by S. J. Parris
‘You owe me a hundred pounds,’ Sidney murmurs in my ear.
I look up from the page to meet Drake’s expectant look. It is unclear whether or not he already knows its contents.
‘You read Spanish?’ I ask.
‘I recognise some words. But I need to know precisely what this says. I was going to ask Gilbert to translate it, but on reflection I thought it best as few people as possible knew of it. Read it to me, would you?’
Keeping my voice low, I translate for Drake as closely as I can the text of Jonas’s letter. His face remains drawn but impassive throughout. When I have done he rubs his forefinger along the edge of his beard and nods.
‘So Jonas has decided to confess,’ he says, after a long pause.
‘And you do not believe it.’
He watches my face, his expression intent.
‘Interesting. What makes you say that?’
I tap the paper. ‘Because I don’t believe Jonas wrote this either. The Spanish is not quite – how would you say it? It doesn’t ring true. It’s very good, no doubt about that, but there is the occasional construction, a turn of phrase now and again that strikes a false note. A native speaker would not express himself so.’
Drake nods again. ‘I’m sure you are right. But I will give you an even more compelling case for its falsehood.’ He pauses, his eyes flitting quickly from right to left, and lowers his voice. ‘Jonas Solon is illiterate. He could not write so much as his own name.’
‘Ah.’ There is an eloquent silence, during which I make a commiserating face at Sidney. ‘Unfortunate that whoever wrote this did not think to check on that fact first.’
‘Yes,’ Drake agrees. ‘But it is not common knowledge. Jonas is ashamed. He makes every effort to conceal the fact. I was perhaps the only man aboard who knew, aside from my brother. So …’ His eyes stray back to the letter in my hand with a significant expression.
‘So someone else wrote this to incriminate him,’ Sidney says, stating the obvious.
‘But there would be no one to contradict this account,’ I say, finishing Drake’s thought for him. ‘If it were read before the coroner’s court tomorrow.’
Drake looks at me with appreciation. ‘Once again, you see the situation clearly, Bruno. On the one hand, this could resolve my immediate problem. We have here a signed confession of murder. No need for a verdict of felo de se nor a lengthy investigation.’
‘On the other, it rather raises the question of what has happened to Jonas,’ Sidney cuts in. ‘They will put out the hue and cry for him if they believe he is guilty of murder.’
‘It would seem likely,’ I say slowly, ‘that whoever wrote this is fairly confident that Jonas will not appear to contradict it.’
‘Truly, I fear the worst.’ Drake sighs, and it seems to shake his whole frame. ‘I have sent out four discreet men to search. I almost wish I could believe this,’ he says, taking the letter back. ‘It would be preferable to the alternative.’
‘Take courage, Sir Francis – he may yet be found alive and well,’ Sidney says, though he doesn’t sound convinced.
‘And if he is, he will be wanted for murder.’ Drake stares out of the window, his face sunk in gloom.
‘His illiteracy would then be evidence in his favour,’ I point out. ‘And besides, we will have found the real killer by then.’
‘I wish I had your confidence, Bruno,’ Drake says. And I wish I were sincere in it.
‘Who else knows about this letter?’
‘Only my brother. And my wife, though she does not know its contents – the letter was put under the door of her chamber this afternoon, addressed to me. I have asked the servants, of course, but no one saw anything.’
I would bet Sidney’s hundred pounds I can find one who did.
‘Who else on your ship speaks Spanish?’
‘A few of my men can make themselves understood, I know that much, but well enough to write a letter like this?’ He shakes his head. ‘Only the educated ones, and even then I could not swear to it – I have never seen them write in Spanish.’
He tucks the letter inside his doublet, takes a breath and rolls his shoulders back. ‘Let us go in. Say nothing to the others of this confession, but keep your eyes and ears open. Dom Antonio is expecting lively company and good cheer tonight. I am doing my best to hide this trouble from him. But the sooner he is away from Plymouth, the easier I will feel.’ I note that he does not look at Sidney as he says this. ‘In any case,’ he continues, ‘my wife is uneasy. She would be safer at Buckland, I feel.’
