by S. J. Parris
I realise now, with a flat sense of inevitability, that my brief flicker of hope was a delusion. We are to die here, and cruelly, if Jenkes has his way. Doughty heaves Lady Arden to her feet, hooks her limp arms around his neck and half-hauls, half-forces her over to where we stand.
‘You had better take her,’ he says, pushing her roughly towards me. ‘She is your whore, is she not?’ I brace myself to support her weight, hooking an arm around her waist to keep her on her feet. Her eyes are glazed, as if she is drugged, perhaps the effect of being partially choked. She slumps into me.
‘I found her not especially pleasing,’ Doughty adds, lightly. ‘Though I imagine one gets more out of it when she shows some enthusiasm? She seemed unwilling to give me her best efforts, I must say.’ He laughs, a low taunting snigger. His words rouse Lady Arden from her stupor; anger surges through her, sparking in her eyes as she spits a curse at him, though it is muffled by her gag. I feel all her muscles tensed against me and I am seized by the urge to rush at John Doughty and crush his head into the wall. As if reading my thoughts, he lifts the pistol again and levels it at my face. I find myself hoping, absurdly, that he will shoot Lady Arden first; at least that way I would not feel I was leaving her for them to torture further after my death. A great tremor travels across her shoulders; after it has passed she seems to subside. She closes her eyes. I keep mine open, fixed on Doughty. I will die looking him in the face, so he remembers that look for the rest of his sorry days.
But he does not pull the trigger. Instead he glances over to Jenkes, who walks purposefully to the east end of the chapel, where a small stone altar stands bare under the narrow window. Setting his lantern on the altar, he crouches behind it, busy with something on the floor, out of view. After a short while, I hear a strained grunt accompanied by the grating of stone and Jenkes reappears, beckoning us. Doughty makes a brusque gesture with the gun, so I shuffle forward, pulling Lady Arden with me as best I can. She seems better able to move her feet as we approach Jenkes, though it is I who falter as I feel the cold muzzle prodding between my shoulder blades.
There is less light here; the sconces Jenkes lit are at the other end of the chapel and are already burning down. The semi-circular chancel behind the altar is sunk in near-darkness; an orange glow licks up and down the stone as the candle dances wildly in a draught. Jenkes indicates the floor; he lifts the lantern and holds it closer so that I can see where he is pointing.
He has removed one of the carved memorial stones set into the floor to reveal a rectangular space. I can see nothing but two worn stairs, leading down into black. A stale, dank smell drifts upwards.
‘Down you go,’ Jenkes says pleasantly.
Sweat prickles on my palms and my brow. I hesitate, unable to move my feet. Does he mean to incarcerate us underground? My heart skitters like a terrified creature; since I was a youth I have had a horror of confined spaces, of airless darkness. I have a recurring nightmare of being buried alive. I would rather he shot me here and now, and have it all over in an instant; I almost say so. But there is Lady Arden to think of.
‘Don’t take all night about it, Bruno, we have a pressing appointment with a French merchant ship,’ Jenkes says, pointing to the maw of the crypt. ‘We’re coming with you, don’t worry.’ The enigmatic smile again; he is enjoying himself.
I try to close my mind to thoughts of what awaits us down there and concentrate on each step, each breath. The opening is only wide enough for one person at a time. I let go of Lady Arden, wait until I am sure she is able to stand, then turn my back on the stairs and begin to descend backwards into that dark space, holding both her hands with mine and leading her down, one at a time, until I can see nothing. I have no idea how far down the stairs will lead, but I count about a dozen before I reach a solid brick floor. I guide her down the last step; she stumbles and falls against me, and I pull her close to shield us both from the cold. All around us is thick darkness and the smell of damp stone.
Lady Arden shivers in my arms. I unfasten the cloak at my neck and wrap it around her shoulders, but she goes on shaking violently. A faint light hovers at the top of the steps; I fully expect to hear the stone grind into place over us. But, true to his word, Doughty begins to descend with the lantern in one hand, the pistol in the other. Halfway down he pauses, waiting for Jenkes, but there is light enough to see that we are in a vaulted undercroft, lined in aged brick. Crates and barrels are stacked around the walls. Jenkes eventually appears on the steps and reaches up, pulling the memorial stone overhead until it falls into place with a heavy crash. He is holding another lantern. Coiled over his arm is a length of rope – presumably that which had suspended Lady Arden from the beam.
