Sacrilege (27 page)

"It is a pleasure to welcome you to Canterbury, Doctor Savolino," he said. "I hope we will have the honour of seeing you at divine service here during your visit?"

"I look forward to it. I have heard glowing reports of your music."

"Mm." He looked vaguely up at the towers of the cathedral behind me. "You will find our services conducted according to the letter of the queen's edicts. You know, the archbishop says there has been talk of Her Majesty visiting Canterbury as part of her summer progress next year. Perhaps a favourable report from her friends at court may help to influence her in that direction?" His smile grew brighter, but his eyes were sharp.

I inclined my head in acknowledgement.

"It is some years since she has favoured us with a visit," he persisted, "but I'm sure she would appreciate the many ways in which we endeavour to maintain the preeminence of our cathedral, while also fulfilling our duties in the community--ah, education of the poor, and so on ..." His words trailed off into a little nervous laugh; it sounded as though he had rehearsed this speech and used it before.

They are all afraid of losing their place, I thought. No wonder my presence here makes Harry nervous.

"I'm sure she would," I said, "and I will mention as much to the Sidney family on my return." The dean smiled gratefully and I could not resist adding, "Though she may like to postpone her visit until there are fewer unnatural deaths here."

He blanched.

"I pray you--our recent tragedy is no matter for joking, Doctor Savolino. It was a dreadful shock to everyone that one of our most respected citizens could be struck down on hallowed ground, but I can assure you that such an occurrence is quite without precedent--"

"Saving Thomas Becket, of course," Harry remarked.

The dean looked irritated.

"There is no need for anyone to fear on that account--our magistrate was killed by his wife in cold blood, for profit, and she will pay the price as soon as she is found. As for the unfortunate death of the apothecary this morning, to which I suppose you refer--it is a clear case of robbery and assault, of which I'm sure you see far worse in London. I'm afraid the influx of refugees makes such things a hazard." He smiled again, as if everything were now cleared up, but the way he twisted his fingers together betrayed his agitation. "Well, I have much to do before this afternoon's chapter meeting. You must do me the honour of dining at my table soon, Doctor Savolino. We are always glad of new company."

I glanced at Harry; he sucked in his cheeks and looked away. Why was he so set against the idea of my sharing a table with the dean and the other canons, I wondered.

"You're early," Harry said, after the dean bade us good morning and strode away in the direction of the Archbishop's Palace. "Samuel is not yet back from his morning's errands. You may as well come in, though."

This was welcome news to me. When we were inside the house, Harry gestured me into the small parlour and offered me the same seat I had occupied the day before. He pulled up a chair opposite and leaned forward, hands resting on his knees.

"You heard about the apothecary's murder, then?"

"More than heard. I found him."

"You are not serious?"

I told him briefly of my visit to the apothecary earlier and my encounter with the constable. Harry's face grew grave.

"This is a bad business," he said, lowering his voice. "The whole town is talking about the murder, and you are first witness to finding the body. You could hardly have contrived to make yourself more noticeable. Soon everyone will know your name. Think yourself lucky if they don't try and pin the deed on you."

"Me?" I laughed, assuming it was one of his dry jokes, until I saw his expression. "Why should they suspect me?"

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Look at yourself. Your skin, your accent. People here like the idea of murderous foreigners. Much easier than accepting one of their neighbours might be a killer."

I nodded grimly.

"Well, I will have to rely on the truth. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill the apothecary?"

Harry shrugged.

"Most likely someone felt he cheated them. Maybe he sold them a remedy that didn't work, or prescribed a fatal dose. Apothecaries do nothing but guess, for all they pretend to be men of physic." He chuckled, but this time I did not join in. "In any case, what concern is it of yours?"

"A fatal dose," I repeated.
Dosis sola facit venenum.
Had Fitch poisoned someone with a fatal dose of belladonna? He had certainly been afraid of doing so, according to the notes that were burned the night he was killed. "I wondered if his death might be connected to Edward Kingsley's."

Harry frowned.

"What makes you think that?"

I hesitated; I could not tell him about the conversation I had overheard between Langworth and Samuel. I had hardly had time to gather my own thoughts about it. Langworth had been to Fitch's shop this morning to remove something; that much was clear. But was it something missed by the person who had ransacked the premises the night before, when Fitch was killed--something only Langworth knew how to find? Or was it he who had turned the shop upside down? Langworth seemed such a calculating man; I could not picture him chasing Fitch around the workshop in a frenzy, beating his skull in with a poker. "The place was left in such disarray," he had said to Samuel; was that an observation or a reproach? I wished I had paid more attention to his tone.

"He was killed in the same manner," I said. "His head beaten in."

"That proves nothing. What else?"

"Ezekiel Sykes," I said eventually. "Is he a good physician?"

"He's an expensive one, which some fools mistake for skill. Why do you ask?"

"I'm curious about him. I heard he was something of an alchemist."

"Perhaps. Don't all physicians dabble in it? Listen, Bruno." He sighed and laboriously stretched out his stiff leg, massaging it above the knee. "You seem determined to fix your attention on the most prominent men of the town. Maybe you have your reasons, but you had better make certain of your suspicions before you dare point a finger, or you will make yourself a target."

