by S. J. Parris
‘So you told him?’
‘Yes. I was afraid of how he would respond, but he was delighted.’ She wiped a tear with her sleeve. ‘He promised we would be together, he would tell Anthony he was out of the plot and we would leave London – he could see by then that the Mary Stuart business was built on delusions, even without knowing it was being monitored. But he didn’t want to leave Anthony to Ballard’s influence – he wanted to try and convince him to abandon the plan too. And I did what I have always done when I’m in trouble and worried.’ She chewed savagely at her fingernail; I wanted to slap her hand away like a nursemaid and tell her to stop.
‘You asked your big brother for advice,’ I said heavily.
She examined the remains of her nail and nodded. ‘I told Robin about the baby, God forgive me. I should never have said a word. He went mad. Called me all kinds of names, said I’d disgraced my father and mother, he told me he would drag me by the hair to this woman he knew of in Southwark to get rid of it. When I told him Titch was going to marry me, he laughed like a lunatic and told me I should be in the Bedlam as I was clearly insane. He said I had no idea what danger I was in.’ Her eyes darted again to the gate.
‘From whom? The conspirators?’
‘No. Though I think Ballard would have been furious – Titch and I had been careful to keep our affair secret, just as Robin and Anthony had. No – Robin was afraid of what Sir Francis would do.’
‘Because of your father?’
She stared again, as if trying to fathom me. ‘How do you know all this?’ When I didn’t reply, she looked down and ran a hand thoughtfully over her almost flat belly. ‘My brother was convinced that Sir Francis would have me killed if he knew about the baby, because he would think it meant I had gone over to the conspirators. Robin had this crazed idea that our father was murdered on Sir Francis’s orders because he was really on the side of the Catholics – Jack Savage had heard this in prison from some old papist and Robin swallowed it whole.’
‘But you didn’t?’
She looked away. ‘Our father drank. You probably know that too. He had a hard time recovering after his first wife died, Robin’s mother, but when my mother died too, something broke in him, I think, that’s when he really took to the bottle. You can’t sustain the life he was living – lying to everyone – when you’re never sober. I was amazed it took him so long to fall in the river. And it’s just as likely that in his cups he told one of his Catholic friends he’d been an informer and they pushed him. But Robin didn’t want to think about that, so he was thrilled when Savage handed him a reason to blame someone else. He turned against Sir Francis as soon as he heard that story.’
‘When did Savage tell him about this?’
She considered. ‘About six months ago, something like that?’
‘But Robin carried on working for Walsingham?’
‘He said he was waiting for the right opportunity to avenge our father. An eye for an eye. I thought he had gone a bit mad.’ She pushed back a stray lock of hair that had come loose from her cap and gave a dry laugh. ‘He sounded like something from one of those awful revenge plays they have at The Curtain. I told him to find better proof before he turned so dramatic.’ A spot of colour had appeared on her high cheekbones.
‘And he thought Walsingham would want to be rid of you the same way?’
She pressed her fingers into her eyes for a moment, as if that might make me go away, and seemed disappointed to find me still there when she opened them.
‘Once I told him about the baby, he became obsessed with getting me out of London before Walsingham made sure I disappeared. I told him he was overreacting, I didn’t think that would happen, but he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want me going anywhere alone, he kept calling round to Seething Lane to check on me, it was making Frances suspicious. So to stop him, I said I would be happy to leave London in secret, as long as he gave me time to persuade Titch to come too. But he wanted me to go immediately. Robin can be very…’ She pulled at the lock of hair again, twisting it around her finger. ‘He likes to be in control. It’s easier if I do as he says. He’s been like that since our father died, he feels it’s his job to protect me. I think he partly blamed himself for taking his eyes off me long enough for this to happen.’ She patted her stomach.
‘When did he go from wanting you out of London to killing another girl in your place?’
The colour drained from her face at that, and I began to believe that she had truly not intended Lotte’s death. I could use that guilt, I thought.
‘I had a note from Thomas Phelippes.’
