Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
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but here was a secular edifice built like a cathedral, consecrated to the pursuit of knowledge, quite equal to the grand church of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples where I had first learned the art of disputation. To think that my ideas would join the echoes in its magnificent vaults was almost humbling, and I was about to make a remark to that effect to my guide, when I prickled with the discomfiting sense that I was being watched. I turned, and saw, leaning up against the blackened stone of the city wall, a tall man with folded arms, staring at me quite blatantly. He was dressed in an old leather jerkin and breeches of worn brown cloth, his hair was severely receded on top but long at the back, leaving his large forehead bare, and his face was pitted with the marks of pox; he might have been my own age or he might have been fifty, but the most striking aspect of his appearance was that he had no ears. Ugly welts of scar tissue surrounded the holes where they would once have been, betraying the fact that he had at one time been brought to justice as a petty criminal. He continued to watch me with a cool, level gaze in which I could discern no malice, rather a kind of mocking curiosity. I wondered if he was staring at me in particular, or if he were an opportunist pickpocket or some such, on the lookout for opportunity among the crowds gathering for the disputation. I had noted on my travels through Europe how petty thieves always seem to assume that men of education are necessarily also men of wealth; in my experience the two are rarely found together. If so, the man was bold; a further arrest for theft and he would risk the rope.
On another occasion I might have challenged his insolent stare, but there was no time to spare, so I turned towards the great porch of the Divinity School and was about to mount the stairs when I saw Doctor James Coverdale hurrying down them, pushing his way against the tide of young men in black gowns crowding to get in. He noticed me and stopped, a look of relief on his face; from the corner of my eye, I saw the figure in brown against the wall stir himself and take a step forwards. Coverdale also noticed; he froze for a moment and stared at the man with no ears, who looked directly at him and appeared to nod. It was clear that they recognised one another; Coverdale glared at him for a moment, his expression divided, it seemed to me, between irritation and concern, then he pasted on a smile for my benefit and guided me gently by the elbow to the right of the doorway, away from the man’s inquisitive gaze.
‘Thank you, Weston, for delivering our guest safely – you may join your friends inside,’ Coverdale said pleasantly to my young guide, though his face had turned pale. Weston bowed to me before galloping up the steps and into the throng.
‘Doctor Bruno, I wondered if I might have a brief word before we go in?’ Coverdale murmured. ‘Don’t worry, we have time – our royal visitor is not yet arrived and it cannot go ahead without him.’
I nodded; it would be typical of the palatine not to bother arriving on time on my account. I adopted an air of polite attention; Coverdale seemed uncomfortable with what he needed to say.
‘There is to be an inquest into the death of poor Doctor Mercer, you understand, and those who were first to arrive on the scene will be required to give evidence,’ he began, his hand still clutching my elbow; I could not tell if this was supposed to be reassuring or menacing. ‘I understand you were there early, together with the rector and Master Norris.’
‘Yes, and I will gladly recount what I saw for the inquest, though I hope it will be before my party has to return to London,’ I said expectantly, for I was sure there was more to come.
‘It is only that – ah …’ Here he faltered, and produced a little nervous laugh. ‘The rector mentioned that you believed the garden gate into Brasenose Lane was locked when you all found poor Roger.’
‘Yes, I tried it and it was locked fast. As were both the other gates.’
‘Well, when I heard that, it occurred to me that of course you are not familiar with our college, so you would not have known that the gate to the lane has a very stiff handle on the inside.’
I raised an eyebrow to indicate my scepticism.
‘Yes,’ he went on, not quite looking me in the eye, ‘it is very hard indeed to turn and requires a particular knack of twisting it to the right, just so. I only mention it because if you were to suggest at the inquest that the gate had been locked – well, you can see it would add all manner of complication to what is really a very simple and tragic explanation. The porter forgot to lock the gate, a feral stray got in, poor Roger paid the price for someone else’s carelessness. It is dreadful, quite dreadful –’ here he pressed his palm to his breast, his fat face worked up into a mask of sorrow – ‘but all this talk of locked gates will, I fear, create alarm of some conspiracy where none exists.’
I could not quite believe what I was hearing. I removed my arm from his grip and moved to face him; students were still pressing up the stairs around us and I lowered my voice accordingly.
‘Doctor Coverdale, the gate was locked – I cannot be in any doubt about that fact. I tried it myself. And even if it were only closed, the dog did not close it after it strayed in.’
‘The wind could have blown it shut,’ Coverdale said dismissively.
For a moment I was incredulous; did he really imagine I could so easily be persuaded to doubt the evidence of my own eyes?
‘A heavy wooden gate like that? I was there, Doctor Coverdale – I went through all the possibilities with the rector,’ I protested, sotto voce.
‘The rector has had time now to reflect on this morning’s events with sober judgement,’ said Coverdale smoothly, ‘and he has concluded that in the mist and panic it was hard to discern anything for certain. It was he who remembered how stiff the handle can be from the inside, and how that might confuse a foreigner. Any coroner conducting an inquest would certainly take into account that you could not be expected to know your way around the college. I mention it because for you to insist that there is some mystery will only prolong and complicate a process which will already be most distressing to Doctor Mercer’s friends and colleagues. There is nothing to be gained by adding spurious fancies and suspicions to a tragic accident.’
I looked at him for a moment. So they had decided to rewrite the circumstances of Mercer’s death in a way that would avoid any scandal to the college – and a murderer would go free. Were they protecting someone in particular, or was it for them simply a matter of collectively saving face? I wondered if the rector would keep to his promise to investigate the matter privately, but I doubted it; he was the most anxious of all about the college’s public standing.
‘I feel that I must report to the inquest what I believe I saw this morning,’ I said. ‘If I was mistaken, you are right – I will look a fool, but I will have to take that chance. I would not sleep easily knowing I had not given all the evidence.’
Coverdale narrowed his eyes, then appeared to accept my statement.
‘Very well, Doctor Bruno, you must act according to your conscience. Shall we go in?’ He motioned to the steps up to the porch of the Divinity School, where the crowd had begun to thin to a trickle; most of the audience were now inside. ‘Oh, but – there is one rather curious thing,’ he added breezily over his shoulder as he climbed the first step. ‘Master Slythurst told me he was on his way up to the strongroom this morning when he heard noises from inside Doctor Mercer’s chamber – and when he looked in, he found the place turned upside down and who should be there, going through Mercer’s belongings, but our esteemed Italian guest? Trying to open his strongbox, no less. And the porter said you brought back a set of keys you had removed from the body.’
I cursed my stupidity in falling asleep that morning; I had forgotten to take the clothes to the rector with my poor excuse and now, as I feared, Slythurst had covered his own tracks by suggesting I was no more than a common thief. I noticed his version omitted the detail of his having a key to Mercer’s room.
‘There is an explanation,’ I began, but Coverdale held up his hand to forestall me.
‘Oh, no doubt, Doctor Bruno, no doubt. But it might be that to a magistrate such behaviour would look extremely odd – not to say suspicious – and here among the townspeople there is such dislike of foreigners, you understand,