how that someone could have been anyone other than Langworth, or perhaps Samuel on Langworth’s orders.
Samuel was waiting in the front parlour of Harry’s house when I arrived with my baggage, a travelling cloak thrown over his arm and a face darker than the bruised sky over the cathedral bell tower.
“Looks like that promised storm might break tonight after all,” I said cheerfully. “I hope you won’t get too wet.” He sent me a glare so murderous it was almost comical, until I reminded myself that this was very likely the man who had lured a child to his death and possibly smashed Fitch’s skull too. Harry shuffled into the room and leaned on his stick, eyes flitting from one to the other of us, appraising the situation.
“Well, Samuel, you had best get on the road before Evensong—you should make some progress by dusk. Every moment counts, I suppose.” He spoke grudgingly and I fought hard to keep my face sombre.
“I appreciate your efforts, Samuel, as will Sir Francis,” I said, with deep sincerity, as I brought out the letter, hastily sealed at the Cheker. I had the sense he would have liked to spit on me then, but for Harry’s sake he nodded and tucked it inside his doublet.
“Do not forget your licence to travel. And have you a cloak against the rain? Good. Take Doctor Bruno’s letter to the usual place and tell them it must reach Walsingham with all speed.” Harry pursed his lips and looked Samuel over like a grandfather fretting over a child. “Have you food for your saddlebag?”
“I have all I need for the journey, thank you, sir,” Samuel said. “And I should get on the road now, before the storm comes.” He shot a last glance at me and pushed past to the doorway.
“God go with you.”
Harry embraced him, and I saw how the old man lingered, reluctant to let his servant leave. He shuffled out after Samuel and I waited in the parlour, cracking my knuckles as I heard them murmuring at the front door, dreading the conversation I must now have with Harry and wondering what lies Samuel was pouring in his ears on the threshold.
Eventually I heard the door close and the tap of Harry’s stick on the boards as he limped back to the front room.
“I hope he travels safe,” he said, with an accusing look at me. “God knows the roads are dangerous enough in these times, with a poor harvest and fear of plague … Samuel will do his best, but you will be lucky if he reaches Walsingham in time for an intervention before the assizes. You will have to hope for clemency from the judge. And it will not be easy—people round here have no fear of perjuring themselves, they will say anything under oath if it means coins in their pockets. If Langworth and Sykes want you found guilty, they can make it happen.”
“I would be amazed if Samuel reaches Walsingham at all, and not because of any danger on the roads,” I said calmly. “Sit down, Harry. You are not going to like what I have to tell you.”
As succinctly as I could, I laid out for Harry everything I had learned since arriving in Canterbury. For the most part he listened without interruption, the shrewd eyes fixed gravely on my face, with the occasional nod to demonstrate his attention.
“God’s teeth, man, have you lost your mind? You
“A key was taken from Edward Kingsley’s body after he died. Langworth found the body. I had to find out if it was one of those keys, and why.”
“And did you?”
“I am coming to that part.”
He fell silent and pressed a hand to his mouth when I told of Samuel’s conversation with the canon treasurer, so as not to betray any emotion. At one point he shook his head; I could not tell whether it was in sorrow or disbelief. Either way, he was gracious enough to hear me out until the end of my account, including my discovery of the mausoleum beneath Sir Edward’s house and the conversation with the old monk in the West Gate gaol. When I had finished he sat back in his chair, one hand resting on his stick, and looked at me for a long time, but as if his gaze was focused through and beyond me on some hidden meaning. I felt a profound sense of relief at having discharged all this, though I had no way of knowing yet whether Harry’s loyalty to his servant would outweigh the credibility of my story.
Finally he gave a great sigh that seemed to rack his whole body and he shook his head again.
“Samuel,” he said, and left a long pause. “He has been with me these ten years, since before I came to Canterbury. It is so hard to believe. And yet …” He left the thought unfinished.
“I am sorry,” I said, feeling the weakness of the words. “But I am speaking the truth, Harry. There is no one else in Canterbury who will believe me, if you will not.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“I imagine this is how a cuckold must feel,” he said. “There is a very particular shame in having one’s poor judgement exposed, is there not, Bruno? Intelligent, educated men like us—it is hard to accept that we could be so easily deceived.”
I felt sorry for him—he had clearly developed an affection for his servant over the years and a betrayal of trust on that level was indeed a brutal shock.
“It would be hard to go through life suspecting everyone we know of deception,” I said, gently.
“And yet we are servants of Walsingham,” he said, with a sharpness that may have been directed at himself. “This is an age of deception—we should know to be vigilant. Every man has his price, I ought to have realised that. I cannot believe Samuel was moved by ardent devotion to the church of Rome. Langworth must have paid him well. Better than me. But even so—
I pushed my hair out of my eyes.
“My ideas are more tangled than any cat’s cradle. First there is the matter of the murdered boys. Sir Edward, Langworth, and Sykes seem to have been behind this, with the help of Samuel and possibly Fitch. I guess the boys were lured away by Samuel, taken to that underground tomb at St. Gregory’s, drugged with laudanum while they served the mens’ uses. Then perhaps the idea was to revive them with belladonna, but in both cases the dose was misjudged and the boys died, so the bodies had to be disposed of. When Fitch was murdered, all his writings referring to the uses of belladonna were burned and the laudanum removed. Perhaps they feared he had said more than he should to someone and they would be discovered.”
Harry sat in silence for a long while pondering this. I was unwilling to disturb his thoughts if he was reflecting on my hypothesis, but when it seemed he would not speak at all I began to shift in my seat. Finally I cleared my throat and he looked up, frowning.
“You have assumed that these boys were abducted and drugged because one or perhaps all of the men you have mentioned wanted to sodomise them?”
I blinked, surprised by his bluntness.
“I cannot see what other purpose they would have. A taste for boys is not one that men in prominent positions could indulge openly.”
“True. And yet … Edward Kingsley, John Langworth, Ezekiel Sykes? I do not believe they would risk so much for that—a brief taste of forbidden fruit. We are talking of men who play for much higher stakes.”
“Then what?”
By way of answer, he heaved himself from his chair and lurched across the room to a chest of books by the desk, his stiff leg dragging a trail through the dust on the boards. After a moment’s rummaging he emerged with a leather-bound volume.
“That letter from Mendoza—you say it spoke of a miracle?”
I nodded. He grunted and sat heavily, flicking through the pages of the book on his lap.
“One of the early miracles attributed to Saint Thomas Becket, not long after his murder, was the resurrection of a young boy, about twelve years old, the son of a nobleman who had died of an ague. It was the miracle that caused his fame to spread even beyond England. Here—” He passed the book across, indicating the page he had found. It was another chronicle of the life and sainthood of Becket. I read the account in silence and looked up to face Harry, my eyes widening as I grasped his meaning.
“You think they meant to reproduce this miracle? As a public display?”
“Think about it. When you tell me what this girl says about the properties of laudanum and belladonna together … In theory, with the right dose, you could produce the appearance of death and then, with careful timing, bring the boy back to life. The Huguenot boy, the beggar child—these were practice runs, experiments. Suppose they were testing so that, when the right time comes—”
