He was beaten to death, but it seems he put up a brave fight before he was felled. The street door was locked from the inside, but this back door was open, though the gate from the yard to the alleyway was padlocked from the inside.
Edmonton took his hand slowly from his mouth and stepped back into the yard, frowning as if noticing me properly for the first time.
How did you get in, then? And who the Devil are you to be poking around?
My name is Filippo Savolino. I came as a customeryesterday Master Fitch had promised me a remedy. I found the girl outside, anxious because she could get no reply, so I offered to see what was wrong. When I couldnt open the gate, I climbed the wall.
He pulled at his beard again.
I see. I have seen you before, have I not? Loitering about the Buttermarket, as I recall.
I was not loiteringI was on my way to visit my friend the Reverend Doctor Harry Robinson at the cathedral, I said, stung by his tone. You will see a great disturbance in the shop, I continued, trying to sound more placatory as I led him through to the front room. It seems to me that whoever killed the apothecary was looking for something on his shelves.
A robbery, then, the constable said, as if the business required no further consideration. He glanced at the mess on the floor, set his jaw, and nodded to himself. Since the plague fears in London, we have more than our share of vagabonds and beggars littering the streets. Probably one of them, looking for gold or whatever he could sell. Ill have them rounded upwell soon find the villain that did this. He shot a brief glance back at the workshop and sniffed. He was a good man, William Fitch, well liked by the townspeople. Therell be a great deal of anger against the incomers for this.
And yet it seems that Master Fitch readily admitted his attacker himself without suspicion, since the shop was locked from the inside, and there is no sign of force, I said. And see, hereit is mainly books and papers pulled from the shelves, as if the person was looking for something quite specific. I am not persuaded that this was an ordinary robbery. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should mention the appearance of Sykes the previous evening, but decided against it; the physician was clearly a prominent citizen of Canterbury and any suggestion that he might be implicated would only draw unwelcome attention to myself.
The constable folded his arms across his chest and his moustache twitched as his lip curled into a sneer.
Oh, you are not persuaded? And who are you to offer opinions either way? Are you a parish constable? I think not. You are not even a parishioner.
I held up my hands as if to mitigate any offence.
I beg your pardon, Constable. I was only thinking aloud.
He grunted.
I shall want testimony from you and the girl. Where will I find you?
At the Cheker of Hope.
Good. Do not leave the city, Master
Savolino. I wont.
He nodded curtly and gestured towards the back gate.
Now leave me to my job, if you please.
I bowed slightly and crossed to the door, with a last glance back at the workshop of the unfortunate apothecary. A more thorough search of the place would yield better evidence of the killer, I was sure, but I pulled the front door closed behind me, telling myself that it was no longer my business. I had enough to do to find one murderer, let alone another that had nothing to do with me, and it was only the merest chance that I had discovered the death of Fitch. And yet, as I emerged into the light of the High Street to see a little gaggle of interested observers gathered around the shopfront, I had to acknowledge that hiding that fragment of paper, with its mysterious reference to Paracelsus, was as good as admitting I could not let the matter go. The constable would find some hapless vagrant to blame in order to satisfy the townspeople, who would cheer for his hanging, and all would be forgotten, while the murderer congratulated himself. This was what passed for justice, more often a question of avoiding public unrest than of discovering the truth. This is not your problem, I told myself again, but the apothecarys murder troubled me, perhaps because the manner of it was so similar to the killing of Sir Edward Kingsley.
I noticed the girl Rebecca at the heart of the crowd, wailing loudly and being comforted by the two stout women who had been watching earlier. No one paid me any attention, so I took the opportunity to slip away towards the weavers houses.
A man in his fifties answered the door of the Fleury house. He had greying hair, a full moustache and wore a beaten expression, as if hardship and exhaustion had robbed him of any vital spirit. He looked me up and down, as if I were one more burden Fate had seen fit to lay on his shoulders.
Monsieur Fleury?
