by S. J. Parris
‘And you went directly back to the ship?’ Thomas persists.
Pettifer hesitates. ‘Actually, I stopped by the church to pray first.’
‘What time was this?’ Drake asks. There is a sharpness to his tone that suggests he is growing impatient with Pettifer.
‘I don’t know,’ Pettifer says, looking uncomfortable. ‘It was already near dark. I didn’t stay long.’
‘Can anyone vouch for this, Ambrose? Did others see you at church?’
‘The sexton was still there, I’m sure he would remember. But when I reached the quayside to take a boat back to the Elizabeth, I ran into your secretary, Sir Francis. He was returning at the same time.’
Drake frowns. ‘Gilbert? That was late for him to be ashore. Did he say where he’d been?’
Pettifer looks blank. ‘No. And I didn’t ask. I believe we would all have more peace if everyone minded his own business more often.’ He spears me with a glare.
‘Not when two of my men have died,’ Drake says. There is a new hardness in his voice. He gathers up the letters without looking at Pettifer. ‘I think you had better stay aboard the ship for now, Ambrose, until these allegations have been proved true or false.’
‘Sir Francis, you cannot possibly think—’
Drake holds a hand up for silence. ‘I will reserve judgement until I hear this boy’s testimony. It should be a simple matter to tell whether or not he is lying for gain. Bruno, I want you and Sir Philip to fetch the boy and bring him to the Mayor’s house. Let’s keep this away from that muttering rabble at the Star. Take Sir Philip’s armed men – if your suppositions are correct, the Grace woman may be keen to prevent you.’
‘I would feel better if I were armed myself, Sir Francis,’ I say. ‘I lost my knife to Doughty and Jenkes last night and I am not in the best state to fight without one.’
‘Was the weapon valuable?’
‘Not greatly, in itself. But it had value for me. It was all I had of my old life.’
He nods, understanding. Then he crosses to the locked cupboard in the corner of the cabin. While he rattles his keys and rummages inside, Pettifer’s eyes bore into me with a look of such fierce hatred that I know I have made an enemy for life, regardless of whether he is innocent or guilty. I look away, but the force of his stare continues to burn me. If I were a more superstitious man, I would fear I was being cursed.
‘Here,’ Drake says, returning with a weapon laid across his open palms. He draws it from its sheath to reveal a dagger of burnished steel, its blade tapering to a point as fine as the nib of a quill. The metal is dark and has only a dull gleam, but on closer inspection this is because the surface is mottled with patterns like the grain of wood. The grip is wrapped with bronze thread and the pommel and guard embellished with decorations of vines and flowers. It is an exquisite piece of work.
‘Damascus steel,’ Drake says, pleased by my look of amazement. ‘We took it from an officer on a Spanish ship off Nicaragua. Beautiful, isn’t it? Valuable, too. The patterning on the blade is unique. Damascus steel beats anything that comes out of Toledo. They say you can drop a hair across the edge and it will be cut cleanly in two. I have never tried that trick, but you are welcome to experiment. Go on, take it.’ He holds the knife out, pommel towards me.
‘I cannot keep this, Sir Francis – it must be worth a fortune,’ I say, weighing it in my hand. It is so light and perfectly balanced it seems to slice the air with a sigh as I curve my arm. I notice Pettifer takes a step back.
‘The debt I owe you is greater,’ Drake says. ‘As for this business . . .’ He waves a hand around the cabin to encompass Pettifer, me, the letters, and shakes his head as if in despair. ‘We had best move quickly. Ambrose, you will wait here with Thomas until we have some answers.’
‘Sir Francis,’ Pettifer says, in a small voice, as Drake reaches for the latch. ‘May I speak to you in private? There is one thing I need to explain, away from these mad accusations.’
Drake nods at me and Sidney to let us know we are dismissed, and closes the door behind us.
‘Drake should have his cabin searched,’ Sidney says, in a low voice, as we wait on the lower deck. ‘It may be that he kept the blackmail demand from Dunne somewhere.’
