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.
But who else would have a motive for killing Sir Edward and ensuring I am blamed, if not him? Especially after his fathers will was changed.
Tell me about the will, then.
Before Sir Edward married me, Nicholas was his only next of kin and stood to inherit everything. But about a month before my husband was murdered, he made a new testament. Rights to his property and all the income from his estates was made over to me to be passed to our children, whenever they should arrive. She broke off and made a face of disgust at the idea. Nicholas was given a small allowancebarely enough for the lowest kind of food and board.
But your husband had no affection for you. Why would he do that?
To humiliate his son, I suppose. He had spent so much on Nicholass education, only for him to drink and gamble away his chances of a profession in the law. He said he had given Nicholas ample chance to change his ways, and the best way to make him grow up was to close his purse.
I nodded. I can see that would have made Nicholas furious. But angry enough to beat his own father to death?
Sophia rested her chin on her hand.
I could believe it. To murder his father and have me executed for it would have been a fine revenge on both of uswith the advantage of removing any obstacle to his inheritance.
And it rests entirely between you and Nicholas? No one else stands to benefit from Sir Edwards will?
Not that I know of, but then, I never read the document. I only know because Sir Edward took great pleasure in telling Nicholas and me of the changes over dinner. Perhaps he thought it would encourage me to hurry up and give him a better son.
Then why did Nicholas mention the Widow Gray?
I dont know. What did he say?
She was one of the people he said would not take his inheritance from him, when he was in his cups last night.
Sophia looked uncomfortable.
There is gossip about her in the town Her voice trailed off. But who knows if there is any substance to it.
Your husband knew her?
She nodded.
Could she have been his mistress?
She shrugged, expressionless.
Maybe. She has a son, I know that much. A boy of about twelve.
I nodded. If the boy was Sir Edwards bastard, that might explain why Nicholas Kingsley thought the widow wanted money from the estate.
Sir Edwards friendsthe ones who visited him for those secretive meetings. Might any of them have wanted him dead? Had they fallen out, perhaps?
Sophia looked at her hands for a long moment. Eventually she raised her head.
Bruno, those are powerful men you are talking about. If you start poking into their business, youll draw unwelcome attention to yourself and theyll find a way to stop you.
I thought you wanted me to ask questions?
Yes, butwhat good will it do anyone if they have you arrested? Better that you concentrate your search
On Nicholas Kingsley? I stood up, and took a few paces, before rounding on her again, frustrated. But what if it isnt him? What if someone killed your husband, not for his money, but for some other reasonrevenge, or because he crossed them? You would not want an innocent man to die, surely, however obnoxious he may be. Thinkwho else might have wanted him dead? What about Tom Garth?
Tom Garth? Ohfrom the cathedral. What has he to do with it?
He held a grudge against the Kingsley family. Last night I heard him talk of taking the law into his own hands. And he is gatekeeper at the cathedralhe could easily have killed Sir Edward that night.
But Tom Garth had resented Sir Edward for years, since his sister died. Why would he suddenly take it into his head to kill him now? And why would he leave a womans bloodied gloves where they would be found to have me blamed? She shook her head. I think you are wandering from the path here, Bruno.
I ran both hands through my hair.
Look, you said you wanted me to find the truththats why you dragged me here. Now you are telling me what I should find!
Lower your voice. Her jaw was tight with anger. She took a deep breath. Very well. His regular supper companions at home were the physician Sykes, the mayor of Canterbury, and the cathedral treasurer
John Langworth.
She looked surprised.
You know him?
We have met. You know that Langworth is suspected of Catholic sympathies? Did your husband share his feelings? What about Sykes?
I dont know! She looked nettled. I never heard my husband express any religious view that was other than orthodox. You have to understand, BrunoI was concentrating on surviving.
I know, I said, attempting to sound soothing.
We looked at each other in silence for a moment, until she dropped her gaze to the table.
It was Langworth who brought me the news of my husbands death, and his belongings.
And Langworth who found the body. I thought again of Harrys warning. Langworths close connection to Henry Howard should have made me more inclined to heed the general view that to cross the treasurer was an act of wilful self-sabotage; instead it made me more determined that he should not be allowed to hide behind the reputation he had tried to create.
