by S. J. Parris
I was perhaps thirty yards from the door of my building, feeling my way by the thin light of a crescent moon, when the minute click of a scuffed pebble on stone caused me to whip around again, hand to my knife; someone had followed me, and I was so bone-tired and sunk in my thoughts, I had let them.
‘Show yourself, or I’ll run you through,’ I hissed, pointing the blade out randomly to either side. I could see nothing beyond the pale circle of light in my hand.
A patch of shadow detached itself from the greater darkness and solidified into the shape of a boy.
‘Ben?’
He pressed his finger to his lips. I sank back against the wall.
‘Christ’s blood – I thought you had come to kill me on my doorstep.’
‘I’ve been following you all night. Didn’t like the look of that bloke with the funny eyes.’
‘I appreciate your concern.’ I didn’t know whether to laugh or hug him. Instead I flipped him a penny, which he caught in one fist, quick as a blink, and slid inside his jerkin.
‘Any messages?’
‘Tell Master Phelippes it all went off well, they don’t suspect me so far, and they know about Clara. Say I’ll have a full report ready by tomorrow morning. I’ll leave it at the dovecote for you.’
‘I’ll be there at first light.’
‘Do you never sleep?’
‘No money to be made sleeping. Besides, all the interesting stuff happens at night.’ He grinned, gave me a mock salute and turned to go.
‘One more job for you,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘Can you find out something else for me?’
He gave me a condescending look, as if the question were hardly worth asking. ‘If anyone in London knows it, I can find it out.’
‘Good. I want you to track down a boy for me. South of the river. Try the Unicorn first.’
Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘I know where to get you a boy cheaper, if that’s what you like. Unicorn’ll charge through the nose.’ He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign for greed. ‘Anything you want that’s off the main menu there, they’ll make you pay extra to keep it quiet. I know this lad up at Smithfield, definitely doesn’t have the pox and he’ll do most things for half—’
‘Jesus, Ben. I don’t mean like that, God forbid. It’s a particular boy, I need to speak to him. That’s all.’ I gave him a stern look.
He lifted a skinny shoulder. ‘Not for me to judge, master. Plenty do, that’s why places like the Unicorn make money. What’s his name, then, this boy?’
‘I don’t know, but he stands out in a crowd – he’s dark, like me – his skin even darker. A bit younger than you, ten or eleven, maybe. Small. Runs fast.’
‘Yeah, you’d learn that at the Unicorn. That where he works?’
‘I believe so. Or you might find him hanging about the Cross Bones burial ground. He steals horses on the side. I’m sure you can ask around.’
Ben nodded, calculating. ‘And if I track him down – should I fetch him to you?’
‘No. He won’t speak to me willingly. Find out where I can corner him uninterrupted, and don’t let him know anyone’s looking for him – I need to ask him some questions. I’ll pay you when you bring news.’
‘All right. I’ll have something for you by tomorrow, and I’ll pick up your letter first thing. Give you good night, master.’
He sauntered away and dissolved back into the shadows, my skinny guardian angel, before I could thank him for his vigil.
* * *
I opened the door to our rooms as quietly as I could, expecting to tiptoe around Gilbert snoring. Instead I found the place ablaze with candles, and Robin Poole lolling on my bed with his boots off, while Gilbert paced, a glass in his hand. He leapt at me before the latch had even clicked shut.
‘God’s blood, where have you been? We thought Ballard had killed you.’ A dark crust of wine stained his lips. He grasped my shoulder and tried to fix a bleary gaze on me. ‘We thought you’d given yourself away and we were all dead.’
I stepped back from the fumes on his breath. ‘Thank you for your confidence. You may sleep easy – no one has tried to kill me yet. Ballard has had me ministering to the faithful.’
‘You?’ Gifford swayed a little, frowning. ‘But you can’t give the sacraments, you’re excommunicate.’