‘I doubt it. Whatever else he may be, Pettifer is a clever man.’ I clench my jaw. ‘I’m sure he would not have held on to anything that could incriminate him. My fear is that there will be nothing but the boy’s testimony against him. And how will that look – an uneducated apprentice accusing a well-respected parson of sodomy?’
‘Surely girls can be found who will testify against Mistress Grace, at least?’
I think of the girl Sara in the slums, her mind and body eaten away by the pox. ‘There are witnesses, but I’m not sure how much credibility they’d have.’
‘Huh. From what I’ve seen, you’d be lucky if you found a man of authority in this town willing to bring Mistress Grace before a judge,’ Sidney says, with a sniff. ‘Her trade is too much to their advantage. Pray God the boy’s testimony will be sufficient, because—’ He breaks off when he sees Gilbert Crosse hovering on the main deck, a leather portfolio clutched to his breast.
‘Is everything all right, Sir Philip?’ Gilbert hops from foot to foot and chews his lip in that way that makes him look like a schoolboy. ‘Have you two been with Sir Francis? I came up just now to ask him to sign these letters but I heard voices so I thought it best not to interrupt. I know he has so much to worry about at the moment.’ He ducks his head and offers a sheepish smile.
‘I’m sure he will be out soon,’ I say, feigning not to notice his fishing for news. Sidney has adopted a policy of ignoring him altogether. Gilbert’s faux-humble manner grates on him. I wonder how long the young cartographer hung about outside Drake’s cabin, and how much he might have overheard.
‘Ah, here he is,’ Gilbert says, holding out his folder as Drake appears from the quarterdeck. ‘I have made fair copies of those letters, Sir Francis – do you want to sign them now?’
Drake stops and regards him with a strange expression, as if trying to remember what he is for. ‘Later, Gilbert. I must go ashore now and see my wife. Leave them in my cabin – you will find my brother there.’
‘It’s just that I too am going ashore, to church,’ he persists, still fidgeting, ‘and I thought if they were signed and sealed I could take them to the messenger and have them on the road tonight. Else they will have to wait until the morning.’
Drake sighs. ‘Then let them wait. I must not delay this evening. Go and call one of the men to row us, would you? And tell Captain Fenner I will be gone until later tonight. I leave him in charge.’
‘If I might beg you to wait while I fetch my cloak and bag, perhaps I could come with you now, to save taking another boat?’ Gilbert says, with hopeful eyes.
Drake hesitates. ‘No, this boat will be full. I will send it back for you.’
Gilbert looks disappointed, but he nods without complaint and scurries away to his tasks.
‘No word of these suspicions must escape to anyone for the time being,’ Drake whispers, once we are in the boat. ‘Until we have some verification. These crimes Pettifer is accused of would be monstrous in any man, but in a priest . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘If the men see corruption in those who have spiritual authority over them, what example do they have? There would be chaos. A ship’s chaplain’s job is to put the fear of God into the crew.’
‘I thought it was to console?’ Sidney says.
‘At sea, the fear comes first,’ Drake replies, grim-faced.
A messenger is sent for Sidney’s armed men to join us at the quayside. Drake goes on ahead to the Mayor’s house with his own bodyservants. I feel a faint flutter of nerves as I watch him go, and find my eyes darting along the busy wharves, scouring the crowds for anyone who might be watching us too closely, keeping his head down or his hands inside his cloak. Mistress Grace’s tart warning comes back to me; she will not allow her enterprise to
be threatened without a fight. The hulls of the fishing boats crack together as they rock on the swell; their owners stack up pots and untangle nets ready for the night’s work. On the quayside, the fishwomen have gone home for the day, but there are others with wide baskets slung across their hips, selling strawberries or pies to anyone disembarking. The street whores will not come out in force until dusk, but already a few hopeful early arrivals loiter on corners where the steep cobbled streets open on to the quay, their painted faces garish in the flat light. A couple try to catch our eye; I turn away. We cannot afford to be distracted. Sidney keeps a hand on the pommel of his sword; he too scans the faces that pass by, alert for any sign of trouble.
