by S. J. Parris
Pettifer can no longer contain himself. ‘Suicide is a grievous sin, Mistress Dunne, a violation of the sixth commandment. The Church makes that most clear. Man is the imago dei – to determine his own end is to usurp the prerogative of God, who alone knows the number of our days.’ He shakes his head, as if to absolve her of such a heretical notion. ‘Think of Judas Iscariot, who took his life through guilt and remorse after betraying Our Lord to death – you would not call him a model of courage, would you?’
Mistress Dunne turns to him, her smile fading. ‘Perhaps each of us has our own definition of courage, Padre. But I hope you are not making a comparison between them?’
Flustered, Pettifer seems to realise he has tied himself in a knot; his round face flushes with his efforts to deny any intentional offence. I watch him, wondering why he was prompted to pluck that particular example.
‘Mistress Dunne doubts the accuracy of my judgement regarding the manner of her husband’s death,’ Drake says, cutting across Pettifer’s flapping apologies.
‘I’m sure Captain Drake did his best in what must have been a very distressing situation,’ she says, turning to me, the polite smile once more in place, ‘but I fear he may have jumped to a hasty conclusion, not being in possession of certain facts.’
A tense silence unfolds. I look from her to Drake and back.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite—’
‘Self-slaughter, as Padre Pettifer tells us, is a terrible stain on the soul,’ Mistress Dunne continues. Her voice is firm, but I notice her fingers busily plucking at the cloth of her skirts, a sign that there is some emotion at work beneath the surface. ‘Not to mention on a man’s reputation and the fate of his family. I cannot accept that my husband died by his own hand. I intend to make the coroner investigate his death to my satisfaction, so that he can at least have Christian burial.’
On this last sentence, her composure falters and she presses a hand to her mouth. The maid passes her an embroidered handkerchief but she waves it away as she fights to bend her feelings to her will. Or so it seems. Asserting herself against the authority of Sir Francis Drake would be daunting for any woman, yet there is something in her demeanour that leaves room for a chink of doubt. It is true that the English like to keep their emotions buried so deep that an Italian could be forgiven for thinking they have never experienced any passion greater than mild irritation at the weather, but I cannot escape the sense that Mistress Dunne is playing a part here, and not playing it with total conviction. That little catch in the voice just now, the hand pressed to the lips: it is as if she has learned the expressions of grief from a book. Though I may be doing her a disservice; perhaps, as a well-born lady, this is as near as her breeding permits her to feeling.
My gaze flits again from her to Drake and back; I would not like to wager which of them will concede first.
‘In the light of this,’ Drake continues, clasping his hands behind him and pacing the floor as if he were giving a summary in court, ‘I have persuaded Mistress Dunne to accept a temporary compromise. We will look into the circumstances of her husband’s death more closely before the inquest, with all the discretion a matter of this nature requires. If we uncover nothing useful, she will formally object to the verdict of felo de se at the inquest and ask the coroner to investigate further.’ He looks to Mistress Drake for confirmation; she gives a curt nod.
‘I have told her you are the man for investigating this sort of business,’ Drake continues, his voice bolder now, ‘and she has agreed that you and I between us should do what we can to determine how Robert came by his untimely end.’
Every pair of eyes in the room is fixed on me – with the exception of Lady Arden, whose attention, I notice when I glance up, is studiously concentrated on the cat. I realise that I am expected to say something.
‘But the inquest is tomorrow.’ I say this half as a question, hoping that someone will contradict me; no one does.
‘Then you will have to work quickly,’ Mistress Dunne says, with a terse little smile that briefly shows her teeth.
I draw a deep breath. ‘It is your belief, then, madam, that your husband was unlawfully killed?’
‘If he did not take his own life – and I have already told you why that is impossible – then it follows that someone else must have taken it,’ she says, impatience replacing the tremor in her voice.
‘Forgive me,’ I begin, with a nervous half-laugh to soften the blow, ‘but you are implying that someone aboard Sir Francis’s ship killed your husband?’ I glance at Drake; he has cupped a hand over his mouth and chin to disguise his reaction.