I paused for a moment to master the irritation I felt at his tone.

"I have accused no one, Harry, and I would not dream of doing so without evidence I was sure of. But if eminent men in the town have committed murder, it is all the more important that they should be brought to justice."

"You forget that it is the eminent men who dispense justice," Harry said, with a resignation that suggested such things could not be changed or resisted. I thought of Tom Garth and his fury at Nicholas Kingsley the night before--the fury of a man who knows he is impotent against powerful interests. He spoke of taking the law into his own hands--did that include murder? Sykes had a part in that story too, though there was still much I didn't know.

I watched Harry as he flexed one bony hand on his knee and studied it. I would make little progress here unless I had him as an ally, but I needed to break his unquestioning trust in Samuel.

"The dean seems anxious for the queen's approval," I remarked, looking out of the window towards the vast walls of the cathedral outside.

He grunted. "Is it any wonder? There are those on the Privy Council who would like to close us down and take the money for the queen's treasury, Walsingham chief among them." He shook his head. "Let's not
pretend to be ignorant of that. But the Prince of Orange changes things. If the queen needs quick money for a war, then I think this time our future might really be in danger." His hand bunched into a fist as he spoke, then he glanced up quickly to gauge my response.

"I am not here to find reasons to dissolve the foundation," I said. "My business is only what I told you. But if this murder involves someone within the cathedral chapter, I cannot ignore it."

"You imply that I would do so?"

"Not at all," I said, trying to sound reassuring. He sucked in his cheeks for a moment, still holding my gaze.

"Are you here to report on me? You may as well be honest."

"No, Harry. I am here to find out who killed Sir Edward Kingsley so that his wife need not fear for her life. But it begins to look as if this murder is part of something greater."

He leaned forward, his expression of hostility giving way to interest.

"Tell me what you have found out, then."

I hesitated. "It's possible that Langworth--" I broke off at the sound of the door latch; Harry sat upright too.

"Only Samuel," he said. "You were saying?"

I glanced over my shoulder at the parlour door and my hand moved instinctively to the pouch at my belt, where my fingers closed around the shape of Langworth's keys.

"Nothing. Speculation. Another time, perhaps."

T
HE MEAL PASSED
awkwardly. Harry seemed angry that I refused to speak in front of Samuel, though he did not say as much, and I presumed he was also irritated that I was still concentrating my suspicions on Langworth after his warning. He made a point of talking to Samuel about cathedral business that was of no relevance to me and I was not sure who I resented more by the time we had finished the plain stew of vegetables with thin slices of salt beef--Samuel for the dark, insinuating
glances he shot from under his eyebrows when he thought I wasn't looking, or Harry for his stubbornness. I was relieved when Samuel cleared the plates away and Harry announced that he must prepare for the chapter meeting.

I told Harry I wanted to accept his offer to show me the cathedral library and he grudgingly agreed to take me on his way to the Chapter House, though his manner towards me was still prickly and I could tell he was disinclined to do me any favours. But the library was close enough to Langworth's house to give me a reasonable excuse for being in that part of the precincts while the canons were occupied with their meeting; I hoped I might be able to replace the keys and letter I had stolen before the treasurer noticed anything had been touched.

"W
HAT IS IT
you want to look at, exactly, Signor Savolino?" The canon librarian regarded me with caution. He wore his advanced years well, though he stooped a little and I could see the joints of his fingers were stiff and swollen as he leafed absently through a large manuscript volume on the desk in front of him. Light fell through a tall arched window behind him, illuminating his few remaining tufts of hair into brilliant white. When he looked up, his face was deeply scored with lines that branched and bisected around his features like a map of a river delta.

"I am interested in the history of Saint Thomas, above all," I said, with a pleasant smile.

"An unusual field of study for an Italian Protestant," he remarked, glancing sideways at me as he levered himself up and crossed to the cases against the wall, stacked high with a jumble of books in precarious piles. Many looked to be in poor condition, their bindings gnawed by mice, pages spotted with damp. What good was it, I thought, with a stab of irritation, to save books from the destruction of a library only to neglect them like this, thrown together carelessly like corpses in a plague grave?

I thought I detected a note of suspicion in the old man's voice, so I broadened my smile further.

"I suppose I have always believed we might avoid falling into the errors of the past by understanding them, rather than by burying them," I said. "Even if we regard them as mere superstition, there is something to be learned about human folly from the legends of our forefathers, do you not think?"

He nodded with a speculative expression.

"Well said. We may as well destroy all libraries if we do not take lessons from the chronicles of history. And now," he said, folding his hands together and making an effort to smile, "I must get along to the chapter meeting. I will leave you in the care of my assistant, who will endeavour to find you the books you want." He indicated a morose-looking young man in the robes of a minor canon who was copying something laboriously at a desk in the corner. "Geoffrey! Our guest wants chronicles of the life of Saint Thomas--see what you can find for him," he called, in a peremptory tone.