We looked at each other, the moment ripe with regret. Harry shook his head briskly, as if to rid himself of sentiment.
“Come then, Savolino, we have work to do.”
AIR, REAL AIR, with the faintest hint of a breeze carrying the indignant cries of seagulls; I was so grateful that I stood still on the garden path, head spinning as I gulped down great lungfuls like a man who has narrowly escaped drowning. Harry shuffled ahead of me into the cathedral close and motioned to his right; when I had recovered and my blood felt as if it were pumping once more, I followed him. Samuel stood in the doorway watching us with an inscrutable expression in his eyes. I could not help noticing that Harry’s limp became less pronounced and his pace speeded up a little once we had rounded the corner and were out of his servant’s sight.
“Have you ever been married, Bruno?” he asked.
“No,” I said, surprised by the question. Shielding my eyes, I looked up to our left; sideways on, the cathedral had the appearance of a vast warship, ribbed with buttresses, its high windows so many gunports.
“Nor I,” he said. “When I entered the clergy, churchmen didn’t marry, and once it became acceptable, I had missed the boat. Instead I have Samuel—all the fussing and nagging of a wife, with none of the benefits.” He gave a deep, rasping laugh.
“He doesn’t like me, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t mind him, he doesn’t like anyone. He has a suspicious cast of mind and he’s jealous as a wife, too— likes to feel that I’m dependent on him. Can’t bear to share my attention. This way.”
The path passed through a gate by a block of stables and continued around the east end of the cathedral. Cut timber and logs were piled against its wall behind a makeshift fence, covered by oilskin cloths. To our right, a wooded area of thick oak trees in full leaf cast long shadows over the grass beneath, stretching back as far as the precinct walls, a relic from the priory that had stood on the site before the Dissolution, I supposed. Here the heat of the day had begun to subside; I loosened my collar and breathed deeply. The leaves stirred as the breeze lifted, sending light flickering through the foliage. The place seemed so at peace with itself, it was hard to believe it could be the setting for bloody murder. Perhaps Thomas Becket had once thought the same, I reflected.
Harry paused and craned his head back to look at the sky. “What a fine day. God’s bones, I should leave the house more often. I’m sure it would do wonders for my constitution.”
“You are confined by your health?”
He laughed again.
“By my work. When I arrived in Canterbury six years ago, I took it upon myself to compile a history of the cathedral from its foundation in the sixth century to the Dissolution.” He smiled at my expression. “I know—utter folly. My allotted span is almost up and I’ve only got as far as the martyrdom. Still another four hundred years to get through.”
“You may yet finish it.”
“Even if I had another score years left to me, that would not be enough to sort through the manuscripts in the cathedral library—hundreds of years’ worth of documents and papers buried there, but they’ve never been archived or catalogued properly, and I doubt they ever will, unless someone comes along prepared to dedicate his entire life to the job. There could be all manner of treasures gathering cobwebs.”
“Surely the librarian has some idea of what books are in his care?” I asked.
Harry gave that dry bark of laughter that I now recognised as cynicism.
“He may well. If so, it must suit him to keep them hidden from the rest of us.” He resumed his shuffling as the path curved around the eastern end of the cathedral. Here he raised his stick and pointed to the semicircular tip of the building. “The corona, they call this part. Built to house the reliquary that contained the fragment of Becket’s skull hacked away by his murderers. Come.” He waved me forward with his stick.
On the north side of the cathedral more houses had been built amid the ruined masonry of the old priory, as if in their haste to replace the old religious house the builders had not even bothered to clear its traces away. Naked arches stood stark against the sky like the ribs of a great decayed beast. Harry led me around into the shadow of the cathedral church. Just past these houses, where a small chantry chapel jutted out from the side of the main building, he paused and pointed with his stick to a spot on the path. A dark stain, though faded, could still be seen in the dust, like the outline of a puddle.
“There.”
I crouched to look at the bloodstained ground. So this was the spot where Sophia’s vicious husband had lain for his last minutes, lifeblood leaking away into the dust, surprised by the blow that came out of the darkness. Had Sir Edward seen who stepped towards him, weapon held aloft? Would he have known his killer, or known why that person had come for him? I traced a line in the reddish dirt with the tip of my forefinger. It was hard to summon any pity for the man when you knew his history. Sitting back on my haunches, I peered up, trying to imagine the last sight he would have seen: the towering walls of the cathedral on one side, the houses among the priory ruins on the other. I noticed that the path continued around the side of the chantry chapel and disappeared.
“Where was he coming from?” I asked, trying to work out the dead man’s last route.
“He dined with the dean in the Archbishop’s Palace that night,” Harry said, leaning on his stick. “I was there.”
“The Archbishop’s Palace is directly opposite the main gatehouse, though, at the western end of the cathedral, is it not? Why would he come around the back of the cathedral on his way home, then? Is there another way out?”
“He mentioned at table he was going to take a glass with the canon treasurer after supper. They were friends. But I was tired and went home early that night so I didn’t see if he left the Archbishop’s Palace alone.”
“Whoever attacked him must have known he would come this way,” I said. “You don’t cut a man down like that by chance. And you say anyone at the dinner could have heard him mention where he was going. What else is this side of the cathedral, apart from the cloister?”
Harry considered.
“The Chapter House, but that is only used for official meetings. And the library, which is housed in a disused chapel just behind us, the other side of this chantry. Then there are more of the canons’ residences.” He hesitated. “The canon treasurer’s house is on this side, of course.” He rubbed his stubbled chin.
“Are the cathedral doors locked at night?”
He shook his head.
“God’s house should be open around the clock, according to the dean. Not to just anybody, of course—the precinct gates are closed so the town can’t get in. Only the crypt is locked after Evensong, by the dean himself, as some of the more valuable ornaments are stored there. He is the only one with a key. But any of the residential canons may go into the main church and pray at any time of the night. Provided they’re not afraid to brave the ghosts.” That rasping laugh again; he fluttered his free hand in an approximation of spectral movement.
“You have ghosts?” I glanced at him, amused.
“Oh, naturally we have ghosts. Several, I should think. The south-east end of the cathedral precincts was formerly the monks’ cemetery, and beyond it the lay cemetery. The dead of centuries are piled up under our feet. Not to mention our most famous murder victim.”
“Perhaps your most recent one too.”
“I’m sure he has joined the queue. Do you believe in spirits, Bruno?”
I hesitated, considering how to answer this without compromising myself.
“I have seen nothing to persuade me that the spirits of the dead walk among us, if that’s what you mean.”
He smiled.
“Nor I. Yet there are plenty who are persuaded, and not just among the simple folk.” He gestured towards the cathedral. “There are stories of candles lit at night, statues that shift shape, human figures that form themselves from the very shadows. I know good stout Protestant canons who will not walk the precincts after dark for fear of what might come out of the mist.”
“A pity Sir Edward Kingsley didn’t have the same qualms—he might have kept his head intact.”
Harry gave an irreverent chuckle. “Do you want to take a look inside?”
I agreed eagerly, keen to see the interior of the great church, though my thoughts were distracted. I had even less idea since arriving in Canterbury of how to proceed with the business of Edward Kingsley’s murder. Seeing