‘That’s what I wish to find out, Doctor Bruno.’ She sighs, as if the detail tires her. ‘You did not know Robert, but he had a particular gift for making enemies. One might say that is to be expected, given his pursuits. You cannot fail to have learned of his reputation, I’m sure.’ She stands, brushes down her skirts and turns slowly to look at the rest of the company with a tight smile, to prove that she will not be shamed by whatever gossip followed her husband. The maid takes a step forward, her hand outstretched. Mistress Dunne neatly sidesteps her and waves the hand away. Again I have the sense that she manages perfectly well without assistance from anyone.
‘But you have reason to believe that these enemies are to be found among Captain Drake’s crew?’ I persist.
‘No!’ The denial is immediate; she flushes, apparently shocked by the suggestion. ‘I say no such thing. I merely—’
She crosses the room and stops directly in front of me. She is tall for a woman; we are almost the same height.
‘You have seen Plymouth, I suppose?’ She flings an arm out in the direction of the window. ‘Heaving with mercenaries – soldiers, sailors, foreigners – begging your pardon. Plenty of them more than willing to dispatch a man for a ready coin. If my husband’s enemies wanted him dead, they would not be short of willing hands. And they would have known exactly where to find him.’
‘I assure you once again, Mistress, that no assassin could possibly have boarded my ship, that night or any other,’ Drake says. The conversation appears to be taxing his diplomatic skills. ‘I have more than enough reason to be scrupulous about the security of my vessel. No one could have found his way past my watchmen.’
‘Sir Francis, if you are determined from the beginning that there is no murderer to be apprehended, then our agreement would seem redundant.’ Her smile suggests this is meant half in jest, but her eyes say otherwise. I think I understand Drake’s reasoning: by nominating someone outside his own circle to satisfy Mistress Dunne’s thirst for enquiries, he can distance himself from me if I fail. On the other hand, I am a stranger in this city; it may be that I can move among the crowds, asking questions, slipping obscurely into places where the famous Sir Francis Drake could not hope to pass unnoticed.
Drake bows his head. ‘You are right, madam. I will do my best to keep an open mind.’
‘I hope so, Sir Francis. There is a great deal at stake here, for both of us. I only want to make sure the truth is served.’ She juts her chin upwards and keeps her eyes on him for a moment, to let him know she is not someone he can hoodwink. ‘Come, Agnes.’ She flicks a hand at the maid, who scuttles to follow her. On her way past me, Mistress Dunne stops. ‘I am going to break my fast now, Doctor Bruno, and then I wish to view my husband’s body. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?’
‘Is that wise?’ Drake cuts in.
‘If he is to reconsider the cause of my husband’s death, would it not make sense for him to examine the body? Perhaps all his theological training may help him to notice some symptom that escaped your attention,’ she adds pointedly, drawing her veil down over her face.
‘I meant rather, is it wise for you to go?’ Drake pulls at the point of his beard. ‘Robert has been dead three days, madam, and it was not a sight for ladies even when he was fresh.’
I notice Lady Drake flinch slightly at her husband’s choice of words; fame and wealth have not taught
him to be more delicate with his language. No wonder she is susceptible to a sonnet or two. I try to catch Lady Arden’s eye, but she keeps her head turned towards the window.
‘I was raised in the country, Sir Francis,’ Mistress Dunne replies, extending a hand, palm upwards. The maidservant lays a pair of kidskin gloves across it. ‘I have seen both my brothers and my sister in their coffins, and one of my brothers was kicked in the head by a horse – that was not pretty, I promise you. I will not faint at the sight of a corpse. I feel it proper that I should see him before he is buried – wherever that may be.’ She pulls on her gloves carefully, her slender fingers extended.
‘So, you are the last surviving child of your family?’ I ask.
She gives me a sharp look. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
I shake my head. ‘I was only thinking it is hard you should have to bear so much loss.’ I assume a sympathetic expression. She narrows her eyes.
‘Even so,’ Drake says, still rubbing at his beard, ‘I fear the sight may distress you.’