‘Asking you to go to the Cross Bones to meet a contact.’
She no longer looked surprised at my knowing so much. ‘Yes. I showed it to Robin. He pounced on it, said there you have it, there is your death warrant. They must have found out about Titch and the baby, he said, why else would Sir Francis be sending me to Southwark in the middle of the night, if not to be killed? He was so intent, by that point I even started to think he might be right. Robin said we would use it to our advantage. He would go to Southwark and meet this man, and fix it so that Sir Francis and Phelippes believed I was dead. I was to leave London the same night to stay with our relative, to keep me out of harm’s way while the business with the conspiracy played out. I agreed, but I made him promise to tell Titch that I was safe. I gave Robin my locket to pass on to him as a gift, and I’d hidden the note inside, in case for any reason Robin decided not to tell him after all. I knew Titch would understand and come to me – it was our code.’
‘Adorable.’
She blushed, and darted me a shy smile. ‘Oh, I know it was silly, but isn’t that part of being in love – behaving like you’re fourteen again with your first sweetheart? It was how we arranged places to meet, and false names – the picture codes. Guessing was part of the excitement. I was a Lily once, and a Daisy – he was Tom, though we did laugh about that, because he’d drawn a cat and I thought it would be Kit, so I was in this inn near the Black Friars asking was there a Kit waiting for me, when—’
‘Yes, charming. But Robin didn’t deliver the message.’
The smile vanished at my brusqueness. ‘When I’d heard nothing for a few days, I realised he probably hadn’t. He had lied to me about that, just as I had lied to him about leaving London. So I sent another copy of the same message via one of the delivery boys here.’
‘And last night Titch found you.’ Her fierce blush told me that I had guessed correctly. So the boy had not been entirely untruthful when he said he had been with a barmaid. ‘When Robin said he would fix it so that Walsingham believed you were dead, what did you think he meant?’
‘I thought he would pay this man off, to say the deed was done. I swear, I never imagined—’
‘But he must have asked you for one of your dresses?’
She took a deep breath and ripped at another nail with her teeth; I clenched my jaw. ‘I thought he meant to leave it by the riverbank or something, to look as if I had gone in the water.’
‘So when did you learn that he killed another girl so people would think it was you?’
She levelled a fierce stare at me. ‘Do you know for certain it was Robin killed her? Has he told you he did?’
‘Well, someone killed her, and made sure she looked like you. He even got her to draw a stain on her neck with henna paste, to mimic this’ – I reached out with one finger and pulled the scarf down to show her birthmark – ‘so that Walsingham would identify the body as you. He took the trouble to smash her face up just enough that no one could say she wasn’t.’
Her fingers strayed to her neck and she closed her eyes. ‘Titch told me last night. I can’t believe Robin could do that to a woman though.’
‘Oh, it gets better,’ I said, aware that I was inflicting punishment for something that was not wholly her fault. ‘He also killed the friend of the dead girl, in case she gave him away, and he’s abducted a young child who got the henna for them, who might also be
dead by now. All so you could get safely to Essex. How will he feel when he learns you didn’t even do that, after all he’s risked for you?’
Clara made a small, strangled noise, and appeared to crumple at the knees as a great racking sob burst out of her; I stepped forward and caught her under the arms and she slumped against my shoulder while I held her up.
‘I had no idea,’ she whimpered. ‘I swear to it, God knows I never meant for anyone else to get hurt. Once, when I was fourteen, just after Father died, there was a boy I liked.’ Her voice disappeared, muffled, into the padding of my doublet. ‘It was nothing, just children practising how to flirt. He was fifteen, he worked in the gardens at Sir Francis’s house in Barn Elms. My brother saw me talking to him one day, just chatting and laughing, all very innocent. Robin was furious with me – he said I was simpering like a whore, our father would be disgusted with me and if I carried on, I would destroy the family name. Later, he beat the boy black and blue, and told Sir Francis it was because he’d caught him stealing. The boy lost his job.’
