Treachery (2019 Edition)

by S. J. Parris

  I am jolted from a heavy dreamless sleep by the sound of someone entering the room. I try to sit up but my limbs feel inert and will not respond; it takes a few minutes before I can be certain of where I am. Memories of the night’s events tumble through my sleep-fogged brain, even as the stiffness and pain in my body grow more insistent. Someone is moving softly around the room. My heart hammers; I am defenceless here, naked, unable to move. The footsteps come closer; there is a pause before the bed curtains are pulled back and I cry out, as the intruder also yells in surprise.

  ‘Christ’s bones, Bruno – are you trying to scare me to death?’ Sidney yanks the curtain back fully and turns away just as fast. ‘And put a shirt on, can’t you – I don’t want to see your wares on display.’

  I reach out with some effort and pull a sheet over the lower half of my body. My head sinks into the pillow with relief.

  ‘Thank God – I was worried about you,’ I croak.

  ‘Me? Bit late for that – I’ve been waiting for you half the bloody night. Eventually some girl turned up with your message to go on home without you – I must say, you could have let me know a little sooner.’ He tosses his jacket on to one of the chairs and strides to the window.

  ‘I never sent any message,’ I begin, as he throws the shutters wide and a faint dawn light picks out the shapes of furniture. Sidney turns and makes another noise of shock.

  ‘What happened to you?’ He points to my torso. I look down and note the colourful map of cuts and bruises.

  ‘I had to jump out of a window. I thought it was the ground floor, but I was mistaken.’

  He cups a hand across his mouth. ‘Sorry, I’m not laughing. Really.’ He stands, yawns, stretches out his long arms above his head and plants himself in front of me, peering at my injuries, clutching his chin in imitation of a physician. ‘At least you can still walk. So it was a trap. Did they rob you? Tell me what happened.’

  I push myself up on to my elbows, wincing at the complex stabs and jolts of pain involved. He perches on the end of the bed while I recount the events of the previous night. He chuckles at the appearance of Toby, but when I mention the wine he slaps me on the leg – the nearest part he can reach – to show his irritation.

  ‘You never touch the wine in a whorehouse, Bruno, certainly not on a first visit in a strange town – are you really so green? It’s the oldest trick they know. You’re damned lucky they didn’t get your purse.’

  ‘I realise that now,’ I say, piqued. ‘And I don’t need you adding to my bruises. But the wine was spiced with nutmeg. And I’d wager that’s what Dunne was given the night he was killed – the effects sound just the same. Wild drunkenness, hallucinations, morbid fear.’

  Sidney scratches his chin. ‘I didn’t even know nutmeg could do that. Is it common knowledge?’

  ‘To someone familiar with the properties of herbs, I’d say.’

  We fall silent, both thinking of Jonas.

  ‘But listen,’ I say, ‘that is not the biggest news.’

  His eyes grow wide as I tell him about the appearance of John Doughty.

  ‘Extraordinary. Drake said Doughty would not dare set foot anywhere near Plymouth. Just goes to show that Drake is not always right.’ He evidently takes some satisfaction in this thought. ‘But why was Doughty at the House of Vesta?’

  ‘He was a sailor. They must know him there. The madam was obviously helping him – she took me to the boy, sent up the spiced wine—’

  ‘Why the boy?’ Sidney says, frowning. ‘To test whether you were telling the truth about knowing Dunne?’

  ‘Perhaps. Or because she suspected I was only there to ask unwelcome questions, and she wanted to learn what they were.’

  ‘Either way, it seems beyond doubt that the place is somehow connected with Dunne’s death. In which case – why deliberately lure you towards it?’

  ‘He thought he was going to march me out of there at knife point, to wherever his mysterious friend was waiting.’

  ‘The one you are persuaded is Rowland Jenkes.’

  ‘You think I am mistaken?’

  He rasps a hand across the stubble on his jaw and stands, stretching. ‘I only say you are putting two and two together and making five, ever since you saw this man in black and decided he was watching you.’

  ‘He was.’ I struggle to sit up further. ‘We know a book dealer with no ears has been interested in Drake’s Judas book for months, with Dunne’s agency. Who else could fit that description, who would also know me well enough to address me by name? Besides, I heard his voice.’

