Heresy (36 page)

He looked at me with some surprise.

“There was a time, I suppose, when I considered her a friend. But I think she regards me rather as she does her dolls—something that amused her in childhood, but which she outgrew and put aside.”

“Because of your father’s disgrace?”

“No.” Thomas sidestepped a puddle that had formed in the rutted lane, the sole of one of his shoes flapping open with each step he took. “She grew out of me long before that. When my mother died and my father decided to come back to Oxford at the earl’s request, I was made to lodge with a family in the town—you know only the rector may live with a wife and family in college, the other Fellows are supposed to be bachelors. But the rector’s family took pity on me, and my father and I were often invited to dine at their table—I was supposed to be company for young John, the son who died, but of course I noticed Sophia.” He sighed and appeared to stoop even further, as if the memory of those days was a physical weight on his shoulders. “Then John was killed and Sophia’s father decided to rein her in. He had ambitions for her to make a grand marriage and her mother was supposed to be preparing her by taking her into society, but Mistress Underhill
took ill with her nerves after John’s death, and Sophia was left to herself with no company but the men in college. There were governesses but they never lasted long.” He laughed ruefully. “I do not blame them—I should not like to try and teach Sophia anything against her will.”

I nodded, remembering the way she had dealt with Adam, the censorious servant.

“No indeed. You still care for her, I think?”

He glanced at me, his face suddenly guarded. “What does it matter? She will not have me now.”

“Does she have someone else?”

His face set hard and something like anger flashed in his eyes.

“Whatever you have heard, it is a lie! She has an affectionate nature, but she is easily deceived—” He stopped abruptly, his voice thick with emotion, and I thought for a moment he might cry, but he took a deep breath and composed himself. “But if you want to know, then yes—I will always care for her, and I would do anything to protect her.
Anything.”

I halted abruptly at the ferocity of his last words and turned to face him.

“Protect her from what? Is she in danger?”

Thomas took a step back, apparently disconcerted by the intensity of my expression.

“I didn’t mean—that is, I only meant if she were in need, she knows that she could always depend on me.”

I grabbed him by the wrist and he yelped; I had forgotten his injury. I let go and grasped his gown instead, leaning in until my face was less than a foot from his.

“Thomas, if you know of any danger to Sophia, you must tell me!”

His eyes narrowed and I saw his jaw stiffen; again he stepped back, but with more composure this time, and his voice took on a new distance.

“Must
I, Doctor Bruno? What would you offer her—your own protection? Or something else? And when you are gone back to London with your party in a couple of days, what will she be left with then?”

“I only meant that you have a duty to report any danger to those who might be able to help her,” I said, attempting to sound detached as I released his gown from my fist, but I knew it was too late; I had betrayed my affection for Sophia and revealed myself as a rival.

Thomas straightened his gown, then turned and began walking down St. Mildred’s Lane toward Lincoln College gatehouse, his arms wrapped around his thin torso.

“You have no idea what you are talking about,” he said eventually, looking straight ahead as if he were not speaking to me at all, but thinking aloud. Then he dropped his gaze apologetically, and clasped my hand between both of his. “Thank you for listening to me, Doctor Bruno. And I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn on occasion—I am still afraid of saying the wrong thing. You will remember my request, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“I will, Thomas. I am glad we have talked.”

“I need to leave Oxford,” he said, gripping my hand urgently. “If I could get to London and begin a life there—you will tell Sir Philip that? A recommendation from him would ease my path, and I would swear my loyalty to him and the earl for life.”

“I will do my best for you,” I promised, and meant it, though I was still certain he had not told me all he knew. “And take care of that wound on your wrist.”

He bowed slightly and then scuttled away through the gate to his duties.

T
HE RAIN CONTINUED
to blow across the courtyard in endless diagonal lines, the sky now darker than when I had first ventured out. I glanced up at the small window at the top of the tower and shivered to think of Coverdale’s blood-soaked body still dangling from the sconce, those arrows mockingly protruding from his chest and stomach. I had once visited the basilica of San Sebastiano fuori le mura in Rome, in whose catacombs the
saint’s remains are buried. The great icon there, with his expression of pious agony and the arrows sticking out like the spines of a porcupine, had struck me then as exaggerated and unreal in his torment, like a scene from a play, garishly painted, and I realised I had had the same response on seeing James Coverdale’s body. The grisly tableau had appeared almost as a practical joke; I had hardly been able to believe him dead until I saw the great wound in his throat. As I pulled my jerkin up again around my face and prepared to put my head down into the rain, I remembered suddenly a phrase from the rector’s Foxe quotation:
“By his own soldiers.”
Sebastian, a captain of the Praetorian guard, had been executed on the orders of the emperor Diocletian by his own men. Had the murderer kept that detail in mind? Had James Coverdale also been killed by someone who was supposed to be on his side? And what side might that be, in this place of tangled loyalties?

I had barely stepped out into the courtyard from the gatehouse when I saw the rector emerging from the archway opposite, followed closely by Slythurst. Both had the hoods of their gowns pulled close around their faces and were hurrying toward me; when the rector caught sight of me, he beckoned hastily for me to join them. In the shelter of the gatehouse, he huddled closer, out of earshot of the little group of students taking refuge from the rain.

“You saw my daughter this morning, did you not, Bruno, in the porter’s lodge?” Underhill demanded.

“Yes—she was waiting for her mother to go out,” I said, caught by the trace of urgency in his voice.

“Did you see her leave?”

“No—Master Slythurst arrived with his terrible news and I came to fetch you.”

“Then, she must have—” Underhill shook his head, with an expression of vague confusion. “It is no matter. She was ever defiant. She will be back.”

“What has happened?” I pressed him.