‘What distresses me, Sir Francis,’ she says, shaping the words clearly and precisely, ‘is the thought that my husband may be wrongly declared a suicide while his murderer escapes justice.’ With this, she sets her shoulders back and sweeps from the room, her maid scurrying in her wake. At the door she turns to me. ‘Meet me here in the entrance hall in half an hour.’
Pettifer makes as if to follow her. ‘Would you like me to pray with you, madam, before you address yourself to this sad task?’ He knots his fingers together in supplication, his round cheeks flushed. Priests never feel a greater sense of their own importance than around the dying and the newly bereaved, I have noticed.
A spasm of irritation twitches Mistress Dunne’s face, but she masters it.
‘Thank you, Padre, that is kind – perhaps when I return I shall have greater need of comfort.’
‘As you wish, madam. Just send me word here – I am at your disposal.’ He bows his head and follows her out.
Drake closes the door behind them and exhales with some force. ‘Elizabeth, I have told Mistress Dunne you and Lady Arden will dine with her today. We must show her Christian compassion, and she may be glad of female company.’ He pushes both hands through his hair and walks to the window.
‘She didn’t look as if she was much interested in any company.’ Lady Drake clutches the protesting cat, who appears to be making a bid for freedom. ‘She was quite rude when you introduced me and my lady cousin – she barely acknowledged us at all.’
‘Well, you must allow that she is in the first shock of grief, my dear,’ Drake says, still looking out at the street. ‘She is perhaps not herself.’
‘I might want to hang myself if I’d married her,’ Lady Arden remarks, to no one in particular. Drake and his brother turn and stare at her. I catch her eye and grin; she allows a brief smile, which she hides behind her hand. Perhaps she has forgiven me after all.
The ladies stand and stretch delicately; the cat seizes his chance and darts under the day-bed. As they leave, Lady Arden glances over her shoulder at me, but she is gone before I can convey anything with my eyes alone.
‘Bruno – a word.’ Drake beckons me towards the window. We look out through the small diamond panes of glass, the street outside distorted by their warps and bubbles. He lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to have sprung this on you. Especially when …’ he indicates my injuries. ‘What happened to you?’
I hesitate. ‘I visited the House of Vesta last night.’
‘Ah.’ A brief frown crosses his brow. ‘Someone should have warned you about that place. They don’t tend to welcome strangers who arrive unannounced.’
‘That is the complicated part. I was not unannounced – I was lured there by an anonymous letter that made reference to the Judas gospel. I believe it came from Rowland Jenkes – the book dealer with no ears that Dunne took you to.’
Drake looks even more bemused. ‘What has he to do with the House of Vesta?’
‘I don’t know. But Dunne was a regular there. I thought someone might recall something, but when I started asking questions about him, I was cornered and set upon by a man I am certain was John Doughty.’
‘Doughty? Good God.’ Drake rubs his temple with the flat of his hand as he processes all this. ‘So he is in Plymouth. What would he want with you?’
I shake my head. ‘I didn’t stay to find out.’ I point to the cut on my face. ‘I jumped out of a window. Unfortunately, it was on the first floor.’
Drake smiles, despite himself.
‘What I do know is that they were waiting for me. The madam was part of it – she led me into a trap, ready for Doughty. So perhaps she could be questioned, if you want to find him.’
Drake nods slowly, his face grim. ‘I will make some discreet enquiries. The difficulty with the House of Vesta, Bruno, is that it is not an ordinary brothel. It operates by discretion and exclusivity. Customers come to her by introduction only. She takes the girls very young, so she can guarantee to her clients that they are clean. Some as young as eleven, and you won’t find any over fifteen. They say it’s the one place in Plymouth you can be sure you won’t get the pox, and there are plenty willing to pay her prices for the peace of mind.’
‘So she attracts the wealthiest men in the area,’ I say, beginning to understand.
‘It has grown into a sort of meeting place for men of influence in the town,’ he says. ‘They go there to dine, smoke, play cards, talk business – not just for the girls. Any man with ambition wants to be included in that company, and the benefits far outweigh the moral objections. Makes it very difficult for anyone in authority who tries to have the place investigated or shut down – as I found out when I was mayor.’ His jaw tightens at the memory.
