by S. J. Parris
‘Did this come from any of the shirts or doublets you took out of the chest?’
‘Don’t think so. This is not a cheap thing, and Dunne’s clothes were shabby, for the most part. But let us look again.’
He prises open the chest and dumps an armful of the dead man’s clothes on the bed. Between us we lift up the meagre collection of shirts and doublets. They give off a stale, damp odour.
‘The shirts all lace at the neck,’ I point out.
‘And these doublets have buttons wrapped in thread,’ he says, dropping them back in the chest and wiping his hands. ‘Unless it belonged to the clothes he died in, it’s not his.’
‘So we might conclude that someone else lost this button in here. Perhaps in the course of a scuffle.’
‘Torn off while hoisting him to the ceiling?’ Sidney suggests. ‘That can’t have been an easy task.’
‘Hold on to it,’ I say. ‘And look closely at the buttons of everyone on board from now on. Its owner may not realise it is missing.’
Sidney drops the button into his purse for safekeeping, along with the coin. I slip the list of names inside my doublet and tuck the prayer book back under my arm.
We emerge on to the deck just as the door of the next cabin opens and Sir William Savile appears, fastening a short green cape to his shoulder. He looks surprised to see us in Dunne’s quarters but greets us with his usual heartiness. Again I detect a faint hint of irony in it, as if we are all agreed that we are acting a part. Or perhaps I am too ready to be suspicious.
‘Gentlemen. What are you up to in there – looting?’ He grins, nodding to the book, and I curse myself for not having thought to conceal it.
‘Sorting through Dunne’s belongings for his widow,’ Sidney says, with a touch of hauteur. Savile raises an eyebrow.
‘Ah. I see the Captain-General is not afraid of setting you to menial tasks,’ he says, but his eyes are still fixed on the book. ‘For my part I have told him I will keep the watch once in a while, but I draw the line at scrubbing out the heads. Is that a book of Dunne’s? I never saw him read anything except a hand of cards.’
‘It is a testament,’ I say. ‘Perhaps he preferred to keep his devotions private.’
He inclines his head. ‘Looks like a handsome book. Costly. For a fellow who claimed he didn’t have a shilling. And died owing me, I might add, among others. May I see?’
He meets my eye with an expectant smile as he holds out a hand. I make no move to release the book.
‘You played cards with him, then?’
Savile gives a short laugh. ‘For my sins. His enthusiasm for the card table was in direct proportion to his lack of talent for it, poor devil. The first night we docked in Plymouth, Sir Francis took a private room at the Star and we gentlemen dined together. There was a game after supper. Dunne went out early, and lost with a very bad grace, I must say. I was among those he promised to repay. He stormed away in a great fury. Not what you expect from an officer, but then some of these country gentlemen are rather unpolished, don’t you find?’ He addresses this question to Sidney, who refuses to return the slick smile, despite the fact that he almost certainly shares Savile’s views. There is something unpalatable about seeing one’s own snobbery reflected so nakedly in another.
‘Were the stakes high?’ I ask.
He turns and allows his glance to slide up and down me before resting on my face. ‘As high as befits the status of the players. But etiquette demands that you don’t enter into a game unless you can meet the stakes. Very bad form otherwise.’
‘Did Dunne leave the game owing a lot to the rest of the company?’
‘Not enough to make it worth killing himself,’ Savile says. ‘Or to make it worth anyone’s while to kill him.’ One side of his mouth curves into a smile.
‘Why – has someone suggested that is what happened?’
‘I thought that’s what you were implying. But one always speculates in these matters, don’t you think? Anyhow. Mustn’t speak ill of the dead,’ he adds, without sincerity. ‘Where are you fellows bound? Off to see the Captain-General?’ He looks as if he means to join us. I glance at Sidney; we would not be able to discuss anything with Drake if Savile tags along.
‘I intend to visit the rest of the fleet this afternoon in my capacity as Master of the Ordnance,’ Sidney says, with a little swagger of the shoulders. ‘Doctor Bruno will be helping Sir Francis with his charts.’
