Giordano Bruno Thriller Series Books 1-3: Heresy, Prophecy, Sacrilege

‘With anyone else it could be believed, but James, you see – I would not wish to speak ill of a late colleague, but anyone who knew James would tell you he was the most terrible coward. He was the very last man on earth who would take it upon himself to tackle armed thieves single-handed. This is why it seems so – strange.’

‘What is your explanation?’ I asked, bending my head closer to his.

‘I do not know,’ he said warily. ‘But that is two of us dead in as many days. It is enough to make one afraid.’

I was about to ask who he meant by ‘us’, when William Bernard leaned around from Godwyn’s right and fixed me with his watery eyes.

‘You ask a great many questions, Doctor Bruno.’

‘Two tragedies in two days, Doctor Bernard – such coincidences provoke many questions, do you not think?’ I replied.

‘It is obvious. God is punishing the college for her perfidy in religion. He will not be mocked,’ Bernard said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

‘You mean to imply that Doctor Coverdale needed to be punished?’

Bernard’s eyes lit up with anger.

‘I imply no such thing, sorcerer. Only that we are all suffering the wrath of God for our disobedience. He is pouring out his judgement upon us, and who can say where His justice will fall next?’

‘Where do you predict, Doctor Bernard?’ I said, leaning closer.

‘Enough questions!’ Bernard said, banging his bony fist hard on the table so that ale sloshed over the rim of his cup.

‘William,’ Godwyn said, laying his hand over Bernard’s, his tone placatory. Bernard shook him off angrily and retreated into simmering silence.

The rector leaned across on my left, his brow creased.

‘Discretion is all, Bruno.’ His anxious glance took in the animated talk of the young men at the lower tables. ‘Speak to them away from the students. Let us give them no further cause for gossip. The worst of this must be contained for as long as possible.’

He waved a hand then to his right, and the red-haired boy once again mounted the lectern to read a passage from the great copy of the Bishop’s Bible tethered there by its brass chain. The lesson was from Ezekiel, but the boy’s declamation did little to dampen the conversation among the students; though I could not make out individual discussions, from the pitch of their voices and the brightness of their eyes, it was clear that a second violent death in the college had occasioned more excitement than dread.

After the meal, as the students began to file out, breaching all etiquette I leapt to my feet and pushed my way through to catch up with Gabriel Norris, who was calling out to Thomas Allen to wait for him outside. Norris had just passed through the hall door into the narrow passageway to the courtyard when I reached out and clapped him between the shoulder blades. He gave a sharp howl of pain – quite disproportionate, I thought, since I had only struck him with the flat of my hand, but when he turned I saw that his jaw was clenched tightly as if he were biting back further exclamation. I laid a hand on his arm.

‘Forgive me – I did not mean to startle you.’

‘Doctor Bruno!’ he said, exhaling with forced calm before removing his arm and fastidiously brushing the silk of his sleeve in case I had marked it. ‘What must you think of our college – it is becoming quite the charnel-house, is it not? At least you and I cannot blame ourselves for failing to save this life, eh – they have taken my bow, in any case, so I could not have played the hero again. And what weather!’ he added, with the same inflection, as if the rain and Coverdale’s murder were alike examples of everyday vexations. It was then that I realised why he looked different; he appeared to be growing a beard. At least, his handsome face bristled with the growth of a couple of days; fair as he was, his beard grew darker and would soon be thick and full.

‘You are growing a beard, Master Norris?’ I observed.

‘Well, not on purpose,’ he said with irritation, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin. ‘But I have not been able to find my razor these past two days, and I will not trust my chin again to the college barber. He has the finesse to take off a limb on the battlefield, which I believe is where he had his training, but I allowed him to shave me once and I nearly came away without my nose. What say you, Doctor Bruno – will a beard suit me? It looks well enough on you, but you are dark—’

‘It is unlucky that you have lost your razor, Master Norris, just after you had Thomas sharpen it for you,’ I said evenly, cutting off his prattling. Immediately I felt him tense beside me. When he spoke, his voice was harder, as if he had dropped his dandyish air.

