Treachery

by S. J. Parris

  ‘All the years I was mayor of Plymouth, I tried to do something about that place, as I told you,’ he says, his words coming quick and sharp. ‘It is despicable, in a community of civilised, Christian folk, to have young girls traded like so much horseflesh.’

  ‘And thrown on the street when they are considered broken jades,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly.’ He shakes his head. ‘You may imagine the opposition I encountered. It was my belief that some of the aldermen were taking bribes in order to block any attempt to close it.’

  ‘I suppose they claim that where there are sailors, there will always be whores,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. Though you know the Queen’s father, King Henry, shut down all the brothels in Southwark for a time. So it can be done.’

  ‘He was king of England, though.’

  He gives a tired smile, and claps me on the shoulder. ‘True. The mayor of Plymouth does not have quite the same reach. In the end I had to settle for trying to improve the conditions of the girls. I pressured the churches to get involved, as a matter of conscience and charity. Padre Pettifer was an enormous help – he has tried to liaise with the madam about placing the unwanted babies with Christian families, and finding honest work for the girls when they are no longer required.’

  ‘I admit I was surprised to hear that he visited. It is the sort of place I imagined he would make a point of denouncing.’

  Drake smiles. ‘Yes, Pettifer can appear a little pompous. But beneath the bluster he is a good priest, or I would not take him on the voyage. He is not afraid to get his hands dirty.’

  Perhaps it appeals to his sense of moral superiority, I think, uncharitably. Then I recall the brothel-keeper’s illicit trade in unwanted babies and a shadow of a suspicion flickers through my mind. ‘I imagine the madam was delighted by his intervention.’

  ‘Oh, she was furious, of course,’ Drake says. ‘But at the time it was a compromise we both accepted – she found it preferable to the prospect of any other measures I might take against her enterprise. Though that was four years ago now. I do not think the present mayor is so troubled by what goes on.’ He purses his lips. ‘But I never imagined Thomas would be seen there, knowing how I feel about the place.’

  ‘And Padre Pettifer continues his charity work with them?’ I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral. Drake looks at me from the tail of his eye.

  ‘So it seems, though I have not discussed it with him for a long time. He said he found the girls remarkably receptive.’

  ‘Did he.’

  We look at one another for a moment and burst out laughing. It shifts the tension that has built up since Savile’s confession. I feel my shoulders relax; I had been bracing myself for Drake’s reprimand.

  ‘To the message of Christ, I mean, of course,’ he says, still smiling. ‘He said the girls took readily to the idea of a churchman coming to pray with them. According to the madam, it improved their morale, so she was not inclined to object. I think he hears their confessions too, though he would not say as much.’

  ‘Dio porco. What confessions those must be. No wonder he always wears that expression.’

  ‘What expression?’

  ‘As if someone has pushed a cork up his arsehole and he might explode from the pressure.’

  Drake attempts to suppress his smile. ‘That is a very wicked way to describe one of God’s servants, Bruno. I will never be able to look at him again without that coming to mind.’ He pauses at the top of the stairs. ‘I hope you and Sir Philip will not object to dining with Dom Antonio today, if you are feeling well enough? Poor fellow, he is desperate for some intelligent company, but I cannot entertain him every hour of the day. I am anxious to return to my ship. I have been absent more than I would wish over the past couple of days.’

  ‘Of course. There is one matter, though.’ I glance around in case Hetty or anyone else is lurking in the shadows. ‘If we are agreed that Sir William is telling the truth, then …’

  ‘Then there is still a murderer at large,’ he says softly.

  ‘So we are still hunting.’

  He puts his head on one side and gives me a long look. ‘I am reluctant to ask any more of you, Bruno. After all you have been through. If you do not wish to go on with this, you need only say so.’

  ‘I have given you my word that I would help you, Sir Francis,’ I say. ‘I do not like to give up on a task before it is finished.’

  ‘Good man.’ He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy your dinner. And keep an eye on Sidney. See if you can rein him in. I know he means to help, but …’ He shakes his head and leaves the thought unspoken.

