Sacrilege

Chapter 5

We reached Canterbury by noon on the fourth day. Alone, I could have made the journey in less time, but Sophia was increasingly suffering the pains of long hours on horseback, and though she never complained, I reasoned it was better to take the journey at a slower pace, for her sake and for the horses’. My anxiety only increased each time we rode into an inn yard at dusk. The second night we spent in Rochester, a small town straddling the river estuary, where I bought some cloth and had it cut into makeshift kerchiefs we could tie around our faces to keep from breathing the dust. The third night we stopped in a village by the name of Faversham, where the clamour of the gulls and cool salt breeze made me long for the nearby sea. That night, she stood by the open window for a long time after I had blown out the candle, looking into the blue-black distance without speaking; when I tentatively approached and she turned, I realised that she was crying. I didn’t ask why, merely allowed her to rest her forehead against my shoulder until the moment passed. Before she got into bed, she touched my hand lightly, twining her fingers with mine for the space of a breath, as if to say thank you. Neither of us spoke, but I felt a surge of hope as I stretched out uncomfortably on my pallet, as if something essential had been communicated without the need for words.

We kept to ourselves, spoke as little as possible in the company of strangers, and survived the three nights and the hard ride with few unwelcome attentions. In every village where we broke our journey to water the horses and buy bread, rumours of the plague travelled before us, quick as flames through dry tinder; the old pilgrim road crawled with refugees with few belongings and less money, and the taverns were closing their doors to many. The townspeople wanted as little as possible to do with travellers from London; we were fortunate that money still spoke with a voice louder than fear.

A mile or so outside the walls of Canterbury we stopped in the village of Harbledown to let the horses drink. It was a pretty enough place, surrounded by orchards, no more than a few houses straggling along a single street which rose steeply towards the city in the distance. We led the horses off the road by an old almshouse and found a spot in the shade to sit down and prepare ourselves for the riskiest part of our journey. My head ached and my throat was gritty with dust, despite the kerchief.

“If the plague fears have reached Canterbury, we may find them more vigilant than usual at the gates,” I said, passing Sophia a leather bottle of small beer, warm now from hanging by my side along the road, but better than nothing. “Though the fact that everyone has a cloth tied around their face ought to work to our advantage. If they stop us, just keep your eyes down, your cap low over your face, and your mouth shut. We can pretend you are a mute. You shouldn’t find that too hard,” I couldn’t help adding, at the sight of her sullen expression.

She reached for the bottle, held my gaze for a long moment, enough to be sure that I knew she was still angry with me, then took a swig and looked pointedly away, squinting into the sun above the trees. For the best part of an hour she had refused to speak, ever since I had broken the news to her that morning that she would not be able to stay with me in Canterbury and would need to presume again on the hospitality of her Huguenot friends. I had expected her to be displeased by the idea, knowing she would fear for their safety, but I had not anticipated the flash of fury it provoked. She had railed at me, accusing me of reneging on my promise to help her, until I pointed out sharply that we were not the only travellers on the road and that shrieking like a girl-child was the best way to give herself up before we even reached the gates. She had fallen silent after that and remained so, with the occasional simmering glance from beneath her cap, until we stopped.

Now she propped herself up on one elbow and regarded me dispassionately before offering me the bottle. I took a brief sip and winced; my stomach had been feeling queasy since I first awoke and the heat of the day was not improving the symptoms.

“What if the French houses have been searched, looking for me?” Sophia said. “Someone will have told the constables that I was friends with Olivier, I am sure of it.”

“Then you should be all the safer. You have been gone from Canterbury a fortnight; if the authorities have already searched the city, they will not expect you to return.”

“I still don’t see why I can’t come with you, if I am supposed to be your servant.” She tore up a clump of grass with some force, then flung it away as if she found it offensive.