‘That weapon he gave you is worth a king’s ransom, you know,’ he remarks, after a while, stealing an envious glance at the dagger now strapped to my side. It is larger than my old knife and harder to conceal, though it does look more imposing. ‘He obviously regards you highly.’
I shrug. ‘I have been useful to him. But I fear his regard will diminish very quickly, if we cannot find sufficient evidence against Pettifer.’
Sidney sucks in his breath through his teeth. ‘It is infuriating – everything you said back there fits, everything points to the chaplain. It is just a matter of proving it.’
‘That is what we said about Savile.’ In truth, I have begun to admit a sliver of doubt over confronting Pettifer so publicly with such stark accusations.
‘The boy’s testimony will be good enough, won’t it?’ He sounds as if he wants reassurance.
‘He will be afraid, though. He may feel it is in his best interest to hold his tongue.’
Sidney’s armed escorts are broad-shouldered, solid young men with rough, good-natured faces. They clatter up to us, looking hastily assembled and a little awkward; they had not expected to be called upon this evening and there is a faint smell of the ale-house about them, though they all seem sufficiently alert and clear-eyed to do their job. Just the sight of them, big and confident, surrounding us with their bright liveried tunics and swords at their belts, would be enough to deter all but the most determined assailant, I think, as we set out together up the hill towards the House of Vesta. Groups of bystanders part before us, pointing and muttering. I am not used to feeling so conspicuous, though there is a curious satisfaction in being taken for a man of status.
When we reach the apothecary’s shop, I motion for Sidney and the guards to stay outside, but I leave the door open so they can be seen. The little man is standing on a stool taking an inventory of his shelves when I enter; his expectant look withers immediately when he recognises me.
‘Oh. It is you,’ he says.
‘Where is the boy? I need to see him urgently.’
Pengilly curls his lip in disgust. ‘I thought I made myself clear to you. In any case, he is not here.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘My friends would like to know,’ I say, gesturing to the open door. He catches sight of the men, who grin at him but stand so their swords are visible. He swallows.
‘She called him back to the house. I expect you’ll find him there. And you can find him there in future, as I told you.’
I nod and turn towards the door.
‘Sir,’ he calls out, as I reach the threshold. He gestures to the armed men. ‘You won’t hurt him, will you? He’s a good lad.’
‘He will be fine, I assure you.’
Sidney and I run up the alleyway beside the shop into the rear courtyard, followed by the men. There is no sign of life in the windows above us. I bang on the House of Vesta’s door and do not let up until I hear footsteps approaching.
‘For the love of God,’ comes a female voice from inside, ‘we are resting. Come back later.’
‘Open this door now, or we will open it for you,’ Sidney shouts, in his most commanding tone.
There is a short pause, and the panel behind the iron grille is slid back. A woman’s face appears. It is not Mistress Grace.
‘What do you want?’ She looks frightened. ‘We are not open yet.’
‘I want to see the boy,’ I say.
‘He is unwell,’ she says, but there is a small hesitation that gives her away. She reaches to close the panel.
‘Go on, lads,’ I say, standing aside. ‘Get this door open.’
It is an empty threat; the door looks solid enough to withstand cannon fire, but the woman gives a little cry and a moment later I hear the click of a lock and the door opens a fraction.
‘Do not hurt anyone,’ she pleads, crossing herself as I push past her and take the stairs two at a time to the second landing, closely followed by Sidney and his men. Women’s screams echo through the house at the sound of our invasion. I fling open the door to Toby’s room to see him lying on the bed in his shirt and breeches, convulsing. Mistress Grace stands by the window looking on, her slender silhouette framed against the light. She regains her composure remarkably quickly after the shock of my arrival and arranges her expression into a sad smile.
‘Poor boy,’ she says, in a tone whose sincerity would fool no one. ‘I fear he has eaten something that disagreed with him.’
I rush to the bedside. Toby’s breathing is laboured and his skin has a greenish hue. There is a thin trickle of blood-flecked vomit running from the corner of his mouth. All around his head on the sheet are spots of dark red. I curse my stupidity; I have been so concerned about Mistress Grace wanting to silence me that I missed the far more obvious danger. I lean close to the boy’s face. His breath smells foul and his eyes are clouded. His muscles spasm again and he gives a plaintive cry.
