S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

The precincts were empty, shadows stretching out across the dusty path that curved around the length of the cathedral. I glanced up at the sky; it must be midafternoon, not yet late enough for Evensong, but it seemed odd to see so little activity in what, to judge by the number of lodgings crowded around the inner wall of the precincts, must still be a busy community. The gatekeeper’s directions led me to a row of tall, narrow houses, well-kept but plain, with small leaded windows facing the cathedral and a stretch of garden in front separating them from the walkway. At the fourth, I followed the path that led alongside the garden—which boasted two scrawny apple trees and what appeared to be a vegetable patch—and knocked firmly on the door.

After some moments it was opened by a tall man with a narrow face and thinning black hair. He was perhaps nearing forty, and looked at me down the length of his nose with an expression that suggested I had interrupted something important.

“Doctor Robinson?”

“He’s not at home.” He moved as if to close the door; I took a stride forward and laid a hand on it to keep him from doing so. Though he was bigger than me he flinched slightly, as if he feared I might force my way in, and immediately I regretted my action; people here must be nervous, so soon after a violent killing in what was supposed to be a place of sanctuary.

“Forgive me,” I said hastily. “May I wait for him? He is expecting me.”

“He’s not expecting anyone.” His voice was oddly nasal; it scraped at your ears like a nail on glass.

“Who is it, Samuel?” The call came from somewhere in the depths of the house. I raised an eyebrow at the man Samuel, who merely flicked his eyes over his shoulder and made an impatient noise with his tongue. Ungraciously, he opened the door a little wider and I glimpsed a figure in the shadows, shuffling towards the light. Samuel stood back to reveal a white-haired man about my own height, his loose shirt untucked from his breeches and his chin bristling with silver stubble. He leaned heavily on a stick but his green eyes took the measure of me, keen and alert as a hunting dog’s.

“So. You must be the Italian. Forgive me—if I’d known you were arriving today I’d have had a shave.” He spoke with an educated tone, his manner neither friendly nor hostile; merely matter-of-fact.

I gave a slight bow. “At your service.”

“Are you, now? Come in, then—don’t hang about on the doorstep. Samuel, fetch our guest some fresh beer.”

The manservant, Samuel, held the door for me, unsmiling, a chill of dislike emanating from him as I crossed the threshold. I wondered why his immediate response had been to lie about his master’s absence. Whatever his reason, he made no apology, nor did he seem at all sheepish at being exposed in a falsehood. He merely closed the door and trod silently behind me as I followed Harry Robinson into an untidy front parlour, airless and choked with the day’s accumulated heat.

Harry waved me to one of the two high-backed chairs by the empty hearth. Against the far wall stood an ancient wooden buffet and under the small window a table was covered with books and papers, more books piled high on the floor to either side. Through the leaded glass, sunlight still painted the façade of the cathedral gold, though the room was all sunk in shade and I blinked as my eyes adjusted. The old man’s shock of hair and bright eyes stood out against the gloom as he settled himself into the chair opposite me with difficulty, narrating the business with little grunts and huffs of discomfort as he tried to ease his stiff leg into position. When he seemed satisfied, he peered closer, reading my face, and nodded as if to seal his silent judgement.

“So Walsingham has sent you to see if I am still up to the job?”

“Not at all—that is, I …” I faltered and saw a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. He had wrong-footed me with the bluntness of his question, not only because it had not occurred to me that he might regard my presence in this light but also because the servant Samuel had entered the room at the same moment and could not have avoided overhearing. Flustered, I glanced up at him as he set a pitcher down on the buffet and poured two cups of beer, smiling to himself.

Harry Robinson barked out a dry laugh.

“Don’t mind Samuel—he knows all my business, and he knows who you are,” he said. “Who else would carry my correspondence to London? There’s no talk hidden from him in this house. I’d trust him with my life.”

Samuel shot me a fleeting glance, ripe with self-satisfaction. I felt I would not trust him to hold my coat, but I nodded politely.

“Doctor Robinson, my visit here has nothing to do with your own work, which I am certain—”

“Don’t condescend to me, son. And call me Harry.” He shifted his weight laboriously from one side of the chair to the other, rubbing his stiff leg. “If Her Majesty’s principal secretary is sending men from London to look into the murder of a provincial magistrate, it is only because he believes there is some matter here of wider significance to the realm, and that I cannot be relied upon to discover it without help. Not so?”

“It is more that—”

“But I question where he has this intelligence,” he continued, regardless. “I had mentioned the unfortunate death of Sir Edward Kingsley in my most recent letter—I thought it of interest because he associated with those among the cathedral chapter strongly suspected of disloyalty to the English church—but that letter cannot have reached London yet, can it, Samuel?”

“No, sir,” Samuel replied, handing each of us a cup with his eyes demurely lowered. He retreated as far as the window, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently surveying the cathedral close. I wished he would leave the room, but he clearly felt entitled to eavesdrop on the conversation and Harry seemed content to behave as if his servant were merely a part of the furnishings.

“So whose suspicions brought you here, Doctor Giordano Bruno, I ask myself?” Harry leaned forward on his stick and fixed me with those stern eyes. I cleared my throat, glanced at Samuel’s unmoving back, and pulled my chair a little closer.

“I have a personal interest, you might say.” I hesitated, before lowering my voice even further. “I knew his wife.”

Harry took a moment to absorb this, then he sat back and nodded. He seemed pleased by this idea.

“Well, well. So she escaped to London, did she? Canny of her—the gossipmongers here had her on a boat to France. We are not far from the Kentish ports, you see, and there is a good deal of trade with Europe. Easy for a fugitive to get out.”

“And secret priests to get in, so I hear,” I said.

“Very true. They apprehended a pair of them last month at Dover.” He tilted his head to one side, studying me. “So you are here for the wife’s sake? Gallant of you, Doctor Bruno. You are probably the only person in this entire county who cares to find out whether she is innocent. If she’s caught, she’ll burn, and I doubt it would spoil the crowd’s enjoyment a jot if she hadn’t done it. They like a crime of passion, especially where there’s a spirited young woman involved. If she’s gone to London, she had better stay well hidden. Of course, I never thought it was her.”

“Why not?”

He rubbed his chin.

“I saw the corpse when they found him. Not the work of a woman. Apart from the gore, a woman wouldn’t have the strength to wield a weapon like that. Besides, if a wife wanted to kill her husband, as plenty do, surely she’d look for an opportunity closer to home? Poison his supper or some such? That’s a woman’s way.” He shook his head.