  I nod. ‘It will make for a difficult atmosphere on board, will it not – now that Sidney has confronted Savile with these accusations?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. His face is grave once more. ‘Exactly what I have been thinking.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The tap-room downstairs is bustling; despite Drake’s best efforts at discretion, talk has seeped out quickly into the town and the stories have grown in the telling. Two deaths among Drake’s own crew were a source of interest and speculation, a lively subject for the town gossips, but the killing of the two guards on St Nicholas Island has provoked fury since the bodies were brought ashore earlier. Both were local men with families; according to Mistress Judith, there would be a fierce appetite to see someone brought to justice for their murder. Sharp-eyed observers had noted the movement of Drake’s small boats around the island the previous night and connected the two, giving birth to rumours that an advance party of Spanish invaders had landed on the island and escaped to Plymouth. More impressionable citizens are packing their belongings, ready to flee the town. Some are saying Drake’s voyage is cursed and has brought the wrath of God, or the Devil, on Plymouth; they predict the deaths will continue until the ships set sail.

  ‘Won’t make life any easier for the likes of you,’ she says, looking at me with a sigh. ‘Or any of the foreign merchants, for that matter. Can’t deny it’s good for business though.’ She waves a hand around the crowded entrance hall. ‘They’re all here for a glimpse of Drake and his captains.’

  Outside the tap-room, I run into Gilbert Crosse, a roll of papers bunched in his fist.

  ‘Afternoon, Gilbert. You are in a hurry.’

  ‘Ah, Doctor Bruno.’ He blinks rapidly and glances behind me to the stairs, looking harassed. ‘You are not going up to see Sir Francis, by any chance? Some messages have arrived for him and I am just on my way to the stationer’s up the street for more paper and ink before he closes business for the day. With all the recent dramas, Sir Francis has had a great deal of correspondence and we are eating through our supplies. At this rate, we shall have none for the voyage. If it ever happens,’ he finishes, with a defeated expression.

  ‘I have just left him,’ I say, half-turning. ‘I think he intends to return to the ship soon. Do you want me to take them up to him?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry,’ he says, edging past me. ‘You look as if you have had enough exertions.’ He nods to my bruises. ‘I am glad to see you safe,’ he adds, lowering his voice. ‘There was a lot of talk among the men last night about what was going on with all the small boats around St Nicholas Island. I didn’t pick up the details – just enough to know that Lady Drake was in danger and you were helping Sir Francis. Was it connected with Robert Dunne or Jonas? Is there a threat to the fleet?’ He looks at me expectantly, blinking behind his glasses.

  I smile. ‘Lady Drake was never in any danger, I assure you. Nor is the fleet. I had better let you take your letters up.’

  ‘Yes.’ He sighs. ‘I ought really to put every letter into his hands myself. I would be the one blamed if any correspondence went missing. Can you imagine? Give you good day, Doctor Bruno.’

  He is past me and almost at the turn in the stairs when a thought occurs to me.

  ‘Gilbert!’ I hurry up after him until we are level. ‘Do you always give Sir Francis his letters directly, or would you sometimes
ask others to take them in to his cabin, if they are on their way there?’

  He frowns. ‘Almost always I make sure I put them into his hands, but there are occasions, of course – if I am in a hurry, and some trusted person is on his way in to see the Captain-General, I might ask him to pass them on. Why?’ He sounds defensive, as if he fears I might accuse him of failing in his duty.

  ‘The day Robert Dunne was found dead,’ I say, lowering my voice, ‘did you ask anyone to take Captain Drake’s letters in to him?’

  He screws up his face. ‘I’m not sure I recall – everyone was in such a state that day. I came ashore early to find the coroner, and I remember I collected some letters for Captain Drake at the Star as usual. But I didn’t return to the ship until much later.’