“Because innkeepers, and especially their wives, are the most professionally inquisitive people in all creation,” I said impatiently. “Their whole business is to observe and speculate on the travellers who come through their doors. We’ve been lucky so far, but any more than one night in the same hostel and someone will deduce right away that Kit is not what he claims to be. No.” I shook my head. “Lie low with the Huguenots. I will be enough of a curiosity on my own.” I rubbed a hand across my chin; four days’ growth of dark beard only reinforced the foreignness of my appearance, especially now that the sun had tanned my face to a colour it had not been since I was a boy running free all day on the slopes of Monte Cicada. My hair, too, had been neglected over the past weeks when I was preoccupied with finishing my book; I could not remember the last time I paid a visit to the barber, and it had grown so that it fell across my eyes at the front and curled over my collar at the back. “One of my first tasks once we are inside the city gates must be to get a shave and a haircut,” I complained, pushing my fringe back from my face.

“You look better with no beard,” she remarked, her voice brighter. “Younger, I mean. It suits you.”

I glanced up, surprised, but she remained preoccupied with plucking blades of grass and scattering them around her and did not look at me. I was reminded again of how little I understood a woman like Sophia. I hardly considered myself an expert on the ways of women, but it had been eight years since I cast off my Dominican habit and with it my vows, and at the court of Paris I was given ample opportunity to observe the flirting and simpering of fashionable ladies at close quarters. Sophia had learned none of these wiles, yet her artless frankness was far more disarming; she could offer a compliment as casually as remarking on the weather and every time, like a fool, I allowed it to quicken a little spark of hope.

“It’s a pity we can’t get you a beard somehow,” I said, after a moment’s silence, watching how the shadow of the leaves fell across her smooth cheek. “It would help your concealment no end.”

“My aunt had the beginnings of one,” she said, looking up with an unexpected grin. “She was forever trying to pluck hairs from her chin. I suppose we can’t wait for me to reach her age.”

“If we don’t make your disguise convincing, you won’t live to reach her age,” I said, and immediately regretted it; her smile vanished on the instant and her eyes clouded again. She returned to pulling up the grass with renewed force.

“Are you afraid?” I said.

She looked directly at me then and held my gaze in those expressionless, honey-coloured eyes.

“Canterbury is a small city, as you’ll see. Now that we are so close to its walls, I wonder what I was thinking, coming back.” She passed a hand across her brow and sank onto her elbows. “But this place has never been anything other than a prison to me since I was first brought through its gates. I don’t suppose a real prison would be all that different.”

The careless note in her voice was betrayed by the tightness around her mouth, the way she pressed her lips into a white line. I remembered her silent tears in Faversham. She was afraid, but she was damned if she was going to let me see it. I glanced up at the sky, where a single skein of pale cloud interrupted the eggshell blue.

“Well, then,” I said, levering myself to my feet. “Into the lion’s den.”

THE VAST CIRCULAR towers of the city’s West Gate loomed up ahead of us on the road, solid and forbidding in dark, flint-studded stone, set in the thick walls like the entrance to a fortress and visible from some distance away. To either side the road was lined with modest buildings of wood and plaster. We crossed a little stone bridge over a rivulet just before the gate and as we followed the road into the cool shadow of its great central archway I felt my skin rise in gooseflesh and my bowels clench. Now that we were on the threshold, I acknowledged the truth in Sophia’s words; if we should be stopped here, I had as good as led her to her death in my eagerness to save her. A foreigner and a fugitive; what chance did we have of passing unnoticed in a small English city with an entrenched suspicion of outsiders? I glanced across at Sophia, but could see little of her face between the peak of her cap and the cloth she pulled up tighter over her nose. I did likewise, and nudged the horse onward under the gate.

But the guard at the gate gave only a cursory glance to my travel licence before waving us through; his main concern seemed to be keeping the flow of traffic moving, though I felt every muscle tense with the expectation of a hand on the reins at any moment. The greatest impediment to our free movement came from the jostling vegetable carts and the press of people carrying baskets and bundles in both directions through the gate, most of whom, I noticed, also had cloths tied around their faces. Perhaps the citizens of Canterbury were less alarmist about the plague rumours, or perhaps the necessity of making a living prevented them from being too picky about incomers. A trickle of sweat ran down my open collar and I tugged it away from my skin with one finger, my eyes still roving the street for any sign of danger.