‘Naturally,’ Sidney says.
‘So I have decided to stay ashore for tonight. To reassure her, you understand.’ This time he does fix his eyes on Sidney, whose expression does not falter.
‘A very sensible idea, Sir Francis,’ he says, in a tone that belies the thoughts that must be running through his head. I find myself wondering about Lady Arden. Where will she be, in this new arrangement? On a mattress at the foot of their bed? Or will she move to a room of her own and, if so, who will be reassuring her tonight? Then I remember that Lady Arden still thinks I rejected her company last night in favour of a whorehouse; unless I correct this misunderstanding, she will want no reassurance from this quarter.
Gathered around the table in the wood-panelled dining room are the most favoured of Drake’s captains, the men he keeps closest. Knollys is here, and Carleill, Walsingham’s stepson; Captain Fenner and the others who dined with Drake that first evening. Sidney whispers the names of those he recognises. Here too are Pettifer the chaplain and Sir William Savile, who I notice has positioned himself close to the door. I am surprised to see Lady Drake and her cousin present. Lady Arden makes a point of busying herself with a piece of bread, but eventually she lifts her eyes and meets my gaze, holding it steady, her expression neither hostile nor particularly inviting. Then, when she is sure I am still watching, her attention slides away and fixes on Savile, whom she favours with a warm smile. She only spoils the effect of this by glancing quickly back to check that I have noticed.
At the head of the table, in the place of honour, is the man I must assume is Dom Antonio, Prior of Crato, once and future King of Portugal. Perhaps. He is a small, nervy man, with large sad eyes and a curling moustache that might once have been jaunty but now appears out of place and sorry for itself, much like its owner. He does not look like a king. He looks like a dog that expects to be kicked. That is what being hounded from your throne by Philip of Spain would do to you, I suppose. Yet he is nicknamed ‘The Determined’, and he must have at his core some undaunted flame of hope, or misplaced confidence; why else would he be back in England, soliciting Queen Elizabeth to raise another force on his behalf and end his exile?
Dom Antonio rises as we enter. Drake introduces Sidney and the Portuguese gives an elaborate bow.
‘I can hardly find the words to express my gratitude to Her Majesty,’ he says, clasping his hands to his chest, ‘that she does me the honour of sending so great a courtier as you are known to be, sir, to escort me to her presence.’
He has at least perfected the art of flattering those whose help he depends on, I think, watching him; a trick I have not yet acquired, despite all my years in exile. I could learn from this man.
‘The honour is mine, sir,’ Sidney says, returning the bow, and once again I am impressed by his mastery of diplomacy. You would never guess from his smooth smile that he intends to leave Dom Antonio to the care of four rough soldiers while he himself absconds across an ocean.
Drake takes his place at Dom Antonio’s right hand and waves Sidney to a seat next to him. I find a chair next to Pettifer, who greets me with reserved politeness and enquires after my day’s labours. I have just embarked on a potted version when the door is flung open again and Gilbert Crosse appears, breathless and blinking rapidly, his glasses sliding to the end of his nose, apologising so earnestly for his lateness that he trips on all his words, which only makes him more awkward. Drake, laughing, waves away
his apology and presents him to Dom Antonio. The Portuguese evidently thinks the newcomer’s status does not warrant him rising from his chair, but then he leans forward, both hands on the edge of the table, and frowns.
‘I have seen you before, sir, have I not?’
‘Before?’ Gilbert seems bewildered by the question; his face grows even more strained and anxious as he looks around the other guests as if one of us might know the correct answer. ‘No, I don’t think so, my lord. Begging your pardon,’ he adds, bobbing his head meekly. He makes as if to sit down next to me, then stops, perhaps afraid that he is not supposed to sit in the presence of dignitaries without their express permission. It is the kind of detail I worried about when I first came to the French court.
