by S. J. Parris
A gravel path led around to the rear courtyard, though we kept to the grass verge alongside it so our footsteps would not be heard. As we rounded the corner, Ben grabbed at my sleeve and yanked me back; his young eyes had spotted what mine had not.
‘On the ground,’ he whispered. I leaned around the side of the building and saw what he meant: a long, dark shape sprawled on the flagstones by a rear door. When I was satisfied that it was not moving, I nodded to him to follow me closer. The body of a man lay on the ground, his hands spread like white starfish against the stone. My throat tightened; I crouched to turn him over so I could see his face, pale as marble, the eyes unseeing. I recognised him as one of the guards I had met the other day. His sword remained sheathed at his side – he had not anticipated danger from this visitor – and the dark stain that spread over his livery suggested the stab wound had been swift and precise, under the ribs to the heart. The blood pooling underneath him was still sticky and his limbs had not yet had a chance to stiffen, meaning he had been killed within the past three or four hours.
‘Shit,’ Ben said, with feeling.
‘Come on.’ I drew the man’s sword and gestured towards the door. I was under no illusion about my skill as a swordsman – I knew the basic techniques and Philip Sidney had tried to teach me some finesse – but the weapon would at least allow me more space to confront a potential attacker than my short dagger. I was braced to put my shoulder to the door, dreading what it would do to my ribs, but before I could try, Ben turned the handle and found that it opened smoothly. We exchanged a glance as I stepped into the dark corridor.
I could make out no sounds from anywhere; only the soft echo of our footsteps along the passage, which ended in a door that opened on to the high entrance hall and the main staircase. Moonlight fell in faint diamonds through a mullioned window over the stairs.
‘Where are all the servants?’ I whispered, looking around, the sword held out. ‘They can’t all be in bed.’
‘Try calling.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t want him to know we’re here. Let’s look upstairs.’
‘For what?’
I closed my eyes briefly and tried to summon the image of the floor plan Robin had marked up, but it remained stubbornly submerged in the dregs of the opium haze; at that moment I would have given anything for another cup of Leila’s kahve, even though it seemed to have made my hands jittery and my heart race faster. All I could recall of the plan was that one of the rooms had been labelled ‘nursery’.
‘Try to find the nursery. I’ll take these stairs, you go along that hallway there, you should find the servants’ stairs around the corner. I’ll scout the first floor, you go to the second. And be careful.’
He gave a scornful snort and disappeared into the shadows. I climbed the main staircase, flinching at every creak in case it gave us away. I turned each door handle slowly and silently, springing into the room with the guard’s sword drawn, only to find a succession of dark, empty parlours and bedchambers, nothing that looked like a child’s room. As the silence grew, so too did my apprehension; I began to form terrible visions of opening the next door to find the entire household slaughtered. But by the time I was satisfied that I had tried every room on the first floor, I had seen no sign of life – or death. I was about to go up and find Ben when I heard footsteps and a small cry from above.
I took the stairs two at a time, no longer caring about the sound, and found Ben on the upper landing, a hand to his mouth, standing over another body laid prone on the carpet. I bent to turn it over and saw the staring face of the steward Marston, his clothes also soaked with blood on the left side where he had been stabbed.
‘Did you find the nursery?’ I asked Ben.
‘Empty,’ he said, looking at the body. His face appeared deathly white; I began to wish I had not brought him to witness all this. ‘There’s no one here.’
‘He must have taken them somewhere. But – all the servants? Surely one of them would have tried to stop him.’
‘Looks like this bloke did,’ Ben said. ‘Where do you think he’s gone?’
I shook my head. ‘I haven’t a clue.’ If Robin had managed to kidnap Lady Sidney and baby Lizzie, I could not begin to imagine where he might have taken them. I tried to think clearly. ‘We need to get word to Walsingham at Whitehall. You take the horse and ride there, you’re in better shape than me. I’ll go to Phelippes at Leadenhall Street – he might have an idea. We’d better make haste.’ I turned towards the stairs when the boy suddenly laid a hand on my arm.