We found ourselves at the end of a thoroughfare that ran between lines of two- and three-storey houses in the English style, of white plaster and dark timber frames, each upper storey overhanging the one below, so that it seemed the buildings were leaning inwards in order to share some gossip with those opposite. On both sides the ground floors of these buildings had their shutters up and their windows employed as street counters from which to sell their wares; we passed chandlers, ironmongers, drapers, shoemakers, and apothecaries, each shop with its own distinctive smell, all clamouring for the attention of passersby. Barefoot children chased each other, laughing, through the crowds, dodging the mounds of horse dung and refuse and amusing themselves by throwing odd vegetables that had fallen from the carts at stray dogs. Washing had been hung to dry from the windows of the upper storeys, though the closeness of the buildings kept the street shaded. On every corner the painted signs of inns or taverns creaked above doorways, a reminder of the days when Canterbury had played host to travelling pilgrims in their thousands, though many of the hostelries appeared run-down and neglected now, their plaster cracked and paint forlornly blistered. Outside them, old men lolled on wooden benches, jugs of beer in their hands, fanning themselves and watching the life of the street. Passing too close to strangers, I caught the smell of sour sweat. I craned my head back; above the line of crooked rooftops to my left rose the bell tower of the famous cathedral, standing sentinel over the city.

“Turn left,” a voice behind me growled. I turned sharply, and saw Sophia motioning to me with her eyes. “Left here,” she said again, this gruffness apparently an attempt at sounding masculine.

I almost laughed, but did my best to swallow it and urged the horse to the side of the street down a narrow alleyway between houses. Towards the far end of this lane the dwellings grew smaller and poorer, but along the right-hand side where the lane bordered the river stood a row of compact three-storey houses joined together. Their frontage was neat and clean, the steps by the front doors swept free of refuse and to each side of the door earthenware pots brimmed with red flowers. I rode as far as I could go, until the lane petered out in a cluster of shabby cottages. Here I turned the horse in a tight circle and looked expectantly at Sophia.

“The white houses near the road—those are the weavers’ houses,” she hissed. “The middle door. Ask for Olivier Fleury.”

I nodded briskly, dismounted, and handed her my horse’s reins. The little street was empty, but I glanced around uneasily, imagining curious eyes behind the glass of every window. Surely it was not unusual for the French weavers to receive visitors, I told myself; I must shake off this conviction that everyone regarded us as suspicious or I would cause them to do so by my behaviour.

Stiffly I approached the low doorway of the middle house and knocked, pulling the cloth down from my face with the other hand as I did so. Through the open windows I could hear sounds of industry: the rhythmic clicking of wood against wood, a clanking of metal, the odd muted voice, sharp, as if giving instruction or calling out some demand. A hot, heavy smell drifted out; steam and wet wool and some other ingredient I could not identify. I knocked again and eventually the door was opened and I jumped back in surprise.

A tall, wiry youth, barely into his twenties, stood in the doorway, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked at me, suspicion in his eyes. There was a faint hint of arrogance in his expression that sowed a seed of dislike in me. Nonetheless, I smiled graciously.

“Olivier Fleury?”

“Who wants him?”

He spoke in French, so I replied in kind.

“An old friend.”

He considered me for a moment.

“I have never seen you before, monsieur.”

He possessed that combination of sullen carelessness and self-regard that I had observed often among the French courtiers, though it seemed misplaced in the son of émigré weavers. But if I was honest, I found myself disliking this Olivier because, despite his sulky expression, he was undeniably handsome. His dark brown hair was cropped short and his skin was tanned, making his blue eyes appear all the more vivid. He had a manner of looking at you from under hooded lids with his head tilted back that implied disdain, and his full lips were set in a permanent pout. I could see how a young woman of twenty, trapped in a cruel marriage, might choose to seek solace in the company of a sympathetic youth with a face like this. Though I was unsure of the details of their friendship, I wished I did not have to deliver Sophia directly into his home, and fleetingly considered the possibility of taking her to stay with me at the inn instead. Reluctantly, I was obliged to concede that her safety was more important than my jealousy.

