by S. J. Parris
There is a light knock on the door. Drake barks a command and Pettifer appears tentatively on the threshold, a notebook tucked under his arm. Sweat prickles on my back; I only hope I am not wrong this time. At Drake’s gesture, Pettifer closes the door and stands before his captain with an expectant look, hands clasped before him.
‘Sir Francis?’
Drake waves him to a seat at the table. ‘It was Doctor Bruno who wanted to speak to you.’
Pettifer’s head snaps round, his eyes immediately wary. He lays his notebook on the table and cocks his head to one side, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken question, still that look of slight superiority on his face; he believes he is above being summoned by the likes of me.
‘I wanted to ask you a couple more questions about your conversation with Robert Dunne the night he died, Padre,’ I say, in as friendly a manner as I can assume.
‘Really – must we go through this again? I have told all I know to Captain Drake long before you arrived.’ He turns to Drake in appeal.
‘Hear him out, Ambrose,’ Drake says, waving for me to continue.
‘It would help me to take some notes. I wonder – could I have a page of your notebook?’ I nod towards the book on the table. It is a plain notebook, bound in cloth and board; not obviously handsome or costly.
‘Well, really,’ Pettifer blusters, but his grip tightens around the book. ‘Paper is expensive, you know. Surely you have your own? Or perhaps Captain Drake?’ He indicates the pile of papers on the table in front of Thomas.
‘I’m afraid I have left all my writing things at the inn,’ I say, with regret.
‘I don’t like to tear the book,’ he says, though half-heartedly, as though he knows how feeble it sounds.
‘Give him some paper – I will have the book replaced for you before we leave, if the cost is an issue.’ Drake snaps his fingers, though he gives me a hard stare. I hope this will be worth it, he seems to be saying.
Reluctantly, Pettifer opens the book at the back and carefully tears out a blank page, which he slides across the table to me. I perch on the edge of the bench opposite him and pick up one of the quills that lies on its stand in front of Thomas, but I do not dip it in the inkwell.
‘You said you were a Cambridge man, Padre Pettifer,’ I say, studying the nib of the quill. ‘Do you go back there often?’
He looks startled by the change of tone. ‘Not often. Why?’
‘But you have friends there still?’
‘Naturally, a few. Look, what has this—’
‘Do they send you books, these friends? As gifts, perhaps, on occasion.’
‘Books?’ He affects puzzlement, but I see the pinpoint of understanding in his eyes as his thoughts rush ahead of one another, wondering where I will go next. Good, I think. I have him worried. Everything he says from now on will be an attempt to dodge the truth.
‘Books,’ I repeat, smiling.
‘No,’ he says, though he is twisting his fingers together. ‘Not that it is any business of yours who sends me books,’ he adds in a lofty tone.
‘I was only concerned,’ I continue, ‘because I came across a book recently which I supposed to be yours, and I was afraid it had been stolen from you.’
‘What book?’ he snaps. The colour is slipping from his cheeks as his tone grows more aggressive. ‘Where? I have had no books stolen. Why would you suppose it to be mine?’
‘One question at a time, Padre. This book was printed by the new university press at Cambridge, which was founded last year. They have produced only a few books so far. This one is a volume of Ovid’s fables – did I say? – which is one of their newer works. Printed this year, and hard to get hold of, unless in Cambridge itself, for I hear the London booksellers are boycotting the new presses.’ I lay down the quill and keep my eyes fixed on his.
‘No one sent me any such book,’ he says, but his voice sounds more subdued.
‘But you did go to Cambridge this year, Ambrose – I recall you telling me,’ Drake says, softly. ‘When I approached you in the spring about this voyage, you had just returned. You were visiting your old tutor, I think.’
He swivels to look at his captain with alarm. ‘Well, yes, that is true, but I do not have the kind of money to spare for brand-new books.’
‘What is your tutor’s name?’ I ask.
