by S. J. Parris
I rubbed my eyes; the lack of sleep was sending me mad, clutching at any straws. It still seemed far more probable that Ballard had killed Clara on suspicion of being a spy, been seen by Joe, and taken the child somewhere so he could not talk. However ruthless the priest was in pursuit of a Catholic England, I refused to believe he would kill a child. If I achieved nothing else that day, I was determined to find Joe alive.
I heaved myself out of bed, washed away the traces of last night’s encounter and put on a clean shirt. I wondered if Sophia had lain awake thinking about me, and laughed aloud, with some bitterness, at the idea; even before I had closed the door, her thoughts had returned to her report for Phelippes, and the information it might buy her about her son. I realised that part of my ill temper was hunger; I decided to walk up to the Saracen’s Head, break my fast and borrow Dan’s horse to return to Southwark. I could visit the Unicorn on the pretext of getting my Father Prado clothes back, and take the opportunity to look around; it occurred to me that Ballard might more easily have locked Joe away somewhere at the Unicorn – he was the one who had told me about the inn’s secret hiding places. The prayer beads could have been left on the jetty as a false trail. In the meantime, I would ask Ben to deliver a note to Phelippes, outlining my suspicions about Ballard and my fears for Joe. Though the cryptographer would likely be preoccupied with Gifford’s flight, if they had not already caught him, I would suggest that leaving Ballard at large any longer would put more lives at risk, and that the time had come to arrest him. I was aware that this was not for me to decide, but if Robin had secured a copy of the letter from Babington to Mary detailing the new plan against Elizabeth, that would be evidence enough to take in all the conspirators, and I was sure at least one of them would be willing to answer questions once they were locked in the Tower. I did not fancy Titch or Babington’s chances of holding out against interrogation once they saw some of the devices Walsingham had at his disposal. The thought was a disquieting one, and I turned away from it.
I was looking out a fresh sheet of linen to write to Phelippes when I heard a sharp knock at the door. I froze, fear tightening my spine; for a few moments I had forgotten the immediate danger I was in, now that Weston could have told any of the conspirators that I was not the real Prado. I snatched up my knife from the bed and waited. The knock came again, louder, and a boy’s voice said imperiously:
‘I haven’t got all bloody day, you know.’
I exhaled with relief before pulling the door open.
‘You don’t know how happy I am to see you, Ben,’ I said, clasping him by the shoulders.
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Yeah, all right, don’t get soft. You can put that knife down and all. I came to say there’s a woman up at the Saracen’s wants to talk to you.’
My heart leapt. I had thought this was an expression, but I swear I felt it bounce in my chest; so she had thought of me after all, and regretted her haste in dismissing me the night before. I had hoped she would send Ben with a message, but could not have dreamed it would happen so quickly.
‘Walk with me, Ben – I could use your sharp eyes and ears.’
‘Why, someone after you?’ He looked interested.
‘All the time.’ I locked the room and we walked down the stairs together.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Ben said, patting the waistband of his trousers where he tucked his pocket knife. ‘I’ve got your back.’
‘Did she give you any other message?’ I asked, as we walked along Holborn, Ben trotting alert as a hunting dog at my side.
‘Just said it was urgent.’ He wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Who wants to kill you?’ This was evidently much more exciting to the boy than any tryst with a woman.
‘About three different people at the last count, and that’s just in London. Keep your eyes peeled.’
A weak sun was trying to push through the high veil of cloud overhead, though the previous day’s warmth had vanished, the morning was chilly and the people we passed on their way into the City were wrapped in cloaks and hats, making it easier for someone in disguise to catch me unawares. But we reached the Saracen’s Head without incident, and all my nerves felt alight as my eyes raked the tap-room for Sophia, anticipating her shy, knowing smile when she saw me. Not finding her, I turned to Ben, confused.
He jerked his head – ‘Corner table’ – and disappeared through a side door. I followed the direction of his gaze and saw a woman with her back to me, a dirty shawl pulled around her hair, dressed in the drab worsted of a serving girl. My spirits sank; not Sophia, after all. But it might be important, none the less; news of Joe? I approached the table apprehensively and sat down opposite the stranger; when she raised her head I almost exclaimed aloud, but she pressed a finger to her lips.
‘What are you doing here?’
It was not the correct form of address to a titled lady, but Frances Sidney grinned, her brown eyes bright. ‘I needed to speak to you. I could hardly ask you to call at the house, so I thought I’d come to you.’
‘Are you not worried, walking the streets of London alone?’