“The friend I speak of is a young man of your acquaintance recently returned from London, on personal business.” I gave him a meaningful look; his blue eyes registered first confusion, then slowly widened in disbelief as he leaned forward on the step, bunching his apron in his fist, his gaze anxiously searching the street to left and right. I nodded to my left; he pulled the door to behind him and followed me around the bend in the lane to where Sophia sat, still mounted, holding my horse by his reins.

If there had been some connection deeper than friendship between them, however, their initial response gave no indication of it. Olivier stared up at the ragged figure on the horse, her face barely visible between the cloth mask and the cap, then took a step backwards with a minute shake of his head, as if trying to deny to himself the evidence of his own eyes. Sophia merely returned his look, her eyes glints of light in the shadow that obscured her expression. Olivier’s frown of confusion hardened into anger as she slid awkwardly from the saddle and led her horse and mine a few paces towards us.

“Why is she here?” Olivier hissed through bared teeth, turning to me with a flash of fury. “This is madness.”

“There was no choice,” I began, but it was clear he wasn’t listening. He seemed genuinely afraid as he fixed his eyes again on Sophia.

“Olivier,” Sophia whispered, stepping closer. “This is my friend Bruno. He is going to find my husband’s killer and clear my name. But I had to come back to help him.”

She raised her eyebrows and nodded earnestly, as if this might persuade him. Olivier pushed both hands through his hair. He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, still staring at her as if she were insane.

“Who else knows you are here?” he asked her, in English.

“We have only just this moment ridden through the city gate,” I offered.

He shook his head again and glanced quickly up the lane.

“Get inside the house, then, before anyone sees you. This will kill my mother, you know,” he added in French, turning his scowl on me, as if it were all my fault.

“I am sorry for any distress to your family,” I said, feeling that to placate him would aid us best. “But she would not be safe anywhere else.”

“She would be safe in London,” he hissed back. “That was the whole point.”

“Better you don’t fight about it in the street,” Sophia murmured, with remarkable calm, handing me the halters of both horses as she slipped past Olivier into the doorway of his house. He glared at me again.

“For one night, then. But we will speak further.”

“I would be glad to, if you tell me where to find you,” I said, still trying to deflect his anger with civility. I could understand how disconcerted he must feel, having thought he was free of any danger from his association with Sophia; to conceal a fugitive criminal was, as I understood the English law, itself a hanging offence. For a refugee family who had already escaped religious persecution, sought a quiet life, and risked their good name once out of kindness, being expected to repeat that same sacrifice might seem an excessive test of their faith. If I had been gratified at first to see that neither Sophia nor Olivier showed any obvious pleasure at being reunited, such sentiments were quickly supplanted by a sense of shame at my own triviality.

“Come back tomorrow morning,” he muttered, darting another nervous glance over my shoulder, towards the end of the lane and the main street beyond. “My family and I will decide what to do by then.”

“Tomorrow, then. And you take care of her,” I added, just to let the boy know that I too had a vested interest. He took a step closer; he was taller than I, and drew himself up to emphasise this advantage.

“We all want to keep her safe, monsieur. My family and friends risked everything to get her away from this place. Now you bring her back.” He brought his face closer to mine and glared from beneath lowered brows, so fiercely it seemed he hoped I would burn up from the force of his eyes. “As if we did not have enough grief here already.” Then he turned and disappeared inside the house, slamming the door behind him.

I looked around carefully at the windows of the neighbouring houses in case anyone had witnessed our exchange, but there was no obvious sign of movement. Even so, I felt distinctly uneasy as I led the horses back towards the main street, as if hostile eyes were following me, marking my steps.