‘Damn, you’re right – I should have thought to tell him that.’ I sat heavily on the end of my bed and pulled off my boots, slapping Poole’s feet out of the way. He shifted obligingly to make room. ‘I’m going to need to sleep soon,’ I said. ‘Ideally not with you.’
He swung his legs around to the floor and sat with his elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. ‘I waited for you so we could make sure we were all straight with our stories. And to keep an eye on him.’ He jerked his head towards Gifford, who was pouring himself more wine.
‘Did you go to Seething Lane tonight?’ I asked.
‘Of course not. We sat in a tavern until it seemed like a reasonable time for him to return. With hindsight, a tavern was probably not the best idea, as you see.’ He gestured again to Gifford with a knowing tilt of his eyebrow. ‘Tell me what they said of Clara while we were out.’
I filled him in on the conversation he had missed. As I spoke he continued to stare at the floor between his feet, nodding occasionally, while Gifford paced and huffed and glared at his reflection in the window, drinking loudly.
‘Interesting,’ Poole said, when I had finished. He left a long pause, rubbing at the stubble on his cheeks with the flat of his hands. ‘Can Ballard really think it was Walsingham? Is he feigning, do you reckon?’
‘I only met him for the first time tonight. But he strikes me as a man who thinks on his feet, and I could see all his thoughts bent on how he could save the plan. He was not panicked, but he was rattled. I’m almost willing to swear he had no knowledge of your sister’s death until tonight. Unless he is a greater actor than any I have seen – excepting yourself.’
He glanced up at that, and I saw how hollow he looked. ‘Your meaning?’
‘Only that I was impressed this evening. You played your part to perfection. I could have believed you had learned the news for the first time too. I was on the verge of tears at your grief.’
‘Oh, my grief is not an act, Bruno.’
‘No – I didn’t mean – forgive me.’
He brushed the apology away and returned his attention to the floor. ‘I told you – I can wear a mask when I need to, so close it moulds to my face. But then so can you, evidently. The only one we need worry about is –’ he jerked a thumb to the window, where Gifford stood with his back to us. ‘So, if you really think Ballard had no part in her death – then which of them? Not Savage, I’d wager – he would not act without Ballard’s knowledge.’
‘That only leaves the young men.’ I shook my head. ‘Babington and Titch. But if she was killed because they suspected her of betraying the plot, surely neither one of them would have acted alone on something so significant. Especially not without Ballard’s approval.’
‘Babington is increasingly at odds with Ballard about how to proceed, you saw it yourself,’ he said. ‘Maybe he has decided to assert his leadership by making his own decisions.’
‘Even so, he must have realised that a murder would only draw more attention. And did you not think they too seemed shocked to hear of her death?’
‘I grant they did,’ he said wearily. ‘But they are not without skill at deception. Babington especially.’
‘The manner of it still makes no sense to me. Titch’s point about Walsingham holds good for them too – if any of them wanted rid of her, surely they would have made certain the body was not found?’ I recalled my initial reaction on seeing the girl’s mutilated face: that this was a statement about betrayal that was intended to be seen. But by whom? Naturally, I could not ask Poole.
‘I’ve told you my theory about that,’ he said. ‘She fought back and hurt him, so that he had to flee before he ha
d time to bury her.’
‘Of course.’ I thought it best to change the subject. ‘So – I’m sorry to ask this, but – was it Babington that she was…’ I stopped, searching my tired brain for a suitable euphemism.
‘Was fucking?’ Poole said morosely. He left a long silence while I wondered if I should apologise. Eventually he shook his head. ‘You know, she never told me the detail of her dealings with them.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t, with your brother.’
‘It was not mere modesty. She liked the idea of doing this work for herself, independent of me. She said I should bring Master Secretary such information as I found out in my way and leave her to do the same. I didn’t press her after that. I didn’t really want to think of it, if I’m honest. Which of them she was—’ He leaned back against the wall and chewed at his thumbnail.
‘Babington has a wife, though, I thought?’ I stretched my legs and heard my knees crack. If I fell back on the mattress now and closed my eyes, I would be out before he could reply.
