S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“Thank you, I’d be grateful,” I said, thinking that the man’s evident love of gossip could prove useful. He emptied the mint leaves into a small dish and disappeared through the door into the back of the shop. I wiped a trickle of sweat from my temples with the sleeve of my shirt and waited. Eventually he emerged carrying an earthenware beaker wrapped in a cloth.

“Careful, it’s hot. That’s sixpence for the whole—I haven’t charged you for the water,” he added.

I fished in my purse for the appropriate coin, which he examined closely, holding it up to the light.

“No offence,” he said, seeing me watching, “but we get all sorts of foreign types passing through from the Kentish ports, and I can’t trade with their coins. Not that I have anything against you lot, though many do. I like variety—keeps life interesting, doesn’t it?” He tucked the coin into a moneybag at his belt. “I’d have liked to travel myself, if I’d had the means.” He reached to a shelf under the bench and produced a large ledger, which he opened and thumbed through to the current page. Dipping the pen in the ink, he recorded the transaction meticulously. “May I take your name?”

“My name?”

I must have reacted more suspiciously than I intended, because he looked taken aback.

“Just for my shop records, signor. Helps me to remember what was sold and when, in case of any shortfall. I’ve a dreadful memory, you see.” He tapped the side of his head and offered an encouraging smile.

“Oh.” I hesitated. “Savolino.”

Beside the amount received he dutifully inscribed “Savolino,” then glanced up and smiled again, as if to prove to me that this had had no ill effect.

“Did they ever find the lover?” I asked, sipping at the steaming cup. The concoction smelled refreshing and tasted pleasant enough, though the heat made more beads of sweat stand out on my face.

“Well.” He folded his arms and leaned against the bench as if settling in for the tale. “The son made a great noise, pointing his finger hither and yon, but nothing came of it. If he had a better character himself, his accusations might have stuck, but he’s been in so much trouble, that one, it was only ever his father’s money and position that kept him safe from the law. He’s not respected in the town. You couldn’t keep Master Nicholas Kingsley out of the Three Tuns long enough to notice what was going on under his own roof. Supposed to be studying the law himself, he was, up in London—well, that was a good joke. He was thrown out of his studies for drink and brawling. Ended up back here doing exactly the same at his father’s expense, God rest him.”

I drained the beaker. “It must have been a sore disappointment to his father.”

“Well, they always were an odd family,” Fitch said, squinting into the middle distance where spirals of dust eddied in the sunlight, as if trying to remember something.

“How so?”

He shook his head dismissively. “Ah, goodwives’ gossip, most of it. His first wife was wealthy—she died of an ague, oh, ten years back. People whispered, as they always will, that he’d done her in, though as far as I know they had no reason to say so. But then maybe a year later he hired a maidservant, Sarah Garth, young girl from the town, and she’d not been there more than a few months when she took sick and died as well.”

“Sickness is common enough everywhere, is it not?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

“Aye, of course, but folk found it strange that neither Sir Edward nor his son took ill with whatever she had. Still—in his defence, he brought in Doctor Sykes to treat the girl at his own expense. But they’ve taken no servants from that day to this, except their old housekeeper, Meg Turner. And there’s another thing.” He leaned farther across the bench and lowered his voice. “My late wife’s niece, Rebecca, she helps out Mistress Blunt on her stall at the bread market.”

He paused for effect; I bent towards him and nodded conspiratorially, as if I were quite familiar with the relationships of all these people.

“Not more than six months past, Rebecca was asked to run an errand, take a package of bread out to Sir Edward Kingsley’s house—you know, the old priory out past the North Gate.”

“I don’t know it, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, he leased the prior’s house of St. Gregory’s as was. Grand old building—the only bit of the priory left standing now, apart from the burial ground. Anyhow, she was walking through the graveyard to the door, and that’s where she heard it.”

“Heard what?”

“A dreadful cry.” He gazed at me solemnly to let his words take effect. “She’ll swear to it—freeze your blood, she says. So frightened, she was, she dropped the bread and ran all the way back to the Blunts’ shop.”

My chest tightened; surely it could only have been Sophia, crying out as her husband administered one of his beatings. Again I pictured it, and the stoical, dull-eyed expression on her face when she related the story. I made an effort to unclench my jaw.

“A woman screaming, was it?”

“No.” He held up a forefinger as if to admonish me. “That’s just it—she said it wasn’t like any human sound she’d heard. When she told the story, she was fairly shaking for pity. Well, of course, the graves are still there, so you can imagine how a young girl’s imagination runs wild. She said the noise came from beneath her feet, from the very graves themselves.” He smiled indulgently. “Anyhow, she wouldn’t set foot near the place again. Mind you, nor will any other maid in Canterbury since Master Nicholas came back from London—he’ll do his best to grope any woman he can get his hands on, even in broad daylight.” He frowned in disgust and I mirrored his expression in sympathy.

“Though he is a rich man now, I suppose, with his father dead. Some woman might be glad of his attentions eventually,” I ventured.

“Ha! He’s not got a penny till his father’s last testament is sorted out,” Fitch said, as if pleased by the justice of this. “Sir Edward had lately changed his bequests, but I understand nothing can be cleared up until the wife is found and tried, since she is one of the beneficiaries. Naturally, if she’s proved guilty, it’s all forfeit to Master Nicholas, but the law must take its course.” He rolled his eyes; I smiled in solidarity. If there is one thing that can unite men from all walks of life and all countries, it is a shared contempt of lawyers.

“You are very well informed, Master Fitch, I must say.” I half turned, reluctantly sensing that I could not prolong my visit much further.

“Everyone gets sick, Signor Savolino,” he said sagely. “Rich or poor—everyone in this city, or their servants, has to pass through my door at some point, like it or no. So there’s not much goes on that I don’t get to hear about.” He tapped his nose and gave me a knowing wink.

I laughed, but his words made me uneasy. Was he implying something? The apothecary may prove a rich source of gossip, but it did not take much wit to realise that, if I were to stay in Canterbury, in a very short time he would make me his business too. I wondered what more he might know and whether his stores of knowledge were for sale to the right bidder.

I was about to bid him good day when the street door was flung open to admit a broad man dressed in the long robe of a physician, tied up at the collar despite the heat. Over his mouth and nose he wore a mask with a curved protuberance like the beak of an exotic bird, like a character in the commedia. Above the mask his eyes were small and beady; they rested on me with an air of suspicion.

After staring at me for a few moments, he turned to the apothecary and pulled the mask down to reveal a heavily jowled face glistening in the light.