I STABLED THE horses at the Cheker of Hope Inn, a great sprawling place that occupied most of the corner between the High Street, as I learned the main thoroughfare was called, and Mercery Lane, a smaller street that led towards the cathedral. The inn was one of the few that still seemed to attract a healthy trade; Sophia had recommended it because of its size; it was three storeys high, and built around a wide yard that often hosted performances by companies of travelling players. Despite my accent, the landlady—a heavily rouged woman in her forties—gave me an appreciative look when I secured the room; from the way her eyes travelled over me, I gathered she was pleased with more than the sight of the coins in my purse. I deflected her questions as politely as I could, hoping that here, with more travellers coming and going, I might enjoy greater anonymity than in the smaller places we had stayed in along the road, where everyone wants to know your business.

My stomach still felt dangerously unsettled—entirely my own fault, I suspected. The heat of the room during the previous night had brought on such a thirst that in desperation I had drunk some of the water left in a pitcher on the window ledge for washing. Experience had taught me not to touch any water in England unless you have watched it come fresh from a spring or a well with your own eyes, but I had ignored good sense and now I was paying the price for it. With the horses safely stabled I was at liberty to explore the city on foot, and as I remembered noticing an apothecary’s sign along the High Street when we had ridden through the town, I decided to pay the shop a visit in the hope of purchasing something to ease my digestion before I attempted to introduce myself to Harry Robinson.

Over the door a painted sign showed the serpent coiled around a staff that denoted the apothecary’s trade; beside it the name Wm. Fitch. A bell chimed above the door as I entered and the front room was surprisingly cool inside, shaded from the heat of the day by the overhanging eaves, its small casements open to a vague breath of air from the street. I inhaled the sour-sweet smell that reminded me for a poignant moment of the distillery belonging to my friend Doctor Dee; a mixture of leaves and spices and bitter concoctions preserved in spirits. The apothecary was nowhere in sight so I closed the door behind me and called out a greeting as my gaze wandered over the shelves and cabinets lining the walls from floor to ceiling. Here great glass conical flasks containing potions and cordials in lurid colours vied for space beside earthenware jars of tinctures and pots stuffed with the raw ingredients for poultices and infusions, all balanced precariously alongside bunches of dried herbs, dog-eared books, and other curiosities that may or may not have belonged to the man’s trade (on one shelf, a piccolo; on another, the skull of a ram). On the ware bench in front of me, a pestle and mortar containing a greenish paste had been left as if in mid-preparation. Next to it stood a little brass balance, its weights scattered round about beside a quill and inkwell. I was peering up at one jar, trying to ascertain whether it really did contain a human finger, when the door at the back of the shop opened and a small, florid-faced man with receding hair appeared in a cloud of steam, wiping his hands on his smock. He flapped his hand as if to disperse the humid air.

“Sorry about that,” he said cheerfully, nodding towards the back room. “Had to check on my distillery. It’s like a Roman bathhouse in there today.” He paused to mop sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. “I’m a firm believer that steam purges the body of excess heat, though there are those who believe it has the opposite effect. Now, what can I do for you, sir? You have a choleric look about you—” He waved a finger to indicate my face. “Something to balance the humours, perhaps?”

“I’m just hot,” I said, pushing my damp hair back from my face.

“Ah, you are not English!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the sound of my accent. “But not French either, I venture? Spanish, perhaps? Now, your Spaniards are naturally choleric, much more so than your Englishman, whose native condition tends towards the phlegmatic—”

“Italian,” I cut in. “And I have an upset stomach, though I think that has less to do with my birthplace than with drinking stale water. I was hoping you might have some infusion of mint leaves?”

“My dear signor, I can do better than that,” he beamed, grasping a little wooden ladder that leaned against the back shelves and moving it to the cabinet to my left. “I can offer you a most efficacious decoction of my own devising for disorders of the stomach, combining the benefits of mint leaf with hartshorn, syrup of violets, rose water, and syrup of red poppies. You will be thoroughly purged both upwards and downwards, I promise.”

