S. Parris - Treachery

‘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.

‘That book you have in your chamber, the one you said a gentleman gave you.’

His whole body tenses. ‘What of it?’

‘I need it.’

‘Why?’

‘It might help me to catch a murderer.’

His eyes grow wide, but he shakes his head. ‘I don’t have it.’

Disappointment drops like a stone in my gut. ‘You sold it?’

‘Of course not.’ He looks briefly affronted, then lowers his gaze. ‘Mistress Grace found it. She didn’t believe it was a gift.’

‘Toby, no one believes that.’

He squirms his shoulders, then raises his eyes to give me an accusing stare. ‘Did you tell her?’

‘No, I swear. She and I did not have much time for conversation after I had to flee your room.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ He looks around, but the alley is empty. He points at my injuries. ‘I heard you jumped out a window. Did you get a beating? I am sorry for it. I’ve seen men leave the House with worse, mind.’