Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
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cursed, rubbing his knuckles.
‘Well, whoever came this time knew where to look,’ I said grimly, my knees cracking as I stood. ‘And it seems he found what he came for.’
‘To hell with it!’ Slythurst spat. He seemed to be taking the discovery of the empty hiding place as a personal injury. I wondered if the cavity in the fireplace had contained whatever Slythurst had been searching for after Roger Mercer’s death – it was not a large space but it could easily have concealed a bundle of letters or documents – and if his anger was therefore directed at himself for not having found it on his previous search. But this time there was no sign of a frenzied rummage through Coverdale’s belongings; whoever killed Coverdale had evidently known of the loose brick and moved straight to take whatever was hidden there, after first washing Coverdale’s blood from his hands. But this could only mean that whoever had searched the tower room before I arrived on Saturday morning, while Mercer was still in the garden being savaged by the dog, had not known of the hiding place, and was therefore not the same person who had killed Coverdale. Neither, by this reckoning, could it be Slythurst, unless he was a supremely skilled actor; he was, after all, the only other person who could legitimately demand a key to the sub-rector’s room and no one would be able to confirm or deny the precise time of his departure for Buckinghamshire, or his return.
Slythurst appeared impatient to leave; plainly he had decided that there was nothing more of use to be found.
‘I do not see what further purpose we achieve here,’ he muttered, moving towards the door and clinking the keys as if this were a signal that my time was up. ‘I am needed by the rector, and I must lock this room, so if you have done—’
‘Tell me, Master Slythurst,’ I said, ‘do you believe our killer has found whatever you yourself were hoping to find here after Roger Mercer’s death?’
The look he gave me dripped with contempt.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I did not take a key from a man’s pocket as he breathed his death rattle, like some,’ Slythurst said, his face very close to mine so that I could smell the sourness of his breath.
‘I only ask, because it would seem that two men have died for whatever was hidden in that hole, and I’m assuming you know what it was,’ I said.
‘One might think that would be warning enough to the over-curious,’ he replied, with a smile that cut through his thin face like wire. ‘I must go to the rector. You might do well to get on with finding the owner of the murder weapon. That would seem a useful place to start your enquiries, Doctor Bruno, since you have been good enough to offer the college your services.’
As I passed him in the doorway with a last look of disdain, I found myself fervently wishing that Slythurst would prove to be the killer so that I could have the enormous pleasure of seeing that sarcastic sneer wiped from his sallow face, and immediately tried to shake myself free of such dangerous prejudice.
At the foot of the staircase, a large stocky man with almost no neck stood blocking the archway through to the quadrangle; he started when he heard the noise behind him and his hand moved swiftly to his belt. I could not help smiling when I saw he carried some kind of kitchen fork there as a makeshift weapon; this, then, was the guard appointed to keep the tower sealed.
‘Peace, Dick,’ Slythurst said, holding up a hand. The man lowered his head deferentially and moved aside to let us pass into the rain that still fell in steady sheets, splashing from spreading puddles between the flagstones of the courtyard; I pulled my jerkin up around my ears and made to step out into the deluge when three students came running and laughing out of the adjacent staircase, holding their leather satchels over the heads against the weather. I recognised one of them as Lawrence Weston, the boy who had escorted me to the disputation on Saturday evening, and I reached out to accost him.
‘Master Weston, I wonder if I may ask your assistance?’ I began urgently. He looked somewhat taken aback, and I realised that in my haste I had grabbed hard on to the sleeve of his gown.
‘I will help if I can, Doctor Bruno,’ he said uneasily, for my manner clearly struck him as out of sorts. ‘Let us step out of the rain, though.’ He motioned me back into the shelter of the staircase he had just left. I noticed Slythurst watching our exchange with suspicion; when I caught his eye, he quickly pulled his gown around him and scuttled off towards the rector’s lodgings opposite.
‘There was a boy, a student,’ I said to Weston, once we were under shelter, ‘who delivered a message to Doctor Coverdale during the disputation on Saturday night, that caused him to leave immediately after he read it. Do you know who the boy was?’
‘How should I know, sir?’ he replied, perhaps sounding more ungracious than he had intended, for he then said, ‘I mean, I could ask around, if it is important.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, turning to leave. ‘There will be a shilling for you if you find him.’
Weston looked briefly impressed, and nodded before rejoining his friends. I braced myself to run into the courtyard.
Gabriel Norris’s room was on the ground floor in the west range, tucked behind the staircase, his door marked with a painted name sign; I knocked hard and was certain I heard some movement within, but a few moments passed and no one answered. I knocked again and called out Norris’s name; there was a hasty scuffling of feet and the door swung open to reveal Thomas Allen. He had evidently been engaged in some of his servant’s duties, as his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he clutched a dirty cloth between his hands.
‘Oh – Doctor Bruno,’ he exclaimed, and his face reddened violently as he bunched the cloth into a ball, looking flustered.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Thomas – I see you are at work. I was looking for Master Norris.’
‘He is not here,’ Thomas said, still looking perturbed, then glanced over his shoulder as if to check the truth of his own assertion. Through the open door I glimpsed a comfortable chamber, furnished as a parlour with a high-backed wooden settle in front of the fire. Compared to the austerity of most scholars’ rooms the chamber offered a distinct sense of luxury. Windows on both sides opened on to the lane and the quadrangle and filled the room with light even on this bleak day. Beneath the outer window was a heavy trunk, iron-bound and secured with a solid padlock.
‘He is out at the public lectures, I expect. I was just cleaning his shoes,’ Thomas added, defensively.
‘Do you not attend the public lectures too?’
‘Not when there is work to be done,’ he snapped. I was surprised at his manner, but I supposed he did not like to be seen at his menial tasks.
‘His shoes needed cleaning urgently today, then?’ I asked, as a thought struck me. Thomas must have caught something in my tone because he frowned and his shoulders seemed to tense.
‘I clean his shoes every day,’ he said, a wary note in his voice. ‘Why did you want to see Gabriel?’
‘I wanted to ask when he took his longbow to the strongroom.’
Thomas looked mildly surprised at the question, but shrugged carelessly before wiping his hands on his shirt front.
‘I took it, on Saturday morning. Gabriel was furious – he said the rector had commanded him to give it up, after he’d done them a service, too, shooting that mad dog.’
‘So you took it there yourself?’
He blinked at my tone, then shook his head.
‘I went to do so, but as I was crossing the quadrangle I was seen by Doctor Coverdale and Doctor Bernard, who were standing by the stairs to chapel. They stopped me and asked what I was doing with such a weapon in college. When I explained, Doctor Coverdale told me that I could leave it outside his door on the landing