Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
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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 continued, 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 clasped hands in front of his face gripping one another so tightly that the knuckles were bone-white.
‘Per lesum Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen,’ finished the red-haired boy, and a muttered ‘Amen’ echoed 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 together 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 sub-rector 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 strongroom from violent robbers.’
He lowered his head; there was a moment’s pause before a rumble of whispered speculation erupted into the stillness. The rector did not try to silence them; rather, he waited until the first wave of shock and disbelief had played itself out, then raised a hand, which he held aloft until the murmuring subsided.
‘Wagers on who’ll be brave enough to be sub-rector next?’ Norris whispered to his friend, just loud enough for his voice to carry, and a ripple of tense laughter spread around the undergraduates’ tables. The rector cleared his throat sternly.
‘If anyone saw anything over the weekend that might have some bearing on this horrible act or could lead to the apprehension of these evil perpetrators, you may leave word at my lodgings,’ he announced.
Norris turned back to the rector and raised a hand.
‘Rector Underhill – may we know how much was taken from the strongroom?’
The well-dressed young men among whom he sat nodded urgently; I wondered if the gentlemen commoners kept their own private wealth there too under lock and key.
The rector hesitated for a moment.
‘Ah – well – it seems that nothing was actually taken, as far as we can tell. It must be that the altercation with Doctor Coverdale frightened the thieves and caused them to take flight.’
‘An odd sort of robbery, then,’ Norris observed, his words weighted carefully. ‘To take a man’s life, all for nothing.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ said the rector solemnly. ‘A terrible waste.’
The meal passed largely in silence among those of us at the High Table, though there was no lack of fevered hypotheses being aired among the junior men seated below us. On my right, Master Godwyn kept his eyes fixed on his plate and said almost nothing, but I noticed that when he lifted his tankard to drink, his hand was trembling like a man with palsy. Slythurst, on my left, occasionally put down his knife to comment between mouthfuls on the lax security that he believed had led to the deaths of his colleagues, as if he did not know very well that in both instances the killer had gained access with a key.
‘The college should have a proper watchman on the gate,’ he opined loudly, through a mouthful of bread. ‘Cobbett is too old and too drunk to be of any use – why, a whole company of armed militia could march straight past his window and he wouldn’t notice. As for that aged mutt of his – the college needs a proper guard dog, trained to deter intruders. And the main gate should be locked at all times, so that only those with a key can be admitted.’
‘I think, Walter, that a vicious dog is probably not what the college needs at this time,’ Godwyn said wearily, raising his head for a moment. ‘And we are a community of scholars, not a prison. We cannot lock the world out nor our young men in. Besides, think of the expense in issuing all the undergraduates with keys to the main gate.’ He shook his head and seemed to retreat inwards to his own thoughts again.
‘Master Slythurst, as bursar you must be frequently burdened with the task of having new keys cut for the various locks about the college?’ I said pleasantly, attempting to cut into a slice of boiled mutton.
Slythurst flashed me a furious sideways glance, as if to let me know that he divined my implication, but in the hearing of the other Fellows, he merely said,
‘Indeed. It is a considerable expense – people are forever losing or breaking them.’
‘And must this onerous duty always fall to you, or do you sometimes charge others with the errand of visiting the locksmith?’ I continued, in the same innocent tone.
‘It is a duty I undertake myself,’ he replied, his voice tighter now. ‘Where the security of the college is concerned, one cannot be too careful.’
‘And sometimes, perhaps, it is necessary to make extra copies of keys to certain doors, to keep some in hand against future losses?’ I reached out for the jug of beer.
Slythurst scraped his chair back and rose abruptly.
‘If you have something you mean to ask of me, Doctor Bruno,’ he said, through his teeth, ‘have the courtesy to speak frankly. But at least show some discretion – or do you believe you are now made Inquisitor over us?’ He turned to his left to include the rector in his furious glare, then pushed roughly behind my chair and, without looking back, strode out of the hall in majestic offence, his gown sweeping behind him. The whispering at the lower tables ceased while intrigued eyes followed Slythurst’s progress to the door, before a fresh wave of huddled conversation rippled through their midst.
‘What has stung him?’ Richard Godwyn asked, looking up from his meat at Slythurst’s brusque departure.
‘Perhaps he is distressed by the tragic news,’ I suggested.
Godwyn blinked.
‘Who can tell? Men are harder to read than books. Perhaps Walter is plagued by remorse.’
‘Remorse?’ I asked, concentrating on my plate so as not to betray my interest.
‘He and James detested one another,’ Godwyn confided, his voice low. ‘So perhaps, now that James has died so terribly, Walter regrets the words he can never take back.’
‘Why did they hate one another?’
Godwyn sighed and shook his head sadly.
‘I never knew. I had the impression that each knew something damaging about the other, and that they were somehow unwillingly bound to one another in secrecy. But of course it is always dangerous to make such a pact with an enemy.’
‘Could it be something to do with land leases?’ I asked, remembering suddenly the aborted conversation at the rector’s dinner on my first night, when Coverdale had insinuated that the bursar was implicated in the rector’s deals with Leicester to give away valuable revenues. ‘Perhaps Doctor Coverdale knew of some corrupt scheme of that kind?’
Godwyn only turned his large, sad eyes on me slowly.
‘I suppose that is possible. I do know that James