S. Parris - Treachery

‘My family is indebted to you,’ Drake says, with a stern look at Thomas. ‘Now — what brings you out here?’

‘Bruno has something to tell you,’ Sidney says, in a conspiratorial tone.

‘To do with Dunne?’ Drake almost pounces on me.

‘There is a matter I wish to discuss, Sir Francis,’ I say. ‘But could you first send for Padre Pettifer? And ask him to bring a notebook. Don’t mention that Sidney and I are here.’

Drake frowns, but he opens the door and exchanges a few words with one of the guards outside the door.

‘What is this about, Bruno?’ he says, closing the door as the man’s footsteps can be heard descending the stairs. ‘Is it to do with Savile’s testimony? He is back on board and as good as confined to his cabin, but I’m afraid my brother has confirmed his story. They went to and from the House of Vesta in company that night and spent at least half the time there playing cards together, along with several other gentlemen.’ He shoots a fierce glance at Thomas. ‘So it seems unlikely that Savile could have slipped away to meet Jonas.’

Thomas Drake skewers first me and then Sidney with a black look. Our hasty confrontation of Savile has laid bare his secret and exposed him to his brother’s judgement; clearly he does not thank us for it.

‘Let us hear what the chaplain has to say.’ I turn away from Thomas’s glare; I have no wish to provoke him further.

‘What has he to do with it?’ Drake asks, faintly impatient.

‘It may be that he has some information.’ I think it best to keep vague for now.

‘God’s blood — if he knows something about the business, why would he not have told me?’ Drake paces the room, fists clenched at his side. ‘Must everyone on this ship hold on to his secrets, at the expense of my voyage?’ He directs this last at his brother; Thomas shrinks into the seat and lowers his eyes.

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.’