‘Wait – what was that?’
I froze, hearing nothing. I was about to move when he squeezed tighter.
‘There – listen.’
This time I heard it – thin and distant, as if it were coming from somewhere far outside, but unmistakable none the less.
‘That’s a baby crying,’ Ben said. ‘Coming from downstairs.’
I cocked my head and listened again. ‘Oh God. The cellars.’
He looked up at me, catching my expression. He would not have known that Walsingham had had the cellar at Barn Elms adapted to hold prisoners too sensitive to be seen at the Tower – especially suspected priests and Catholic spies, like the real Father Prado. It was possible that the same arrangement existed beneath this house too.
‘Change of plan,’ I said, grasping Ben by the shoulders. ‘I need you to take a message for me. You’ll have to ride as fast as you’ve ever ridden – can you do that?’ There was only one person who could help us now. I gave Ben the instructions and he listened, nodding, eyes intent and serious. When I had finished, he spat on his palm and held it out to shake. This time I did the same.
‘Godspeed,’ I whispered as he scurried away, his feet soundless on the stairs.
I made my way down to the ground floor and followed the passageway back to the kitchen. In a house such as this, I would have expected to find the door to the cellar here, but if Walsingham used the underground chambers for detainees, it seemed likely that he would have had a separate entrance constructed so that they didn’t have to be paraded through the house. I groped around the kitchen in the thin moonlight until I found a candle and tinderbox on a dresser; it was not much against the darkness, but better than nothing. I paused at the door that led out to the gardens; here the child’s howling sounded closer, and more frantic. For as long as she was crying, though, she was alive, and there was a chance of saving her. The kitchen door opened on to a small yard planted with beds of herbs; on the far side I saw an outbuilding jutting at right angles to the house. I tried the wooden door and found it bolted from the inside, so there was no hope of picking the lock; instead I smashed the small window to one side and, stifling whimpers of pain, pulled myself through the gap into a storeroom piled with barrels and sacks. As I had hoped, there was a wide wooden hatch set into the floor at one end; I lifted one half and was surprised to find it unlocked. Inside it, a flight of stone steps led down into blackness.
I lowered myself in gingerly, holding the candle aloft in one hand and the sword in the other, and hoping that the baby’s protests would have drowned out the sound of breaking glass and the hatch creaking on its hinges. The crying grew closer as I neared the foot of the stairs and reached another door. This one was locked, and I had to stop myself thumping it with my fists in frustration. But I could not give up now; I set the sword down, took the metal penknife from my boot heel and inserted it into the lock. It was difficult to see with only one candle, and my fingers shook badly from the combined effects of the opium and the kahve, but I had barely tried to move the knife before the door swung open smoothly and I fell through on to my knees, to find myself staring at a pair of boots.
‘I wondered when you might join us,’ Poole said, over the baby’s screams. ‘I didn’t want you to miss it. After all, we’re here because of you.’
I looked up to see him standing over me, baby Lizzie strapped to his chest in a kind of cloth sling; he was jiggling her up and down, but to l
ittle effect. His face in the shifting light appeared empty of expression. I could not see if he was armed.
‘Get up,’ he said, kicking the sword away and pulling the door shut behind me. ‘Throw your knife down in that corner. And the one at your belt. Now, or I’ll snap her neck.’
I stood, wincing, and did as I was told. The weapons fell with a ring of steel on stone and I glanced around to find myself in an underground room well lit by torches in wall brackets. The chamber was lined in brick, the vaulted ceiling twice the height of a man, supported by stone columns at intervals, like the crypt of a church. Against the far wall, I could see three figures seated with their legs out, hands bound before them, gags around their faces. I recognised Alice, Lady Sidney’s maidservant; the second was a plump, round-faced woman in a linen coif. The third person – slight and hunched in the shadows – was Joe. My heart leapt to see the child alive; his big eyes widened at the sight of me, though I could not tell if it was in hope or fear. But I could see no sign of Frances Sidney.
