Heresy (16 page)

“Ah.” He nodded and, leaving his friends, sauntered over to me. At close quarters I noticed that he seemed older than the boys who now stood waiting for him; I would have guessed his age at twenty-five or more. “That was a bit of excitement we had this morning, was it not?”

“I’m not sure that’s the word I would use.”

“No—no, of course.” He assumed a solemn expression. “I meant only—Oxford life is usually so uneventful, and now we have a royal visitation and a tragedy all at once. We hardly know which to talk about first.”

“You were very level-headed this morning,” I said. “I don’t think I would have had such a steady arm in the heat of the moment. It is lucky you are a good shot.”

Norris inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment.

“My father taught me to hunt as a boy,” he said. “I only wish I could have been quick enough to save Doctor Mercer.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his brow; I suspected that, under all his swaggering, the experience had shaken him profoundly.

“Did you know him well?” I asked.

“He has been my tutor since Doctor Allen was deprived last year.” A strange expression crossed his face, as if he were struggling to master some emotion. “We were close, I suppose. I respected him, in any case.”

“That was a hunting dog that killed him, was it not?” I said.

“Irish wolfhound. Very efficient hunters—always go straight in to break
the neck, you know,” he said in a brisker tone, pleased to display his knowledge. Then he frowned. “But it is usually a gentle dog, too—people keep them as pets. They’re not so unpredictable in temperament as, say, a mastiff—they rarely attack unless they have been trained to do so.”

“It was starving, though—did you not see the scrawny state of it?”

He nodded slowly. “Must have been a stray—I suppose if it was desperate for meat it would savage the first living creature it found.”

“Is it not unusual that a stray wolfhound should be roaming the streets of Oxford at night?” I asked.

He looked at me curiously, as if he found my questions odd, but shrugged. “There is hunting in the royal forest of Shotover, to the east of the city—you can hire dogs from the keeper there for a day’s hunt. Some of the commoners go from time to time when we have permission. Perhaps one of their dogs got loose and wandered into the city.” He sounded as if he had lost interest in the subject, and looked around to check that his group of admirers was still waiting. “Well, Doctor Bruno, I must collect my books and get along to lectures. I hope this morning’s adventure will not mar your stay in Oxford too badly.” He bowed briefly and made to enter the staircase.

“You have a room in there?” I asked, gesturing with my thumb.

“That’s right,” he said, carelessly. “One of the best in the college. I share it with my servant, Thomas.”

“Then”—I glanced across the courtyard at the passages that led either side of the hall to the garden, calculating the distance—“you must have exceptional hearing to have been woken by the commotion from the grove, when these rooms are the farthest away from it.”

He regarded me for a moment with a closed expression, then stepped toward me, taking my elbow, and leaned in with a confidential whisper. “There you have me, Doctor Bruno—I will confess that I was not abed when I heard the noise, but please let that be a confidence between us.”

I raised an eyebrow; he gave me a knowing nudge in the ribs, from which I was presumably supposed to infer some manly nocturnal pursuit. In
such an intimate stance it was clear that he had no smell of drink on him, and a man who had been carousing all night could not have had such a steady hand as I had witnessed with the bow and arrow. I guessed, then, that he had been bedding some woman and was secretly pleased to share the triumph. That at least would account for his ridiculous garb at that hour of the morning, I thought.

“I had spent the night away from college—you understand my meaning, I’m sure,” he said, with a wink, “and on my return I was passing along St. Mildred’s Lane by Jesus College when I heard the frenzied barking of that dog and those dreadful cries. I realised it was coming from the grove and ran straightaway for my bow and then to the gate, where I found you all gathered, looking on.”

The reproach stung, so I countered with one of my own.

“Did you not try the gate from Brasenose Lane? You might have arrived sooner.”

“But I don’t have a key to that gate,” he said, puzzled. “Only the senior Fellows do. I was not to know it had been left open—the Fellows treat that grove as if it were sacred. I acted as quickly as I could, Doctor Bruno.”

“And did you see anyone near the college walls as you approached?” I asked, as lightly as I could.

Norris tilted his head, considering. “Now that you mention it—at one point I thought I heard footsteps up ahead, running, but the sound was lost in the din from the garden and in all that followed I forgot all about it. Why do you ask?”

“I only wondered if many people were abroad at that time of day,” I said, turning to go. “I should really take these to the rector.”

He eyed me curiously for some moments, before clapping me on the shoulder.

“We are all looking forward to your disputation this evening. I don’t care much for theology either way, but I shall applaud you if you can make the rector look a fool. Although I imagine he will do that quite efficiently by
himself.” He grinned and turned as if to leave, then looked back at me with a serious expression. “I suppose we shall be called to give account if there is an inquest. There will be trouble for me over the bow and arrows, no doubt—no one is allowed to keep weapons in the university precincts. Perhaps you could mention that the hound could not have been subdued without my intervention, Doctor Bruno?”

“I will certainly give a true account of events to the best of my ability, if one is requested,” I replied, bowing in return.

“Thank you.
Arrividerci, il mio doctore!”
he cried, turning on his heel and moving swiftly toward the main gate. I watched him walk away, intrigued. Gabriel Norris may be an unbearable peacock, but it would be a mistake to underestimate his sharpness.