“It sounds tempting. But I’d prefer the mint leaves, I think.”

“Really?” He paused, a bottle of something thick and dark green held aloft. When I shook my head firmly, he replaced it on the shelf with a theatrical sigh. “Ah, you disappoint me, signor,” he said, descending and shuffling his ladder to the right. His hand hovered over the shelves for a moment before plucking down a small packet, which he laid on the ware bench and began to unwrap. “But you are right, it is a brave man or a desperate one who will experiment on himself with a stranger’s cures. I tell you what—if you are staying in Canterbury awhile and your problems do not resolve themselves, please do me the honour of coming back and at least giving my cordial a chance. I’ll do you a special price. Meanwhile you may ask around for testimony—I provide for some of the highest men in the city.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, including the physician to the dean and the mayor. Ask who you like—there’s not a man of means in these parts who doesn’t swear by Will Fitch’s remedies.”

I was beginning to like this Fitch, despite the fact that I had never met an apothecary who was not also a terrible fraud, and I suspected this one to be no different. If ever their remedies did work, it was entirely by lucky chance or guesswork; more often they knowingly sold wholly useless concoctions to the poor and credulous, who were too easily persuaded that the higher the price of a medicine, the more effective it would be.

“The dean’s own physician?” I affected to look impressed. “No doubt aldermen and magistrates of the city too, eh?”

He puffed out his chest and patted it with the flat of his hand.

“Doctor Sykes, he’s physician to them all—trained in Leibzig, you know—and he won’t buy his supplies anywhere else but my shop. Mind you,” he added, with another heavy sigh, “there’s some things even he can’t cure. Our poor magistrate was horribly murdered not a month past and they have not appointed a new one yet, nor will they in time for the assizes. Mayor Fitzwalter has his hands full trying to do the job of two men preparing for the visit of the queen’s justice next week. You’ll have noticed the constables on every corner.” I had not, but he did not wait for me to respond, shaking his head as if in sorrow at the state of the world. “Forgive me—I have a tendency to run on, and we are all much preoccupied with our civic affairs at the moment.”

“I quite understand—murder is no small matter. Though I suppose that is a hazard of being a magistrate,” I said, conversationally, as I watched him measure a quantity of dried leaves in his little scales. “The family of some felon he had convicted, out for revenge, I guess.”

“Ah, not in this case,” Fitch said, leaning closer over the bench, his eyes bright. “It was the wife—all of Canterbury knows it. She ran away the very same day and took a good deal of his money too.”

“Really? What reason would she have to kill him?”

He put his head on one side and looked at me oddly, then gave a bleat of laughter.

“From that remark, I deduce you have no wife, signor.” He laughed again at his own joke, then shrugged. “They say she had a lover, but then they always like to say that. Pretty thing, she was. But she’s led the law a merry dance, I can tell you—they’ve had the hue and cry out for her since it happened, but they can’t find so much as a hair of her head. No, she’s long gone—over the water, if she’s any sense.” He grinned, as if delighted by the audacity of the crime. “Now—do you want to take the leaves as they are or shall I make you up an infusion while you’re here? If you take it here, I’ll add a few fennel seeds—good against cramps of the gut. I have some spring water heating in the back room, it won’t take a moment.”

“Thank you, I’d be grateful,” I said, thinking that the man’s evident love of gossip could prove useful. He emptied the mint leaves into a small dish and disappeared through the door into the back of the shop. I wiped a trickle of sweat from my temples with the sleeve of my shirt and waited. Eventually he emerged carrying an earthenware beaker wrapped in a cloth.

“Careful, it’s hot. That’s sixpence for the whole—I haven’t charged you for the water,” he added.

I fished in my purse for the appropriate coin, which he examined closely, holding it up to the light.