I remembered again the way Walsingham had said that Robin Poole loved his sister, the words so weighted with meaning. I had wondered if he was implying something improper, but it seemed the truth was more complicated.
‘It sounds as if your brother would go to any lengths to protect you,’ I said carefully. ‘Or at least to make sure he is the only person you love.’
I felt her nod against my shoulder. ‘I think he is afraid I’ll leave him. Because he will never have a wife, you know – he wants me to be there, always. He was against my first marriage, but he couldn’t defy Sir Francis, who gave it his blessing. But he was delighted when my husband died and I came back to Seething Lane, dependent again.’
‘Listen, Clara,’ I said, holding her gently by the upper arms so that I could look her in the eye. ‘What is Robin’s plan? You said he talked about revenge against Walsingham – does that mean he is now on the side of the conspirators? Will he try and find a means to make the plot against Elizabeth succeed?’ I couldn’t see any way this could work. Even if Robin had transferred his loyalty to Babington and his friends, there was not much he could do at this stage to prevent their arrests; Walsingham knew their names and had copies of their plans in writing, and even if Robin was now keeping details from Phelippes or feeding him false information, they had other sources inside the group – me, and Sophia watching Bessie Pierrepont. The realisation made the skin prickle on my neck, so that I glanced instinctively over my shoulder; either one of us could be Robin’s next target, if he thought that in some way he could allow the assassination to go ahead.
‘He’s never spoken like that,’ Clara said, wiping her face again on her sleeve. ‘I don’t think he gives two figs for Mary Stuart, or being Catholic for that matter, except in so far as it’s a badge of loyalty to our father. But I know he thinks Ballard is an unhinged fanatic, I can’t see that he’d want to support him to the bitter end. So, no – I don’t think he would throw England into chaos just to spite Sir Francis.’
‘Then what did he mean about revenge?’
‘I don’t know. I can tell you only that it’s not religion that matters most to Robin, it’s family.’
A flicker of fear started up somewhere at the base of my skull.
‘But he has never threatened anything specific?’
She shook her head. ‘I thought it was just a way to vent his anger. I didn’t really think he would do anything. But now…’ She let the words tail off, and went back to chewing her nail.
At that moment, the gate in the wall banged open and the innkeeper filled the doorway with a face like storm clouds.
‘Rose Sidney, I’m run off my feet in there, customers are screaming for their dinner and you’re dallying out here with another fancy man like a hussy – oh.’ She noted Clara’s tear-stained face and redirected her fury instantly to me. ‘Have you been bothering this girl, you filthy Spanish whoreson?’
‘No, Goodwife Bailey.’ Clara reached out a hand to pacify her. ‘This man is a friend of the family, and he has just brought me some sad news of a bereavement. But I am fine now. I’ll get back to work.’
The goodwife shot me a look that contained all her feelings about men and foreigners. ‘Right. Well. I’m sorry for your loss. You still haven’t paid for your dinner,’ she added, poking me in the chest.
‘My apologies. I hope this will cover your trouble.’ I bowed low and gave her sixpence. It occurred to me that I should have asked Phelippes for more money earlier – though I supposed he would be reluctant to grant it, now that I was defying an official order to stand down from the operation.
‘Where can I find your brother?’ I hissed to Clara, as she made to follow the woman back into the yard.
‘His lodgings are in Long Lane, by the Charterhouse, above the stationers’ shop. But please don’t tell him I’m here – you swear to it?’
‘If you promise not to go anywhere. And don’t tell Titch that we’ve spoken, if you see him again. I’ll be back.’
‘I don’t even know your name.’
I hesitated. ‘You can call me Prado for now.’
* * *
I was familiar with the streets around the Charterhouse; the printer who had published my books had his press here, and the sight of the old monastery buildings, their pale yellow stone warm in the sunlight, skewered me with a pang of nostalgia. If I acquitted myself well in this business and Walsingham gave me the means to stay in England, I might even find myself knocking at his door in a few months’ time with the manuscript of a new work. I dismounted and tethered the horse in a shady square, reprimanding myself; the conspiracy was not over yet, by a long way, and I must not allow myself to be distracted.