I know who you are. Come inside. He glanced along the lane to either side, but there was no sign of movement. Is that blood on your stocking? he asked as he closed the door behind me. The flatness of his tone suggested he was not especially interested either way. I glanced down; there was a streak of dark red on my ankle where I must have brushed against Fitchs body.
I wasat the scene of an accident, I said.
Fleury shook his head.
I have seen enough blood spilled. He took me by the sleeve and pulled me close, dropping his voice. You must take her away. Do you understand? My son He faltered and shook his head again. I got my family out of Paris alive while our friends and neighbours were butchered in their homes. I thought we would be safe in a Protestant country. But already we have lost one child. I will not see my son hanged as well. The girl should not be in my house. We tried to help her, but once is enough. She is dangerous.
She is unlucky.
He set his jaw. I say she is dangerous, monsieur. You know it and I know it. Only my son cannot see this, because he is young and she is beautiful. Perhaps you close your eyes to it as well, but I am old enough not to have this blindness. He gave a great sigh that seemed to reverberate through his bones.
He opened a door on the left of the small hallway and motioned me into a long room overlooking the river and dominated by the wooden frames of three large looms, where women sat working the treadle, the mechanism clicking rhythmically as they fed the shuttle back and forth. They gave us only the briefest glance as we passed through, their eyes fixed to the coloured yarns stretched on the frames before them. Bobbin racks and contraptions for stretching thread lined the walls. I looked out of the window at the narrow creek; a man was loading bales of cloth from a small jetty at the back of the house on to a low boat. At the far end of this workshop a narrow staircase ascended to the floor above. I glanced down at the scene of industry in the workshop below as we climbed.
Business is good here?
Fleury shrugged.
Life is always precarious in a strange land. You know this, I think. But we can feed ourselves, for the moment, and for that I give thanks.
At the top of the stairs was a long landing with another staircase, even narrower, rising to the next floor. He gestured for me to climb alone.
In the attic, he whispered, by way of explanation. Keep your voices down.
The ceiling was low, sloping to either side under the crooked roof and I had to bend to avoid the supporting beams as I pushed open the small door at the top of the stairs. Sophia was seated at a rough-hewn table, Olivier Fleury standing by the tiny window, leaning on the sill and looking out. Both started with alarm as I slipped through the door; Sophia jumped quickly to her feet.
Bruno! For a moment she gave the impression that she was about to run and embrace me, but instead she flashed me a shy smile and raised her arms before letting them fall to her sides. Olivier regarded me with that same expression of sullen disdain. Any news? Have you found him?
I looked at Sophia. She had washed and, though she was still dressed in boys clothes, they were now clean. Her hair hung softly, almost into her eyes, its shortness at the back emphasising her long, slender neck. I noticed the days of riding in the sun had brought out a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Give me a chanceI have not been here a day. But there is newsI have just come from the scene of another murder.
What?
Her hand flew to her mouth; she stared at me, eyes wide. But my attention was distracted by a gasp from the corner of the room; it was only then that I realised there was a third person present, a young woman dressed in black, sitting on a straw mattress tucked away under the eaves. I raised my eyebrows at Sophia; she glanced briefly at the woman on the bed.
Hélène, Oliviers sister, she said, as if this was not of much interest. But who has been murdered?
Is it a child? the woman Hélène whispered, her voice dry as autumn leaves. She had fine fair hair and the same full lips as her brother. I looked at her in surprise.
Noit was the apothecary from the High Street, William Fitch.
Hélène gave a sort of shudder and crumpled visibly, as if she had been struck. She buried her face in her handkerchief and though her shoulders shook violently she made no sound.
I am sorry. Did you know him well? I asked her gently.
Its not that. Olivier glared at me, as if once again I had been the bringer of misfortune, and crossed the room to give his sister a cursory pat on the arm.
Sophia frowned. Everyone knew Fitchhe was something of a busybody. I kept away from his shophe asked too many questions. She shook her head. But he was amiable with it. I wonder who could have wanted to kill him?
The manner of it was similar to your husbands murderhis skull was smashed. You dont suppose they could be connected?
She frowned.