‘I’m not an ornamental bird,’ she said, a little testy. ‘I’ve done it plenty of times, when Father and Philip are away – I bought these clothes from one of the maids. I like wandering the streets and observing – so much goes on that a respectable lady is not supposed to know about.’
‘Does no one recognise you?’
‘Of course not. People see what they expect to see, and in these clothes I’m just another servant on her way to market. Anyway, I’m not alone – Alice is over there.’ She gestured, and I saw her maid sitting at a table on the other side of the room, looking out of the window. Frances lowered her voice. ‘I wanted to know what progress you have made with finding Clara’s killer, and I knew Thomas would not tell me, so I thought I should hear it from the horse’s mouth.’
I shook my head. ‘Not as much as I would have liked. I have a strong suspicion, but I can’t prove it yet, and I fear another life may be in danger. But I can tell you that the conspiracy gathers pace, and I think your father will be ready to close in soon, so he will have them all under lock and key. I suppose he can find out the details when he questions them.’
Neither of us spoke for a moment; we both knew what that entailed. A movement at the edge of my vision made me jump; I snapped round to see Dan Hammett holding a plate of soft bread and a bowl of clear honey.
‘My lady,’ he murmured, setting it down in front of her.
‘Thank you, Dan.’ She smiled up. ‘But it’s just Frances in here, remember. And bring the same for my friend, please.’
He gave a slight bow and disappeared.
‘You come here a lot?’ I asked, amused.
‘Dan works for my father,’ she said. ‘I’ve known him since I was a child. But listen,’ she sighed and twisted her fingers together, ‘I owe you an apology. I have not been entirely honest with you.’
‘How so?’
She picked at her breakfast. ‘I’ve known all along who killed Clara.’
I reared back and stared at her. ‘What?’
She nodded unhappily. ‘At least, I thought I did. But I wanted you to reach the same conclusion by yourself, without any prompt from me, and if possible with evidence that would prove it. I hoped you’d have worked it out by now.’ She sounded reproachful, as if the fault were mine.
‘I don’t understand.’ I struggled not to raise my voice in anger. ‘If you know, for God’s sake why did you not just tell your father? Why drag me into it?’
There was a long pause. She pulled her bread into tiny shreds.
‘Because it is my father,’ she said eventually.
I had thought I possessed some skill at hiding my emotions, but I sat there gaping at her like a child shown a sleight of hand trick. ‘Are you mad?’ I hissed. ‘You think Sir Francis murdered Clara Poole? Why would he ever—’ Even as I geared up to protest the impossibility of her absurd accusation, a feeling of unease prickled at
the back of my neck. I thought of Savage’s story about George Poole.
‘Listen.’ She pulled out a cloth bag from her lap. ‘Now that Clara’s death has been officially declared, we’ve been allowed to pack up her belongings for her brother. It was not considered proper to let a man go through her personal things, so Alice and I have been doing it. And I found these.’ She reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of well-made ladies’ gloves in pale blue satin. ‘I gave them to her as a New Year gift, two years ago.’
I looked at them with a questioning shrug, So?
She dropped her voice further. ‘After her body was found, Sir Francis swept into her room stony-faced, the way he does, and took away all the papers he could find, any notes or letters. Presumably he and Thomas wanted to see if there was anything in her correspondence that would be useful to them – or damaging. But they didn’t find these.’ She reached into one of the gloves and pulled out a rolled-up slip of paper, then did the same with the other. ‘Two notes he didn’t get his hands on. I wanted you to see them.’
She unfurled the first one and pushed it across to me. It was a set of four pictograms, like the one in the locket and the copy in Titch’s room. But though the layout was similar, the symbols were different, the style less assured. There was a four-legged creature that might have been a dog or a bear; a horse’s hoof with an iron shoe and a hammer; a square bordered by trees and hedges that might have been a field or a garden, and a document with the word ‘Testament’ written in tiny letters on the top.
‘Do you know what this means?’ I asked, amazed.
‘No idea. I hoped you might.’
‘I’ve seen something like it, connected to Clara. But I can’t work out what it says. Evidently she communicated with someone who understands these pictures, but I don’t know who.’ Titch? I wondered. Or someone else, who sends these messages to both Titch and Clara? ‘May I take it, to examine further?’
Frances looked disappointed, but she nodded, and I tucked the note into my pocket. ‘Well – that one remains a mystery, for now. But there was also this.’ She smoothed out the second paper and its provenance was immediately clear, if not its content. It was written in cipher, but the neat, compressed handwriting was as familiar to me by now as my own.