Sophia looked up at me, apprehensive.
That doesnt mean
I was thinking aloud. I brushed her objection aside as a thought occurred to me. Do you think your husband knew that people heard you screaming? Visitors to the house, I mean.
Screaming? she said, as if the idea were absurd. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. What are you talking about?
When he beat you.
But I never screamed. Her voice became very steady and quiet. He told me if I made a sound he would make it a thousand times worse. Then it became a matter of pridenot to cry at all, to take it all without flinching. She picked at the skin around her nails and I saw the muscles in her jaw tense.
Perhaps you cried out without realising it, I suggested. Her scathing look told me what she thought of that idea.
I didnt scream, she repeated firmly, closing her eyes. After a moment she opened them again and looked at me. What makes you say that I did?
A girl delivering something to the house says she heard someone screaming in the grounds. Who could it be, if not you?
Sophia shook her head. Foxes? The house is surrounded by a burial ground grown wildthere must be dens by the dozen.
Perhaps. I sighed. She was right; I needed to concentrate first on the obvious instead of chasing after every chance rumour I caught about Sir Edward. I recalled the girl Rebeccas noisy grief outside the apothecarys shop earlier; perhaps, as he had suggested, what she heard was no more than the effects of an overactive imagination.
Stop pacing, Bruno, its tiring to watch you, Sophia said gently, after a few moments. Then she pushed her stool back and crossed the room to block my path. Have I asked the impossible? she whispered, a sad smile hovering at her lips as she rested her hands on my arms, just below the shoulder. It was not quite an embrace, more a gentle restraint.
Stop pacing, Bruno, its tiring to watch you, Sophia said gently, after a few moments. Then she pushed her stool back and crossed the room to block my path. Have I asked the impossible? she whispered, a sad smile hovering at her lips as she rested her hands on my arms, just below the shoulder. It was not quite an embrace, more a gentle restraint.
I am certain he was killed by someone he knew. It shouldnt be impossible to find that personI would wager any amount that he is still here in Canterbury.
Dont wager too much, Bruno, you will be penniless at this rate.
I know it. I laughed softly and placed my hands on her thin shoulders.
I just want it to be over, she whispered. You understand.
I will move heaven and earth to find this man for you, Sophia, if it is in my power. I have said I will. I placed a finger under her chin and gently tilted her face upwards to me. For a moment, as she looked me directly in the eye, I thought I glimpsed her with her defences down, open and vulnerable.
She nodded without speaking, and her lips parted slightly; a pulse quickened in my throat. Almost imperceptibly, I felt her fingers tighten on my arms as the space between us seemed to grow smaller; before I had time to think of the consequences, I found myself leaning towards her, my mouth barely an inch from hers, and to my surprise she did not turn her head or pull away. For an instant I felt her breath warm on my chin, then the door opened. Olivier slipped into the room, his scornful expression for once seeming justified.
Pardon me, he said drily, in French. My father says you are talking too loudly. He is afraid the women downstairs will hear you. He was looking at Sophia; she lowered her eyes, and let go of my arms.
Over the sound of the looms? My anger at the interruption was hot in my voice. I wondered if he had been listening at the door. He merely returned my look, naked dislike in his eyes, and I saw, whatever Sophia might say about their friendship, this boy regarded me as a rival. The thought gave me a small stab of joy. I forced a smile.
I should be leaving. I will return tomorrow, I hope with more news.
Must you go so soon, Bruno? Sophia raised her eyes to me, but I could not read her look.
I have work to do, remember? I made a playful bow in her direction and she smiled. Olivier sucked in his cheeks.
How long do you expect us to keep her? he hissed, as I reached the door.
I dont know. Despite everything, I felt sorry for him. Until I find who murdered her husband. I hope not too long.
It was the son. Its obvious.
If its obvious, why havent you told the authorities?
He responded with a laconic shrug.
You think they would listen to me? Hes the son of a magistrate. Its easier to blame a woman, a foreigner, a refugee, anyone who doesnt have a voice to argue. It is up to you to find the evidence before they will listen. She says you have a gift for this.
