S. Parris - Treachery

‘They didn’t touch me. Listen,’ I say, leaning in, ‘if you no longer have the book, do you at least have the page you tore from it?’ He hesitates, long enough for me to take it as an affirmative. ‘The page you tore out because it had an inscription to its owner, yes? Or else he had written his own name in it. You have kept it, haven’t you?’

He looks at his feet again and gives one guilty nod. ‘I liked the picture.’ His colour deepens.

‘Toby,’ I say, making my voice as gentle as I can, ‘I really need that page. I can’t explain fully but it could be vital evidence.’

‘Then you will know his name, and he will accuse me of stealing it,’ the boy says, miserably.

‘I know his name already,’ I say quietly. His mouth falls open. ‘And he won’t dare accuse you of anything,’ I continue. ‘He will be too busy defending himself.’

He shakes his head again. ‘Mistress Grace has threatened to throw me on the street already for thieving from a customer.’

‘If you get me that page, I will tell Mistress Grace that I gave you the book. Without that page, she can’t prove it was not mine to give. But if she finds it, she has all the proof she needs against you.’

He looks doubtful.

‘They cut off your hands for stealing,’ I add casually. His gaze shifts to his blistered fingers with their chewed nails then back to me, terror in his eyes. ‘Though for an item of that value, it would probably be hanging.’

‘All right, I will get it,’ he says, so soft I can barely hear him. ‘But I can’t go yet — you’ll have to wait till I finish for the day.’

‘I need it now. Besides, what if she shows him the book and he confirms that you stole it from him before I have a chance to speak to her?’

His face creases with the weight of his dilemma. ‘But my master won’t allow …’ He points to the shop.

‘My friend is keeping your master busy spending good money in there,’ I say. ‘It will only take you a few moments to run upstairs. Hurry now.’

He hesitates, then scuttles along the alley to the far end and disappears around the corner.

Minutes pass, and after five I begin to worry: perhaps he has forgotten where he hid the page, or perhaps the madam has caught him. I glance back to the door into the apothecary’s; the boy’s master will come out if we don’t return soon, wondering why I have dragged his apprentice away from his work for so long and fearing what depraved scenes he may discover in the alley. At least I can rely on Sidney to keep him talking. He is probably inventing an entire textbook’s worth of maladies.

My relief on hearing footsteps from the end of the alleyway is shortlived when I realise they are accompanied by a woman’s voice, followed by a man’s muttered response. I dive back inside the shop, where the apothecary and Sidney raise their heads together from the scrutiny of some greenish powder and look at me as if I am interrupting something intimate.

‘Where is my apprentice?’ the apothecary demands, as if I might have buried him in the alley.

‘I think he had to go and relieve himself,’ I say pleasantly. He scowls.

‘You were saying?’ Sidney indicates the substance laid out on a square of waxed paper on the ware-bench.

But we never hear the apothecary’s exposition of whatever miracle cure he is offering, because the front door opens and Mistress Grace enters, plucking off her gloves, borne along on wafts of lavender perfume, her bearing as haughty and composed as any court lady. Over one arm she carries a velvet pouch on a slim gold chain, and in her hands a woven basket. She raises her carefully plucked brows in surprise on seeing us.

‘Well, if it isn’t our friends …’ She twirls her fingers in a searching gesture. ‘I’m sorry, I have forgotten your name.’

‘I think you know my name, mistress,’ I say, unsmiling. She allows her sharp gaze to travel up and down me.

‘You do not look well, sir. Perhaps the rigours of Plymouth life do not agree with you.’ She turns to Sidney with an elegant curtsey. ‘Good day, Sir Philip. I trust you are in better health.’ Her face is impassive, but there is no doubt that she is mocking him. Nonetheless, the apothecary stares and stands up a little straighter, realising he is in the presence of a knight. Perhaps he is wishing he had thought to charge more.

‘I am glad to have seen you again, mistress,’ I say, matching her smoothness. ‘I wanted to ask you about a friend of yours. Master John Doughty.’

She turns pale under her paint but maintains her composure. ‘You are mistaken, sir — I do not know anyone of that name.’

‘Really? That is curious — he distinctly said he knew you. Perhaps you knew him by a different name. In any case, he is wanted for murder, so it is as well you are not acquainted. His close friends and associates would certainly be questioned, under suspicion of hiding him, or helping him escape.’ I smile through my teeth.

She looks towards the street window, where the shadow of her broad-shouldered bodyservant can be seen loitering outside, cleaning his ear with his finger.

‘It is indeed fortunate, then, that I do not associate with people of that sort,’ she says sweetly, and turns to the apothecary as if to show that the subject is closed and I am of no further interest.

He holds out to her a selection of packets wrapped in paper. ‘Here you are, Mistress Grace — common rue, mugwort and pennyroyal. I was a bit short on the rue this week but I can make it up when the next batch comes in. I will adjust your account, of course.’

‘Those are all abortifacients, are they not?’ I pick up a jar from the ware-bench and sniff it. The apothecary gives me a hard look.

‘They are herbs with a variety of medicinal purposes, sir, for those with the knowledge to use them,’ he says.

‘But principally known for prompting miscarriage,’ I say. ‘Though not always successfully, from what I hear. Of course there are other ways of dealing with unwanted children.’

Mistress Grace gives no sign of having heard this; she is engaged in checking her packages, weighing them in her hand before opening each one, lifting it to her nose and delicately sniffing the contents. Each time she pauses after smelling them and her eyes wander, unfocused, to the shelves on the wall as if she is deep in contemplation, while the little apothecary twists his hands and fidgets behind his bench, nervously awaiting her verdict. It would be a foolish man who tried to cheat her, I reflect. Sidney gives me a warning look.

The door to the alleyway opens at that moment and Toby reappears, breathless. He freezes in the doorway at the sight of Mistress Grace and looks wildly from me to his master.

‘Where’ve you been?’ the little man says, though I suspect his show of anger is more for Mistress Grace’s benefit. ‘Empty your bowels in your own time, boy, not mine. And it would make everyone’s life easier if you didn’t have strange men coming in this shop asking after you.’ He glares at me and Mistress Grace finally turns around with a sweet smile.

‘Pengilly, I find I could use more nutmeg,’ she says to the apothecary. I snort, but she ignores it. ‘I’m sure you have some in the back you could look for.’

He takes the hint, and with a small bow, leaves us alone in the shop. Mistress Grace places her packets carefully in the basket, shifting its weight on her arm.

‘Gentlemen,’ she says, still smiling, ‘I fear you did not receive the best of our hospitality on your first visit to my house. Especially you, sir.’ She tilts her head towards me with a look of sympathy. ‘I feel we should make it up to you. Come and take a drink with us this evening, as my guests.’ She looks up from under her lashes and her eyes glitter in a way that must once have been devastating.