  ‘It’s two years since you last saw him, and you were under the influence of something that causes hallucinations.’ He catches sight of my look and sighs. ‘You are probably right. I just can’t imagine what he’s doing with John Doughty, though.’

  ‘No more can I.’

  He crosses the room to the other window and opens those shutters. Light spills across the floor. ‘You’ve left this place in quite a state, too. I hope you’re going to clear up after yourself.’

  I ease myself horizontal. ‘Sorry about the clothes. They’ll have to be laundered again.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the clothes. I mean your travel bag. Stuff everywhere.’

  ‘What?’ I jerk upright again, ignoring the spear of pain that shoots up my right side. He indicates the far end of the room, where my bag lies open, my few clean shirts tumbled out over the floor. I haul myself off the bed, wrapping the sheet around my waist, and kneel down.

  ‘I didn’t leave it like that. Someone has been through it.’

  ‘What did they take?’

  I pick up the discarded clothes, and search through the bag. My books are still there, but a sheaf of notes I had brought to work on appears to be missing. There was nothing incriminating that I can recall, just a few calculations and jotted ideas for a possible book . . . An idea occurs to me, making goosebumps stand up on my bare skin. I cross to the bed and look under it for the leather satchel I had brought back from the Elizabeth last night. I take it out and find it empty.

  ‘My translation of the Judas book. It’s gone.’

  Sidney throws his hands up and spits out a curse. ‘You left the room unlocked last night. I had the key. Damn it.’ He glances around to his own trunk, which remains securely padlocked. ‘Thank God they didn’t take anything more valuable.’

  ‘You don’t think a lost gospel is valuable?’ I shake my head. ‘Drake will be livid. I assured him I would keep it safe.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have gone haring off to that bloody brothel without locking the room,’ he exclaims.

  ‘I realise that now.’ We glare at one another until I punch my right fist into the palm of my left hand. ‘Damn it! The letter was clearly a ruse to get us out of the way so that someone could go through the room looking for those writings.’

  ‘But who would have known that you had it here?’ He looks at me. ‘No, don’t tell me – Rowland Jenkes.’

  ‘Do you have a better explanation?’

  He opens his mouth to speak, but breaks off at the sound of a sharp knock on the door. Sidney opens it to find Hetty, pink-faced with the effort of carrying two pails of hot water, most of which she appears to have left along the floor to mark her progress. He takes one from her as she sets the other down. She wipes her hands on her apron, passes him the linen cloth she has draped over her shoulder and plants herself in the doorway, looking from one of us to the other. I gesture to the fact that I am wearing nothing but a sheet. Her eyes skim over the bruises on my chest with a look that says, I told you so. Reluctantly, Sidney reaches for his purse.

  ‘You can take this laundry down while you’re there,’ he says, handing her a coin and indicating the pile of my soiled clothes. She regards them with distaste before scooping them up, making a face as she catches the smell of the midden. I am expecting a facetious comment about where I spent the night, but she seems cowed into grudging respect by Sidney’s presence.

 
‘Hetty, you keep your eyes and ears open around this place, don’t you?’ I ask, as she turns to leave.

  ‘If it’s worth my while,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, I understand that. Did you see anyone entering or leaving this room last night, after you brought me the letter?’

  ‘What, apart from that woman?’ she shoots back, without missing a beat. Her mouth curves into a knowing smile, pleased that she has hit the mark. But I am too distracted by the thought that Lady Arden was alone in this room after I ran out in search of Sidney. She also knew that I had been working on Drake’s mysterious book. What possible use could she have for a half-finished translation of it? The idea is absurd, I tell myself, but my fists bunch at my sides; I have been burned before by a woman who stole from me when my guard was down.

  ‘No one else?’ Sidney asks, to cover the awkward pause.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t patrolling the corridor all night,’ Hetty sniffs, shifting the bundle of laundry from one hip to the other.