Now the four of us are seemingly trapped down here. My mind is a riot of unformed terrors, though for Lady Arden’s sake I fight to keep my breathing steady and my face composed. Jenkes walks slowly towards us, rope in hand.
‘I hope you won’t make this difficult, Bruno,’ he says. His eyes shine in the semi-darkness. ‘Just remember, any attempt to cause trouble on your part and you will have a shot between the eyes before you can blink. Then you wouldn’t be here to protect the lady, would you? Not that your protection is worth much, but it allows you to maintain the illusion of control, does it not? Now – this will interest you. Come and look.’
At the far end of the undercroft, three barrels are piled up in a corner. All around them, on the ground, are fragments of broken brick. Jenkes sets down the lantern cautiously, some distance from us, takes hold of a barrel and heaves it out of the way, then does the same with the others. Behind us, Doughty prowls, silent as a wildcat, only the swinging cone of light tracing his movements. Jenkes holds up his lantern to illuminate a patch of loose bricks set into the floor.
‘I told you these monks were ingenious,’ he says, squatting to prise one brick out with his fingers. It scrapes away easily and he tosses it to one side. ‘This is hard labour – why don’t you do it for me, Bruno?’
Unwillingly, I release Lady Arden, who leans back against a pillar, and crouch at Jenkes’s feet. I lift out another brick, and a gust of chill, damp air causes goosebumps to rise on my skin.
‘That’s it, keep going,’ Jenkes says, ‘all the loose ones. The chapel was intended partly as place of worship, partly as vantage point. This undercroft is built into the very rock of the island. But they were afraid that if the enemy invaded – France, as it was then – the island would be taken first. They built into their chapel a means of escape.’
‘A secret tunnel?’ So that was why the two of them were so untroubled by the prospect of Drake’s waiting fleet.
He looks almost disappointed. ‘You know of it?’
‘Drake knows of it – they will be waiting for you at the other end.’
A brief shadow of doubt crosses his face. ‘Where is the other end, then?’ When I do not reply, he laughs. ‘You are bluffing. Good try, Bruno. There are plenty of legends about the tunnels, but very few people know of their existence. The customs men had this entrance bricked up years ago, but the smugglers are enterprising fellows, and there is more than one exit, to foil the authorities. The tunnel itself is in a poor state of repair, but it is still passable. Drake’s men will be waiting till dawn to catch us leaving by sea. By which time we will be long gone.’ He pats the bag at his side.
‘They will catch you one way or another,’ I say, trying to sound as if I believe it. ‘Drake already has the hue and cry out for you.’
Jenkes shakes his head and tuts, as if he is disappointed in my efforts. ‘You know very well that is not true, Bruno. Drake would not do anything that would risk Lady Arden’s life. It was a gamble, I’ll admit, but Doughty seemed sure of it.’
‘What about Robert Dunne?’ I say, turning to John Doughty. ‘Was he a gamble too?’
He gives a baffled laugh. ‘Dunne? Yes, I suppose he was. A gamble I lost, in the end, which I should have foreseen. Poor Dunne was cursed by ill luck. Worse even than mine, so it seems.�
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‘So what do you get out of this charade?’ If I can at least keep them talking, I give myself time to think. Unfortunately I cannot fathom any way out that will not leave Lady Arden or me, or more likely both of us, dead. ‘You didn’t really believe Drake would come here in person?’
Doughty considers the question. ‘No, I suppose in my heart I did not. But this will do almost as well for now. I will leave her head in the church for him to find.’
Lady Arden makes a frantic noise through her gag. She sinks to the floor, tears streaming down her face. She is so pale I fear she may vomit; with her mouth bound, she would choke immediately.
‘By rights I should leave it on the cliff for the sea birds to peck out her eyes, like he did with my poor brother’s,’ Doughty continues matter-of-factly. ‘See how he likes that. Show him a prelude to his own death.’
