. “We are to call upon an acquaintance of hers in the town whose own daughter, though two years younger than me, is recently betrothed to be married. So she and I will no doubt entertain each other on the lute and virginals, while our mothers extol the many blessings and virtues of marriage and we all revel in her success. As you may imagine, I can hardly contain my excitement.” She said this with a perfectly straight face, though Cobbett misunderstood her sarcasm.
“Why, Sophia, you have no need to feel hard done by—you know you may have any husband you wished if you would only put your mind to it,” he said. He meant to be reassuring, but I did not miss the shadow that passed across her face then, as if his words caused her some secret pain.
I had no chance to speculate further, however, as at that moment there was a great thundering of footsteps on the flagstones outside and the door to the porter’s lodge crashed open with such force that it hit the wall behind and juddered so hard I feared it might splinter. In the doorway stood Walter Slythurst, shaking like an aspen leaf, his face so deathly white and his eyes protruding with such terror that you would have thought someone had a knife at his back. He looked thoroughly drenched and dishevelled, and was wearing a thick cloak and riding boots all spattered with mud. I remembered that he had been away overnight and wondered if he had been attacked on the road.
“Fetch—” He choked, and the effort of speech made the veins in his neck stand out like knotted cords under the sallow skin. “Fetch the rector. The strong room—he must see this—horror—” Suddenly he leaned over and vomited on the stone floor, one hand grasping the wall to keep himself upright.
Cobbett and I exchanged a glance, then the old porter began ponderously to heave himself out of the chair. I stepped forward; it was clear that the situation required more urgency than Cobbett could give it.
“I will go for the rector,” I said, “but what should I tell him has happened?”
Slythurst shook his head frantically, his lips pressed into a white line as if he feared his stomach might rise again. He jerked his head toward Sophia.
“A monstrous crime—one I cannot speak of before a lady. Rector Underhill must see—” He broke off again, his breath suddenly coming in jagged gasps as his knees buckled beneath him and he began shivering wildly as if it were the depths of winter. I had seen these effects of a severe shock before, and knew he must be calmed down.
“Sit him down, get him a strong drink,” I said to Cobbett. “I’ll find the rector.”
“I can go for him if you like, he is at work in his study this morning,” Sophia offered, rising quickly to her feet; as she stood, she clapped a hand to her brow and stumbled just as she had before. I caught her arm and she clutched my shoulder gratefully, then quickly withdrew her hand as a glance briefly passed between us acknowledging our moment of intimacy the night before. She leaned against the wall, but her face had turned almost a
s pale as Slythurst’s. The rank stench of his vomit was rising in the small room, and, perhaps prompted by the smell, Sophia tried to reach the door, but had only partly opened it before she too leaned over and vomited in the doorway.
Cobbett rolled his eyes mildly, as if this were all part of the job.
“Will you take your turn too, Doctor Bruno, before I go for a pail of water?” he said wearily.
In truth, I could feel my own stomach rising with the smell, and I was glad to get out.
“Do not move—I will be back with the rector in a moment,” I said, from the doorway.
“No one must go near the tower,” Slythurst croaked. His violent shaking was beginning to subside; Cobbett had produced one of his bottles of ale and poured the bursar a good measure in one of his wooden cups.
My frantic hammering on the rector’s door brought Adam the old servant running to open it; when he saw it was me, his face twisted into a sneer of open dislike.
“Back again, Doctor Bruno?”
“I need to see the rector urgently,” I panted, ignoring his tone.
“Rector Underhill cannot see you this morning, he is extremely busy. And the ladies are out,” he added, with an emphasis that implied he knew just what I was after.
“Christ’s blood, man, did you not hear me? The matter is urgent—I will fetch him myself if I must.” I shouldered my way past him through the dining room and thumped on the door of the study.
“What is the meaning of this?” the rector blustered, throwing it open. “Doctor Bruno?”
“He forced his way in, sir,” Adam whined, waving his hands ineffectually behind me.
“You must come immediately,” I said. “Master Slythurst has discovered something in the strong room—he called it a monstrous crime. He was too much affected by what he saw—I was sent to bring you as a matter of urgency.”
The rector’s eyes widened in fear and his jowls trembled. “A theft, you mean?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, quietly. “A theft does not generally make a grown man heave up his breakfast. I guess Slythurst has seen something more …disturbing to make his stomach turn like that.”
The rector stared at me. “Not another—?”
“We will not know, sir, until you come to investigate.”
Underhill nodded mutely, then gestured for me to lead the way.
When we reached the west range, Slythurst was already waiting by the door to the subrector’s staircase; some of the colour seemed to have returned to his cheeks but he had not yet regained his composure.
“You must steel yourself, Rector,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I returned this morning from my business in Buckinghamshire—I left at first light and had only just now returned to college. I thought to take the revenues I had brought from our estates straight up to the strong room before I changed. I knocked for James but there was no reply, so I went to Cobbett for the spare key to his room. The inner door to the strong room was locked, as usual, but when I opened it, I found—” His eyes bulged again and he shook his head, his teeth firmly clenched.
“Found what?” the rector asked, as if he did not want to be told the answer.
Slythurst only shook his head and pointed to the stairwell. The rector turned to me awkwardly.
“Doctor Bruno, perhaps you would—? You have shown us a clear head in such situations before.”
I nodded. The rector was a coward at heart, comfortable ruling his little domain of books, where men snipe at their enemies with rhetoric, but out of his depth when the violence became real. He clearly feared what he was about to witness; suddenly the funny little Italian was not so laughable, and he wanted me at his side. Slythurst gave me a sideways glance through narrowed eyes; it seemed that despite his shock, he had not forgotten his dislike of me and would have preferred me not to be included, but he was in no state to argue with the rector.
