The Secret Dead by S. J. Parris Read Free Book Online Page A

the back streets. Four beds in the
row were occupied by elderly friars who wheezed and grunted in concert; they
might have been asleep, but they might also have been quite capable of hearing
and understanding. It was all I could do not to blurt out my accusations;
Gennaro saw the urgency in my face and gestured me toward the dispensary,
whispering words of reassurance to Fra Francesco as he stood to follow me.
    “She was not a whore, was she?”
    He closed the door behind us and set his candle down on the
dispensary bench, signaling for me to lower my voice.
    “I told you only what was told to me,” he said. His tone
was clipped and cold, tight with suppressed anger.
    “And you chose not to question it.”
    He was across to me in one stride, his hand clamping my
arm, face inches from mine.
    “As I recall, Fra Giordano, you also swore an oath to ask
no questions. Who have you been talking to?”
    “I didn’t have to talk to anyone.” I dropped my voice to an
urgent whisper. “Tonight her mirror image walked into the Cerriglio and accused
one of our brothers of murdering her twin.”
    He stared at me, his grip slackening.
    “She was never found in the street by soldiers. She died
inside these walls, didn’t she? That’s why you would not speculate on who
killed her. Because you already knew.”
    He breathed out hard through his nose, his eyes fixed on me
for a long pause, as if I were a favorite son who had disappointed him. Eventually,
he let go of me and rubbed his hands quickly over his face, like an animal
washing.
    “Where would we be, you and I, if we were not here?” he
said, looking up.
    I blinked at him, unsure whether it was a rhetorical
question. He raised his brow, and I realized he wanted an answer. “If you had
not come to San Domenico, Fra Giordano, what would you have done with your
life?”
    “I would have tried to obtain a place at the royal
university,” I mumbled.
    “Would you? The son of a mercenary soldier? With whose
money?”
    I looked at my feet.
    “My father was well born, but he died desperately in debt
to a Genoan banker,” he continued. “If I had not come to San Domenico, I would
most likely have had to beg for a position as a tutor to idle rich boys. And
you, Bruno — I doubt you would by now be the most promising young theologian in
Naples, whatever you claim.”
    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?” he continued. “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