“When my wife arrived at the gatehouse, Sophia was no longer there,” he said, looking around the courtyard as if in hope that she might appear at any moment. “Margaret thought she must have gone on ahead to the house of her acquaintance, so she set off herself, but when she got there, they had seen no sign of Sophia either. Margaret is fretting, as she is wont to do, but I am inclined to believe Sophia has taken it upon herself to go off walking without telling anyone—she complains often of being cooped up here. She thinks she should have the liberty to go wandering the lanes and fields outside the city for the best part of the day, just as she used to with her brother. Well, that was different. She
will
learn the manners proper to a young lady, even if she will not learn them willingly.” His face clouded for a moment. Then he glanced around again, distracted, as if hoping the events of this day might have gone away of their own accord.

“Surely she would not have chosen a day such as this to go out walking?” I said, gesturing to the relentless sky and trying to keep my own voice even. Only the night before, Sophia herself had told me she believed she was in danger, and Thomas Allen had just implied something similar. Now she had disappeared. I hoped fervently that the rector was right, but I sensed that he had told this story to persuade himself because he could not cope with any more worries on top of Coverdale’s murder and all it implied for the college.

“Yes, yes—I’m sure she will be back for her dinner before we know it,” he said, waving a hand. “And now, Master Slythurst will take my letter to the coroner, and I must prepare what I will say to the community in hall. The hour is almost upon us.”

He looked at me and sighed. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past hour.

“I will be in my study, Doctor Bruno. We will speak later. I would ask you to be present in hall at noon for dinner, when I shall announce this tragedy to the college. It would be prudent for you to know the exact terms
in which I have informed the college community of events so that you do not repeat anything beyond that. I would like to limit gossip as far as possible.”

I bowed in acknowledgement. “It would likewise be prudent, Rector, not to let anyone else know that you have asked me to look into this matter,” I said, in a low voice. “There may be some who would keep information back if they thought I sought it on your behalf.”

“I understand. Go where you will, Doctor Bruno, and I will not mention your involvement. But find who did this thing—these things,” he corrected himself, “and whatever reward the college may offer you will be yours for the asking. Provided I am still in place to grant it,” he added gloomily, before turning to retrace his steps to his lodgings.

T
he bell summoning the college to dinner at midday still clanged incessantly long after the Fellows and students had filed into the great hall, marking time over the susurration of urgent whispered conversations that betrayed the tension crackling in the atmosphere like the charge before a storm. Outside, the rain beat against the windows so hard that we had to raise our voices to make ourselves heard even to our neighbours.

I was disconcerted to find that a place had been saved for me at the high table with the senior Fellows. Seated between Godwyn and Slythurst, who made no effort to disguise his distaste at my presence among his colleagues, I could not help but be aware that the seat I occupied must surely have belonged to one of the two dead men.

The high table was set on a low dais that gave me a vantage over the rest of the hall. It was a handsome room, its walls whitewashed and hung with tapestries in the French style of the last century that were clearly expensive
work, though now grown somewhat faded with age. The hall was dominated by the open hearth that stood in the centre of the floor beneath an octagonal louvre set in the high timber roof, its beams blackened with soot, to allow the smoke to escape. Around the hearth was a wooden pale, wide enough for several people to sit on and warm themselves; either side of this, a long table had been set beneath the windows, where the undergraduates and junior Fellows now crammed onto benches with frequent glances at the dais, murmuring among themselves about the rector’s drawn face and the second empty place at the high table.

A skinny young man with unkempt red hair, dressed in a gown several sizes too large for him, mounted the lectern that stood beside the high table and in a voice surprisingly sonorous for his slight frame, readied himself to pronounce grace. I recognised him as the boy I had watched clearing away the appurtenances of Matins in the chapel the previous day. The solemn tolling of the bell was silenced just as he opened his mouth.

“Benignissime Pater, qui providentia tua regis,”
he began, as the rector dutifully bowed his head and clasped his hands and the rest of the senior Fellows followed suit. From beneath lowered lids, I noticed that most of the undergraduates were still watching the high table with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
“Liberalitate pascis et benedictione conservas omnia quae creaveris,”
the boy intoned, and I noticed with a sudden pitch of relief that Gabriel Norris was seated at the head of one of the long tables among a clutch of other young men whose quality and cut of dress marked them out as separate from their fellow scholars. I did not take seriously Slythurst’s suggestion that the instruments of murder pointed to Norris as the killer—it seemed to me rather that the use of his longbow implied his innocence, but at least now I would have the chance to speak to him after the meal. He continued to stare resolutely ahead of him, as if the deference of bowing his head in prayer would be beneath his dignity, and it occurred to me that there was something altered in his appearance, though I could not quite put my finger on what it might be. On the far side of the other table, I spotted Thomas
Allen, head bent so far that his nose almost touched the table, the hands in front of his face clasped so tightly that the knuckles were bone-white.

“Per Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen,”
finished the red-haired boy, and a muttered “Amen” rose in response from the tables. The rector rose heavily to his feet and a wary silence settled over the hall.

“Gentlemen,” Rector Underhill began, his voice drained of its usual bombast. “In the life of every Christian man there come times when God, in His divine and infinite wisdom, sees fit to test our poor faith with hardships and sorrows. Just so, in the life of our little Christian community, He has chosen these days to send us painful trials, the better to anchor our faith in His Providence.” He took a deep breath and folded his hands in front of him in an attitude of humility. “It grieves me to inform you, gentlemen, so soon after the terrible accident that took the life of our dear subrector Doctor Mercer, that a second tragedy has intruded on our poor society. Doctor James Coverdale has been mortally wounded, it would seem in defending the college strong room from violent robbers.”