Gabriel Norris's room was on the ground floor in the west range, tucked behind the staircase, his door marked with a painted name sign. I knocked hard and was certain I heard some movement within, but a few moments passed and still no one answered. I knocked again and called out Norris's name. There was a hasty scuffling of feet and the door swung open to reveal Thomas Allen. He had evidently been engaged in some of his servant's duties, as his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he clutched a dirty cloth between his hands.

"Oh-Doctor Bruno," he exclaimed, and his face reddened violently as he bunched the cloth into a ball, looking flustered.

"Sorry to disturb you, Thomas-I see you are at work. I was looking for Master Norris."

"He is not here," Thomas said, still looking perturbed, then glanced over his shoulder as if to check the truth of his own assertion. Through the open door I glimpsed a comfortable chamber, furnished as a parlour with a high-backed wooden settle in front of the fire. Compared to the austerity of most scholars' rooms the chamber offered a distinct sense of luxury. Windows on one side opened onto the lane and on the other to the quadrangle and filled the room with light even on this bleak day. Beneath the outer window was a heavy trunk, iron-bound and secured with a solid padlock.

"He is out at the public lectures, I expect. I was just cleaning his shoes," Thomas added, defensively.

"Do you not attend the public lectures too?"

"Not when there is work to be done," he snapped. I was surprised at his manner, but knowing how sensitive he could be about his role as a servant, I supposed he did not like to be seen at his menial tasks.

"His shoes needed cleaning urgently today, then?" I asked, as a thought struck me. Thomas must have caught something in my tone because he frowned and his shoulders seemed to tense.

"I clean his shoes every day," he said, a wary note in his voice. "Why did you want to see Gabriel?"

"I wanted to ask when he took his longbow to the strong room."

Thomas looked mildly surprised at the question, but shrugged carelessly before wiping his hands on his shirt front.

"I took it, on Saturday morning. Gabriel was furious-he said the rector had commanded him to give it up, after he'd done them a service, too, shooting that mad dog."

"So you took it there yourself?"

He blinked at my tone, then shook his head. "I went to do so, but as I was crossing the quadrangle I was seen by Doctor Coverdale and Doctor Bernard, who were standing by the stairs to chapel. They stopped me and asked what I was doing with such a weapon in college. When I explained, Doctor Coverdale told me that I could leave it outside his door on the landing and he would see that it was safely locked away."

"Did Doctor Bernard hear this exchange?"

"He was standing right beside Doctor Coverdale, so I presume so." Thomas looked puzzled.

"Could anyone else have overheard?"

"I don't know. There were a few people in the courtyard coming and going, but I don't recall anyone stopping by us. What is the problem, Doctor Bruno, if I might ask?" He was twisting the dirty cloth now between his hands, his face searching mine keenly.

"Oh, there is no problem," I said, airily. We looked at each other in awkward silence for a moment.

"Doctor Bruno," Thomas said, stepping closer and lowering his voice, "I hope this will not sound presumptuous, but there is something I would speak to you about urgently. It is a matter of some importance, and I do not know who else I may confide in here."

The hairs on my neck prickled. Could it be that Thomas knew something of the murder?

"Please, speak freely."

"I meant…somewhere private."

"Are we not alone here?" I asked, looking around the empty room.

He shook his head and pressed his lips into a tight line, twisting the cloth between his hands. "Away from college, sir. I would not have us overheard."

I hesitated. I did not really have time to spare-my priority was to find the boy who had called Coverdale out of the disputation-but the expression of pained urgency on Thomas's face convinced me that whatever he needed to unburden must be serious.

"Very well, then. Have you broken your fast this morning? Perhaps we could find ourselves a tavern where we might eat and talk at more leisure." I realised that I had not eaten in all the consternation over Coverdale's murder and my stomach was groaning bitterly.

His face slackened. "Sir-I'm afraid I do not have the means for visiting taverns."

"But I do," I said, "and surely you may eat with me if I invite you?"

"I'm afraid it would not do your standing in Oxford any good to be seen with me, sir," he said dolefully.

"To be honest, Master Allen, my standing in Oxford is not worth a horse's shit at the moment," I said. "But to hell with them-let us enjoy a good breakfast, if we can find one, and take the consequences afterward, and you may tell me what is on your mind."

"You are kind, sir," he said, following me through the door, which he stopped to lock behind him.

As we drew near to the tower archway, I stretched up to look at James Coverdale's blank window, though it was too high to see anything. The rain had eased a little and glimpses of light showed behind the clouds.

"Are you all right, Doctor Bruno?" Thomas asked, following my gaze, his angular face politely solicitous. "You seem disturbed this morning. Has something happened?"

I looked at him, gathering my scattered thoughts. Thomas had not yet heard the news of Coverdale's murder, but by the time we returned the college would be abuzz with rumour and speculation. If he knew anything of value, I would need to take advantage of these few unguarded moments.

"Yes. Yes, I am fine. Let us go."

We walked in silence down St. Mildred's Lane toward the High Street. Though Thomas was a good five inches taller than I, he walked with such a hunched posture, as if hoping to make himself less noticeable, that we appeared almost the same height. His worn air of defeat made it impossible not to feel pity for the boy. As if reading my thoughts, he turned his face briefly to me, his hands wrapped deep in the sleeves of his frayed gown.

"It is good of you to take time to listen to me, sir. With the difference in our positions, I mean."

"If we are to talk of positions, Thomas, let us not forget that you are the son of an Oxford Fellow and I am the son of a soldier. But I have little interest in such distinctions-I still dare to hope for a day when a person is judged by his character and his achievements rather than for his father's name."

"That is a bold hope," he agreed. "But to most people in this town, sir, I will always be the son of an exiled heretic."

"Well, I am an exiled heretic, so I win."

He looked me in the eye then, and smiled properly for the first time since I had met him, before his face turned sombre again.

"All the same, you are a friend of kings and courtiers, sir," he reminded me.

"Well, after a fashion, Thomas. If you mean King Henri of France, he liked to surround himself with philosophers, it flattered his intellectual vanity. Kings do not have friends in the same way as you or I."

"I have no friends at all, sir," he responded, his voice subdued. There was a long pause while we both looked for something to say. "In any case, you are friends with Sir Philip Sidney, and that is something."

"Yes," I agreed, "I am fortunate to count Sidney a friend. Is that why you wished to speak to me-so that I might petition him for your father's sake?"

Thomas was silent for a moment, then he stopped walking and fixed me with a serious expression.

"Not for my father's sake, sir. For my own. There is something I must tell you, if you will promise me your discretion?"