I
STOOD IN
the courtyard, my arms full of Roger Mercer’s clothes, wondering what I should do next. The sun was obscured behind rows of pewter clouds, stretching out in waves over the rooftops like an inverted ocean. I shivered in my thin shirt. Slythurst was sure to tell the rector that I had been found rummaging in the dead man’s room and had even got as far as dragging his money chest from its hiding place; the only way I could hope to protest my innocence was to repeat my ridiculous lie about trying to help out with the clothes. I looked down at the bundle in my arms, garments which still retained the musky smell of their owner’s body, and decided I must take them to the rector as soon as I could, before Slythurst could insinuate anything unpleasant in his ear. I would tell him it was an old Nolan custom to show respect for the dead; he might think me absurd, but I hoped he would not suspect me for a thief. He would also wonder why I had taken the dead man’s keys; these I must return as soon as possible, though I would have liked to keep them in case I had the chance to search the tower room
further. But surely Slythurst would have found what he came for by now, if the first ransacker had not.

My head was swimming. I wanted nothing more than to return to bed and lie down, but I turned again toward the gatehouse and found a door set into the wall of the archway to the right of the vast wooden gate with a painted sign proclaiming the porter’s lodge.

I peeked around the door; a fat, old man with a brush of wiry grey hair sat beside a wooden table, his head slumped to his chest, breathing heavily. There were beer stains on his jerkin and a tired-looking black dog lay at his feet, its muzzle all peppered with grey. It half raised its head at my footsteps, regarding me through milky eyes, then returned to its sleepy position as if that small effort was as much as it could offer. I cleared my throat and knocked at the same time; the old man’s head jerked up in confusion and spittle glistened on his grizzled chin.

“Pardon me, sir, must have drifted for a moment there,” he muttered.

“Goodman Cobbett? My name is Giordano Bruno—”

“I know you, sir, you are our honoured guest come to cross swords with the rector tonight—I refer to the swords of words, naturally, for your actual sword is not permitted about the college, sir. And what a dreadful day for you to be here, sir, for such a misfortune as we have had this morning, it hardly bears thinking of.” He shook his head theatrically and his jowls swung from side to side.

“Yes, I am deeply sorry,” I said, taking the keys from my pocket. “I was there in the grove assisting the rector—he asked me to see that Doctor Mercer’s keys were safely returned, I presumed he meant to you?”

The old porter’s face lit up with relief at the sight of the key ring.

“Oh, thank Heaven for that! At least we have one set back. I begin to think keys have legs round these parts.”

“Do you not keep a spare?” I asked, gently easing the door closed behind me.

“We do, sir, but the spare disappeared from my key cupboard a couple of days ago, which seemed curious at the time, since Doctor Mercer never asked me for it and I am rarely out of the lodge. I thought perhaps the bursar had needed it to get to the strong room in a hurry—you must go through the subrector’s room to access the tower, you see—but he says he knows nothing of it either.” He shook his head again. “The Fellows are worse than the students, if you ask me—forever mislaying keys. They don’t seem to realise new keys cost money.”

“Do you keep spare keys to all the rooms in the college?”

“Certainly, sir—I’ll show you.” The old man heaved himself to his feet, wheezing alarmingly, and lumbered across to a shallow wooden cupboard mounted on the back wall behind his desk. Proudly he flung open both doors to reveal rows of iron keys of assorted shapes and sizes hanging from hooks, each labelled with a combination of letters and numbers.

“How do you ever tell which is which?” I asked innocently.

“Ah,” Cobbett said, tapping the side of his bulbous scarlet nose, “I have a system designed to prevent them falling into the wrong hands, see? If I were to just label them ‘Tower Room,’ ‘Library,’ and so on, be too easy for the young ’uns to sneak in and help themselves when I’m sleeping or relieving meself or whatnot. So I made up a code, oh years ago now. If an one loses a key they come to me and I find them the spare, but they can’t steal them to get in where they don’t belong to play pranks or what have you.”

“So you have a complete set of keys to all the doors and gates in the college?”

“That I do, sir, ’cept when people lose ’em,” he said darkly. “The only ones I don’t have are to the college strong room. You can only get to it through the subrector’s room, as I say, up the tower staircase, and the rector and the bursar alone have a key. It is designed that way so that no one person can get into the strong room without at least one other person present,” he added.

“And only you have keys to the other rooms?”

“No, sir—the rector also keeps a complete set to all the rooms in his lodgings, but he doesn’t hand those out. Students and Fellows alike must come to me, and only me.” He shuffled back to his chair and regarded me with curiosity.

“Does the bursar have a key to the subrector’s room?”

“The bursar?” Cobbett looked surprised. “No, sir—he has his key to the strong room, but the subrector must be present to let him up to the tower. It’s supposed to guard against theft, you see.”

“But what if the subrector should be away, and the bursar needs the strong room?”

“Well, then, he would need to come to me or ask the rector to let him up. Why you so interested in keys, anyways?”

“Oh—I have only been wondering how a stray dog might have got into the grove,” I replied, though I was now also wondering how Slythurst had obtained a key to Roger Mercer’s private chamber. Had he somehow contrived to steal the spare key from Cobbett’s cupboard? And if that was the case, how had the person who first turned over Mercer’s room let himself in? Who had a third key, except the rector?

“Ah.” The old porter rubbed his stubbly chin. “Well, now—I daresay that was my fault, sir—it must be that I didn’t check the Brasenose Lane gate carefully enough last night.”

A silence followed; it was clear that the old man was uncomfortable telling a lie that reflected poorly on his competence, and that he was doing so dutifully but reluctantly.

“I find that hard to believe,” I said, encouragement in my voice. “For everyone tells me you have served the college man and boy and have never neglected your duty.”

A look of gratitude spread across the porter’s face; he beckoned me closer. I leaned in; his breath was heavy with stale beer.

“I thank you, sir. I told the rector, I said, sir, you know I will do as you
wish but I hope no one will ever believe old Cobbett left any cranny of this college unchecked on his rounds. People here know I do my job well, sir.” He puffed out his great barrel chest and fell to a fit of coughing.