‘Which is why that woman – Mistress Grace – believes she is above the law?’ I finish the thought for him. ‘She has the most powerful men in the town by the balls.’
‘They say you can get whatever you want at the House of Vesta with no questions asked, as long as you are willing to pay.’ He gives a meaningful nod. I consider telling him about Toby, but decide against it; if Drake does persuade the authorities to investigate, it would be the boy who was punished for his sins, not the people who forced him to it.
‘Nevertheless,’ Drake says, brisker this time, ‘there are certain pressures that can be brought. If she is hiding John Doughty, I want to know about it.’
I turn to leave, but he lays a hand on my sleeve. ‘One more thing, Bruno. In your nocturnal wanderings, did you see anything of Jonas last night?’
‘Last night? No, not after we came ashore.’
‘Hm.’ He takes a deep breath. There are shadows under his eyes; it looks as if he has not slept. ‘Jonas did not come back to the ship all night. No one has seen him. Plymouth is full of thugs who would lay into a man because they didn’t like his complexion, and believe they are defending England that way.’ He grimaces. ‘I hope Jonas has not fallen foul of that sort.’
He lets his hand fall from my arm and continues to stare out of the window, as if the answer might present itself if he waits long enough.
‘I hope not,’ I say, though another explanation occurs to me. ‘I’m sure he will turn up. Perhaps he drank too much and ended up spending the night in the arms of some Plymouth maiden.’
‘He’d be lucky to find a maiden in Plymouth, even at the House of Vesta.’ Drake tries to summon a smile. ‘I dare say Jonas enjoyed the same pastimes as any other sailor on shore leave, but he never neglected his duty. He was supposed to take the middle watch last night, after midnight. That’s not something he would have forgotten. I hope to God he is back by tomorrow, at any rate – he must be the principal witness at the inquest. It was he who found Dunne hanging.’
Perhaps Jonas had good reason to make himself scarce before the inquest, I think. Or perhaps there is someone else who does not want him to testify.
‘Why did you ask Mistress Dunne about her father?�
�� asks Drake, abruptly changing the subject.
‘It was Lady Drake who mentioned to me that Mistress Dunne is an heiress. Robert had told Gilbert that he expected to come into some money soon. I wondered if he might have meant his wife’s inheritance.’
He nods, understanding. ‘A good thought. And she would hardly want a gambling husband getting his hands on her father’s fortune too.’
‘In fact,’ Thomas says, ‘it is difficult to imagine anyone with as much reason to want him dead as his wife.’
There is a silence as we all consider this.
‘Even so, I cannot see how she could have engineered this particular outcome,’ I say, eventually. ‘Assuming she wanted him murdered, she would have done better to poison his dinner at home, or have someone attack him on the road. A death that looks like a suicide is not to her advantage – quite the reverse.’
‘As she is at pains to make clear,’ Drake says. ‘We must find this killer before the inquest. I will see that you are amply rewarded, of course,’ he adds, seeing my expression. ‘That is not in doubt.’
‘That is generous of you, Sir Francis, but—’
His brow darkens. ‘But what?’
‘I only wonder – why me?’
‘Ah.’ He moves closer, drops his voice. ‘Sir Philip has told me a little more about your work.’
I look at him, perplexed, thinking he means my books.
‘For Walsingham,’ Drake whispers, to clarify. ‘Any man who has earned Master Secretary’s trust and respect also has mine. My brother and I were most impressed, weren’t we, Thomas?’
Thomas Drake makes a noise that could mean anything, and folds his arms across his chest. I have rarely seen anyone look less impressed.
I give a little cough and try to look humble. ‘I may need resources, Sir Francis. Information is not cheap in this town. People keep their eyes and ears open, but they sometimes need encouragement.’
Drake nods, murmuring assent. ‘I will arrange a purse for you when you return from your excursion with Mistress Dunne.’ At the door he pauses. ‘Watch her closely, Bruno. She is determined to make trouble. She could ruin me.’