“No offence,” he said, seeing me watching, “but we get all sorts of foreign types passing through from the Kentish ports, and I can’t trade with their coins. Not that I have anything against you lot, though many do. I like variety—keeps life interesting, doesn’t it?” He tucked the coin into a moneybag at his belt. “I’d have liked to travel myself, if I’d had the means.” He reached to a shelf under the bench and produced a large ledger, which he opened and thumbed through to the current page. Dipping the pen in the ink, he recorded the transaction meticulously. “May I take your name?”

“My name?”

I must have reacted more suspiciously than I intended, because he looked taken aback.

“Just for my shop records, signor. Helps me to remember what was sold and when, in case of any shortfall. I’ve a dreadful memory, you see.” He tapped the side of his head and offered an encouraging smile.

“Oh.” I hesitated. “Savolino.”

Beside the amount received he dutifully inscribed “Savolino,” then glanced up and smiled again, as if to prove to me that this had had no ill effect.

“Did they ever find the lover?” I asked, sipping at the steaming cup. The concoction smelled refreshing and tasted pleasant enough, though the heat made more beads of sweat stand out on my face.

“Well.” He folded his arms and leaned against the bench as if settling in for the tale. “The son made a great noise, pointing his finger hither and yon, but nothing came of it. If he had a better character himself, his accusations might have stuck, but he’s been in so much trouble, that one, it was only ever his father’s money and position that kept him safe from the law. He’s not respected in the town. You couldn’t keep Master Nicholas Kingsley out of the Three Tuns long enough to notice what was going on under his own roof. Supposed to be studying the law himself, he was, up in London—well, that was a good joke. He was thrown out of his studies for drink and brawling. Ended up back here doing exactly the same at his father’s expense, God rest him.”

I drained the beaker. “It must have been a sore disappointment to his father.”

“Well, they always were an odd family,” Fitch said, squinting into the middle distance where spirals of dust eddied in the sunlight, as if trying to remember something.

“How so?”

He shook his head dismissively. “Ah, goodwives’ gossip, most of it. His first wife was wealthy—she died of an ague, oh, ten years back. People whispered, as they always will, that he’d done her in, though as far as I know they had no reason to say so. But then maybe a year later he hired a maidservant, Sarah Garth, young girl from the town, and she’d not been there more than a few months when she took sick and died as well.”

“Sickness is common enough everywhere, is it not?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

“Aye, of course, but folk found it strange that neither Sir Edward nor his son took ill with whatever she had. Still—in his defence, he brought in Doctor Sykes to treat the girl at his own expense. But they’ve taken no servants from that day to this, except their old housekeeper, Meg Turner. And there’s another thing.” He leaned farther across the bench and lowered his voice. “My late wife’s niece, Rebecca, she helps out Mistress Blunt on her stall at the bread market.”

He paused for effect; I bent towards him and nodded conspiratorially, as if I were quite familiar with the relationships of all these people.

“Not more than six months past, Rebecca was asked to run an errand, take a package of bread out to Sir Edward Kingsley’s house—you know, the old priory out past the North Gate.”

“I don’t know it, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, he leased the prior’s house of St. Gregory’s as was. Grand old building—the only bit of the priory left standing now, apart from the burial ground. Anyhow, she was walking through the graveyard to the door, and that’s where she heard it.”

“Heard what?”

“A dreadful cry.” He gazed at me solemnly to let his words take effect. “She’ll swear to it—freeze your blood, she says. So frightened, she was, she dropped the bread and ran all the way back to the Blunts’ shop.”

My chest tightened; surely it could only have been Sophia, crying out as her husband administered one of his beatings. Again I pictured it, and the stoical, dull-eyed expression on her face when she related the story. I made an effort to unclench my jaw.

“A woman screaming, was it?”