The stairs creaked unexpectedly under my feet, making the rector jump. Though there was little light in the stairwell, I could make out marks on the threshold of Doctor Coverdale’s room as I entered the door Slythurst had left open. Holding a hand out behind me, I bent to take a closer look and saw that the stains were smudged footprints leading out of the tower room. I touched a finger to one of the marks and it came away with a sticky, rust-coloured coating which, when I sniffed it, could only be blood, though it was not fresh. I turned to look at my companions with a grim expression; below me, the rector’s round white face, pale as the moon in the shadowy stairwell, flinched but nodded me onward.
The little door at the back of the tower room was also swinging open; inside it, I found a narrow spiral staircase barely wide enough for a man to pass, curving to the top of the tower. Halfway up there was a small arched doorway, whose studded oak door had been left ajar by Slythurst in his flight from the sight within. The smell of death was unmistakable now, stinging my nostrils as I approached the threshold; the rector gave a little cry of fright as he cowered behind me. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped into the college strong room. Immediately I gagged and cried out at what I saw, and felt the rector’s hand grasp at the back of my jerkin as he jostled to see through the doorway. Here, then, was the answer to the mystery of what had happened to Doctor James Coverdale.
The strong room seemed more claustrophobic than the subrector’s room below it, though much of that had to do with the smell. The dimensions of the walls were almost the same, but the wooden-beamed ceiling was lower and the two windows, one facing into the quadrangle and the other toward St. Mildred’s Lane, were smaller and narrower, a single perpendicular arch letting in little light on this overcast day. Along each wall stood a number of heavy wooden chests of varying sizes, all painted with heraldic devices, girded with iron bands, and fastened with formidable padlocks—the coffers containing the college revenues. To the left of the window that faced into the college was James Coverdale. His wrists had been bound together and tied over his head to an iron bracket fixed into the wall for candles. He was naked except for his linen undershirt, and his head slumped so that his chin rested on his chest, which was drenched with blood, now matted and dried—he had not died in the past few hours, it seemed. But the most extraordinary aspect, the sight that had made me cry out in shock, was that he had been shot numerous times with arrows from a close range. Nine or ten stuck out from his torso at various points, giving him the appearance of a pincushion—or an icon. I knew immediately what I was witnessing; so, it seemed, did the rector, who tightened his grip on my sleeve so that I could feel his hand trembling. I glanced sideways at him as he stared in unblinking horror at the corpse of a second colleague in two days; his lips were working rapidly and I thought at first that he was uttering a silent prayer, until I realised that he was trying to speak but could not make his voice obey him. When eventually he managed to pronounce the word, it was the one that had leaped instantly to my own mind: “Sebastian.”
“Who is Sebastian?” said Slythurst impatiently. He was still lingering behind us on the stairs, his eyes averted, as if reluctant to enter the room a second time.
“Saint Sebastian,” I said quietly.
The rector nodded absently, as if in a trance. “‘He was commanded to be apprehended, and that he should be brought into the open field where, by his own soldiers, he was shot through the body with innumerable arrows,’” he recited hoarsely; I had no doubt that the words belonged to Foxe. “And look.” He lifted a trembling hand and pointed. On the wall beside the window, raggedly traced with a finger dipped in the dead man’s blood, was the symbol of a spoked wheel.
“And there is the weapon,” Slythurst said decisively, entering the room and pointing at the wall beneath the window, where a handsome carved English longbow, inlaid with green-and-scarlet tracery, had been left casually leaning beside an empty quiver decorated in similar fashion, as if the killer had placed it there calmly and carefully when his work was done.
“But that is Gabriel Norris’s longbow,” the rec
tor croaked in disbelief. “I told him to have it locked away here the other morning, after he shot the dog.”
“Then we have our killer,” Slythurst asserted, nodding a full stop to his pronouncement.
I took a couple of paces toward the body, crouching to peer up at the face.
“These arrows did not kill him,” I said.
“Oh? You think he died of a fever?” Slythurst seemed to have regained his old manner remarkably quickly. I sensed his impatience with my presence in what he regarded as his domain.
“Quiet, Walter,” said Underhill sharply, and for once I was grateful to him. “Go on, Doctor Bruno.”
“His throat has been cut,” I said, and clenching my teeth I grasped Coverdale’s abundant hair and lifted the head so that the dreadful face was visible. The rector gave a little squeal into his handkerchief; Slythurst winced and turned away. The dead man’s eyes were half closed, a rag stuffed into his mouth as a gag, and his throat had been sliced straight across. The wound pulled open as I lifted the head, and from its sticky edges I could see that the incision was a botched job, though it had, in the end, achieved its aim; his neck was scored with the nicks and scratches of aborted cuts, as if the killer had taken several attempts to hold his knife steady and in the right place, suggesting that he was not a practised assassin.
“Who would have such a weapon?” the rector asked tremulously. “All the university men are forbidden to carry daggers in the city precincts—”
“A razor could have done it,” I said grimly. “Or a small knife, if it was sharp enough.”
“Then why shoot him like a boar afterward?” asked Slythurst, daring to step slightly nearer. “And the picture—is that a message?”
“The rector has already told you,” I said. “For show. This is a parody of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, just as Roger Mercer’s death was supposed to mimic the martyrdom of Saint Ignatius. I do not think you can pass this one off as an accident, Rector,” I added, turning to Underhill, who had sat down heavily on one of the sturdy chests, his face in his hands.