  ‘Never the less,’ Sidney says, forcing a smile, ‘if you do recall seeing anyone near this room, it would be enormously helpful.’ His hand strays idly to his purse. Hetty’s eyes dart after it like a cat watching a bird. ‘A man in black, for instance?’

  She affects to think about this. ‘Can’t say I did. Probably best to make sure your door’s locked in future, though.’ She gives him a firm nod, as if this is the final word, and stomps away, flat-footed, down the corridor.

  ‘The very incarnation of charm,’ Sidney remarks, closing the door. ‘She wouldn’t cost you twenty shillings, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I hope you got your money’s worth?’ I ask, needled. I do not miss the implicit reproach.

  ‘I?’ He throws me the linen cloth and wanders over to the window as I kneel to wash the filth of the midden from my skin. ‘Last night was your adventure, Bruno. I was only waiting for you to finish your business.’

  ‘You waited a long time. The sun is almost up.’

  A ghost of a smile hovers over his lips. ‘See how dedicated I am.’

  I acknowledge the evasion with a nod. If he enjoyed the House of Vesta’s hospitality last night, he is not going to discuss it with me and I should know better than to ask.

  ‘I could have broken my neck there,’ I say, sounding like a petulant child. I twist to try and wash the scrapes on my back and yelp as white pain shoots through my ribcage.

  ‘Idiot,’ he says, but with affection. ‘Here, give me that.’ He strides over, takes the cloth from my hand and dabs it at the sore places between my shoulder blades, tender as a nurse.

  TWELVE

  I leave Sidney to rest and make my way to the tap-room in search of something to eat. While I am wolfing down some bread, cold eggs and small beer, avoiding the gaze of the handful of other guests who have risen early, Mistress Judith approaches, clearly flustered, a pitcher in each hand.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve found you. Sir Francis Drake has just arrived and is looking for you, sir. In the front parlour.’

  She bustles away towards the entrance hall without further explanation. I follow her through to see armed men standing outside a door opposite the staircase. I recognise them as Drake’s guards from the ship; they stand aside to allow me through. Inside I find a curious tableau. At its centre, on a high-backed chair by the unlit fire, sits a woman of about thirty, dressed in mourning black, a veil thrown back over her hair. She is not an obvious beauty, but neither is she unattractive; if you had to sum up her thin face, you might call it resolute. She has the expression of one who has learned not to trust first impressions. Her pale eyes take the measure of me as I enter, though the set of her jaw does not reveal whether her judgement falls in my favour. Behind her stands an older woman in a plain grey dress, wearing the white coif of a servant, one hand resting on the back of the chair. Next to her, like an anxious butler, the chaplain Pettifer hovers, canted over towards the seated woman with a solicitous air. Drake has planted himself in front of her, hands folded demurely at his belt, as if she is a ruler to whom he must show deference.

  He turns when I enter, his look of relief followed swiftly by a frown and a brief raise of the eyebrows as he appraises my battered appearance, but he is too polite to remark on it. Earlier examination in the age-spotted glass propped above the mantel in our chamber revealed that, once I had cleaned the dried blood from my face, the damage is not as severe as it might have been; I am sporting a livid bruise on my forehead and a cut that looks worse than it is across my right eyebrow, but my features are more or less intact. Even so, I still have the air of a tavern-brawler.

  Thomas Drake, present as always like his brother’s shadow, leans against the window frame, arms folded. He registers my injuries with distaste. On a low day-bed opposite the window, Lady Drake and Lady Arden sit side by side, looking superfluous. Lady Drake has a cat on her lap. Lady Arden holds my gaze for an instant, her eyes stony, then turns pointedly away. Just as the silence begins to seem unbearable, Drake clears his throat and turns to the seated woman.

  ‘Mistress Dunne, may I present to you Doctor Giordano Bruno of Nola? This is the man I was speaking of.’ Drake holds a hand towards me; automatically I bow towards her chair, wincing as the movement crushes my ribs.

  She regards me with no discernible emotion as I straighten up, forcing a smile.

  ‘Is he going to beat the truth out of them?’

  ‘Doctor Bruno rescued a small boy from drowning in the harbour yesterday,’ Lady Arden interjects, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘The child would have died otherwise. But he was . . . dashed into the harbour wall as he tried to climb out.’