‘God’s blood, will this child never stop?’ Poole said, exasperated, to the room in general. An urgent sound came from the large woman next to Alice, though none of it was intelligible through her gag.
‘She’s probably hungry,’ I said.
‘Oh. Lucky the expert has arrived.’ He gave me a look from the tail of his eye. ‘Stand against that wall and don’t move a muscle.’
I did as I was told. He crossed the room to the women. ‘You,’ he said to the one who had been trying to speak, who I guessed was the child’s wet-nurse. ‘Feed her, shut her up. You know what will happen if you try anything.’
I saw the woman’s eyes flit with terror to the right-hand side of the room; I tried to follow her gaze but whatever she was looking at was obscured from my view by pillars and shadows. Poole untied the plump woman’s wrists and set the baby awkwardly in her arms; she undid her bodice and the baby snuffled her way inside the folds of cloth. The silence that fell when the screaming stopped felt like a reprieve.
‘Thank God, now I can think.’ Poole massaged his temples and returned to me. ‘So I realised when I returned home this afternoon that someone had paid me a visit,’ he said. ‘I guessed it must have been you. Walsingham always said you were quick. I was almost jealous, he seemed so impressed by your talents.’
‘Not quick enough,’ I said, through my teeth.
‘No, he overestimated you. I thought you’d have been here sooner – I began to fear you’d gone to tell him what you’d found. But I should have known you’d want all the credit for resolving the business single-handed. I’m guessing Ballard got to you first.’ He looked me up and down. ‘So you know about Clara. Frances told me.’
‘Where is Frances? And the rest of the household?’
‘I instructed Marston to send all the servants home immediately. I said it was Master Secretary’s order. He gave them the night off and tomorrow, as long as they didn’t ask any questions.’
I nodded; it was at least some relief to know I wasn’t going to find any more murdered servants. ‘Then you killed him.’
‘Don’t feel sorry for him. He was a lecher. Clara said he made her uncomfortable, since she’d been living there – always finding excuses to come to her room late at night and ask her something, standing that bit too close to her.’
‘Did she say he touched her?’
‘No, but I’m sure he would have tried, given the chance. I saw how he looked at her, filthy old hound.’
‘God forbid anyone should look at your sister. And the guard outside – did he dare to look at her too?’
‘No, he was in my way. I sent his colleague off to Barn Elms with an urgent message for Sir Francis, but that one still made a fuss about letting me in.’
‘I thought Walsingham was at Whitehall?’
‘He is. So that should keep the guard out of the way for a few hours.’
‘What are you going to do about Clara’s lover – kill him too?’
‘I think Walsingham will do that for me,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘They’ll have scattered, but they won’t get far. They won’t escape punishment.’
‘Not even Babington? Don’t you care about him?’
He shrugged. ‘He was diverting, while it lasted. I tried to persuade him to leave London before the plot was discovered. He didn’t want to hear it – he’s too much in love with the idea of his own heroism. Leave him to it – there are other pretty boys in the world.’
‘And you? Do you seriously think you’ll escape punishment?’
‘I’ll be long gone by the time anyone realises what’s happened. There’s a boat waiting for me at Tilbury. I’ll sail tonight and be with Clara by tomorrow. Then we’ll both leave the country.’
‘What about the baby? And the rest of us?’
‘The baby’s coming with me. The rest of you will be found eventually, I suppose. Whether you’re all alive depends on you.’
‘What will you do with her?’
‘Elizabeth?’ He glanced back at the child, nuzzling contentedly in her nurse’s arms. ‘I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll drop her in the river, eh. Then everyone can say she must have fallen in and drowned.’ His attempt at calm was cracking; there was a febrile rage in his voice that I needed to keep at bay for a while longer, in case he did anything impulsive.
