S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“Your knife, sir.” He did not meet my eye. “Are you here for divine service?”

I unstrapped the knife from my belt and placed it into his outstretched palm. “What time is it?”

“Holy Communion at nine, sir. You’re early.”

“I will call on Doctor Robinson in the meantime.” I hesitated. “You were very angry last night, it seemed.”

He looked away as if he had not heard me.

“At the Three Tuns,” I persisted.

“I have good cause,” he said eventually, still not meeting my eye. He turned my knife between his hands.

“Young Master Kingsley’s manners would try anyone’s patience,” I ventured.

“You seemed tight enough with him and his crowd last night, for a newcomer,” he flashed back, finally glaring at me, then appeared to regret having spoken and returned his attention to the knife.

“I wished only to take his money.”

Garth raised his eyes and looked at me with new curiosity.

“And did you?”

“To make money at cards, sometimes you first need to lose a little. To build the trust of your companions.”

Unexpectedly, Garth smiled. It transformed his large, crude features from their habitual suspicious frown to an expression of bright amusement.

“You lost, then.”

I acknowledged the truth of this with a laugh.

“I damned well did. But I’ll get it back next time.”

“I never heard a churchman talk like that before.”

“I am not your ordinary churchman.”

He nodded, as if to say that much was plain.

“Well, I wish you luck of it. Take all the blasted money you can from that whoreson, begging your pardon, sir.” He glanced at the cathedral with guilty eyes, as if it might disapprove of his language, and his face grew hard again.

“If he owes you a debt, can you not go to law?”

He shook his head, his lips pressed together.

“You would not understand.”

“Try me,” I said gently. “I know a little of English law.” A little was the truth; I lacked any knowledge to advise him, but I hoped to win his confidence.

He sighed, and glanced over his shoulder, biting the knuckle of his thumb.

“His father was the local justice, you know?” He lowered his voice, even though no one was within earshot.

“The man who was murdered here in the cathedral?”

He muttered an acknowledgement and looked down.

“What help could my family expect from the law when the man who owed us made the law?”

“Was it a large sum?”

He twisted his big body awkwardly and did not answer.

“The debt, I mean?”

“What that man owed my family …” He paused and twitched his head slightly, as if to dislodge a persistent fly. “It was a debt you can’t put a price on.” Another pause; this time he looked at me, as if considering whether I merited his trust. He leaned in slightly. “My sister died in his house, nine years ago.”

“You think he was responsible?”

He clenched his teeth.

“There’s one thing you learn quickly as the son of a poor man and that’s not to accuse rich men of what you can’t prove. I was only fifteen when she died. My mother near lost her wits over it. She used to stand with her hair all unbound and denounce him in the marketplace like a madwoman, till they put her in the stocks for it. Now she won’t even leave the house. That’s why people call her a witch. I thought I could make Sir Edward see reason, give us something for our loss. Soon learned otherwise, didn’t I,” he added, his voice thick with bitterness.

“What happened?”

“He said he’d have me arrested for malicious slander and extortion if I ever repeated those words or any like them. Then he had me beaten black and blue, teach me a lesson. Can’t prove that either, but I know he ordered it.”

“But why do you think your sister’s death was his doing?”

He sniffed and fixed his eyes on a point above my head.

“Strong as a horse, our Sarah. Never seen her take ill a day all the time we was growing up. She never died of no fever, whatever he said.”

“Did she see a doctor?” I asked, though I remembered that Fitch had said Sir Edward called the physician out to her at his own expense. Garth’s face darkened with anger.

“He had Ezekiel Sykes out to her, didn’t he, and all of Canterbury knows he meddles with what he shouldn’t.” He spat the words so fiercely that he had to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. I saw his hand was shaking.

“How do you mean?”

“He’s one of them …” He frowned. “I forget the word. You know—that tries to turn iron into gold.”

“An alchemist?”

“Aye, that’s what they say. Witch, more like.” Garth narrowed his eyes. “Why you so interested, anyway?”

I shrugged. “I took a dislike to this Nicholas Kingsley. He cheats at cards. I’d have been glad to see you teach him a lesson last night.”

He nodded slowly, still wary. “I lost my temper last night. I’d had a drink. Should know by now I’ll get nothing that way.”

I made as if to leave, then half turned.

“Do you mind the gate here every evening, Master Garth?”

“Aye.” His face closed up again; he seemed to be bracing himself for an argument.

“The night young Kingsley’s father was murdered too?”

“Wasn’t me killed him, if that’s what you mean,” he snapped, taking a step towards me, his nostrils flaring, almost before the words were out of my mouth. “It was the wife. Ask anyone. That’s why she ran the next day.”

I held up my hands as if to ward off misunderstanding.

“I didn’t mean to suggest … Then you must have seen her, surely?”

He slumped, the sudden flash of anger abated, and rolled his shoulders, his face uneasy.

“I saw her come in for Evensong, that I do remember. But I don’t recall seeing her leave, as I told the constable next day. First thing I know of it, Canon Langworth comes running up after supper like he’s seen the Devil himself, yelling that he’s found Sir Edward murdered.”

“But the other gates are all locked after Evensong, are they not? So anyone leaving after that time must have to pass you here at this gate.”

“Or hide themselves.” He leaned in confidentially. “These precincts are full of nooks and crannies, you must have seen. The canons do the rounds and lock the gates after the service when everyone has left, but anyone with unfinished business could easily tuck themselves away unseen. The church is as good a place as any.”

“But she would still have had to come out,” I persisted, “to have been at home when they came to tell her the news.”

“I don’t recall,” he repeated, more stubbornly this time, though his eyes were evasive. “Look here.” He tilted his neck to one side and then the other stiffly, as if it was causing him discomfort. “I won’t pretend I was sorry. It was no secret I hated him. And I can be quick with my fists sometimes, but I couldn’t do what she did. Strike a man from behind, in the dark, with a crucifix?” He shook his head. “That’s a coward’s way. Or a woman’s.”

I moved back towards him, alert.

“A crucifix ? Was that what killed him?”

“So they reckon. They found it the next day, slung into the long grass in the orchard, covered in blood and brains. Big silver cross with a heavy base, one of those they have in the church.”

“So she took it from the cathedral, then?”

Garth rubbed the back of his neck.

“Must have. From the crypt, they said. It was the one used to stand on that little altar down there.”

I whistled.

“To kill a man on consecrated ground, with the cross of Christ. Mother Mary! Only someone with no fear of God could think of it.”