Heresy (32 page)

“Walter, could you go down and ask Cobbett for a lantern? Doctor Bruno is right—we must look at the room carefully before we jump to any conclusions, and it is too dim. And a basin of water,” the rector added. “We must wash that mark from the wall before the coroner is called.”

Slythurst’s eyes widened. “Surely, Rector, that mark is part of the evidence? It may have some significance—we should not tamper—”

“Those are my instructions, Walter. Now please do as I ask.”

Slythurst looked from me to the rector with momentary outrage at being ordered like a servant, but unable to think of any reason for defiance, he turned on his heel and a moment later we heard his footsteps thundering down the stairs.

“Doctor Bruno?” With a great effort, Rector Underhill heaved himself to his feet and grasped me by both wrists. His bombast was all deflated and he looked old and frightened; I found I pitied him the scandal that would break in the wake of this second death. “You saw this, and I did not. I dismissed your theory about Foxe—it seemed to me preposterous, and it suited me to avoid damage to the college by allowing myself to be guided by others, James chief among them, in presenting Roger’s death as an accident. But I must humble myself and acknowledge that you were right—it seems a madman is targeting the Fellows in these horrible travesties of Christian martyrdom. Perhaps if James and I had not scoffed at your idea, he would not be dead.”

“If it’s any consolation, Rector,” I said, patting his hand gently, “I think Doctor Coverdale was already dead by the time you were ridiculing my theory on Saturday night. But I will say again—someone in Lincoln College knows who did this. He is very likely one of your number.”

“You are determined that it is the same killer?” He was still grasping my sleeve.

“It seems so.”

“Then there may be more victims to come, unless he is stopped?”

“I don’t know, Rector. Until we know why these two were made martyrs, we cannot second-guess this murderer, or what he hopes to gain by making his handiwork so ostentatious.”

“Doctor Bruno—” The rector’s voice cracked, and he hesitated, trying to breathe evenly. “I know the college cannot hope to keep this hidden from
the world. But these murders will be the end of my rectorship—perhaps of the college. We are not as wealthy as some and if the benefactions dry up, the wealthy students will look elsewhere. And it is not just for myself that I fear, Doctor Bruno—what are the prospects for my daughter if I no longer have Leicester’s favour? Hm?” He shook my arm with some force, as if this might extract a quicker answer.

“Your daughter has her own qualities to recommend her, with or without the earl’s patronage.”

Underhill shook his head. “That is not how it works in society, as you must know. Among the good families of Oxford she is spoken of as ungovernable. It is only my standing with the earl that makes her any kind of prospect—without that, no respectable man will take her to wife. She should not be in such a place as this if her mother will not chaperone her, but I am a foolish, indulgent father and I cannot bear to send her away. But every day she spends in this college damages her reputation further.” He took a deep breath and I saw that shock had forced all his emotions to the surface; I half expected him to break down weeping, but he gathered himself and continued. “The Earl of Leicester must hear this dreadful news, of course, but how much better it would go for us if he were not to learn of it until we could also present him with a murderer apprehended. Do you see?”

“You must hope your coroner and magistrate work quickly then,” I said, pretending not to guess at his meaning.

“That is the thing—they do not. And they lack the subtlety to comprehend a crime of this nature. I fear they would blunder into corners of college life that would seem curious to all except men of learning, like ourselves. Whereas
you
—” He let his implication hang in the air, regarding me with an expression of wary hope.

“I, sir?” I raised my eyebrows with exaggerated surprise. “A foreigner? A Catholic? A man reported to practise magic, who openly believes the earth goes around the sun?”

Underhill lowered his eyes, and released his grip on my arms. “I beg
your forgiveness for my hasty words, Doctor Bruno. Fear breeds such prejudices, and we are a fearful nation in these times. And now this fear visits us even in this sanctum of learning …” His voice died away and he looked helplessly toward the far window, away from Coverdale’s corpse.

“Are you asking my help in finding this killer?” I asked briskly.