  ‘Try to recall, if you can. Captain Drake received an unusual letter that day. I wonder if it was among those you picked up from the Star?’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t look at them in any detail,’ he says, biting his lip. ‘But – wait – I came back to the ship just before dinner. I was on my way up to the captain’s cabin when I bumped into – yes, it’s coming back to me now! You’re right – I did entrust the letters to someone else that day.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  He murmurs a name. I nod, understanding, as a number of pieces seem to fall into place.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I find Sidney in the private dining room with Dom Antonio and his attendants. Two armed men flank the door. Sidney raises his eyebrows in a question; I give a minute shake of my head.

  Dom Antonio glances up and his funereal expression brightens a fraction. ‘Ah! And here is our Italian hero. Saviour of women, avenger of wrongs.’

  I wave this away, embarrassed. ‘Not a very efficient avenger, I fear. The wrongdoers fled.’

  ‘Nonetheless, my friend, you saved a young woman’s life. Not many of us can make that claim. Am I not right, Sir Philip?’

  Sidney makes a polite noise and looks at me with a stiff smile. I gesture towards the door.

  ‘Forgive me, Dom Antonio, gentlemen, but may I borrow Sir Philip? I’m afraid it is a matter of urgency.’

  The Portuguese holds out his hands in a gesture of surrender. Sidney scrapes his chair back and follows me out, his face eager.

  ‘Well?’ he says, when we are out of the guards’ hearing.

  ‘I think I know who the killer is. Come with me.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Come where?’

  I turn to see him standing, hands on hips.

  ‘You have told me nothing about Savile,’ he hisses. ‘I thought we had all agreed he was the killer? He has as good as confessed – don’t tell me you found his denials plausible? And now what – you have cooked up some new theory?’

  ‘I don’t believe it was Savile. Neither does Drake. He admitted to plotting Dunne’s death – he would not have said so much if he didn’t think the confession absolved him of the actual murder.’

  ‘He is a clever man. He thinks he can deceive us by parsing out the truth. And you have apparently fallen for it. Are you trying to make me look a fool, is that it?’

  I hear the frustration in his voice. I sigh.

  ‘It’s not about you, Philip. Savile could not have killed Jonas – Thomas Drake can vouch for his whereabouts all night.’

  Sidney’s face falls. ‘Are you sure? Savile is nothing if not cunning, he could have slipped away.’

  ‘Drake is checking that with his brother. But I have at least discovered where the Judas letter came from.’

  ‘Really?’ He looks sceptical.

  I glance around the entrance hall. A steady press of people are pushing their way through to the tap-room, though some are hovering at the foot of the stairs, perhaps hoping, as Mistress Judith suggested, for a glimpse of Drake.

  ‘We should not talk here. Come with me and I will explain on the way.’

  He gives a theatrical sigh. ‘Oh, very well. Where are we going?’

  ‘The House of Vesta.’

  ‘For the love of God – I cannot afford any more visits there.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Besides, it is broad daylight – they won’t be open, will they?’

  ‘I am hoping I can find what I need nonetheless.’

  ‘Huh.’ He cracks his knuckles. ‘Promise me no jumping out of windows this time?’

  I grin. ‘I will do my best. Another night like that would destroy me.’

  ‘Nothing could do that, Bruno, you are indestructible. God knows what you are made of, but it is not ordinary flesh and blood, I swear.’

  ‘We have assumed that whoever sent Drake the Matthew letter left it at the Star to be collected by Gilbert along with the rest of his correspondence,’ I say, when we are outside. ‘Slow down, will you?’ I have trouble keeping up with Sidney’s loping strides even without my current injuries. My body aches in unexpected places and I find myself walking with a limp to compensate. ‘And that was puzzling me, because it meant the killer must have left it the previous evening, before Dunne was murdered. But no one at the Star remembered a letter being delivered that night, and it didn’t come from Jenkes.’

  ‘But Drake said Gilbert brought that letter to him from the Star along with the others,’ he says, slowing until I have caught up with him.

  ‘The letter was delivered to him along with the others, that’s why it looked as if it had come from the Star,’ I say. ‘But Gilbert was in a hurry that day, dealing with all the arrangements. He handed the letters over to someone he trusted, someone who was on his way in to see Drake.’