‘What? Is that a crime now? And what business is it of yours?’ He took a step closer so that his face was inches from mine, and there was quiet menace in his voice.

‘Peace, Master Norris. I am only enquiring for the rector who might keep weapons in college.’

‘A razor is not a weapon,’ he said scornfully, then stared at me then for a long moment, and suddenly a light of understanding dawned on his face; he let go of my clothes, still staring but now as if he were looking beyond me, as if an explanation only he could read were inscribed on the wall over my shoulder. ‘Do you mean to say Coverdale was killed with such a weapon?’

When I did not answer, he nodded, his face suddenly hard.

‘I see. And you have been questioning Thomas about my razor,’ he said, his eyes narrowed. ‘Well, then, I must speak to Thomas. You may find me in my room later, Bruno, I do not have time to spare now,’ he said, dismissing me with a terse nod before bending his head into the rain to cross the courtyard. I was about to follow him when I felt a hand on my own sleeve and turned impatiently to find Lawrence Weston behind me with an eager gleam in his eye. Beside him stood the red-haired boy who had read the lesson at dinner.

‘I said I would find him for you, Doctor Bruno, and so I have,’ Weston said, with a note of triumph. ‘It was Ned, the bible-clerk.’ He elbowed the skinny boy forward. I looked blankly from Weston to his friend.

‘What was?’ I asked.

‘Ned,’ Weston said again, impatiently. ‘Who brought the message to Doctor Coverdale during the disputation. You promised me a shilling,’ he added accusingly, as if I had already tried to cheat him.

‘So I did,’ I said, reaching for the purse at my belt. Ned’s freckled face stretched in indignation.

‘Why should you have a shilling, Weston,’ he protested, ‘when you don’t know a thing about the business?’

‘You shall have a shilling too,’ I said, to soothe him, wishing I had learned more about the value of these English coins before I started handing them out so freely; I had a feeling I may have set my price too high. ‘Well, then? Who asked you to take the message to Doctor Coverdale on Saturday night, to draw him out of the disputation early?’

I realised that in my anticipation I had grasped the boy’s shoulders and was half shaking him. He regarded me with a puzzled frown.

‘Well – he did, sir. Doctor Coverdale, I mean.’

‘What? That makes no sense.’

Ned shrugged.

‘That’s all I know, sir. Before we left college on Saturday night, he cornered me and gave me a groat – he is not so generous as you, sir … I mean, was not – to call him out of the disputation halfway through, on the pretence of an urgent message.’

‘Did he say why?’

Ned shook his head.

‘Only that he had to return to college early but he needed an excuse to walk out.’

‘He did not say if he was meeting someone?’

Ned wriggled impatiently under my hands.

‘He said nothing else, sir. I took my groat and did as I was bid, and that was all I knew of it until just now.’ Suddenly his eyes grew large with the drama of the event. ‘Do you think that’s when they got him, sir, when he came back to college early?’

‘You didn’t see if he met anyone outside the Divinity School after you gave him the message? A man with no ears, perhaps?’

‘No, sir, but I know the man you mean,’ Ned said, his freckled face lighting up as if he had answered a difficult examination question. ‘But it was Master Godwyn was meeting him outside the Divinity School, not Doctor Coverdale.’

‘Godwyn?’ I repeated, uncomprehending.

‘Yes, I saw him meet the man you mean, the bookseller Jenkes, outside the Divinity School while I was waiting to give the false message to Doctor Coverdale. But then I followed Doctor Coverdale all the way back to college after that. I thought I’d take the chance to skip off early myself – no offence, sir,’ he added, looking suddenly guilty; I shook my head briefly.

‘You missed nothing, I assure you. But Coverdale – you saw him go straight to his room?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s to say, I saw him going into his staircase.’