I said nothing, because I knew he was right.
‘We are alike, you and I.’ His voice softened. ‘Neither one of us, in our hearts, desired the constraints of a religious life. But it was the only door open to us. You acknowledge that, surely?’
I gave the briefest nod.
‘Then you also understand that it is not the likes of us who keep San Domenico afloat. Our scholarship may contribute to its reputation, but it is men like Fra Donato, with his name and his father’s vast endowments, who ensure its continued prestige and wealth. We are the beneficiaries, and we would do well to remember that.’
‘So he must be protected, at any cost. Whatever he does. This man who might be prior one day.’ I turned away in disgust.
‘What else would you do? Call in the magistrates? Destroy the whole convent and college with a scandal, for the sake of one foolish girl?’ He rubbed the flat of his hand across his cropped hair. ‘I admire your sense of justice, Bruno, I have already told you that. But you are young. If you want to make your way in this city, you must learn to be a realist.’
I wanted to tell him that folly did not deserve death, that her name was Anna, and she did have people to mourn her. I wanted to protest that a rich and well-connected young man was not entitled to snuff out a life merely because it had become inconvenient to him. But I could say nothing without revealing that I had been asking questions. My gaze shifted away to the rows of glass bottles and earthenware jars ranged along the shelves. The dispensary always smelled clean, of freshly crushed herbs and the boiling water with lemon juice that he used to scrub down his table and instruments, a contrast to the stale fug of sickness and old bodies that hung over the infirmary. Somewhere in here a tiny, half-formed child was suspended in alcohol, in a jar. Donato’s child.
‘Suppose someone knew she came here last night, and comes in search of her?’
Gennaro’s brow lowered; he fixed me with such a penetrating stare that I almost feared he could see my deception.
‘Why should you imagine that?’
‘Her clothes did not look like those of a whore. Perhaps,’ I added, as if I had just thought of it, ‘when you first found her, she was wearing some jewellery that might identify her? If we knew who she was, we might be better prepared to defend ourselves against any accusations.’
He sighed, as if the conversation were keeping him from something pressing. ‘The girl came here alone last night. Donato took her into the lemon grove – they argued, and he grabbed her by the neck to frighten her into silence, he said, for he feared she threatened to make a scene and rouse the whole convent. She resisted, and he held her harder than he intended. Her death was an accident.’
‘You know that is a lie,’ I said, quietly. ‘He meant to silence her all right. She must have told him she was with child.’
He brought his hand down hard on the table. ‘The business is done now, Bruno. There is no evidence that she was ever here.’
‘Did he ask you to help dispose of her?’ My voice sounded small and uncertain in the thick silence of the dispensary. ‘Did he know what you were going to do?’ With every question, I was unpicking the fine thread of trust that existed between me and Gennaro, but I could not stop myself. I wanted the truth. He had brought me into that room with her corpse last night; I felt it was the least he owed me. A sigh rattled through him and he leaned back against the workbench as if he needed support.
‘Donato came to me in a blind panic last night, shaking all over. He told me what I just told you – that this young woman had come to the gate, demanding to talk to him. He had taken her into the lemon grove, away from prying eyes, and they had argued, he grabbed her by the throat, she fell to the ground. He claimed he thought she had merely passed out – he wanted me to go with him to see if I could revive her.’
I made a scornful noise. ‘He must have known she was dead.’
‘Well, he was in no doubt as soon as I saw her. He was on the verge of hysteria – he was begging for my help. She could not be discovered inside the walls, obviously. Our only option was to move the body as far from San Domenico as possible before anyone noticed her missing.’
‘But you decided to cut her up first.’
His eyes slid coldly over me. ‘It was not my first intention – though I knew it would greatly lessen any chance of the convent being implicated if her body was made unrecognisable. It was only when he mentioned that they had argued over her threat of a paternity suit …’ He trailed off, tracing one finger along the grain of the table’s surface.
‘You saw an opportunity that some of the leading anatomists in Europe would sell their own souls for.’ I thought of the embryo, silent and transparent in its jar.
That cold sheen in his eyes intensified; he pointed a finger towards me. ‘Do not be so quick to judge, Giordano Bruno. The advance of knowledge demands a certain ruthlessness. It is a quality I do not doubt you possess yourself, though you have not yet fully discovered it. I told Donato if he would help me move the body to the storeroom, I would see to it that she was not found anywhere near San Domenico. He was greatly relieved, I think, to have shifted the problem on to someone else’s shoulders.’
I said nothing, but I could not look at him. Gennaro folded his arms across his chest. When he spoke again, his voice was kinder.
‘The only accusations that can harm us now are coming from your own conscience, which you must learn to silence, or you will put us all in jeopardy. She is no longer your business. Do not give me cause to repent of my belief in you, Bruno.’
I lifted my head and met his gaze. In his stern expression I saw anger tempered by a fatherly concern. I had thought I was being tested, to see how much I was prepared to risk in the pursuit of knowledge. Now I felt deceived; this had not been about the advance of science at all. What we had done was all in the service of protecting a murderer and the name of San Domenico. A murderer who might one day be the head of the most powerful religious house in Naples. I wished bitterly that I had never thought to follow Fra Gennaro last night. Not that my ignorance would have changed anything, but I would have been spared the weight of this guilt.
From beyond the window, the chapel bell struck a long, low note.
‘You had better get yourself to Matins,’ he said. He reached a jar down from a cabinet to his right, unstoppered it and pulled out one of the ginger and honey balls he kept for throat complaints in winter. ‘Here. Take one of these – I can smell the tavern on your breath. And Bruno …’ he called, softly, as I opened the door. I turned, expectant.
‘Remember your oath.’
I nodded. But I also remembered my promise to Maria.
At first light, shortly after Lauds, I crept out of my cell again and crossed the gardens to the lemon grove. I scoured the ground, fancying I could see here or there in the parched earth and scrubby grass some sign of a struggle, but there was nothing conclusive. Nothing to say that the girl had ever set foot here. I searched among the trees for almost half an hour, in vain. Gennaro had deftly ignored my question about jewellery; perhaps he had disposed of the girl’s locket in case it should identify her, or perhaps he had never seen it. A necklace chain could easily be broken if you were fighting off a pair of strong hands around your throat.