  ‘And you think that person slipped the letter into the pile as if it had come with the rest?’ His eyes widen. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Someone who is a frequent visitor to the House of Vesta, though you wouldn’t think it. But I need proof before I confront him.’

  Though he presses me, I will say no more until we reach Looe Street and see the sign of the apothecary.

  Sidney clutches my arm. ‘What are you going to do? She will not let us in, you know, not after last time. She will probably call her thugs to make sure we never come back.’

  ‘I am not calling on her directly,’ I say, pushing open the apothecary’s door.

  I have always liked the atmosphere of an apothecary’s shop: the sharp, bitter vegetable scents hanging in the air, the steam from the distilling apparatus misting the windows, the neat array of bottles and jars of curiosities ranged along the shelves, the knowledgeable air of the apothecaries themselves, who in some rare instances could be as experienced and well informed as a physician about the workings of the human body, but were more often affable fraudsters, selling garden herbs and sugar-water with extravagant claims of long life and immunity from disease. On entering this one, though, I am reminded of my experiences in Canterbury the summer before, and shudder. Sidney glances at me, and closes the door behind him.

  The apothecary, a small, clean-shaven man with anxious eyes and receding hair, is busy at his ware-bench, shredding leaves into a white marble mortar with quick, slender fingers.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, acknowledging us with a nod, still intent on his task. When he has finished he looks up and stares without restraint at my appearance. ‘By heaven, sir – I hardly know where to begin!’ I detect a gleam in his eye as he comes out from behind his counter to examine me more closely; he smells good business here. ‘A salve for those burns, I think – they do not look too severe, but often surface burns can be the most painful. And a tincture of arnica for the bruises. I see by the way you are standing that you have a pain in your side – ribs or muscles? I can make you up a poultice for either—’

  I hold my hand up to stop him. ‘I was looking for your boy.’

  His expression hardens. ‘What boy?’

  ‘Toby. Your apprentice.’

  ‘There’s no Toby here.’ His face is guarded now, his eager salesman’s patter dropped.

  ‘Whatever he calls himself, then. I will not detain him long – I only wish to speak to him.
’

  His glance flickers over his shoulder towards the back room, where someone can be heard moving around. ‘Whatever your business with him, you can go about it when his day’s work’s done,’ he says. His tone is firm but his eyes are still nervous; I wonder if he knows or suspects what Toby gets up to at the house next door and wants to make sure it is kept far from his own premises.

  I am thinking of a convincing argument when Toby himself appears from the door to the back room, wearing an apron made of sacking and wiping his hands on a cloth. He flinches when he sees me and seems frozen, unsure whether to turn and run or pretend he does not know me.

  ‘Hello, Toby,’ I say, smiling.

  He stammers something, giving his employer a frightened look.

  ‘I won’t keep you from your work,’ I say, as gently as I can. ‘I just had a quick question. It’s about Ovid.’

  His face is already flushed from the steam of the distilling apparatus in the back; now his colour deepens from his neck to his hairline as he opens his mouth to speak and finds no words.

  ‘I wonder, my good fellow,’ Sidney says, in his best aristocratic voice, stepping forward to address the apothecary, ‘I have long searched for some remedy that would counter the effects of too much wine. If any man could find me some such compound, I would owe him my eternal gratitude.’ He taps the purse at his belt lightly. ‘Would you know of any such thing?’ He follows this up with a dazzling smile and the apothecary finds his attention torn. He makes a fierce gesture to the boy, who beckons me towards a door at the side of the shop.

  While Sidney charms the apothecary, I follow Toby through into the passage that runs along the side of the building. The sun does not penetrate here, between the houses, but I recognise this alley as the one that leads to the courtyard and the entrance to the House of Vesta behind the apothecary’s. The boy seems to read my fears, for he glances towards the end of the passage and bends his head to talk, as if this will make him harder to see.

  ‘We must make haste,’ he whispers. ‘I shall have such a beating for this already. My master fears for his reputation, see. He probably thinks …’ He gives me a meaningful look and leaves the sentence unfinished. I decide to come straight to the point.