“I admire your optimism, Bruno. But by this you would make me an accessory to murder.”
“She is not a murderer.”
“You are chopping logic—she is a thief and a fugitive from justice, and that is a felony.” He shifted in his chair and let out a despairing laugh. “It doesn’t seem that I have any choice in the matter. I suppose I am already harbouring one suspected murderer—the more the merrier. Well then, Bruno, you had better find this evidence, or we may all end with a rope around our necks.”
THE BELLS JOLTED me awake in an instant, so loud they seemed to make the walls vibrate, and I came to on the narrow bed in Harry’s guest chamber, sitting up in all the disarray and confusion of interrupted sleep. I had only meant to lie down for a moment, but the bells must mean Evensong; I had no idea how long I had slept. Harry’s voice floated indistinctly up the stairs, no doubt urging me to hurry. I dressed quickly, ran a comb through my hair, and hastened to join him.
The first fat drops of rain had begun to fall as we made our way at Harry’s halting pace along the path to the south transept entrance. Overhead the clouds were swollen and heavy and the air was taut with heat and the salt wind, as if waiting for the one great cleansing burst that would discharge all the pent energy of the sky.
“One thing puzzles me,” Harry said, holding his free hand ineffectually over his head against the rain. “Where did they mean to get another boy when the time came to stage their great miracle? Pluck one off the streets again?”
“Beggar children are easy enough to find in these times,” I said.
“I’m not so sure. And how to persuade the people to take notice of this supposed death and resurrection? It pains me to say it, but the death of a street boy would hardly concern most of our good citizens. They would need someone of more significance. The boy in the legend was a noble’s son.”
“Perhaps the beggar boy and young Denis were just to test the dosage. My friend Doctor Dee used to keep mice in his laboratory for the same purpose. It was all the same to him whether he killed them in the course of his experiments. He used to say the pursuit of science took precedence.” I felt my throat tighten at the thought of treating children in the same way.
“And they will test on more, according to what you heard Langworth say,” Harry said, lowering his voice as we approached the door. “They will need to be certain of the mixture if they are not to ruin their public conjuring trick.”
“All the more reason to stop them now.”
We joined the line of townspeople entering the cathedral and I noted how they looked sidelong at me. Harry affected not to notice, though I knew he was sensitive about his reputation in the town. He led me to the right, up a wide flight of steps to the canons’ stalls, which faced one another across the tiled floor of the quire. We shuffled into place beside the other canons, many of whom also regarded me with naked curiosity before turning to whisper to their neighbours, barely bothering to conceal the direction of their stares. I leaned forward and rested my clasped hands against the smooth wood of the seat in front as if praying. Candle flames danced inside their glass lanterns at intervals along the stalls, fugitive light scattered and duplicated by the curve of the casings, reflected back in the dark wood.
As the solemn clamour of the bells died away, a new sound echoed up to the stone vaults a hundred feet above us, a sweet and melancholy psalm sung in the fluting voices of the choirboys as they processed through the nave below us, the dean at their head carrying a silver cross on a stand. Though it was sung in English, there was such a comforting familiarity about the scene—these men in their black robes, heads bowed, the gentle light of the candles, the haunting polyphony of the boys’ song—that for a moment I imagined myself back in the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore, and I was overcome by an unexpected surge of nostalgia, so that my throat constricted and I felt tears prick at the back of my eyes. Fool, I muttered to myself. I had not wanted the religious life—I had felt oppressed by it and begun to rebel against its constraints long before I was suspected of heresy—but at this moment I could not deny I missed the sense of community and of order it gave, the feeling of belonging to something greater than oneself. I pinched the bridge of my nose and blinked hard as the procession passed in front of us, reminding myself that the illusion of belonging is only ever skin-deep. This place is as riven with factions and backbiting as San Domenico and every other religious community I have known, I thought, idly watching the flushed faces of the boys as they walked solemnly onwards, lips pursed in song, obediently following the silver cross held aloft by Dean Rogers. As I watched, my eyes came to rest on a boy who seemed familiar. After a moment I realised he was the son of the Widow Gray, the boy I had seen that first day with Harry at the site of Thomas Becket’s martyrdom. He was taller than his fellows and carried himself with unusual poise, head aloft as he sang, his gaze turned somehow inward as if he dwelt in some private world of his own. I jerked upright as an idea took shape and leaned across to dig Harry in the ribs, at the exact moment he turned to me and whispered, “Where is Langworth?”
THROUGH THE SILENCES of the service the rain could be heard gaining force against the high windows of the cathedral, lashing the panes so hard that the canons who ascended to the lectern to read aloud from the Scriptures had to raise their voices above it and the dean almost had to shout his address from the pulpit. The jewel colours of the glass flattened and dulled as the sky outside grew darker with the storm. Inside, the shadows lengthened and the candles seemed to glow brighter. Beside me, Harry curled and uncurled his fingers repeatedly over the carved top of his cane as he muttered the psalms and prayers by rote, never once taking his eyes off Langworth’s empty seat in the stalls opposite.
I shared his foreboding about the treasurer’s absence. Langworth was like a snake: less dangerous if you could keep him in view and move accordingly. The senior canons were all expected to attend divine service and my thoughts travelled downwards to the crypt below, where the French church would be celebrating their own service in their small chapel. With gritted teeth, I offered a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that Olivier had successfully smuggled Sophia into the crypt and that she would find a safe place to hide until the night. I only hoped that Langworth was not down there as well, prowling between the tombs as he had been the day I first met him, a silent guardian angel with black wings.
After the service was concluded, the dean hurried down the steps to the nave. Harry motioned to me to follow him and I held out my arm for him to balance as we descended towards the vast body of the cathedral, where the congregation were making their way to the west door, understandably in no great hurry to leave the shelter of the church for the sheeting rain outside.
Harry ushered me through the crowd in the direction of the door. I glanced up and by the entrance to a small oratory I saw the Widow Gray standing alone, elegant in her customary black gown, her hair bound up and her face veiled in black lace. I supposed she was waiting for her son. It was hard to tell under the veil where her eyes were focused, but as I continued to watch her she lifted the lace for a moment and met my look with a smile. I returned it with as much detachment as I could, though the exchange of glances did not escape Harry’s sharp eyes.
“Would that the women still smiled at me that way,” he murmured, with a gentle nudge to my ribs.
“Edward Kingsley made her a settlement in his will,” I whispered. “Perhaps she received other payments from him. What if they had made some sort of bargain?”
Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then understanding lit up his face.
“You mean, for the boy?”
I nodded.
“He is of an age with those that were killed. Suppose he was intended for the miracle all along—they would have chosen boys of a similar age and build to ensure they had the dosage right. And the death of a gentlewoman’s son would attract more attention in the town than that of a beggar boy.”
Harry rubbed a hand over his chin and moved in still closer.
“You know some like to say the boy is Langworth’s.”
“Is it true?”
He shrugged.
“Perhaps there is a resemblance, but then once the thought has been put in your head you are primed to see it, no? But to sell your own child—” He broke off and looked past me with disgust to where the Widow Gray stood, aloof and a little fragile, silhouetted against the candles.
“Perhaps they assured her it was safe,” I said. “She may not know how many other boys have died in preparation.”