He turned to me, a faint hope in his small, watery eyes. “In ordinary circumstances, I would not think of imposing on a guest—but it seems this killer wants you involved. The papers you showed me—I thought someone was making sport with you, but with
this”
—he raised a hand again behind him toward the body—“perhaps you can draw him out before there is any more blood spilled.”

“Then you believe he will find more victims?” I said, perhaps too sharply.

He turned to me and blinked rapidly, shaking his head. “I only meant—because it seems clear we are dealing with a fiend who is either possessed or mad—”

Just at that moment, there was a scrape and a dull thud from behind us; from the corner of my eye I glimpsed a sudden movement and whipped around to see Coverdale jerk and shift position. The rector shrieked and grabbed my arm again; I heard myself gasp, and for one hideous moment a cold dread washed through me as I wondered if he was not yet dead and had been hanging there in mortal agony all this time. But as I steadied my breathing and took a hesitant step forward, I realised that the knot in the rope holding him to the sconce had begun to slip.

“It’s all right, Rector Underhill,” I said gently. From the juddering of his clasped hands around my arm I could tell that he was experiencing his own delayed shock and could do with some of Cobbett’s strong ale himself. “It was only the rope. But we must take the body down.”

“Why did he come here in only his underclothes?” the rector wondered softly, still shaking his head as I helped him to sit again on the largest chest.

“Well, it seems clear that he came up here under duress—perhaps his killer surprised him as he was changing,” I offered, as something caught
my eye by the window. Next to the longbow, a pile of black material had been neatly folded and placed on the floor. I walked over and picked it up; it was a long academic gown, its cut and trim indicating the degree of doctor of divinity, and it was stiff with dried blood, especially on the front and sleeves.

“That is James’s gown,” Underhill said, turning away.

“I think our killer must have put this on over his own clothes while he carried out the act,” I mused. “I had wondered how someone could have walked away through the college with his clothes bespattered with such a quantity of blood as this killing must have made.”

Footsteps echoed on the stairs below and a moment later Slythurst appeared carrying a lantern. He glared at me briefly before handing it to the rector, who was still trembling and wringing his hands. I took the lantern before the rector had a chance to drop it and a brief smile flickered across Slythurst’s dry lips. The bursar appeared to interpret Underhill’s inertia as an invitation to assume responsibility for the situation.

“We must, in the first instance, send for the coroner to remove this body so that the strong room may be cleaned and returned to its proper purpose and the inquest can be carried out so that poor James may have a Christian burial. His family must be notified—I believe he has a brother in the Fens somewhere, is that not so, Rector?” On receiving no answer, he continued as if he had not expected one. “And I think it would be politic when we announce the death to give out that he was attacked by an unknown thief trying to break into the strong room—we do not want the students indulging in any more idle speculation.” He shot me a warning glance.

“That is wise, Walter,” said the rector, turning his attention back to Slythurst with a distant, puzzled expression, as if he barely recognised him. “That will give you a little time in hand, won’t it, Bruno?” He turned to me with the same look of vague anxiety.

Slythurst snapped his head around. “Time for what?”

“Rector Underhill has asked me to look into the circumstances of the two deaths and see if I can find any connection,” I said, returning his stare with a level gaze.

Slythurst’s face blanched with fury and his lips almost disappeared.

“With the greatest respect, Rector,” he stuttered, choked with indignation, “is that prudent? Doctor Bruno may have a lively imagination, but it can hardly be sensible to involve an
outsider
”—he pronounced the word with icy scorn—“in a matter which so intimately affects the life of the college. What may come to light …” He paused, eyeing me as a muscle twitched in his cheek, then changed tack. “Besides, he will be gone in a few days.”

“He is already involved, Walter,” the rector said sorrowfully. “Doctor Bruno received a communication relating to Roger Mercer’s death from someone who appears to know something—perhaps even the killer himself.”

“Students playing pranks, surely,” Slythurst snapped, his eyes darting from the rector to me with undisguised anger. “I would speak to you further about the wisdom of this, Rector—in private.”

