Sacrilege

may be in danger. Is there anywhere you can go, away from this place?”

“I have no one, sir. This has been my only home for twenty years. Where should I go?”

I could only look at her in helpless silence. What protection could I offer, alone as I was in this strange city with my money fast diminishing and no one I trusted without reservation?

She gave me a sad smile in return.

“I’ve seen four-and-seventy summers, sir. If this is my last, it’s more than many get.” She glanced behind her in the direction of the house. “It’s not much of a life there now, with Master gone.”

I frowned, surprised at her words.

“Was he kind to you? Sir Edward?”

“In his way. He kept me on, even when I grew too old to fetch and carry as I once did. I gave him loyal service and he trusted me.”

“You mean you kept his secrets.” I thought of Sophia and what she had suffered in that house, while the housekeeper, cowed by a mixture of twisted loyalty and fear, said nothing.

Meg caught the edge in my voice and met my eye with a frank expression that suggested I could not hope to understand.

“I had no choice, sir.”

“But he is dead now, and there are others who may not trust you so completely. They may want to make absolutely certain you don’t share those secrets. If they can do this—” I gestured towards the corpse. A phrase of Langworth’s drifted back to me. “Meg,” I said, stepping forward and clasping her bony wrist. “Promise me that you will take no medicine from Doctor Sykes.”

At this she laughed, with gentle condescension, as if I had tried to make a joke.

“You think I’ve lived here so long and not learned that for myself? Don’t you fret, I’ve seen what Sykes’s remedies can do—” She broke off and shot a quick look sideways at the tomb. I followed her gaze.

“Did Sykes kill the boys?”

She stepped back, alarmed by the urgency in my face.

“I told you, sir, I knew nothing of any boys. I only saw the little beggar child once. I was thinking of something else.” She lowered her voice and looked at the floor. “No matter. It was long ago.”

“Sarah Garth, you mean?”

“What do you know of that?” Her head jerked up.

“I know only that she fell sick and died here. Her family think she was murdered.”

Meg passed a hand across her forehead.

“Sarah took ill with the sickness that takes all foolish girls who are easily flattered by men.”

“She was with child?” My eyes widened. “By Sir Edward?”

“Maybe. They were both at her, you see.”

“Nicholas as well?”

“He was fourteen then, and his father encouraged him.” She shook her head again. “Sir Edward’s wife was not long dead, and that poor silly girl thought she’d make the next mistress of St. Gregory’s one way or another. She soon learned better when she got the child and found neither one of them meant to marry her. So she threatened to tell all of Canterbury their business.”

“And Sykes came out to tend her?”

“You know a lot for a stranger,” Meg said, with a shrewd glance. “Master called him in to look at her condition, yes.”

“Did Sykes try to rid her of the child?”

“That I don’t know. But one way or another, Master was rid of the problem after his visit.”

“God’s blood,” I whispered, almost to myself. So Tom Garth might be right—Edward Kingsley may well have had Sarah killed discreetly to save his family a public scandal or the expense of supporting a bastard. And who better than his friend the physician to administer a fatal remedy without suspicion? The dose makes the poison. But did any of this connect with the boys who died in this hellhole, or Fitch, or Sir Edward’s murder?

Meg clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her eyes flitting again to the body in the coffin.

“I have seen enough here, sir.”

“And I.”

I set my shoulder against the stone lid of the tomb and with considerable effort managed to push it back into place, feeling a dreadful complicity as the ruined face of the boy disappeared into darkness and Prior Hugh reclined serenely again on his bier, his marble hands frozen piously in supplication. I had almost grown used to the smell; at least it was no longer making me retch. Meg took a last look around the mausoleum as if she still doubted the evidence of her own eyes.

“But your master already had one bastard, I thought?” I asked, as I followed Meg from the room. She stiffened, and turned to face me.

“No, sir, he did not. Where did you hear that?”

I bent to lock the door behind us, lowering my voice now that we were back in the passage.

“Nicholas complained that the Widow Gray was to receive a gift in his father’s will. She has a son, does she not?”

Meg sniffed.

“But her boy is near thirteen and she only came to Canterbury six years ago.”

“Six years?”

“Just after Canon Langworth arrived.” She fixed me with a meaningful look. I recalled what Harry had said about the rumours that followed Langworth.

“You mean he is Langworth’s son?”

“I only know what is whispered in the town. The canon visits her often, though perhaps that is just his Christian duty.”

I made to run a hand through my hair but as I brought it close to my face I realised how the smell of dead flesh clung to my fingers.

“But if the boy is Langworth’s, why was Sir Edward giving her money?” I could not fathom the tangled relationships in this town and my head was beginning to ache badly from wine and lack of sleep. Meg did not answer—I had the sense she felt she had said too much, forced into too great an intimacy with me by the shock of our monstrous discovery. I paused by the door that led from the secret passage back into the storage cellar and leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly faint.

“Mistress Kate,” Meg said, eventually. “She is well?”

“Who?” I was concentrating on fighting the rolling waves of light and dark behind my eyes; it took a moment before I realised she meant Sophia. “She will be better when she no longer fears for her life.”

“If the murderer can be found, she would inherit St. Gregory’s,” Meg said. I did not miss the wistful glance that accompanied this thought; perhaps she was thinking how much easier her own life would be with Sophia rather than Nicholas running the household. Perhaps I had one ally in Canterbury, at least.

I locked the low arched doorway behind us, glad to leave the underground passageway and its terrible secret buried again in silence, though I feared the foul stench of the tomb had followed us; I could almost believe that smell would accompany me for the rest of my life. Summoning the last of my strength, I piled the boxes of rubble in front of the door until it was covered and gave Meg my arm to help her up the steep steps back to the normality of the pantry.

“Will you report what you have seen tonight, sir?” she whispered, as I closed the hatch behind me.

“Not right away. There is more I wish to discover before I say anything.”

“Do not tell Mayor Fitzwalter,” she said. “You will get no justice from him. Better wait until the assize judge comes to town in a few days. But, sir”—she plucked at my sleeve, looking up with anxious eyes—“you will tell them I knew nothing?”

I was about to reply when a noise from the kitchen beyond made us both start. We froze; in the next room, someone stumbled into a bucket with a great clanging of metal, accompanied by some thick curses. Meg motioned to me to crouch behind a pile of flour sacks, while, pulling her shawl tighter, she stepped through the archway into the kitchen.

“Christ’s body, woman, you near scared the life out of me!” The voice was Nicholas Kingsley’s. “What are you doing creeping around in the dead of night?”