Heresy (30 page)

“One moment, Philip.” I was not the neatest of men, but I was certain I had not left the books and papers on the desk in the state of disarray that I now observed. Rising quickly from the bed, I lifted a few sheets to confirm my suspicion, then began frantically rifling through the papers that remained. Someone had already searched my desk; Roger Mercer’s almanac and all the theories I had jotted down about his death were gone.

“Sophia,” I whispered, disbelieving.

T
he rain’s steady rhythm against my windowpanes woke me early on Monday morning even before the chapel bell had summoned the men of Lincoln to Matins. A thick cover of cloud had returned in the night and the sky was the colour of slate, the quadrangle slick with puddles. Again I had been too preoccupied to sleep well. Sidney and I had sat up late into the night exchanging theories, but we had only a cat’s cradle of speculation and nothing conclusive to untangle one thread from another. I needed to find a means of speaking to Sophia Underhill before the day was much older; either she had taken Roger’s almanac and my notes from my desk, or someone had seen her leave my room and taken his chance, surmising that the door would be unlocked.

As I swung my legs over the side of the bed, I glimpsed something white on the floor beneath it and reached down to retrieve a piece of paper. Turning it over, I saw that the writing on it was my own; it was the copy I had
made of the strange code at the back of Roger’s calendar, and my efforts to write some basic sentences using it, a task I had set myself before falling asleep the night before last. The paper must have slipped under the bed and escaped the attention of whoever—and I was still reluctant to believe it could have been Sophia—had taken all the other notes from my desk while I was out with Florio the night before. At least, then, I still had a copy of the code—but I was no closer to tracking down any letters Roger Mercer might have written or received using it. I was now certain that the person who searched Roger’s room before me, and perhaps Slythurst after me, had been looking for just such letters or documents. What I still did not know was whether either searcher had found them.

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 as 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.