I was not sure whether he meant the matter of disguising the truth or of uncovering it, but I was sorely troubled by the thought that I may well have been the last person to see Mercer alive, and that whoever had planned his vicious end was at that moment at liberty somewhere in Oxford, perhaps exulting in his success. The rector's cold briskness had shocked me, too; his human response to his colleague's awful death seemed swallowed up in fear for his office.

The sky had grown paler and the mist was thinning, lingering only in ragged shreds among the trees. The two corpses in the dewy grass had acquired a stark solidity with the grey light. The rector glanced up anxiously.

"Dear God-it will be almost time for chapel! I must be there to speak, reassure the community. Already the story will be growing." He twisted his fingers together until the knuckles turned white, speaking as if to himself. "First I must order the kitchen servants to bring a sack for that carcass, it cannot stay here."

I stared at him, appalled, until he noticed my expression.

"The dog, Bruno! But you are right-the coroner must be fetched before the body can be removed. Oh, there is too much to do! I will have to ask Roger-" Then he clapped his hands to his mouth and turned back to look at the corpse, as if only now comprehending the loss of his deputy.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Roger is dead!"

"That's right," I said, watching him absorb the truth of it.

"But then this means there will have to be another congregation, another election for subrector, and there is no time to convene-but in the meantime I must have someone to act under me, and that will occasion all the usual petty jealousies and ill feeling, just when we do not need them. Oh, how could this have come to pass?" Trying to contain his mounting fears, he turned to me with an earnest expression, his hands flapping helplessly at his sides. "Doctor Bruno-this is a dreadful thing to ask of a guest, I know, but would you stay with poor Roger's body until the coroner can be brought? I must make the sad announcement of this morning's events in chapel in such a way that quiets the reports of it, if that is possible. Keep the students out-we do not want them crowding in here to satisfy their ghoulish curiosity as if it were a bearbaiting."

"Of course I will stay," I said, hoping my vigil would not be a long one; though I am not superstitious about the dead, the empty stare of Roger Mercer's sightless eyes seemed to accuse me for my failure to help him. "Our fears are for our poor, weak flesh," he had said the night before. Now he had looked that fear full in the teeth; I still remembered his cracked voice crying to Jesus and Mary to save him.

The rector scuttled off across the grass in the direction of the courtyard, and I was left alone with the bodies and my whirling thoughts. While I waited for them to settle into some semblance of order, I bent again to Mercer's corpse and lifted what remained of his tattered gown to cover his ravaged face. Superstition says that the eyes of a murder victim retain the image of his killer, but as I looked at Mercer's terrified stare for the last time I thought: If such foolishness were true, would I see the image of the great dog? But the fact of the locked gates stubbornly persisted; the dog was not Mercer's true killer, only his agent. I moved again from Mercer's body to the dog's to examine it. It was a huge brute, the height of a man's waist, with a long, narrow head. I noted again how thin it was, though it did not look otherwise abused. Whoever had loosed this dog in here must have planned the event carefully, increasing the force of the attack by keeping it desperately hungry for some days beforehand, by the look of it. And Roger's heavy purse-which the rector had taken-suggested he had been expecting to meet someone to effect some kind of transaction. But if the money had been at the centre of a dispute in which Roger had fallen out with someone so badly that they could wish to kill him, I could not fathom why the purse had been left. It would seem that the money had been less of a priority than Mercer's death, though it must have been key to the meeting he anticipated.

I considered again the layout of the garden. It was abutted on the north side by the kitchen part of the way, though I could see no door from the kitchen into the garden. On three sides it was enclosed by a wall at least twelve feet high, and on the fourth it adjoined the east range of the college, the side of the quadrangle that housed the hall and the rector's lodgings. I presumed Mercer had entered the garden through one of the two passageways either side of the hall, letting himself in with his own key. Had he then locked the gate behind him, so as not to be disturbed, or had someone waited for him to enter before locking the door from the college side, leaving him unwittingly shut in? Could that have been the same person who then opened the gate from the lane through which the dog-presumably muzzled until the last moment-had been released, locking that behind the animal? But it would have taken a good few minutes to run out of the main gate and around the side of the building, and anyone doing so would have been seen by the porter-assuming he had been awake.

From the courtyard a bell tolled dismally to rally the scholars to chapel, where the rector would spread his benign reassurance and dispel the young men's more lurid imaginings. As I rose to my feet, I wondered idly if James Coverdale would finally achieve his ambition of becoming subrector, and a thought struck me like a cold blade. The rector had asked, rhetorically, who would want to harm Roger Mercer, and I had replied that I had no idea. But now that I considered the proposition I realised that even I, a stranger who had not been in the college one full day, had already encountered two people who apparently hated him. Might there not be more? Perhaps one of them tried to extort money from him and decided instead to kill him. I had found him a genial enough man, but it seemed his part in the trial of the unfortunate Edmund Allen had aroused resentment. Who was to say how many other enemies he might have made? But these resentments must have simmered for a long time. Why wait until the week of a royal visitation to act on them? Unless-

I was interrupted in my pursuit of this new trail by the sight of a figure running toward me through the trees from the direction of the college. I stepped forward in the hope that the coroner had arrived to relieve me of my duties, and was surprised to recognise Sophia Underhill, dressed in a thin blue gown with a shawl around her shoulders, her hair flying out behind her. She halted a few yards away, looking equally surprised to see me.

"Doctor Bruno! What-what are you doing in here?"

"I was-waiting for your father," I said, taking another step toward her in the hope of guiding her away from the two corpses.

"They said Gabriel Norris shot down an intruder," she said, her face flushed with the drama of the moment. "Is he still here?" Her eyes were bright with eager anticipation as she looked around wildly, but I noticed she was twisting her hands in agitation in the same manner as her father.

"Not quite." I almost smiled; despite the rector's best efforts, it seemed the tale was already growing in the telling. "You have not spoken to your father?"

"He is at morning prayers in chapel-I heard the news from two scholars who were running there late," she said, peering past me to where the shapes lay in the dense grass. "Of course we heard all the noise from our windows but I never imagined-is that the thief's body there?" She seemed keen to take a look; I planted myself firmly in her path.

"Please, Mistress Underhill, you must keep back. It is not a sight you should see."

She tilted her head and stared at me defiantly.