He narrows his eyes. ‘I don’t see what that—’
‘Is it Roger?’ I draw from inside my doublet the page young Toby had torn from the book, with the woodcut of Daphne. At this, Pettifer clasps his hands tighter together to keep them from trembling. ‘You see, this endpaper was torn from the volume of Ovid I found, printed by the Cambridge University Press. It is inscribed, “To dear Ambrose, with fond memories, Roger, 1585.”’ I hold it up so that he can see I am not bluffing. ‘It would be an extraordinary coincidence if there was another Ambrose in Plymouth who had the same tutor at Cambridge.’
He says nothing, but his face is blanched of colour and his lips pressed tight.
‘What is this about, Bruno? Come to the point, for God’s sake, if there is one,’ Thomas Drake says, irritated.
Sir Francis lifts a hand to silence him and motions for me to continue.
‘I will, Thomas, for it concerns a place you know well,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘You asked me where I came across this book, Padre. But I think you already know. I found it in the possession of a young boy at the brothel known as the House of Vesta.’
‘Ah.’ Pettifer flicks his head, dismissive. ‘Yes. Very well then – it was stolen from me.’
Drake raises an eyebrow. ‘You denied that a moment ago.’
‘I did not want to get the poor boy in trouble,’ he says. Two pink spots are rising in his cheeks now; he speaks fast, as if his lies must sustain themselves on their own momentum or risk falling apart. ‘God knows those youngsters are desperate enough. And Sir Francis is well aware that if I set foot in such a place, it is for God’s purposes, to try and bring some salvation out of such grievous sin. So yes, I lost the book there, but I did not report it for fear the boy would suffer.’ He looks from me to Drake, his defiance returned. ‘Have you written everything down to your satisfaction, Doctor Bruno?’ he adds, with venom. ‘For there is nothing more to tell.’
‘I’m afraid that is not quite all, Padre,’ I say, looking apologetic. ‘Your visits to the House of Vesta were in part concerned with the placement of unwanted children with Christian families, am I right?’
Pettifer half rises from his chair and places his hands flat on the table. ‘Sir Francis, I must protest! Such matters should not be discussed with the likes of—’
‘Let him ask his questions, Ambrose,’ Drake says, in that same gentle tone that will brook no argument. ‘I am interested in your answers.’
I take a deep breath. ‘The boy said you sometimes read to him from the Ovid book.’
‘I thought to improve his education, poor creature.’ He slips a finger inside his collar and loosens it away from his throat.
‘And that was why you visited him alone?’
‘What?’ He splutters. ‘One might better ask what you were doing in the boy’s chamber?’
‘I was trying to find out who killed Robert Dunne.’
He opens his mouth to speak but blinks at me instead, wrong-footed.
‘You see,’ I continue, leaning forward across the table, ‘Dunne had recently found out a terrible secret about someone on board this ship. Something which, if made public, would destroy that person’s reputation and their chances of sailing with Captain Drake, now or in the future.’
Pettifer runs his tongue around his mouth. Sweat glistens along his upper lip. He shakes his head.
‘I believe,’ I say slowly, ‘that Robert Dunne had found out you did not visit that boy to save him from his sins. In fact, you added to them.’
Silence hangs over the table as Drake stares at Pettifer.
‘That is slander,’ the chaplain says. His voice emerges high-pitche
d and squeaking. ‘Of the most damnable kind. You had better retract it immediately, sir.’
‘Was the boy part of your pay-off from Mistress Grace?’ I persist. ‘For allowing her to continue the practice of selling the unwanted children got on the girls in her house, before she threw them on the street? I assume you took a cut of the profits, too. Did Dunne know about that? He certainly knew you were well able to pay his blackmail demands.’
He jolts with surprise at this, and frowns. ‘What demands?’
‘Dunne was blackmailing you, wasn’t he? Five gold angels is a lot to lose, and you feared there would be more such letters. You knew he could destroy your standing by telling Captain Drake about your arrangements with the House of Vesta. You were in fear of him.’
‘No – no, you have it all wrong,’ he bleats, flapping his hands. ‘I never paid Dunne any money. He never asked me for any. I don’t know anything about five gold angels.’