Long Lane ran alongside the churchyard of St Bartholomew the Great on one side of the road; the other was lined with smaller shops and businesses, some with their goods displayed on tables outside. A few customers loitered, browsing, making conversation; I wandered along the street, picking up occasional items as if I too were out shopping. I was pleased to see that the stationer’s was busy; if the proprietor was attending to customers, he would be less likely to notice anyone poking around the rest of the property. At the side of the house a narrow passage led to a flight of steps up to the door of the first-floor lodgings. I drew my dagger and knocked sharply.
There was no response; I strained to listen for any sound of movement from inside, but heard nothing. I tried one more time; when I was satisfied that no one was in, I took out the folding penknife from my boot heel and crouched to pick the lock with its thin blade. The mechanism was new and not yet crusted with dirt and rust; it yielded with little effort, and I almost wished Savage had been there to admire my skills. I pushed the door open and closed it quietly behind me, treading as carefully as possible in case my steps could be heard in the shop downstairs.
Robin Poole’s lodging was clean and sparely furnished: a truckle bed, a table with a few personal belongings – a comb, an earthenware jug, quills, penknives and a supply of paper, though no letters left out. A pair of breeches was folded neatly on top of a chest at the foot of the bed; the chest was unlocked and contained only clean shirts and underhose. I felt around the corners and rapped my knuckles on the base in search of a false compartment, but the wood sounded solid. I stood and let my gaze travel around the room. The place had a temporary air; there were none of the little touches of a home, no ornaments, no flowers on the windowsill. No sign of a woman, in other words. Robin Poole lived like me, and the thought struck me as sad: a single man in his thirties, whose whole life could be packed up in a travelling bag in a couple of hours. But, like me, he also lived a double life, which meant he had secrets to hide, and if we had anything in common, that ought to give me the insight into where to find them. In my rooms in Paris, I had kept the papers I did not want anyone to find under a loose board in the rafters. This was an old building, though clearly kept in good repair; I could not see any tell-tale gaps in the ceiling be
ams, but the walls were panelled with wood to waist height, and I began to work my way around knocking gently at intervals, trying to keep the sound down and stealing anxious glances at the door as I went. In the corner by the bed I heard the unmistakable hollow ring that told me there was a cavity in the wall; I pulled the bed out, felt around the panel with my fingertips and eventually located the tiny depression that allowed me to insert my knife and pry the panel until I could lift it free.
Inside I found a strongbox, locked. This lock took more work to pick; the box was of the kind purpose-built to keep money safe, and the mechanism was complex. More than once I was afraid I would snap some delicate moving part and the whole thing would break beyond repair, meaning the box would have to be forced; there was no time to risk that, and I doubted I would get very far if I tried to leave with it under my arm. But after a great deal of frustration and a couple of near-misses, I heard a small, satisfying click and the lock sprang open.
There was not much inside. A small purse of coins; a couple of sheets of cipher in Phelippes’s distinctive, crabbed writing, and two miniature portraits, cheaply done. One was a bearded, smiling man in his forties, hair greying at the temples, his thick brows almost meeting in a V above his nose, as Robin’s did; there was no doubting that this was George Poole as Robin remembered him. The second was easily recognisable; Robin himself, as a gawky youth of about twelve or thirteen, holding a delicate, smiling little girl with a mass of auburn curls. Though the artist had no great skill, he had managed to capture an expression of mutual delight on the children’s faces as they looked at one another; Clara was reaching a hand up to touch her brother’s cheek. For a moment, I felt an unnerving sense of loss; Robin lived like me, I thought, except for one thing: he had family. He had someone he believed depended on him, someone he would go to any lengths to protect, no matter how twisted that sense of duty had become. At the bottom of the box I found a folded sheet of paper, and a small charge, like the air before a storm, flashed up my spine.