Im doing my best, I said icily.
But his words made me uncomfortable; I recalled the constables casual reference earlier to arresting some itinerantas if it hardly mattered whomfor the murder of the apothecary. Olivier was right; justice here was a cursory affair, dependent upon whether you happened to be in the wrong place with the wrong face or accent. My fingers rested on the purse at my belt, where I had tucked the scrap of burnt paper with the notes from Paracelsus. Leave it, I told myself sternly. What matters is to prevent Sophia being wrongly condemned; you are not responsible for what the law does to anyone else. And yet I could not shake a sense that I ought to do something.
Then do your best faster, Olivier replied. My parents are terrified she will be found. Who can blame them?
I could not find an adequate reply to this, so I nodded curtly and took one last look at Sophia before I opened the door. She met my eye only briefly and then her gaze skittered away to the window. I wondered if she regretted the fact that she had nearly kissed me, or that Olivier had seen us, or both.
Reluctantly I closed the door to the attic room but paused on the stairs for a moment, my head bent under the low rafters, hoping I might hear some of their conversation. Behind the door there was only silence.
I was distracted by a discreet cough from below; I looked down and saw Oliviers father, waiting at the foot of the stairs to show me out.
Chapter 8
Though Monsieur Fleury checked that the lane outside the weavers cottages was empty before allowing me out, I walked into the High Street with a sense of unease; it seemed I was picking up the fear that saturated that house. Without any clear idea of what to do next, I found myself turning in the direction of the cathedral. I decided to call on Harry Robinson, to see if he had heard the news of the apothecarys murder and what he made of it. It was not yet nine. Outside the shop, a small crowd was still gathered, whispering with relish, hands clasped to scandalised mouths, the goodwives thoroughly enjoying this latest episode of town drama. I hurried past, keeping my head down, though no one paid me any attention. I noticed the girl Rebecca was no longer among them.
Who killed Sir Edward Kingsley? I half smiled to myself at the memory of Sophia quoting William of Ockham at me, as if she were the philosopher. I was fairly certain she could not share those jokes with Olivier; at least I had that on my side. If I had learned anything in the past couple of years, it was that the obvious solution was often far from the truth. She wanted me to find Nicholas Kingsley guilty of his fathers murder; it would be a neat solution, certainly, and a chance for revenge on a young man with few redeeming qualities. But to assume his guilt from the beginning would make me no better than Constable Edmonton, with his talk of rounding up vagrants.
Sophia. Damn her, damn her eyes and her mouth and her throat and the curve of her hip and everything else she could not disguise. What was I doing here? I should be in London, among my books, not miles away in a strange city, regarded with suspicion and hostility and mixed up in murders that had nothing to do with me. I, who had always prided myself against the weaknesses of the heart; how often I had mocked or pitied other men who had allowed themselves to be distracted from the pursuit of knowledge by delusions of love. On the one occasion, during my stay in Toulouse, when I had grown to love a woman I could not have, I had made a decision and left for Paris one night without saying goodbye, rather than staying to waste my time and hers in useless pining. How, then, had I allowed myself to fall under the spell of Sophia? Beauty, yes, but I had seen beauty many times before and resisted it. Perhaps it was a kind of recognition; I had seen in Sophia, even from our first meeting, a searching intelligence, a refusal to accept what she was told merely because it had always been so. She and I wanted the same thing: independence, the right to choose our own path and to ask questions, and we had both been born to a station in life that kept such freedom out of reach. Perhaps that was the root of my feelings for her; she reminded me of my younger self. The thought prompted a hollow laugh; was that not the ultimate vanity? Sciocco, I told myself, under my breath, bunching my right hand into a fist until the nails dug into my palm, as if the pain would bring me back to my senses.
In the Buttermarket, crowds gathered around the stone cross and the horse trough in the centre of the cobbles, the formidable towers of Christ Church gate casting their shadow across the coloured awnings of the market stalls. There was a great deal of animation in the buzz and hum of conversation, the townspeople clearly stirred up by the excitement of another killing in their midst.