‘Why are you doing this, Robin?’ I held my hands out, palms up, in a gesture of submission. ‘I understand wanting to protect your sister. But to harm a child – I find it hard to believe of you. Otherwise, why have you kept Joe alive?’
‘Because I knew you were looking for him, and you’d find a body sooner or later. And don’t imagine you know me. You clearly don’t understand Walsingham, that’s for sure.’ He took a step closer and leaned down so that his face was a foot from mine. ‘He took my father from me, and he would have taken my sister. I want him to know how it feels to lose everyone you love.’
‘You have no evidence that Walsingham would have hurt Clara, and only the word of one bitter old man in prison about your father.’
‘No evidence?’ He spun on his heel and laughed – a wild, manic sound. ‘You saw it for yourself. How he responded when he thought Clara had been murdered. He didn’t even intend to investigate her death. It meant nothing to him, compared to his precious operation. This girl who had been his ward since she was fourteen years old – he would have thrown her in an unmarked grave, in case her death hampered his obsession with convicting Mary Stuart. He refused to let me see her body. He treated her as if she were worthless.’
‘But it wasn’t her.’
‘He didn’t know that!’ He ran his hands through his hair; he was growing agitated, and that would not help any of us. ‘I feigned Clara’s death because I knew he would have considered her disposable if he learned of her condition, and her change of heart towards the conspirators. And I was right – he did consider her less important than the Babington plot, even in death. When I saw how he treated her – that’s when I decided he must be made to understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘That people are not his chess pieces, to move around at his whim.’
‘So – let me see if I have this right – you’re going to kill his granddaughter, to punish him for being prepared to murder your sister, even though you have no proof of that, and then for not investigating her death, even though that’s exactly what he asked me to do, and she’s not actually dead?’
Behind him, the baby made a series of small whimpering sounds; Poole turned abruptly and the nurse shook her head in panic, holding up a hand to fend him off as she transferred the child to the other breast.
‘I’m tired of discussing this, Bruno,’ Poole said. ‘I knew the moment he asked you to look into her death – which he only did because Frances nagged him, by the way, not because he cared for Clara – that you’d come to the truth sooner or later. I should have got rid of you too, but I was intrigued to see if you would work it out.’
‘You need a better eye for detail, Robin.’ I was determined to keep him talking for as long as possible; I did not want to think of what might happen to baby Lizzie, as well as to me and the other prisoners, if he lost interest in explaining himself. ‘The henna was a nice touch, but your sister bit her nails badly, the girl you killed did not. Though that wasn’t even your biggest mistake.’
‘No? Then tell me what was. And make it quick – I have a boat to catch.’
‘You should have made sure Clara was on your side. That locket you dropped in the Cross Bones for me to find – you didn’t know she’d hidden that secret message inside, did you? Did Joe see you plant the locket that morning you took me there – was that another reason to keep him quiet?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You worked out the message?’ He gripped me by the collar and pulled my face to his. ‘Tell me what it said.’
‘If you tell me what you’ve done with Frances.’
He released his grip and smiled. ‘Oh, I was going to do that. Come and see.’ He led me to the far side of the room, around the pillar. I bit down a cry. This was clearly where interrogations took place, or had done when Walsingham lived in the house. Frances Sidney was kneeling on the floor, unmoving, her head bowed and her hair hanging around her face. Something had been bound around her head. Her wrists were tied with a leather strap behind her back, and attached to a length of rope that extended overhead and passed through a pulley fixed to the ceiling.
‘Are you familiar with this?’ Poole asked, indicating the contraption.
‘Il tormento della corda,’ I whispered. I felt my stomach rise and clenched my teeth hard in case I vomited. Frances stirred at the sound of my voice; she lifted her head and I realised that she was wearing a scold’s bridle – a metal frame that compressed the tongue, to stop women talking. Her eyes met mine but she seemed to have trouble focusing.
‘That’s right. Strappado, your people call it, don’t they? Popular with the Inquisition, I believe – we learned a lot of techniques from them. You should feel at home.’