  Her voice sounds unnaturally loud in the still air. Everyone swivels to look at her, then turns their gaze back to me. I think I see Mistress Dunne’s features soften.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss, madam,’ I say, lowering my eyes. ‘And how does your father?’

  Her brow knits in confusion, or perhaps it is irritation.

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but I do not think you are acquainted with my father?’ She draws herself up as she says this, to match the slightly haughty tone; I presume I have breached some sacred English rule of etiquette, but this does not trouble me. I only want to hear her answer.

  ‘No, I have not had the honour, but I heard he was unwell.’

  The maid behind her inhales with audible disapproval. Mistress Dunne narrows her eyes at me and then glances at Drake, as if debating whether she is obliged to respond.

  ‘Then the gossips, for once, report the truth – his health is failing badly,’ she says. Her voice remains steady. ‘His physicians fear he is dying.’

  Small murmurs of sympathy emanate from the rest of the company at this revelation. I watch Mistress Dunne as she composes her face into the appropriate expression for a woman anticipating grief heaped upon grief.

  ‘Again, I am most sorry.’

  She acknowledges this empty courtesy with a small inclination of her head, though her eyes remain on me, still suspicious.

  Drake coughs again, anxious to get to the point. ‘Naturally, this is a difficult time for Mistress Dunne and her family,’ he begins, twisting his big hands together. ‘She has expressed some concerns.’ He stops, as if unsure of the correct phrase for what he wants to say. It strikes me that this is the first time I have seen Drake appear at a disadvantage; it does not suit him. A pause elapses, as if he is hoping the sentence will complete itself. I look from one to the other, awaiting further explanation.

  ‘My late husband was many things, Doctor Bruno—’ Mistress Dunne stops and regards me with a tilt of her head. ‘Are you a physician?’

  ‘I am a doctor of theology.’

  ‘I see.’ She makes a dismissive noise through her nose.

  Drake steps forward. ‘Doctor Bruno, as I mentioned, is greatly skilled in this sort of matter,’ he says quickly, as though someone has tried to argue otherwise. I say nothing. I have an inkling of where he is leading, and I do not like it.

  ‘My lat
e husband had many faults,’ Mistress Dunne begins again, addressing me in the same level tone, ‘but I do not believe that self-slaughter would have been among them.’

  I glance at Drake; he is urging me to something with his eyes, but I have no idea what it might be.

  ‘Do you have a particular reason for saying so, madam?’

  ‘Because he was a coward,’ she says, fixing me with a look that dares me to contradict her. Pettifer opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, then closes it again.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow—’

  ‘To end one’s own life, if one felt it had become an insupportable burden to oneself and others – that is an act that requires a certain amount of courage, do you not think?’ she asks, with the same direct gaze.

  ‘One might argue the opposite,’ I say. ‘To shoulder one’s burdens, to take responsibility for one’s failings – surely that is the courageous course?’

  Pettifer can no longer contain himself. ‘Suicide is a grievous sin, Mistress Dunne, a violation of the sixth commandment. The Church makes that most clear. Man is the imago dei – to determine his own end is to usurp the prerogative of God, who alone knows the number of our days.’ He shakes his head, as if to absolve her of such a heretical notion. ‘Think of Judas Iscariot, who took his life through guilt and remorse after betraying Our Lord to death – you would not call him a model of courage, would you?’

  Mistress Dunne turns to him, her smile fading. ‘Perhaps each of us has our own definition of courage, Padre. But I hope you are not making a comparison between them?’

  Flustered, Pettifer seems to realise he has tied himself in a knot; his round face flushes with his efforts to deny any intentional offence. I watch him, wondering why he was prompted to pluck that particular example.

  ‘Mistress Dunne doubts the accuracy of my judgement regarding the manner of her husband’s death,’ Drake says, cutting across Pettifer’s flapping apologies.

  ‘I’m sure Captain Drake did his best in what must have been a very distressing situation,’ she says, turning to me, the polite smile once more in place, ‘but I fear he may have jumped to a hasty conclusion, not being in possession of certain facts.’