‘But I am sure – oh, if my memory were not so poor!’ Dom Antonio laments, with a laconic wave that Gilbert interprets as leave to take his seat. ‘So many countries I have visited these past few years, so many houses, so many good Christian souls willing to take me in, and others not so good, all too ready to sell me for a handful of silver. Too many faces – they all begin to – how does one say? To blur.’
‘Have you been to Antwerp, my lord?’ Gilbert asks.
‘Not recently.’ Dom Antonio considers. ‘No, I don’t think it was in Antwerp.’
‘Then I fear you may have confused me with someone else,’ Gilbert stammers, blushing from his neck to the tips of his ears at having told a prince he is wrong.
‘Perhaps,’ Dom Antonio concedes, reluctantly, leaning back in his chair and fixing Gilbert with his melancholy eyes. ‘Perhaps it will come back to me.’
Gilbert gives a polite little laugh and lowers his head, clearly hoping not to draw any further attention. ‘I fear so many years of living in hiding have addled his wits,’ he whispers to me. ‘I have never seen the man before in my life.’
The first course passes without incident. Despite the presence of the ladies, the conversation among the men around me is all of arms and strategy, firepower and tonnage. No one mentions Dunne’s death nor the disappearance of Jonas, as if by prior agreement. Maybe Drake has convinced these men that it will all be over by tomorrow. I try to keep up with the nautical talk but I do not understand many of the terms and soon my mind turns inward, sifting through the day’s revelations in the hope that some meaning will emerge. At my side, Gilbert is listening earnestly and nodding, occasionally attempting to join a conversation by offering some insight from his calculations. I notice the captains for the most part ignore him. Perhaps they do not take him seriously – a navigator whose knowledge is all based on mathematical theory no doubt seems of little consequence to these hardened explorers.
All the while we are eating, I keep my eyes on Sir William Savile. The cut on his lip is healing, I notice. Drake said he had an altercation with Robert Dunne the evening he died, a tavern brawl that Savile did not want to discuss because he thought it beneath a gentleman’s dignity. Dunne had set on him unprovoked, he said. That begins to look rather different in the light of the message Hetty showed me. As I study him, I am struck by a sudden memory of my conversation with Jonas in the rowing boat ashore last night, before he disappeared. We had been speaking in Spanish, and Savile joined in. Though he addressed us in English, he had clearly been following the conversation. So he speaks Spanish too. He glances up, catches me watching him and raises his glass with a merry grin. I return it, and lift my own towards him. I can match him for nonchalance; let him go to his rendezvous, thinking he is unobserved. In the meantime, I remind myself to make my attention less evident.
I do not have too long to wait. As soon as the serving boys return to carry out the dishes, Savile stands, stretches and announces with unnecessary volume that he has an appointment with the close stool. Beside me, Pettifer makes a prissy little tutting noise.
‘I have sometimes observed,’ he whispers, from the corner of his mouth, ‘have not you, that men of breeding often display no evidence of it. Whereas men not gifted with the advantage of noble blood, but who have availed themselves of the benefits of scholarship, do often show more refined manners to the world, since they are more conscious of being judged. Men like you and me,’ he adds, in case the point was not clear.
‘Mm,’ I say, watching the door as Savile slips out. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I’m afraid I too must – you know.’
‘Well, of course.’ He looks put out; he had condescended to draw a parallel between us and I rebuffed him. But offending Pettifer is the least of my concerns at present. I excuse myself and squeeze past the seated guests and the serving boys to the door. Sidney gives me a questioning look as I leave; I gesture with my eyes to Savile’s empty chair.
The entrance hall is quieter now; perhaps everyone is in the tap-room for supper. I take the stairs to the second floor and tread as quietly as I can along the creaking corridor, following the directions Hetty gave me to Mistress Dunne’s chamber. Wan evening light falls, slanted, across the bare boards. All the doors along the passageway are shut, but I hear the murmur of voices, muted, from one at the end, on the side that faces the courtyard. I slow my steps, keeping against the wall, where the boards make less noise under my weight.
‘But how did you allow this to happen?’ A woman’s voice, tight with anger.