‘This is from Thomas Phelippes,’ I said.
‘Exactly. Do you know what it says?’
I held up the paper and squinted at the characters. ‘I don’t recognise this code. But I’m sure I could work it out, if you give me some time to study it.’
‘No need.’ She flashed me a triumphant smile. ‘You know that my father keeps his study at Seething Lane. Well, I thought I would have a look for the cipher in his cabinet.’
‘He doesn’t lock the room?’
‘Of course he does. But one evening last year I was taking him in a glass of wine and found him asleep at his desk. So I thought it politic to make an impression of the key in wax. Alice had a copy made from it. No doubt you think me devious.’
‘I think you are extremely resourceful.’
She inclined her head, a terse little pout at her lips. ‘My father is not a well man, as you have seen. I have been acquainting myself with his files. Someone needs to know where things are in that study, in case the day comes when he is no longer able to – well, you understand.’
‘I pray that day is far distant.’
‘We all do. But it will take more than prayer to make him slow down.’ She made a flicking motion with her hand, as if to brush that aside. ‘I know that Thomas Phelippes keeps a copy of every separate cipher he uses for every informer who works for my father, and because there is not enough space at Leadenhall Street, many of them are filed in my father’s study at Seething Lane instead.’
‘But there must be dozens, if not hundreds. How could you locate the right one?’
She smiled. ‘Every agent has a code name. I had only to look under Clara’s, which was Juturna.’
‘The Roman goddess of – water, is it?’
‘Very good – wells and springs, to be precise. Because of her name, you see. Clara Poole. The code names are usually some kind of joke between Thomas and Sir Francis.’
‘I didn’t think Thomas understood the concept of jokes. Do I have a code name?’ I asked, trying to sound casual. I hoped – pathetically – that it would be something suitably heroic.
‘Of course.’ She looked down at the paper and pressed it flat against the table. ‘But I don’t think it would be proper to—’
‘For God’s sake, Frances – you’ve come here and accused your own father of murdering your friend, and now you’re being coy about my nickname?’
‘All right. It’s Argos.’
‘Argos?’ I sat back and looked at her. ‘As in – Odysseus’s dog?’
‘That’s right. So, I found the cipher—’
‘Hold on – when Odysseus returns to Ithaca,’ I said, affronted, ‘he finds old Argos lying on a pile of shit, infested with fleas and worn out to the point of death. Is that your father’s view of me?’
She made an impatient noise through her nose. ‘I think it’s meant to be a pun. Because you used to be a Dominican. God’s dogs – isn’t that what they call you?’
Domini canes; she was right, it was an old nickname for my former order. I had been hoping for something like ‘Hercules’.
‘In any case,’ she said, patting my hand briefly in consolation, ‘doesn’t Homer say that in his prime, Argos was the greatest hunting dog ever known? And he is celebrated for his fidelity – he waits to die until he has seen his master for the last time.’
‘Perhaps your father thinks that’s why I came back to England.’
Fidelity, I thought. Or else just obstinacy; I do not like to give up. Walsingham knew that, and had certainly used it to his advantage over the years. Frances tapped her finger smartly on the paper to bring my attention back, and I thought how like him she looked in that moment.
‘To come to the point – I found the cipher Phelippes used with Clara and translated this note. I brought a copy.’
‘How long did it take you?’ I asked, curious, as she rummaged again in her bag.
‘Half an hour? It’s not a long note, and I have a good eye for ciphers. I’ve been practising since I was a child.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. When your father is no longer able to run the Service, they are sure to appoint you his successor,’ I said. My admiration was not feigned.
She pulled a face. ‘If they had any sense. I could do it, too. But they would never think of a woman. Instead they will appoint Lord Burghley’s hunchback son Robert, I would wager on it, who is only out for his own advantage. Now – look at what Phelippes sent to Clara.’
She handed me a paper; in a sloping, feminine hand she had written:
Cross Bones, Southwark. 27 July, midnight. Wait north-east corner. He will wear hat with white feather.
I looked up at Frances. Her small mouth was set in a grim line.
‘That is it, word for word?’
‘To the letter. That’s all it says. But it’s clear, isn’t it? It was Thomas Phelippes who sent Clara to the Cross Bones the night she was killed, to meet a man with a white feather in his hat.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘I don’t know – my father has any number of men in his pay who would do that kind of job.’ She was battling not to raise her voice in frustration. ‘But it confirms my theory, don’t you think? They sent her to her death.’