S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“You’re early,” Harry said, after the dean bade us good morning and strode away in the direction of the Archbishop’s Palace. “Samuel is not yet back from his morning’s errands. You may as well come in, though.”

This was welcome news to me. When we were inside the house, Harry gestured me into the small parlour and offered me the same seat I had occupied the day before. He pulled up a chair opposite and leaned forward, hands resting on his knees.

“You heard about the apothecary’s murder, then?”

“More than heard. I found him.”

“You are not serious?”

I told him briefly of my visit to the apothecary earlier and my encounter with the constable. Harry’s face grew grave.

“This is a bad business,” he said, lowering his voice. “The whole town is talking about the murder, and you are first witness to finding the body. You could hardly have contrived to make yourself more noticeable. Soon everyone will know your name. Think yourself lucky if they don’t try and pin the deed on you.”

“Me?” I laughed, assuming it was one of his dry jokes, until I saw his expression. “Why should they suspect me?”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Look at yourself. Your skin, your accent. People here like the idea of murderous foreigners. Much easier than accepting one of their neighbours might be a killer.”

I nodded grimly.

“Well, I will have to rely on the truth. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill the apothecary?”

Harry shrugged.

“Most likely someone felt he cheated them. Maybe he sold them a remedy that didn’t work, or prescribed a fatal dose. Apothecaries do nothing but guess, for all they pretend to be men of physic.” He chuckled, but this time I did not join in. “In any case, what concern is it of yours?”

“A fatal dose,” I repeated. Dosis sola facit venenum. Had Fitch poisoned someone with a fatal dose of belladonna? He had certainly been afraid of doing so, according to the notes that were burned the night he was killed. “I wondered if his death might be connected to Edward Kingsley’s.”

Harry frowned.

“What makes you think that?”

I hesitated; I could not tell him about the conversation I had overheard between Langworth and Samuel. I had hardly had time to gather my own thoughts about it. Langworth had been to Fitch’s shop this morning to remove something; that much was clear. But was it something missed by the person who had ransacked the premises the night before, when Fitch was killed—something only Langworth knew how to find? Or was it he who had turned the shop upside down? Langworth seemed such a calculating man; I could not picture him chasing Fitch around the workshop in a frenzy, beating his skull in with a poker. “The place was left in such disarray,” he had said to Samuel; was that an observation or a reproach? I wished I had paid more attention to his tone.

“He was killed in the same manner,” I said. “His head beaten in.”

“That proves nothing. What else?”

“Ezekiel Sykes,” I said eventually. “Is he a good physician?”

“He’s an expensive one, which some fools mistake for skill. Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious about him. I heard he was something of an alchemist.”

“Perhaps. Don’t all physicians dabble in it? Listen, Bruno.” He sighed and laboriously stretched out his stiff leg, massaging it above the knee. “You seem determined to fix your attention on the most prominent men of the town. Maybe you have your reasons, but you had better make certain of your suspicions before you dare point a finger, or you will make yourself a target.”

I paused for a moment to master the irritation I felt at his tone.

“I have accused no one, Harry, and I would not dream of doing so without evidence I was sure of. But if eminent men in the town have committed murder, it is all the more important that they should be brought to justice.”

“You forget that it is the eminent men who dispense justice,” Harry said, with a resignation that suggested such things could not be changed or resisted. I thought of Tom Garth and his fury at Nicholas Kingsley the night before—the fury of a man who knows he is impotent against powerful interests. He spoke of taking the law into his own hands—did that include murder? Sykes had a part in that story too, though there was still much I didn’t know.

I watched Harry as he flexed one bony hand on his knee and studied it. I would make little progress here unless I had him as an ally, but I needed to break his unquestioning trust in Samuel.

“The dean seems anxious for the queen’s approval,” I remarked, looking out of the window towards the vast walls of the cathedral outside.

He grunted. “Is it any wonder? There are those on the Privy Council who would like to close us down and take the money for the queen’s treasury, Walsingham chief among them.” He shook his head. “Let’s not pretend to be ignorant of that. But the Prince of Orange changes things. If the queen needs quick money for a war, then I think this time our future might really be in danger.” His hand bunched into a fist as he spoke, then he glanced up quickly to gauge my response.

“I am not here to find reasons to dissolve the foundation,” I said. “My business is only what I told you. But if this murder involves someone within the cathedral chapter, I cannot ignore it.”

“You imply that I would do so?”

“Not at all,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. He sucked in his cheeks for a moment, still holding my gaze.

“Are you here to report on me? You may as well be honest.”

“No, Harry. I am here to find out who killed Sir Edward Kingsley so that his wife need not fear for her life. But it begins to look as if this murder is part of something greater.”

He leaned forward, his expression of hostility giving way to interest.

“Tell me what you have found out, then.”

I hesitated. “It’s possible that Langworth—” I broke off at the sound of the door latch; Harry sat upright too.

“Only Samuel,” he said. “You were saying?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the parlour door and my hand moved instinctively to the pouch at my belt, where my fingers closed around the shape of Langworth’s keys.

“Nothing. Speculation. Another time, perhaps.”

THE MEAL PASSED awkwardly. Harry seemed angry that I refused to speak in front of Samuel, though he did not say as much, and I presumed he was also irritated that I was still concentrating my suspicions on Langworth after his warning. He made a point of talking to Samuel about cathedral business that was of no relevance to me and I was not sure who I resented more by the time we had finished the plain stew of vegetables with thin slices of salt beef—Samuel for the dark, insinuating glances he shot from under his eyebrows when he thought I wasn’t looking, or Harry for his stubbornness. I was relieved when Samuel cleared the plates away and Harry announced that he must prepare for the chapter meeting.

I told Harry I wanted to accept his offer to show me the cathedral library and he grudgingly agreed to take me on his way to the Chapter House, though his manner towards me was still prickly and I could tell he was disinclined to do me any favours. But the library was close enough to Langworth’s house to give me a reasonable excuse for being in that part of the precincts while the canons were occupied with their meeting; I hoped I might be able to replace the keys and letter I had stolen before the treasurer noticed anything had been touched.

“WHAT IS IT you want to look at, exactly, Signor Savolino?” The canon librarian regarded me with caution. He wore his advanced years well, though he stooped a little and I could see the joints of his fingers were stiff and swollen as he leafed absently through a large manuscript volume on the desk in front of him. Light fell through a tall arched window behind him, illuminating his few remaining tufts of hair into brilliant white. When he looked up, his face was deeply scored with lines that branched and bisected around his features like a map of a river delta.