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.
“I am interested in the history of Saint Thomas, above all,” I said, with a pleasant smile.
“An unusual field of study for an Italian Protestant,” he remarked, glancing sideways at me as he levered himself up and crossed to the cases against the wall, stacked high with a jumble of books in precarious piles. Many looked to be in poor condition, their bindings gnawed by mice, pages spotted with damp. What good was it, I thought, with a stab of irritation, to save books from the destruction of a library only to neglect them like this, thrown together carelessly like corpses in a plague grave?
I thought I detected a note of suspicion in the old man’s voice, so I broadened my smile further.
“I suppose I have always believed we might avoid falling into the errors of the past by understanding them, rather than by burying them,” I said. “Even if we regard them as mere superstition, there is something to be learned about human folly from the legends of our forefathers, do you not think?”
He nodded with a speculative expression.
“Well said. We may as well destroy all libraries if we do not take lessons from the chronicles of history. And now,” he said, folding his hands together and making an effort to smile, “I must get along to the chapter meeting. I will leave you in the care of my assistant, who will endeavour to find you the books you want.” He indicated a morose-looking young man in the robes of a minor canon who was copying something laboriously at a desk in the corner. “Geoffrey! Our guest wants chronicles of the life of Saint Thomas—see what you can find for him,” he called, in a peremptory tone.
Silently, though with obvious bad grace, Geoffrey rose from his seat and made his way without haste to one of the book stacks. I privately doubted whether the young man could find anything on those shelves, but I thanked the librarian and settled at a desk set in an alcove beneath one of the windows, which must once have held a statue when this old chapel was still used for worship. The assistant Geoffrey, who communicated only in monosyllables, made a slow search of the shelves and returned with a small pile of books, which he dropped heavily in front of me before resuming his own task, though I noticed he moved his books and papers to another desk from which he could usefully keep me in his line of sight. I nodded my thanks and began shuffling the volumes with the appearance of interest, wondering how soon I could leave for Langworth’s house without seeming suspicious. The only sound in the empty library was the young canon’s heavy breathing through his mouth and the scratching of his pen.