Savile looks at me with a flicker of interest. ‘Navigator, are you?’
‘I know something of astronomy.’
‘Huh. I thought he had a fellow for that. The whey-faced boy with the spectacles. Well, I think I shall come with you, Sir Philip. If I have to spend another afternoon in my cabin I fear I shall do away with myself out of boredom.’ He stops when he sees our expressions. ‘Sorry. Thoughtless. But really, it’s enough to drive you out of your wits, cooped up here all day. And the attractions of Plymouth are soon exhausted.’
‘I’m not sure there will be many more entertainments laid on during the months at sea,’ I say.
‘Ah, but that is different. At least we will be in the thick of it then. The journey itself is the adventure! Come, Sir Philip. Where shall we begin?’
Sidney throws me a helpless look as Savile takes him by the arm.
‘I can deliver the key to Sir Francis,’ I say, biting down a grin as I take it from Sidney’s hand. ‘I would not want to keep you from your official business, Sir Philip.’ He purses his lips and glares at me. If he was hoping to ask discreet questions about Dunne as he toured the other ships in the fleet, Savile’s company will be an unfortunate handicap, but that is Sidney’s problem. He can find his own way out of it; my thoughts now are bent on the book in Drake’s cabin.
EIGHT
‘Ah, Bruno. Come in. I hope the women didn’t wear you out with their chatter this afternoon.’ Drake is sitting behind his vast table, a raft of papers spread out before him. Gilbert Crosse is at his side, canted over with a pencil in his hand and his spectacles balanced on his nose. Thomas Drake stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back. He nods acknowledgement without a smile. Sidney is right; the man truly is his brother’s keeper. Gilbert glances from me to Drake in alarm, and moves to gather up the papers. Drake lays a hand on his arm.
‘Don’t worry, Gilbert,’ he says. ‘Doctor Bruno is not here to spy on your charts.’
Moving closer, I see that the papers are covered with detailed drawings of a section of coastline, all marked neatly with latitudes and meridians and carefully labelled with place names. I twist my neck to read and realise I am looking at the coast of north-west Spain, from Cabo de Finisterra to the mouth of the Vigo river. Gilbert watches me reading the map and touches his fingers to his temple, as if the anxiety were giving him a headache.
‘Did you draw these?’ I ask. He must catch the admiration in my voice, because he blushes all the way to his hairline and lays a hand on the edge of one of the pages, a proprietorial gesture.
‘But whose map is it from?’ I peer at it, intrigued. ‘It does not look like any of the extant maps I recognise.’
Gilbert looks at Drake for permission to answer.
‘I should hope it does not,’ Drake says with a smile, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘These drawings are original. Not copied from existing mappa mundae, but sketched from the true calculations and bearings of real navigators and pilots.’
‘You are remaking the map?’ I stare at them. It was common knowledge that the elaborate and often fanciful maps drawn up by cartographers, even the most skilled such as Gerard Mercator, bore little relation to the true shape of the world’s countries and especially their coastlines, as navigated by experienced mariners. Master cartographers more often than not copied their drawings from existing maps, so that the errors were replicated. It had always seemed to me absurd that there was not more collaboration between the adventurers and merchants of different nations when creating new maps – such collaboratio
n would mean enormous leaps in our understanding of the world and how to travel it. But a navigator’s local knowledge is a prized resource, closely guarded; to share it with a rival nation would be to give away military and commercial advantage.
‘War with Spain is inevitable, sooner or later,’ Drake says, giving me a sober look. ‘If not this year, then the year after, or the one after that. I suggested to Master Secretary Walsingham that Her Majesty’s fleet would be a good deal more confident when the time comes if we had accurate maps of the key Spanish ports and coastline. To say nothing of better charts of the Spanish Main and every other vital stronghold. He sent me Gilbert.’
The young man attempts to look modest, but I can see he is glowing.
‘You have some skill in cartography, then?’ I ask, regarding him with new interest.
‘Gilbert is a master draughtsman,’ Drake says, with as much pride as if he had trained the boy himself. ‘And has studied mathematics and cosmography. All he lacks is the experience of seeing a coastline up close, from the deck of a ship. This we hope to remedy.’ He claps the boy on the back.
