was a ripple of laughter from the younger members of the crowd, which Winterton chose to let go for the moment.
‘You went to Ralph Whitingside’s rooms,’ the coroner established. ‘Why?’
‘Ralph Whitingside was an old friend of mine, my lord. We met regularly, for academic discussion and contemplation.’
Henry Bromerick, several rows back, nudged Tom Colwell, who in turn hushed him.
‘I had not seen Ralph for three days and had expected him to help my friends and me celebrate our graduation.’
‘I see,’ Winterton said. ‘And where was this celebration to take place?’
‘Oh, forgive me, sir.’ Marlowe opened his dark eyes wide. ‘I am much afraid I am unacquainted with the hostelries of the town.’
It was Tom Colwell’s turn to stifle a guffaw, stuffing part of his sleeve in his mouth.
‘Very well.’ Winterton was prepared to take this young man at face value for the moment. ‘What did you find, First Finder?’
Marlowe told it all. Or at least the all he wanted the court to know. What he could not do, or would not do, in that house of strangers, was to talk of the smell in the chamber, the dead eyes of his friend. Neither would he tell them of the reason for a reckoning in a small room because, as yet, he didn’t know it. And the letters and the curious little book. Eliza Laurence hadn’t seen him take them and there was no one else to know they had gone.
There were no other witnesses who had seen anything. Eliza was dragged back out to that lonely place to sit in that accursed chair. She took the oath with a trembling hand and a shaking voice and swore on the Bible that she acknowledged was her crutch and comfort; but she could not look Sir Edward Winterton in the face and in the end, the kindly Dr Steane spoke for her, annoying though the coroner found it.
‘Mistress Laurence is a simple soul, my lord,’ Steane said. ‘I have talked to her at some length and she is in awe of your honour’s greatness . . .’
Winterton rolled his eyes.
‘. . . she was told by Master Whitingside that he would be away and that she was to clean his room against his return on the day that she – and Master Marlowe – found him.’
‘Except that he had been nowhere?’ the coroner asked.
‘Who is to say, my lord?’ Steane replied. The question was rhetorical.
‘Quite so. The man who called himself Machiavel.’ Winterton threw one last question at her, bypassing Steane in the process. ‘Do you see him in this court?’
Eliza Laurence shrank back in the chair, tucking her chin as far into her coif as it would go. Her hands were knotted in her lap but somehow she wrenched her sweating fingers apart and pointed to the far wall where Marlowe lolled with his arms folded. Murmurs filled the court.
The rest was mere formality, demanded by Sir Edward Winterton who was a stickler for such things. Dr Goad, the Provost, confirmed that Ralph Whitingside had presented himself at the college shortly after Christmas Day in the year of our Lord 1578. He offered to show the Court the ledgers if it so wished. Whitingside had matriculated Bachelor of Arts three years later and was now studying for his Masters degree. It was generally assumed that he would enter the church, but on receiving his inheritance some two years ago, that seemed less likely. His interests? Hebrew, obviously; Rhetoric; the Discourses. The old man had frowned as he recited this – what a curious question for the coroner to ask. Had the man no academic leanings at all?
‘He sang fairly,’ Goad suddenly remembered, ‘had a fine tenor voice when he joined us, from the King’s School, Canterbury. Er . . . you’d have to ask Richard Thirling, my choirmaster, for more.’
Winterton pursed his lips. He’d never heard of a man killed for his voice before. This whole thing was an irrelevance. It was mid-afternoon before the procedure came to an end. The coroner outlined the evidence for the benefit of the jury and asked them if they
‘You went to Ralph Whitingside’s rooms,’ the coroner established. ‘Why?’
‘Ralph Whitingside was an old friend of mine, my lord. We met regularly, for academic discussion and contemplation.’
Henry Bromerick, several rows back, nudged Tom Colwell, who in turn hushed him.
‘I had not seen Ralph for three days and had expected him to help my friends and me celebrate our graduation.’
‘I see,’ Winterton said. ‘And where was this celebration to take place?’
‘Oh, forgive me, sir.’ Marlowe opened his dark eyes wide. ‘I am much afraid I am unacquainted with the hostelries of the town.’
It was Tom Colwell’s turn to stifle a guffaw, stuffing part of his sleeve in his mouth.
‘Very well.’ Winterton was prepared to take this young man at face value for the moment. ‘What did you find, First Finder?’
Marlowe told it all. Or at least the all he wanted the court to know. What he could not do, or would not do, in that house of strangers, was to talk of the smell in the chamber, the dead eyes of his friend. Neither would he tell them of the reason for a reckoning in a small room because, as yet, he didn’t know it. And the letters and the curious little book. Eliza Laurence hadn’t seen him take them and there was no one else to know they had gone.
There were no other witnesses who had seen anything. Eliza was dragged back out to that lonely place to sit in that accursed chair. She took the oath with a trembling hand and a shaking voice and swore on the Bible that she acknowledged was her crutch and comfort; but she could not look Sir Edward Winterton in the face and in the end, the kindly Dr Steane spoke for her, annoying though the coroner found it.
‘Mistress Laurence is a simple soul, my lord,’ Steane said. ‘I have talked to her at some length and she is in awe of your honour’s greatness . . .’
Winterton rolled his eyes.
‘. . . she was told by Master Whitingside that he would be away and that she was to clean his room against his return on the day that she – and Master Marlowe – found him.’
‘Except that he had been nowhere?’ the coroner asked.
‘Who is to say, my lord?’ Steane replied. The question was rhetorical.
‘Quite so. The man who called himself Machiavel.’ Winterton threw one last question at her, bypassing Steane in the process. ‘Do you see him in this court?’
Eliza Laurence shrank back in the chair, tucking her chin as far into her coif as it would go. Her hands were knotted in her lap but somehow she wrenched her sweating fingers apart and pointed to the far wall where Marlowe lolled with his arms folded. Murmurs filled the court.
The rest was mere formality, demanded by Sir Edward Winterton who was a stickler for such things. Dr Goad, the Provost, confirmed that Ralph Whitingside had presented himself at the college shortly after Christmas Day in the year of our Lord 1578. He offered to show the Court the ledgers if it so wished. Whitingside had matriculated Bachelor of Arts three years later and was now studying for his Masters degree. It was generally assumed that he would enter the church, but on receiving his inheritance some two years ago, that seemed less likely. His interests? Hebrew, obviously; Rhetoric; the Discourses. The old man had frowned as he recited this – what a curious question for the coroner to ask. Had the man no academic leanings at all?
‘He sang fairly,’ Goad suddenly remembered, ‘had a fine tenor voice when he joined us, from the King’s School, Canterbury. Er . . . you’d have to ask Richard Thirling, my choirmaster, for more.’
Winterton pursed his lips. He’d never heard of a man killed for his voice before. This whole thing was an irrelevance. It was mid-afternoon before the procedure came to an end. The coroner outlined the evidence for the benefit of the jury and asked them if they
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