S. Parris - Treachery

I give her a last, hard stare, to let her know I have not surrendered, then cross to the bed and look down at Toby. His eyelid is still twitching and his limp hand jerks involuntarily, but his face has grown a waxy grey, his eyes sunk into shadow. He is halfway across the threshold of death already; if a physician really has been called, he would need a miracle to bring the boy back now. I reach out and take his hand; his fingers are cold and clammy. I wonder what she gave him; with the arsenal of ingredients she keeps to poison infants in the womb, she would not be short of possibilities. I murmur a benediction over him in my own language; it is many years since I last administered any sacraments of the church, and I never will again, yet in this moment I feel there is nothing else I can offer him. The words form as easily as if I had been repeating them every day, and there is a strange comfort in the old familiar expressions, though only for me — Toby cannot hear me now, and would not understand if he could.

‘ By the sacred mysteries of mankind’s restoration, may Almighty God remit for you the punishment of the present life and of the life to come, and may He open to you the gates of Paradise and admit you to everlasting happiness .’ The way I say it, the sentiment sounds more like a challenge than a prayer. Yet there is a sense of reverence in the room; when I turn back to the door, Sidney and his armed men are standing with their heads bowed. I shoulder past them to the stairs with my eyes to the ground, so they will not see my face. She is right — I caused his death. I failed to save him. And for what?

‘You cannot blame yourself, Bruno. Who was to know she was so ruthless? Here, this way.’

I have not spoken as Sidney leads us back towards the Mayor’s house. His pace hurts my legs and my ribs but I do not complain; what have I to complain about? A churchbell peals insistently from somewhere beyond the rooftop, summoning the town to Evensong.

‘ I should have known. A woman who throws young girls into the gutter once they have borne her a child to sell? Look at us — walking the streets with armed guards. We were so busy worrying about our own safety that we did not see the real danger. So much easier for her just to silence the boy. God damn her!’ I burst out, stopping at the corner of a side street to catch my breath. ‘We should have taken him with us this afternoon. He would still be alive.’

‘You could not have known,’ Sidney says again, laying a hand on my arm.

I retreat into silence; he does not know, because I never speak of it, how heavy the dead weigh on my conscience. In the turbulent years since I left San Domenico Maggiore, there have been others whose lives I feel I could have saved if I had been quicker to recognise a killer — even those who became victims precisely because they tried to help me. Some nights, their faces appear to me in the mist of sleep, quietly accusing. Sidney takes the view that regret is the most pointless of all sentiments, since the past cannot be changed, but he is young still; I am finding that the more years I accumulate, the closer my regrets shadow me.

‘I wonder if your inamorata is back from Mount Edgecumbe,’ Sidney says, casually, turning up a small side street. ‘She will want to express her gratitude to you, no doubt.’

‘She is hardly my inamorata.’

He only raises an eyebrow and makes a show of suppressing a smirk.

The Mayor’s house is the grandest in the street: a fine four-storey double-gabled building of white stone, with vast windows that stretch almost the entire width of the façade on the first three floors, their expanse an imposing display of wealth for anyone who knows the cost of glass.

We are shown into a spacious parlour on the ground floor by a liveried servant. Drake is seated behind a table at the far end of the room, poring over papers. His head snaps up as we enter, his eyes questioning.

Lady Drake sits in the window, her auburn hair bound up in a gold caul. She is deep in conversation with a portly older man who wears a fine wool doublet and leather boots, his fingers studded with gold rings. He offers a bow to Sidney and introduces himself to me as the Mayor; as I shake his hand, I recall Mistress Grace’s loaded remark about how Drake should remember he is no longer mayor of Plymouth. Did she mean to imply that she need fear no reprisal from the current mayor? The suspicion colours my impression of the man; there is something unctuous about his manner, and I must force myself to accept his welcome with a smile. But he barely has a chance to speak before Lady Drake launches herself at us and clasps both my hands.

‘Doctor Bruno, I am forever in your debt. I never believed I would see my cousin Nell alive again.’

‘Is she here?’ Though it is true that I have given Nell little thought since I left her this morning, now that I am here, I realise how much I want to see her, to be assured that she is recovering.

‘They brought her back after dinner — in a carriage! Was that not kind of Sir Peter? All she could talk of was how she owes you her life.’ I fear she might weep, but she gathers herself and presses my hands firmly as she fixes me with a new, more knowing expression. ‘She will want to reward you.’

‘Your gratitude and your husband’s is all the reward I need, my lady,’ I mumble. The Mayor stares at me as you might an exotic animal. Sidney is pointedly looking out of the window. ‘Besides,’ I say, extracting my hands and tapping the dagger at my belt, ‘Sir Francis has already made me a handsome present.’

‘My cousin is resting,’ she says, ‘but I will tell her you are here. I’m sure that will do more than any physician’s draught to restore her spirits.’

‘Elizabeth, my Lord Mayor,’ Drake says, rising from his seat, ‘I must speak with these gentlemen in private.’

‘Of course, of course. I will have some refreshment brought. It is dusty in the streets today, is it not?’ The Mayor bustles towards the door with officious politeness. ‘My Lady Drake, would you like to take a turn in the garden?’

‘Thank you, your worship, but I think I shall see how my cousin is recovering,’ Elizabeth says, smiling sweetly. ‘And whether she is ready to receive visitors.’

‘Well?’ Drake says, impatient, when the three of us are left. ‘Where is the boy?’

‘Dead,’ Sidney says bluntly.

‘What?’

‘Mistress Grace poisoned him. She must have done it as soon as we turned our backs this afternoon.’ I shake my head bitterly. ‘I should never have left him.’

‘I will have a messenger send the constable there directly,’ Drake says, his voice hard with anger. ‘But this is bad for us. Without the boy, there is no witness to this crime you accuse Pettifer of. And if you cannot prove the crime, you cannot prove there were ever any grounds for blackmail, and the murder charge falls apart.’ He looks at me steadily as he says this. I do not miss the emphasis on ‘you’.

‘You think I am mistaken?’ I ask quietly.

‘Not entirely,’ he says. ‘Pettifer will never admit to what you accuse him of with the boy. And though it pains me to say so, I acknowledge there could be truth in that. As for the trade in babies — I can well believe it. But I think our chances of holding them to account for it are small, when the most powerful men in the town will not move against Mistress Grace. I have sent men to fetch the pregnant girl from Stonehouse, though I imagine they will have thought of that and moved her elsewhere. I only hope she is safe.’

‘Then we cannot prove that Pettifer committed the murders?’ I hear my voice faltering.

‘Unless there is some evidence that Dunne’s blackmail demands were addressed to him, it remains your word against his. And he is well connected in the town.’