‘I studied with a master cartographer in Antwerp, who had himself trained with Abraham Ortelius,’ Gilbert explains, puffing out his chest a little. ‘Though for the purposes of this journey, I am merely Captain Drake’s clerk,’ he adds quickly.
‘Yes. These maps do not exist,’ Drake says, tapping the papers on the table and fixing me with a warning look.
I bow to show that I have understood, recalling that the Queen had forbidden Drake to publish any map or account of his voyage around the world, lest it fall into Spanish hands. If these maps of Gilbert’s are to give England an advantage, Spain must not know of their creation. They are, in effect, military intelligence.
‘What have you there, Doctor Bruno?’ Gilbert says, blinking over his eye-glasses, pointing to the book under my arm. ‘Did you find that in Robert Dunne’s cabin?’ He lays down his pencil and looks at it with interest.
Drake glances sharply from me to Gilbert, assesses the situation, and with one practised movement he stands and rolls up the charts on the table, sending Gilbert’s pencil spinning to the floor. While the cartographer scrabbles beneath the seat in search of it, Drake gives me the minutest shake of his head.
‘Thank you, Gilbert. We will continue after supper, if we may, with the approach to the Vigo river.’
Gilbert accepts the dismissal, though he squirms on the spot, his face anxious.
‘I had planned to go ashore this evening, sir,’ he says, a slight waver in his voice. ‘To Evensong, as I always do. Though, of course, if you …’
Drake waves a hand. ‘No, forgive me, I had forgotten. Far be it from me to stand between a man and his prayers. I dare say we will have time enough to discuss the matter before we ever near the coast of Spain.’ He grimaces, as if he sees the prospect receding before his eyes.
Gilbert eases out from behind the table. He gives me a shy smile as his gaze flits again to the book in my hands. If our aim was to avoid speculation over the nature of Dunne’s death, we are making a poor job of it, I reflect; soon the whole ship will be murmuring about Sidney and me rummaging through the dead man’s belongings, and wondering why. Although, after our conversation with Gilbert and Savile, it seems clear that speculation is rife already.
When the door is firmly closed behind Gilbert, Drake pushes both hands through his hair in a distracted gesture, and motions for me to take a seat opposite him.
‘Where is Sir Philip?’ he asks.
‘Gone to speak to the other captains about ordnance. Sir William volunteered to accompany him.’
Drake chuckles. ‘Let them get under each other’s feet. What have you turned up in Dunne’s cabin, then?’
I hand over the book, explaining where I had found it. He nods when he opens it to see the cut-away hiding place and the purse. ‘Yes, I have seen such things before. A good way to hide valuables, though better done with a less showy book, I would think. I wonder where Dunne got this kind of money.’
‘Not at the card table,’ Thomas says, with conviction. It occurs to me that the dead man may have owed him too.
‘However it came into his hands, it suggests that the killer was not interested in valuables,’ I say. ‘It was not much of a hiding place – it would have been short work to find that money. We also discovered this beneath the boards of his bunk.’ I hand him the list. As he scans it, his composure falters and his face grows pale.
‘Thomas, take a look at this.’ Drake hands him the list. Thomas reads it and looks up at his brother, his expression fighting between anger and shock. They exchange a long look, before Sir Francis turns to me.
‘Do you know what this is?’
‘A list of jurymen from Port San Julian?’ I venture. ‘Those who condemned Thomas Doughty to death?’
‘How could you know that?’ Thomas Drake snaps his head up from the paper. He crumples it in his fist and glares at me.
‘Lady Drake mentioned something about it today when we were out walking.’
‘Did she?’ Drake raises an eyebrow and nods, as if this does not surprise him. ‘You know, then, that John Doughty, who was fortunate not to share his brother’s sentence on the voyage, has been seeking his revenge since we returned to England. His attempt to prosecute me failed, and he vowed then to take the law into his own hands.’ He pauses, and his shoulders heave with the force of his sigh.
‘I understood he had spent time in prison?’