Poole gave a dry laugh. ‘Oh yes, and Titch is betrothed to some heiress from Southampton, and Ballard is an ordained priest, and Savage has no interest in women, but I saw the way they all looked at my sister – there’s not a one of them would have resisted if she’d returned that look. She was a girl who could make a man forget his own name, never mind his scruples.’ He broke off and turned his face away.
He had spoken with evident feeling, but something in his tone made me sit up and look at him; I recalled Walsingham’s remark that there was no doubt Robin Poole loved his sister, in a tone heavy with meaning that I could not grasp. Had he been implying that Poole’s affection went beyond the usual brotherly limits? They were only half-siblings, after all; such things were not unheard of. Could he have been jealous of Clara’s affair with another of the conspirators? But surely that would not have been grounds enough to kill her – especially at this crucial stage of the proceedings, when he knew that if all went according to Walsingham’s plan, these men would soon be rotting meat on London Bridge. And would a man like Robin – who seemed, from what I knew of him, dedicated to Walsingham’s service and willing to make sacrifices – be capable of jeopardising the operation and killing his own sister so cruelly out of jealousy? Perhaps, at a stretch, if one of them had got her with child, but Walsingham’s physician had checked that this was not the case. I pinched the bridge of my nose and allowed my eyes to fall shut for a moment. God, I was tired; I felt like a man who had wandered into a labyrinth on a sunny afternoon, thinking it good sport for half an hour, and found himself still turning the same dead-ends as night fell and a cold fog set in.
‘To answer your question,’ Poole said, standing abruptly and looking around for his boots, ‘I could not say for certain which of them she won over with her favours. Perhaps none, and everything she learned was done chastely. But if I had to wager, I would assume Babington. Wouldn’t you try him first, if you were a young woman?’
‘I’d take him over Savage, that’s for sure,’ I said, half-smiling, hauling myself to my feet to see him out. But as I spoke, I realised it was not true: in Clara’s place, I would have chosen a less obvious target. A shyer, less swaggering sort of man, not so used to female attention, and therefore more responsive to it. Chidiock Tichborne alone among the conspirators had repeatedly insisted that the body in the Cross Bones could not be Clara: was that because he wanted to deflect attention, or because he was in love with her and did not want to believe she was dead? Either way, I decided I needed further conversation with him, when the opportunity arose.
‘I must sleep,’ Poole said. ‘And tomorrow put on the mask again. At first light I will go to Phelippes and ask him how we should proceed in the matter of her death. I suppose it can be made public now that the conspirators know – Walsingham will want to decide on an official story. Perhaps I shall finally be allowed to bury her.’
I wish you luck with that, I thought. Well, it was Walsingham’s problem, not mine, to tell him his sister was already underground in an unmarked grave. I squeezed his shoulder. ‘You may arrive at Leadenhall Street before my letter – tell Phelippes to expect it. And to prepare for the plot moving forward sooner than he expected. I will set it out in more detail and send it to him in the morning.’
At this, Gifford turned from the window to point a finger at him. ‘Say nothing about Bessie yet,’ he said, so sternly he sounded almost sober. So he had been paying attention.
Poole cast a glance at me, brow quirked in a question. ‘You’re asking me not to tell Phelippes that the conspirators plan to use a young woman in the Queen’s service to murder her? What, should we tell him after her wine has been poisoned? Whose side are you on, Gilbert?’
‘I am with you, of course,’ he said, swaying slightly as he let go of the window frame. ‘But she has not yet been approached by Babington, much less agreed to help them. It would be unfair to place her under suspicion when her loyalties may be beyond reproach. In any case’ – the finger pointed unsteadily again – ‘if she does not agree, she will be the first to tell the Queen herself.’
‘And then Walsingham will wonder how three of his trusted espials managed to let that development pass them by,’ Poole said, gesturing between us, his mouth twisted with scorn. ‘Unfair! Christ, do you think this is a game of bowls, Gilbert, where everyone must be given a sporting chance? It is the Queen’s life we are talking about. The security of the realm. Why are you so keen to keep Bessie Pierrepont out of it?’
