S. Parris - Treachery

He turns the door handle. It is locked. He takes the key from the ring at his belt, and slides it quietly into the lock, but it meets with resistance halfway. The Captain-General curses under his breath.

‘He has left the key in the lock on the inside, so that it cannot be opened,’ he mouths.

‘Must we break it down, sir?’ Fenner asks.

Drake shakes his head. ‘No. Let us avoid force unless it proves necessary.’

‘Can we get in from the other side?’ I whisper. ‘From the quarter gallery?’

Drake frowns. ‘It could be done, if the rear door or a window was open. You would have to climb down a rope from the poop deck, though — it would be dangerous.’ He gives me an appraising look. ‘You are injured, Bruno — better one of my men tries it.’

I shake my head. ‘I am fit enough. Let me do it while you remain here — we will trap him from two sides.’

Drake considers this and gives a curt nod. ‘Very well. Fenner — take him up and see that he is safe. Hurry — they will be aware that we are out here by now. And, Fenner’ — he drops his voice to a whisper — ‘when you are done up there, I want you to go down and search Master Crosse’s quarters. Bring me any papers, money — anything you find of interest. Search thoroughly.’ He turns back to the cabin door. ‘Gilbert! Are you in there? I cannot open the door — could you unlock it?’

‘Just coming, Captain.’ Gilbert’s voice sounds bright and easy from inside. I hesitate, half-expecting him to throw the door wide to reveal Dom Antonio peacefully poring over navigational charts, no harm done, just to prove me wrong. But the door does not open. Drake rattles the handle.

‘Gilbert — let me in! That is an order.’

‘I am trying, Sir Francis — there seems to be a problem with the lock.’ His tone is still cheerful; it is clear from the acoustics that he is not speaking from close to the door.

‘He’s playing for time,’ I whisper. Drake makes a savage gesture with his head as he lifts his hand to bang on the door. Fenner and I hurry up to the poop deck on the level above.

The old captain does not waste any time with questions about what is happening below; he wordlessly gestures over the wooden guardrail on the starboard side. I lean down and see where the rigging of the mizzenmast is secured to the sides of the sterncastle; it looks straightforward to shin down one of these ropes and drop on to the quarter gallery below.

‘You all right?’ Fenner says. I nod, hoisting myself over the rail, so that I am clinging to it on the other side. Below me is a sheer drop to the water. I shudder, and concentrate my attention on the side of the hull immediately before me. I shuffle along until I can grip the taut rope of the rigging, leaning out, pushing with my feet against the wood as I pass one hand over the other, finding footholds where I can, keeping the tension in my arms though I can feel the rough rope burning the palms of my hands. Once my foot slips against the hull as the ship rocks on a sudden swell; my shoulder wrenches sharply as my full weight hangs from my arms, some thirty or so feet above the sea, but I scrabble with my feet and find my balance again, until I can stretch out my left leg and gain a foothold on the rail of the gallery.

I drop as quietly as I can on to the wooden planks and crouch below the level of the wide casement that runs around three sides of the cabin. The door into the captain’s quarters is directly in front of me; I consider trying it, but if it is locked, Gilbert will hear and we will have lost the element of surprise. I ease myself along until I can raise my head enough to peer through the window.

Dom Antonio is closest to me, seated at the bench behind the captain’s wide table, his back to the window, a series of papers spread before him. His right hand toys with the stem of a wine glass; it is full of a deep-red liquid. My heart lurches, but the Portuguese seems distracted; he is watching Gilbert, who stands behind the inner door. He appears to be fiddling with the key, or at least, he is making a show of doing so. From my vantage point it does not appear that he has any kind of weapon in his hands, though I cannot take that for granted — Gilbert is nothing if not resourceful. Glancing across the cabin, I see that one of the casements on the other side is open a fraction, just enough for me to ease my hand inside. I do not want to alert Gilbert to my presence until I am able to get inside the cabin with my knife, in case he should lunge for Dom Antonio.

‘What is the matter?’ I hear Dom Antonio ask, anxiety in his voice.

‘Nothing to worry about — I think the lock is a little stiff,’ Gilbert replies. ‘Is the wine good?’

Dom Antonio looks at the glass in his hand as if he had forgotten it was there. Drake is hammering impatiently on the door. I have no time to lose. Crouching lower, I scuttle around the gallery until I am under the open casement. I draw my dagger silently, clamp the handle between my teeth; in one movement I reach up, grip the lintel above the window and swing myself through the gap to land on the table. The gust of air sends all the papers flapping to the floor. Dom Antonio jumps back, pressing himself against the seat and making the sign of the cross. Gilbert spins around, staring at me.

‘What-’

‘Jesu, Mary and Joseph — he has come to murder me!’ Dom Antonio cries out. I take the knife from my teeth and point it towards him; he cowers behind the table.

‘Don’t touch that wine,’ I bark. ‘Put it down. Have you drunk any?’

The Portuguese shakes his head and does as he is told.

‘You,’ I say to Gilbert, turning the point of my dagger towards him and jumping down from the table. ‘Get away from that door. And keep your hands where I can see them.’

The young cartographer blinks rapidly behind his eye-glasses and edges across the room, holding his hands up before him, palms outwards, as if to ward off the madman. His tongue darts nervously around his lips. ‘Doctor Bruno, have you quite lost your wits?’

I hold the dagger out, keeping it level and my eyes fixed on him while I cross to the door and, feeling behind me, turn the key with one smooth movement. ‘Nothing wrong with that lock as far as I can see,’ I say, as Drake bursts in, followed by his two armed guards. Gilbert backs towards the table, staring from me to Drake in amazement.

‘Dom Antonio — are you all right?’ Drake says, unsure who to address first.

‘I am quite well, thank you. I was just taking a look through your charts here, when — what is happening, Francis? Is this man dangerous?’ He gestures to me.

‘This one, no,’ Drake says, his shoulders settling now that he has regained control of the situation. ‘Gilbert — I see you are giving Dom Antonio my good wine?’

Gilbert colours. ‘I — yes, I thought, in your absence, Sir Francis, you would have wanted me to show your guest the proper hospitality-’

‘Most thoughtful of you,’ Drake says, taking a step closer to the table. There is an edge to his voice that Gilbert cannot fail to have noticed. ‘But he does not appear to be thirsty. Why don’t you drink it instead?’ Drake swipes up the glass from under Dom Antonio’s nose and holds it out to Gilbert.

The young cartographer shakes his head urgently. ‘I can’t, Sir Francis — you know I do not touch strong liquor. I have a weak constitution.’ He breaks into a nervous laugh.

‘Nonsense — this is excellent stuff. It’ll put fire in your belly. Drink it down.’

Gilbert opens and closes his mouth again, blinks hard and appears to decide he has no choice. He reaches out a hand for the glass, but as he takes it from Drake, he allows it to slip through his fingers. The fine Venetian crystal shatters against the boards, the wine splashing in an arc like blood. Gilbert cries out and presses his fingers to his lips.