‘You really think you will kill Drake one day?’ I ask.
He does not miss the scorn in my voice. His expression hardens as he steps closer.
‘I must believe it,’ he says, through his remaining teeth, and in those words I hear the force of the man’s despair. ‘The only thing that stops me following Robert Dunne’s example is the oath I swore to my brother, that I will see Francis Drake in his grave before I go to mine. That man took everything from me.’ He is so close I can feel his breath on my face. The muzzle of the gun presses against my breastbone. I hear the blood thudding in my ears. ‘My brother, my money, my reputation. My patriotism. Even my fucking teeth,’ he adds, with a sour laugh. ‘And I had good teeth. While he collects land, titles, fame, royal favour, a beautiful young wife.’ He casts a glance at Lady Arden. ‘I would have preferred to have taken his wife, of course – saving your presence, my lady – but Elizabeth Drake is too closely watched. This bitch will have to do. I will take his spoils from him, one by one, until he knows how it feels to lose everything. England will never give me justice, so I must make my own.’
‘Or persuade a desperate man like Robert Dunne to do it for you,’ I say, though I did not miss his reference to ‘Dunne’s example’.
A thin smile. ‘Persuade . . . yes, it sounds better when you put it like that. Robert Dunne was a despicable coward. You can make a coward do anything if he thinks he will save his own skin. Especially a coward in debt. I settled his debts at the House of Vesta, you know. After that he was my creature.’
‘But he wasn’t, was he?’ I say. ‘He didn’t do what you wanted, in the end.’
‘True.’ He sounds regretful. ‘I thought he was desperate enough to do it for the money. A small dose of monkshood in Drake’s wine would have done it – hardly a problem once they’re out at sea. I even showed Dunne how the poison was distilled. He seemed so willing at first.’ He makes a sharp, wincing motion and clicks his tongue. ‘I should have realised he had that pathetic filial loyalty some men develop towards Drake. In the end his conscience weighed heavier than his fear. He took the coward’s way out.’
So he really believes Dunne killed himself? I recall the letter Drake received the day after Dunne’s death with the verse from Matthew’s gospel, with its reference to Judas’s remorseful suicide.
‘Is that why you sent that letter?’ I ask. ‘So that Drake would think Dunne’s death was connected with the Judas book?’
A small crease appears between his brows; he darts a glance at Jenkes. ‘Which letter?’
‘The one with the Bible verse: Matthew 27 verse 5.’
Doughty only looks more confused; the crease in his forehead deepens. ‘Matthew?’
‘Judas went from that place and hanged himself,’ Jenkes says, smoothly.
‘You see? He knows it word for word.’
‘My dear Bruno – I know most of the scriptures word for word. As do you. But why would anyone send such a letter?’ He arches an eyebrow.
‘You tell me. To imply that Dunne hanged himself out of remorse for his treachery, just like Judas? To serve as a warning to Drake, that the Judas Gospel brings nothing but harm?’ I suggest. ‘Or simply to frighten him. To show him once again that you know everything that touches him, even on his ship.’
Doughty lets out a bark of laughter. ‘Frighten him? It would take more than a letter with a line of scripture to frighten El Draco.’
‘Really? What would it take – a letter threatening the curse of the Devil? No, that did not work. One telling him you are watching his wife, perhaps?’
John Doughty looks abashed, but only briefly. ‘I was not quite myself when I sent those. Prison can turn a man’s wits, you know. But I never sent him any Bible verse.’
‘No more did I,’ Jenkes says, with a shrug. ‘The others, yes, via the girl to you and this lady here. But no verses.’
‘We are wasting time,’ Doughty says, impatient. ‘The ship sails on the evening tide and we must be on it, or risk being found by the hue and cry. What does it matter who sent the letter?’
‘It matters,’ I begin, ‘because . . .’ But I find I cannot answer the question. All along we have believed that the letter was sent either by Dunne’s killer, or someone who knew his identity and wanted to toy with Drake. The other letters had led me to assume that they were connected with the first one. But the recent discoveries about Savile and Martha Dunne have thrown all those theories into confusion.