‘Toby.’ I give his shoulders a little shake. ‘Toby, can you hear me?’
He stares at me, but his eyes register nothing. ‘This boy needs a physician,’ I bark at her, ‘you must send for one right away. And he must be made to vomit immediately.’
‘I think you are overreacting,’ she says, smoothly. ‘It was probably some bad shellfish. But I have sent for a physician nonetheless.’
I look at him. His ribcage hardly moves and he exhales with a strained croak, as if the act becomes harder with each breath. I grab his shoulders and haul him into a sitting position. He is barely conscious. Supporting his bony shoulders with my left arm, I push two fingers of my right hand into his slack mouth and press down until he starts to gag. His chest heaves a few times; I push him forward until a thin yellow slurry dribbles down his chin. Mistress Grace simply stands there watching. It is not enough, and we both know it.
‘What did you give him?’ I demand.
She opens her eyes very wide, as if to say she has no idea what I could mean, and shakes her head. Toby makes a small noise; at the same time, I feel his fingers scrabble weakly at the back of my hand. He is trying to speak. I put my ear to his mouth and hear the word ‘drink’.
‘He wants a drink,’ I say. ‘Get him water.’
She doesn’t move. It is only then that I see the empty cup on the floor. The stains around his head and on his smock are not blood but wine; he must have been force-fed some draught of poison in a cup of wine, that is what he was trying to tell me. His limbs shoot out in different directions and his body bucks under another violent spasm, until he falls horribly limp in my arms. His eyelids twitch faintly.
‘Send one of your men down to the apothecary now, ask for some potion that will induce vomiting, or any antidote to poison,’ I say, turning to Sidney in desperation, but it is clear that we are too late. Whatever Toby has ingested has already done its work. I squeeze the boy’s hand, but though his fingers are still warm, there is no response.
‘The physician will be here soon enough,’ Mistress Grace says, her tone consoling. ‘I’m sure he will know what to do for the best.’
‘The boy will be dead by then, and you know it,’ I say. I lay Toby down again on the narrow bed. His long hair sticks to his forehead and his mouth is half open as he fights for breath, but with less conviction eac
h time. He looks no more than a child. Caught by a great wave of pity and anger, I raise my head and look at Mistress Grace; her complacent expression as she stands there watching a young boy die fills me with rage. I spring across the room and catch her by the upper arm, pushing her against the wall so fast that she hardly has time to flinch. ‘The physician will see what has happened here, and we will have the Sheriff out before you have time to hide the body. You will hang for murder, mistress.’
She makes a little moue with her painted lips and leans her face away, as if she finds it indelicate to be so close to a man. Hypocritical witch, I think, though I let go of her in disgust. There is nothing to be gained from threatening her.
She rubs her arm and moves away to the window. ‘You should never have come here. You should have heeded the warning and stopped prying into matters that are no business of yours. See what your meddling has achieved.’ She jerks her head towards the boy on the bed. My fury seems to swell and burst in my chest, so that I can hardly speak.
‘You dare to blame me for this? It was a pitiful scrap of a life this boy had, but it was not yours to throw away when it no longer suited you. None of these children are your property to dispose of. And you will hang for this, I will make sure of it.’
‘Will you?’ she says, a ghost of a smile hovering at her lips. ‘You, Doctor Bruno, with all your influence in this town? You are fond of the boy, I see. And after only one night.’
‘Have you no pity?’ I shout, taking a step towards her. My hand flies to the unfamiliar knife at my belt and I am gratified to see that she looks genuinely frightened. ‘He is a child,’ I say, more quietly, letting my hands fall to my sides. ‘A child.’
‘Bruno,’ Sidney says gently, from the doorway. ‘There is nothing we can do here. Let us go.’
‘Listen to your friend, Bruno,’ Mistress Grace says, folding her arms, though her gaze strays warily to the dagger. ‘I have no doubt the physician will find that the boy died of some sudden seizure. It happens all too frequently.’