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 wish 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 short-sighted. 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?’
I took a narrow road leading off the High Street in the direction of the cathedral tower, keeping my kerchief tied close around the lower half of my face in the hope of avoiding too much attention. As I walked, I glanced about me as unobtrusively as I could. Now that Fitch had mentioned the presence of the constables I felt even more conscious of how oddly I must stand out. Where the street opened into a small market square with a stone cross in its centre, I noticed a ginger-haired man in dark breeches and doublet loitering with an air of purpose, restless eyes flitting from right to left along the streets branching away from the square, hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Was this one of the parish constables? Behind him, incongruous between two ordinary-looking houses, rose a great gatehouse with two octagonal towers four storeys high, built of pale stone intricately carved in the perpendicular style, a row of escutcheons and Tudor emblems painted in bold heraldic colours spanning the width of it above the gateway. Through the larger of the two open doors, a central arch high enough to admit horses and carts, I glimpsed for the first time the precincts of the famous cathedral.
I pulled the cloth from my mouth and stepped into the shade of the gatehouse, conscious of the man with the sword watching me from across the square with less than friendly curiosity. I met his eye briefly and looked away to find myself face to face with a tall, broad-set man in a rough tunic, who barred my way through the gate, crossed his thick arms over a barrel-like chest and demanded to know my business in the cathedral.
‘I am here to see the Reverend Doctor Harry Robinson,’ I offered, with an ingratiating smile.
‘Expecting you, is he?’ He didn’t move.
‘Yes,