“No.” He held up a forefinger as if to admonish me. “That’s just it—she said it wasn’t like any human sound she’d heard. When she told the story, she was fairly shaking for pity. Well, of course, the graves are still there, so you can imagine how a young girl’s imagination runs wild. She said the noise came from beneath her feet, from the very graves themselves.” He smiled indulgently. “Anyhow, she wouldn’t set foot near the place again. Mind you, nor will any other maid in Canterbury since Master Nicholas came back from London—he’ll do his best to grope any woman he can get his hands on, even in broad daylight.” He frowned in disgust and I mirrored his expression in sympathy.

“Though he is a rich man now, I suppose, with his father dead. Some woman might be glad of his attentions eventually,” I ventured.

“Ha! He’s not got a penny till his father’s last testament is sorted out,” Fitch said, as if pleased by the justice of this. “Sir Edward had lately changed his bequests, but I understand nothing can be cleared up until the wife is found and tried, since she is one of the beneficiaries. Naturally, if she’s proved guilty, it’s all forfeit to Master Nicholas, but the law must take its course.” He rolled his eyes; I smiled in solidarity. If there is one thing that can unite men from all walks of life and all countries, it is a shared contempt of lawyers.

“You are very well informed, Master Fitch, I must say.” I half turned, reluctantly sensing that I could not prolong my visit much further.

“Everyone gets sick, Signor Savolino,” he said sagely. “Rich or poor—everyone in this city, or their servants, has to pass through my door at some point, like it or no. So there’s not much goes on that I don’t get to hear about.” He tapped his nose and gave me a knowing wink.

I laughed, but his words made me uneasy. Was he implying something? The apothecary may prove a rich source of gossip, but it did not take much wit to realise that, if I were to stay in Canterbury, in a very short time he would make me his business too. I wondered what more he might know and whether his stores of knowledge were for sale to the right bidder.

I was about to bid him good day when the street door was flung open to admit a broad man dressed in the long robe of a physician, tied up at the collar despite the heat. Over his mouth and nose he wore a mask with a curved protuberance like the beak of an exotic bird, like a character in the commedia. Above the mask his eyes were small and beady; they rested on me with an air of suspicion.

After staring at me for a few moments, he turned to the apothecary and pulled the mask down to reveal a heavily jowled face glistening in the light.

“Fitch, I expected you after dinner, did you not get my message? I sent a boy this morning.” He gave me a brisk nod as he swept past and leaned his considerable bulk over the counter.

“Very good, Doctor Sykes,” the apothecary said, unruffled, inclining his head in a gesture of deference. “We were just talking about you. Still wearing your defence against the plague, then?”

The doctor narrowed his eyes, unsure if he was being mocked. “Well, I am not dead of it yet. Aromatic herbs,” he said, for my benefit, pointing to his beak. “Keeps the plague miasma at bay. William, I must speak business with you.” He tapped on the ware bench, his voice impatient. “In private.”

“I have not forgotten, Doctor Sykes—just let me finish up with my customer. I was telling our Italian visitor here how many prominent citizens you attend in Canterbury, and how your services are so much in demand.”

Sykes turned to look me full in the face at this, peering closer as if he were shortsighted. The ring of fat between his jaw and his collar protruded as he did so, putting me in mind of a toad puffing out its throat.

“Quite so. Which is why I do not have time to stand about in idle chatter. Italian, you say? What brings you to Canterbury? Do you have friends here?”

“I stay with Doctor Harry Robinson at the cathedral. We have friends in common and I wished to see your beautiful city.”

Sykes squinted, nodding. “Ah, yes, Harry. Well, you are welcome to Canterbury, sir. And now, if you would excuse us. Fitch—close the shop behind this gentleman, would you, while we go inside?” He gave me an oily smile.

Fitch hurried to obey, ushering me towards the door with an apologetic gesture.

“Come back first thing tomorrow, signor, if your stomach is not cured.” He held the door for me, with another of his jerky little bows. “I will offer again my tonic and you won’t regret it, I swear.”

“Thank you—I may take you up on that,” I said, with every intention of revisiting the talkative apothecary as soon as possible.

As I stepped back into the dust and bustle of the street I heard Sykes hissing, “Who was that?”