I stand up, for better effect, so that I am looking down on him. Drake, Thomas and Sidney watch like spectators at a dog-fight, rapt. ‘You saw the state he was in when he left the House of Vesta that night. Did you know he had been drugged with nutmeg, or did you think he was just drunk? No matter’ – I press on, before he can object – ‘either way, you got him back to the ship and, with help from Thomas Drake, carried him to his cabin. Thomas went to find the Spaniard, to bring Dunne a cure. You were left alone with Dunne, who was as good as helpless, and you saw a chance to silence your tormentor for good. What did you do, press his face into the pillow? He must have been so confused in his senses he did not put up a fight. You crushed the life out of him and left him there. When Jonas looked in, he thought Dunne had passed out from drink and went away again.’
‘No – no, I swear that is a lie!’ Pettifer cries. He is growing flustered, his eyes darting from me to Drake, pleading.
‘Ambrose,’ Drake says, faintly, as if he does not want to believe what he is hearing.
‘But you must have been terrified that Jonas had realised the truth. When nothing was said, you decided to make sure. You went back to Dunne’s cabin on the pretext of praying with him, and strung him up to look like a suicide. Then you locked his room and threw the key overboard, I imagine.’
‘This is pure fabrication. You must believe me, Sir Francis – we know each other, you and I—’
‘The next day,’ I continue, relentless, ‘you saw a chance to link Dunne’s death to the Judas book you believed to be heretical, to deter Captain Drake from having it read. You wrote a verse from Matthew’s Gospel, making it look as if Dunne’s death was somehow a result of the book’s dangerous influence. And implying too that Dunne himself was a traitor. Perhaps he had confessed to you his plans to assassinate Sir Francis on the voyage?’
Pettifer leaps to his feet, his face scarlet. ‘Assassinate – I do not know what you are talking of, sir, but I refute all of it! If you believe for a moment that I could hear of a plot to harm the Captain-General and not tell him of it immediately, you are more lacking in your wits than I first believed. Sir Francis, you know me,’ he says again, wheedling, his eyes shining with unshed tears. ‘Would you hear the lies of a stranger and a foreigner against my word?’ He knits his fingers together as if in prayer, raising them towards Drake.
I push the page from the notebook across the table to Pettifer.
‘If you did not kill Dunne, testify to it by signing this paper.’
‘What right have you—’
‘Will you sign your name here? To attest that what you say is true?’
‘You are trying to trap me,’ he blusters, hesitating. He raises his eyes and looks around the company for support, but finds only stony faces. I dip the quill into the ink and hold it out to him. He glances at Drake, who nods towards the paper. Pettifer takes the quill from me with a look of pure hatred and scrawls his name across the page. ‘And what do you propose to do with this?’ he asks. His voice shakes, but with anger now.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Except compare it. Do you have the letter with the Bible verse, Sir Francis?’
‘Of course.’ Drake looks at me, uncertain.
‘May we see it?’
He nods, and unlocks the cupboard in the corner. He unfolds the Matthew letter and holds it out. I hold up the page Pettifer has just signed beside it. They are the same size. There is an identical water stain across the lower right corner of both. ‘And look, here,’ I say, pointing to the writing. There has been some attempt to disguise the hand in Drake’s letter, but way the double T in ‘Matthew’ is crossed is identical to the double T in ‘Pettifer’: a broad cross stroke that does not quite meet the first T. It would be hard to doubt that these pages, and the writing on them, came from the same source. For further confirmation, we pass them over to Thomas and Sidney, who bend their heads over the papers and lift them after close scrutiny, with a nod of agreement.
‘Did you write that letter, Ambrose?’ It is the quiet sorrow in Drake’s voice that finally undoes Pettifer. He sinks back to his seat and presses his face into his hands.
‘Yes. God forgive me.’ It comes as a muffled whisper. His shoulders are shaking. ‘The letter, yes. But the rest is lies.’
‘The Ovid book?’ Drake says, in that same disappointed tone.
Pettifer looks up. ‘I do not see any book.’