I cant see how. Especially if my husbands killer wanted to be sure I was blamed. Another murder in my absence would undo that.
Did Sir Edward know Fitch?
He knew everyone in Canterbury. But he didnt associate with him, if thats what you mean.
But he knew Ezekiel Sykes the physician well, and Sykes knew Fitch, I mused, thinking again of Sykess peremptory visit to the apothecary the previous afternoon.
Sophia made an impatient sound.
You are overcomplicating matters, Bruno. I have told you where you would do best to look for my husbands killer. The poor apothecary was probably attacked by robbers, taking advantage of the fact that the city is without a justice of the peace at the moment.
So the constable wants to think.
Well, then. She folded her arms. You see the world as full of hidden connections, Bruno. Sometimes things are no more than they appear. Didnt William of Ockham say so? She gave me a mischievous smile, which I could not help returning.
Something like that. May we talk in private?
Sophia looked across at Olivier, who still kept a protective hand on his sisters shoulder. Hélène had sunk into herself, her face obscured by the handkerchief and her clasped hands. He nodded curtly at me, and extended a hand to help his sister rise.
I hope you will find this man soon, monsieur, he said, through clenched teeth, as he passed me. Then you can both leave us in peace.
I will do my best, I said, with forced politeness. Hélènes gaze flickered briefly upwards to my face, then quickly back to the floor; I reached out and touched her gently on the arm and she flinched as if I had hit her.
Pardon me, I said, in French, but why did you ask if a child had been killed?
Her red-rimmed eyes filled with tears; she shook her head tightly and bunched the handkerchief harder against her lips. Olivier glared at me again as he put a protective arm around her and led her to the door.
I have said the wrong thing, somehow, I observed when they had gone. Why is she so distressed?
Sophia sat down at the table again and rubbed the back of her neck. She looked suddenly weary.
That poor girl. Widowed at eighteenher husband was killed during the massacre in Paris. She was pregnant when they fled to England and her son, Denis, was born here. Six months ago, he disappeared.
How do you mean?
Just thathe went out on an errand for his grandparents and never returned. He was only eleven. She bit her lip and I noticed how she knotted her fingers together, though she kept her expression controlled, her gaze concentrated on a point on the wall. I guessed she was thinking about her own lost son and the sorrow of a mother.
So that was what Olivier meant when he said they had enough grief already. I pulled up a stool opposite her. They reported it, I suppose? There was a search for the boy?
They reported it to my husband as the local justicethat was how I first met Olivier. He refused to give uphe came to the house every day until finally Sir Edward had to threaten him with arrest for trespass. There was a search, but since the Huguenots are not regarded by many in the town as true citizens, you may imagine how little effort was made. They told the family he had probably just run off to be a ships boy.
But you dont think so?
She shrugged.
I never met the boy. The family say he would not have done so. But Hélène has talked herself into believing the worst, because of the other child that was found.
What other child?
It was last autumn, before I arrived here, a few months before her son went missing. The body of a young boy, around the same age, was found dismembered on a midden outside the city walls. He was a beggar child, they said. But Hélène has seized on it to fuel her belief that her son has been killed too.
What do you think?
She gave me a long look and sighed heavily.
I think its terrible, naturally, but She reached out and laid a hand gently over mine. Bruno, you dont need to unravel every unsolved death in this town. Just the one you came for, remember? Have you spoken to Nicholas Kingsley yet?
I will be a guest at his house tonight.
She squeezed my hand, her eyes bright. I knew you would manage this, Bruno. You will find something there to clear me, Im certain of it.
I regarded her with a serious expression.
You are very determined that it should be Nicholas. And he is equally determined that it was you.
Well, obviously. She removed her hand. As I have said, if I am convicted of killing his father, he will inherit instead.
But if I find evidence to incriminate him, you become a wealthy widow. Am I right?
She leaned across the table and fixed me with that look, her eyes flashing.
And would I not deserve that, after everything I have suffered?
Of course. But you will inherit regardless of who the real killer turns out to be, surely, provided it can be proved? I cant produce evidence against Nicholas just because you want it to be him.