Underhill nodded wearily. “We will speak, Walter, but first there is much to do and we must work together. Fetch the water—I will clean the wall myself. I want no trace of that left, and I trust that neither of you will mention it? Perhaps you could find a suitable messenger to take a letter to the coroner,” he said to Slythurst. “I will go to my library now and write it. Doctor Bruno, how do you wish to proceed?”

I wished the rector had not mentioned my mysterious letter; I still did not trust Slythurst. We had only his word that he collected his papers from the strong room on Saturday evening
before
the disputation, and I was not sure how much his word was worth, after his deliberate lies over the searching of Roger Mercer’s room. If anyone had easy access to the subrector’s room and the tower strong room, it was the bursar. Whatever my correspondent knew, the fewer people who learned that he—or she—had tried to
share it with me, the better. And now the killer himself wanted this murder explicitly linked to the Catherine Wheel—and the rector wanted that link washed away. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. The one element that seemed clear was that Coverdale’s early exit from the disputation was a key to his murder.

“I would like to find the student who delivered the message to Doctor Coverdale during the disputation, to find out what drew him back to college so urgently.”

Underhill nodded. “I will make enquiries. But I beg both of you—say nothing of this to the students until I have the chance to make an announcement at dinner. By then I will try to find a way to explain it with the least alarm—if that is possible.”

“Before that, Rector Underhill,” I added, “I think I should call on Gabriel Norris. If he delivered his bow and arrows to the strong room as you commanded, we need to learn when, and whether Doctor Coverdale let him in. And I think you should go to your study, take a large glass of your strongest drink, and gather your thoughts for a moment before you decide what to do next.”

“It is a fine day when the rector of an Oxford college is told how he may proceed by an Italian papist,” muttered Slythurst, but the rector coughed and looked embarrassed and grateful at the same time.

We descended the stairs gingerly, I leading the way with the lantern and pausing to examine the traces of bloody footprints still visible on the stone steps. They were still faintly visible on the floor of Coverdale’s rooms below, but otherwise both the main room and the adjoining bedchamber in the tower were neat and orderly. I crossed and examined the door that led out to the courtyard staircase.

“The room was locked this morning when you arrived?” I asked Slythurst again.

He snorted impatiently. “I have already told you that three times. I assumed James had gone out and I wanted to deposit the monies and deeds I
had brought from Aylesbury so I borrowed the spare key from Cobbett and let myself in. What is it you are trying to imply, Doctor Bruno?”

“Only that there is no sign of the door to the tower staircase or this main door to Doctor Coverdale’s room being forced,” I said. “So he must have willingly admitted his killer—or been killed by someone already in possession of a key.”

Slythurst aimed at me a look of such venom then that I could easily believe him capable of murder. I turned to Underhill, his face painted in eerie shadows from the flickering light of the lantern.

“The tower will need to be sealed until the body is removed in any case,” I said. “If you post one of the college servants at the foot of the staircase, we will soon learn if anyone tries to go near it. The killer may try to come back, perhaps to look for something in the room. But I would like to have a look around myself, to see if the killer left any trace behind him.”

“Yes. Yes, that seems sensible.” The rector’s face was drawn and flustered. “I must send for the coroner. Walter—you are now the most senior official here under me, I will need your help in deciding what we tell the college community. Perhaps you could come with me to my lodgings? And tell Cobbett to set one of the kitchen men by the tower stairs.”

Slythurst nodded and scuttled down the stairs to the porter’s lodge. Underhill turned back and I sensed something unspoken in the long look he gave me.

“The arrows were shot after he died, you say?”

“It is hard to tell, but I think the blood came mostly from the throat wound. If he was not yet dead, he was near it—I think he would not have been sensible of what was happening, if that is what you mean to ask.”

“So it would have been quick?” the rector asked, almost hopefully.

I hesitated, but decided it would be kinder not to dwell on the hacking I had seen at Coverdale’s neck. The coroner would find it out soon enough.

“It was a terrible death, I will not pretend otherwise. But I have seen men with their throats cut before—they do not linger in this world.”