Judith frowned. ‘Why didn’t you put those near the hearth when you came in? Anyway, when did you come in? It must have been very late. I didn’t hear you.’
But Isaac was already halfway out of the door. Judith turned back to the window and saw her brother emerge on to the street to join the other men who were rapidly dispersing in threes and fours in different directions hunting whoever was being sought by the law. She waited until Isaac had reached the end of the street, then she could contain her curiosity no longer and, slipping into her kirtle, cloak and shoes, ran outside. By now the women, hugging themselves against the sharp morning air, were gathering on the street.
‘Been a murder in Little Orford Street,’ they told her. ‘Jew it was and no mistaking it — found him naked as the day he was born.’
Judith felt her throat tighten. There wasn’t a Jew in Norwich she didn’t know, at least by sight. Now that they were all forced to wear the white strips, they could recognize everyone, even those who didn’t come to the synagogue. She found herself praying that it would not be one of her own friends, then reproved herself sharply; after all, it would be some poor woman’s father or brother or son. Another one of their community murdered. Where would it all end?
She allowed herself to be swept along by the crowd into Little Orford Street, where a mass of people had gathered around a small gap between two of the houses. At first Judith couldn’t see anything, but then a man caught her arm and dragged her forward through the throng.
‘Here’s another of the Jews, bailiff. Go on, you look, girl, see if you know him.’
A figure was lying stretched out on the ground on his back, his arms raised above his head. He’d been covered by someone’s cloak, but one of the men kneeling beside the corpse pulled it back far enough to allow Judith to see the face. She closed her eyes briefly, steeling herself to look. The dark brown eyes of the corpse were wide open as if in shock, and the lips were drawn back from the yellowed teeth in something approaching a snarl, but despite the contorted expression Judith was certain it was not a face she knew.
She felt her stomach relax in relief. ‘I’ve never seen that man before. Besides, he’s not Jewish. He has no beard, and look at his hair.’
Though the victim had dark stubble on his face, he had certainly been clean-shaven not much more than a week ago, and there was something else. A circular fuzz of new hair in the centre of his head indicated that in the not-too-distant past the man had been tonsured.
‘Probably trying to pass himself off as a God-fearing man,’ one man in the crowd muttered. ‘Trying to cod innocent folk into giving him alms or get into an abbey, so he could steal from them. Typical of their tricks.’ The others nodded.
Judith pressed her nails into the palms of her hands, trying to keep her anger in check. ‘But what makes you think he is Jewish?’ she persisted.
The men grinned at each other. With a magician’s flourish, the bailiff whipped the cloak from the naked body. A livid stab wound in the chest showed that there was no mistaking this was murder, but the bailiff was not pointing to the man’s wound. His spiteful smile deepened as he watched the hot blush spread over Judith’s face.
‘Good Christians don’t go around chopping the heads off their sons’ manhoods,’ he sneered.
The bailiff was right, and there was no mistaking that the dead man was circumcised.
Sunday 26 May, the eighth day of Sivan
A shaft of lemon-sharp light darted into the synagogue as Judith threw back the shutters. Yesterday the synagogue had been crammed with people for the Shavuoth services, but the door and shutters had been kept firmly barred in the hope that their muffled prayers would not reach the ears of the passers-by outside, and the synagogue was still fugged with the stench of sweat, oil and tallow.
Judith breathed in the cold morning air gratefully. As soon as the sun warmed the streets they’d be stinking of rotten vegetables, fish, dung and offal from Saturday’s markets, but for now a stiff breeze from the river carried with it the subtle scents of thyme, mint and bergamot growing in the synagogue garden below the window. Church bells from the scores of churches and chapels were pealing out over the city, calling the faithful to Mass.
Judith pulled the star-shaped oil lamp towards her and set about scraping the sticky residue of oil and wick fragments from the five spouts before refilling the reservoir. She remembered that the lamps in the study chamber would also have been burning and, with the flask of oil already in her hand, thought that she might as well refill those before she started her sweeping. But to her annoyance she found the door between the chamber and the synagogue barred on the other side.
Irritated by having to make the extra walk, Judith trudged out of the synagogue and climbed the back stairs that led to the separate chamber entrance. She unlatched the door and pushed it open. As in the synagogue, the shutters in the little chamber were tightly fastened, but the light from the open door was just enough for Judith to make out the figure of Nathan crouching in the corner of the room. His legs were drawn up to his chest, and his forehead rested on his knees. He didn’t look up, obviously so deeply asleep that even the sound of the door opening didn’t arouse him.
Judith closed the door as quietly as she could and was about to tiptoe back down the stairs when she stopped. There was something about the room that was not right. She was used to the study chamber being in disarray — the tables usually heaped with untidy piles of parchment, scrolls, discarded quills and even forgotten garments — but this was different. And there was a foul smell in the room, too, more than just the stench of tallow, sweat and stale air.
She cautiously opened the door again. Flies were buzzing against the shutters. Parchments and scrolls were strewn across the floor like autumn leaves. One of the trestles was overturned. Had Nathan thrown it over in a passion of grief?
‘Nathan?’ she called softly. Still he did not stir. She almost gagged, the stench was so overpowering. She had taken a step inside the room to open the shutters, when the breeze caught the door behind her and slammed it shut. She heard something thump down on to the wooden floor. She wrenched the door open again and saw that Nathan had slumped over on to his side. It was only then that Judith glimpsed the thick cord cutting deep into the flesh of his neck. What she could see of his face was purple and grotesquely swollen. His eyes were bulging wide. Nathan was dead.
Judith ran down the steps, half slipping in her haste. Someone was standing in the shadow of one of the apple trees in the synagogue garden. She was about to shout to them when it occurred to her that the watching figure might be Nathan’s killer. She started to run back up the stairs, but she knew she couldn’t bring herself to go back into that room, whatever danger lay outside. She turned again, trying to get a better glimpse of the person under the tree, but the place where they had been standing was empty.
Judith edged across the garden, then she picked up her skirts and ran the few streets to her home, praying that her brother would still be there. It was the Christian Sabbath, so Jews were not permitted to work in the workshops, but Isaac usually continued to sew in secret at home, for they needed the money. But when she burst in, she found the room empty. She tried to think. Where would he be? He must be with Aaron or Benedict. She hurried to the rabbi’s house, her heart still thumping so loudly in her chest she thought it would burst. But though she hammered for several minutes on his door, neither Rabbi Elias nor Aaron answered.
‘Judith,’ a voice called behind her. She turned to see her brother Isaac hurrying along the street towards her. Almost crying with relief, she ran to him.
‘Isaac…’ she panted. ‘You must… come at once. It’s Nathan… I’ve just found him in the synagogue… He’s… he’s dead!’