I click my tongue, impatient. ‘The book is in the possession of your friend Mistress Grace at the House of Vesta. But you recognise this endpaper, do you not?’
He nods, miserably. No one speaks; there is only the sound of the ship’s timbers creaking, the water lapping outside, and the chorus of the gulls. After a while, Pettifer seems to gather his thoughts. He lifts his head and addresses himself to Drake. When he speaks, he has almost mastered the tremor in his voice.
‘I confess I lost the book at the whorehouse, Sir Francis, yes. You know it was my habit to pray with those poor sinners there, as Our Lord did. It seemed to bring some comfort to them. A book like that is costly, so I do not blame a desperate boy for taking it. I had only thought to brighten their lives with stories. Mostly from the Scriptures, of course,’ he adds, hastily, ‘but I believed they might enjoy the classics, too. I’m afraid I was there the night Robert Dunne came in, reeling with drink. When he learned that the whore he favoured had been sent away, he threatened in his anger to become violent. It seemed to me that it would be in everyone’s best interests if I helped him back to the ship. I left him in his cabin to sleep it off, and later I went back to see if he was all right. He had woken, but he seemed unusually troubled and asked if I would pray with him, as I told you. Afterwards, I bade him good night and went to my own quarters. That was the last time I saw him, and I assure you he was very much alive.’ He pauses for breath, and wipes his mouth with his hand. ‘And he never confessed any intention of harm towards you, Sir Francis, or I would have spoken immediately.’
‘No one saw him but you after Jonas looked in and believed he was asleep,’ I say. ‘When you learned I had been to view Dunne’s body, you were very anxious to know if I had been able to tell anything about his death from looking at him.’
‘I only wished to know if the matter could be resolved quickly, like everyone else.’
‘Really? You weren’t afraid that an experienced eye would be able to tell from the body that he had not died by hanging?’
Pettifer does not reply, though he gives me a very unchristian look.
‘Explain the letter, then,’ Thomas Drake says, brusquely. He has no love for the chaplain, but he must weigh this against his dislike of me, and his evident desire that I should be proved wrong.
‘The letter …’ Pettifer lowers his eyes to the table in a show of contrition. ‘I admit that it was an act of folly on my part. When I learned the details of Dunne’s death I was distraught, naturally. But I thought the symbolism too important to ignore. I sincerely believed he had taken his own life, you see, and what I knew from praying with him the night before – well, it was clear tha
t something was weighing on his conscience. It seemed to me that he must have been overcome with remorse, though I swear I did not know for what. He had only talked to me of sin in general, and a fear for his soul.’ He stops and swallows hard. A muscle has begun to twitch under his right eye. ‘A death on board is a bad omen for a voyage, everyone knows. I thought if I could convince you, Sir Francis, that it was connected with the Judas book, you would be fearful enough to abandon the translation. It was wrong, I see that now. But I acted in good faith – I wanted to protect us all from the consequences of dabbling in matters that so clearly violate God’s law.’
‘Whereas indulging your desire for young boys,’ I say, my voice tight, ‘God smiles on that, does He?’
Pettifer rises, his face swollen with rage as he plants himself squarely in front of me, eyes burning. ‘Repeat that slander again, Italian, and I will—’
‘What will you do? Call the Constable? The Sheriff? Or will you just push me off a cliff, like you did with Jonas Solon?’
‘More lies! I never laid a finger on the Spaniard. How do you reason that?’
‘I think you were afraid Jonas had realised Dunne was already dead when he took him the draught. He may have thought he was passed out at first, but given all the speculation, he had time to rethink. He would have known you were alone with Dunne when you returned to the ship. Did he voice his suspicions to you? Did you see your chance to silence him and incriminate him at the same time?’ I pause for breath; Pettifer is staring at me as if he thinks I have lost my wits. He turns to Drake, holding out his hands in appeal.
‘Sir Francis, will you let this man stand here and abuse me in front of you? I have no idea what he is talking about, you must believe me.’
‘You speak Spanish, don’t you? And you have already admitted to one letter – will you deny that you wrote the other, the supposed confession from Jonas?’