‘If you would let me explain …’ Savile’s voice, placatory, wheedling. ‘Fate was against me—’
‘Fate! Do not talk to me of fate, William – you have marred everything, you alone.’
‘How many times must I say it – there was nothing I could do, the priest was with him.’ Savile’s voice rises, growing defensive. ‘Besides, it is done now. You have the end you wanted, one way or another.’
‘You think this was what I wanted?’ She makes an explosive sound through her lips. ‘God preserve me from foolish men. How does any of this serve us?’
‘Martha, you know I did not intend—’
This is where I make an error of judgement. I am too anxious to see how they interact with one another, the subtle cues of gesture and touch that often express better than words the relationship of one person to another. I want to ascertain the degree of intimacy between these people who claim to have barely met. As I move closer and crouch to put my eye to the keyhole, the floor betrays me with a loud groan and Savile breaks off without finishing his sentence; I can almost hear the tension bristling as he strains to listen. The rustle of frantic whispering rises inside the room; Savile hisses, ‘You go – I cannot be seen coming out of your chamber.’
I hear movement; if they find me here, any advantage I have will be lost. I try the next door along the passage; to my surprise, it opens and I find myself in an empty bedchamber. I slip the pin under the latch, just in case.
There follows the sound of a door opening, the creak of boards in the corridor, some scuffling, more hurried whispering, then the click of a door closing again and footsteps outside, fading towards the stairs. From Mistress Dunne’s room comes a sound like a muffled sob, but which might just as well be laughter.
When I am sure that no one is stirring outside, I leave the room as quietly as possible and pick my way towards the stairs. As I round the corner I collide with Hetty, a leather jug in her hand. Liquid slops over the rim and splashes both of us; she swears colourfully, though I am relieved to find it is only water.
‘You’re in a hurry, sir,’ she observes, wiping herself down with a sly smile. ‘Looking for something?’
‘The gentleman you mentioned earlier, the bald one who left the message – did you see him?’
‘Just this second pushed past me. Went down to the dining room, he did.’
‘Thank you.’ I hesitate. ‘Where would I find his chamber, if I wanted to leave him a message?’
‘Why would you need to do that, sir? You’re having supper with him, as I recall.’
She feigns an uncomprehending look; I give her a stern glare.
‘I do not have my purse on me. Just tell me, will you?’
She g
ives me a pitying look, as if this lie is so feeble it hardly bears the telling.
‘I’m afraid I don’t recall which room he has, sir.’
I suck in my cheeks, but I reach inside my doublet for my purse just the same.
‘By Christ, Hetty, you should be a usurer, you would bleed a man dry in no time.’
‘God helps those as help themselves, Mistress Judith says.’
‘I’m sure she does. A groat, no more. It is all I can spare. Tell me something else, since you know everything – did you notice anyone leaving a message at Lady Drake’s door this afternoon?’
‘Lady Drake? Why, has she got a secret sweetheart too?’
‘No,’ I say firmly, before she can run with any rumours. ‘Someone left a letter for Sir Francis. He is particularly keen to find out who it was.’
She pockets the money with a serene smile. ‘I was washing the floor in the tap-room this afternoon. Never went near Lady Drake’s chamber. Sorry.’
‘And you didn’t notice anyone behaving oddly? No one hanging about who should not have been?’
She makes a derisive noise through her nose. ‘Everyone behaves oddly round here, sir. How would I know the difference?’ She tucks her pitcher into the crook of her arm. ‘First floor, you want – turn right at the stairs, third door along. Facing the yard.’
‘Thank you. And it is a private message, so …’ I mime sealing my lips. She merely arches an eyebrow and continues on her way. She would lie to me as soon as look at me, I have no doubt of it, though for as long as I have an open purse she has decided to favour me, it seems.
Luck is on my side; the first-floor corridor is empty. I could have made use of Sidney’s hat pin, but he is not here; I must do my best with the thin blade of my knife. Though I nick my fingers several times in the process, the lock eventually yields and I open Savile’s room.