‘Do you know who killed Robert Dunne?’ I ask. ‘Indulge me – it is not as if I can tell anyone now. Satisfy my curiosity.’
‘Is that your last request, Bruno?’ Jenkes cocks his head to one side, but Doughty holds a hand up to silence him, still frowning at me.
‘Does Francis Drake truly believe Dunne did not kill himself?’ He shakes his head, looking perplexed. ‘I knew there was an inquest, but I thought that was the widow’s doing, it was to be expected. Who would want Dunne dead?’ He appears disconcerted.
‘Other than you?’ I say.
‘He was no use to me dead. Not yet, at least. Not until he had served his purpose. Dunne knew I had marked him for his part in the jury that falsely convicted my brother. But as I told you, he was a coward. I convinced him that by killing Drake for me, he had a chance to save himself and his women.’ He lets out a sharp laugh. ‘I even promised him a share of the price on Drake’s head. I thought that would swing the balance.’
‘The twenty thousand ducats,’ I murmur. ‘You meant to claim that from Spain?’
‘Of course.’ He says this in a clipped, businesslike tone. ‘But I suspected Dunne was not such a fool as to believe I would let him live. I had supposed he decided it was better to damn his soul with suicide than with murder.’ He purses his lips and his brow creases again. ‘But you seriously think someone else killed him?’ He glances at Jenkes. ‘Someone who guessed what he planned and wanted to save Drake, I suppose?’ He smacks a fist into his palm. ‘So he must have confessed his purpose to someone else on board. Who?’
Now it is the book dealer’s turn to look impatient. ‘What does it matter? The man is dead and it has nothing to do with us. Enough talking – it is time to go.’
He gestures to me to turn around, and wrenches my arms back, binding my wrists behind me. My knees crack against the floor as he pushes me down and drags me across to the pillar where Lady Arden lies curled up and whimpering, her face buried in her knees, as if she could make herself so small she might escape their notice. Jenkes sits me upright, my back against the pillar. He does the same with Lady Arden on the other side, then takes the remaining length of rope and wraps it around the two of us, binding us fast to the pillar, so tight I can feel the cord cutting into my chest each time I expand my lungs to breathe. Lady Arden makes the occasional hiccupping sob, though subdued, like a child whose tantrum has subsided. It is a defeated sound. I hope that she is only semi-conscious; I wish I were in that state myself, but my awareness seems heightened by the nearness of my death, as if everything is picked out in perfect clarity. I see the black hairs on the back of Jenkes’s hands as he moves the lantern some distance away and begins to shi
ft one of the barrels towards us; I hear the scrape of the wood over the brick floor. I notice how the veins bulge at his temple with the effort of moving it. He does the same with the other two, positioning them around us. When he has arranged them to his satisfaction, he dusts off his hands and smiles, as if pleased with his handiwork.
‘In the time of the heretic queen’s father and grandfather, this undercroft was used as a munitions store,’ he says, in a conversational tone. ‘Some supplies were left, in anticipation of the new fort.’ He takes out my knife and uses it to prise open the bung in the top of one barrel, then calls Doughty to help him lift it. Now I understand why he moved the lantern to a safe distance. He indicates the far side of the undercroft and they carry the barrel between them, tipping it up to release its contents as they move backwards towards me and Lady Arden. A trail of fine black powder snakes behind them; they scatter it liberally around us before wedging the barrel into place next to me. Then they cross the room again and lay a second trail.
When they have done, Doughty surveys the tableau before him and curls his lip. He seems displeased with the result.
‘I would still rather Drake found her head on the altar,’ he says. ‘There should be some poetic justice to this.’
‘Do you know how long it would take to sever a head with a knife like this?’ Jenkes snaps. ‘And how would we walk away, covered head to foot in blood? No, this is the practical solution. The fuse is long enough to give us time to get some way into the passage. The explosion will seal off the entrance here, and will be large enough to attract attention. While Drake’s men are busy trying to dig out what’s left of the gallant Bruno and his lady, we will be long gone. Come – take this lantern.’