‘That was none of my brother’s doing,’ Thomas Drake cuts in, so fast and defiant that it as good as confirms the opposite. Sir Francis gives him a warning glance.
‘John Doughty was accused of taking money from the Spanish for my death or capture. To this day I don’t know if there was truth in it – some said the charges were fabricated to silence him. The reward is real enough, mind – twenty thousand ducats, Philip of Spain has offered for my head.’ There is a flash of gold tooth as he grins briefly, proud of the fact, before his expression grows serious again. ‘John Doughty was imprisoned in the Marshalsea. Worst place for him – it’s my belief he ended up among Catholic recusants with sympathy for the Spanish, which only served to double his hatred of me. He was released in February of this year. That’s when the letters started.’
‘He sends you threats?’
Drake presses his lips together. ‘Always the same theme – I am guilty of murder, blood demands blood. I would pay them no mind, except that he never fails to include some detail to prove he knows what I have been doing recently.’ He grimaces. ‘That is hard to ignore – especially when he makes reference to my wife.’
‘He threatens her?’
‘Not overtly. He will mention that she looked well in the yellow dress she wore to church on Sunday, that sort of thing. To make clear that he watches her closely. For that I am obliged to take him seriously. Especially since I heard the news about Will Bryte.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Thrown from his horse, supposedly. Even then, I would not have paid it any heed, if I had not had word that Edward Morgan had died barely a month later. In his case it was a stomach sickness. So they said.’ He falls silent and smooths out the list on the table, staring at it.
‘He is picking us off one by one,’ Thomas Drake says, his voice flat.
Drake looks up at his brother, and then at me.
‘Elizabeth said I was being foolish, making too much of accidents and coincidence. But when I heard of Morgan’s death, I felt the breath of fear at my collar. And now there is Robert Dunne …’ He spreads his hands out, indicating helplessness. ‘I said to my brother, John Doughty is behind this somehow, mark my words.’
‘And you think he is in Plymouth now?’
‘I said it could not be,’ Thomas cuts in, stepping closer. ‘There is no question of Doughty boarding this ship – there are too many among our crews who know his face. I refused to believe it. But this—’ He leans in and stabs at the list with
a forefinger.
‘Fletcher too, Thomas,’ Drake says, shaking his head. ‘I always wondered.’ He sees my expression. ‘Abe Fletcher had testified against Thomas Doughty during his trial. He was washed overboard during a tempest in the Strait of Magellan, though no other men were lost. He was sailing on the same ship as John Doughty.’
‘He was the first, then,’ Thomas says. He keeps his composure, but he darts a quick glance at the cabin door and his fingers are interlaced so tightly that the knuckles are white.
The atmosphere in the room has changed; fear has insinuated itself among us, and we can all sense it hovering. We look at one another. No one seems to know what to say next.
‘Is this handwriting the same as your letters?’ I ask, to break the silence.
Drake squints at the paper. ‘The letters I received were in a wild hand, full of scrawls and strange symbols. The writing of a madman, you’d say – though that might have been for show. I burned them, of course – I didn’t want them upsetting Elizabeth.’
‘But why was this list in Dunne’s possession? Meant as a threat, I suppose,’ Thomas says, answering his own question as he looks to his brother for affirmation. ‘And why did Dunne not say anything? If he had been given reason to fear that his life was in danger, and those of others, why would he not mention it to the Captain-General? We could have done more to protect him.’
‘Pride, perhaps,’ Drake says. His mood is sombre.
I hesitate. ‘Perhaps there is another reason.’ Both brothers look at me. ‘What if that list was not a warning but an instruction?’
Drake understands me first, amazement dawning in his eyes. ‘You mean to say that Dunne …?’ He frowns, glances at Thomas. ‘No, not Robert. It is not possible. He was a loyal shipmate.’
I hold out my hands, palms up. ‘It is only a theory. But John Doughty must have realised he had little chance of getting close to you or your brother. What if he coerced Dunne, with the promise of sparing his life? Dunne would have been your close companion for months at sea. He would have had ample opportunity and you would not have suspected a thing.’