‘Because she has done nothing wrong,’ Gifford said, blushing scarlet to his ears.
‘Yet,’ I said pointedly.
‘Wait at least until tomorrow, can’t you? Till we learn how Ballard thinks we should proceed, and whether she is willing.’
Poole cut me a fast glance again; I responded with a minute nod. Let Gifford think we were giving Bessie the benefit of the doubt; if he feared she was being watched, he might not risk any more private meetings with her. From the discussion at The Castle, it seemed evident that Bessie was not, so far, part of the conspiracy, and yet she was handing over cryptic notes to Gifford in a code used by Mary Stuart; who, then, was she writing to?
‘Very well,’ Poole said, buttoning his doublet. ‘We will leave her name out for now.’
Gifford visibly relaxed; I followed Poole to the door.
‘He’s getting spooked,’ he whispered, darting a look over my shoulder at Gifford, who had emptied the wine bottle and was scouring the room in search of more. ‘He’s convinced Ballard is on to all of us, and playing us along.’
‘Do you think he could be right? You know these people.’
‘I see no sign of it. Ballard was wary of you, but I would expect nothing less. If he sent you out to give the sacraments tonight, I’d say you’ve convinced him.’ He pulled on his cap. ‘Listen, you need to talk Gilbert round, because I have tried. If he goes on drinking like that, he will give himself away sooner or later, and us with him. Should I say something to Phelippes?’
I shook my head. ‘Let’s see where we are tomorrow. Once Ballard has decided how to proceed, Gilbert will be put on the road with a letter to Mary keeping her up to date. He’ll be less of a liability once he’s out of London.’
Poole grimaced, in a way that implied solidarity. ‘You’ll mention Bessie in your report?’
‘Of course. But he doesn’t need to know that.’
He nodded, and promised to let me know any messages from Phelippes the next day. When the door had closed behind him, I bolted it and turned to Gifford.
‘Did you bring anything to drink?’ he asked, holding up the empty bottle.
‘No. Not even the consecrated wine from the Eucharist. I need to write a report, and you should sleep – you need your wits about you for tomorrow.’
I rummaged for the linen strips and alum solution in the pack I had brought from Leadenhall Street; only hours before, though it felt like days ago. A headache pounded bluntly behind my eyes. I pulled up a cha
ir at the small table beside my bed and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyelids, as if that might clear my head.
‘Ballard is going to kill us, you know,’ Gifford said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘If we left tonight, we could be twenty miles clear of London by first light, with good horses.’
‘What?’ I swivelled in my chair to look at him. ‘Why would you think that? Ballard had me giving extreme unction to a grandmother tonight – would he have allowed that if he doubted me?’
‘The postscript.’ He shifted position and tried to focus on me. ‘On Mary’s letter. It’s a forgery. Babington was fooled, because he’s an idiot, but Ballard will see through it in an instant.’
I recalled the journey to see Clara’s body; Phelippes’s voice in the dark of the carriage, saying that evidence could be made more convincing. ‘How do you know it’s a forgery?’
He rolled his eyes at my slowness. ‘Because I was there when Phelippes opened the letter. There was no postscript. Phelippes must have added it afterwards, to entrap them. And Ballard will know that immediately.’
‘You’re panicking for nothing. Phelippes will have made sure the hand is undetectable.’
‘It’s not the hand. It’s the very question. Mary Stuart would never ask Babington to name his fellow conspirators, nor put details of Elizabeth’s execution in writing – she knows that would condemn her as well as them. As soon as Ballard reads it – which he is probably doing at this moment’ – he jolted upright and stared at the door, as if Ballard might be about to kick it in – ‘he will know the correspondence has been tampered with, and he will have Savage torture me until I tell him everything.’ He appeared to be on the verge of tears, his hands trembling as he twisted them together.