S. Parris - Treachery

‘Forgive my clumsiness, Sir Francis — I did not mean …’ He swallows hard. ‘I will repay the damage, of course.’

‘Will you?’ Drake raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you know how much Venetian glass costs, Gilbert? Where will you come by that kind of money?’

Gilbert swallows. The puddle of wine seeps into the wood at his feet. So we will never know now whether it was poisoned, though Gilbert’s reluctance to drink it himself does not argue in his favour. I watch him closely; if he is acting, it is skilfully done. He has said nothing so far to give himself away, despite being caught off guard.

‘Dom Antonio,’ I say, turning to the Portuguese, who looks entirely confused by the intrusion, ‘the other night you thought you recognised this man.’ I jerk my dagger in Gilbert’s direction.

‘Yes, but it seems I was mistaken.’ Dom Antonio gives a theatrical sigh. ‘I lose track, you see, in all my travels. Faces seem familiar, even when they are not.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I struggle to keep the impatience from my voice, ‘but where did you think you knew him from? You must have an idea.’

‘Well, yes.’ Dom Antonio looks at me, mildly bewildered. ‘It seemed to me that we had met before in Paris. Not more than a year ago, certainly. This young man had a beard then, but it didn’t suit him.’

‘I have told Dom Antonio, with the greatest respect, that he is mistaken,’ Gilbert cuts in. ‘We have never met before. Nor have I grown a beard, not since I tried at twenty.’ Again, the self-deprecating laugh.

Dom Antonio holds out his hands, palms up. ‘There you are,’ he says. ‘An old man gets confused.’

‘Where in Paris?’ I demand.

‘If I had to pin it down,’ the Portuguese says, creasing his face in concentration until his brows knit together, ‘I would say I had seen him at the Spanish embassy. I was there trying to negotiate terms of an accord with Spain through the Ambassador-’

‘Bernadino de Mendoza.’

‘I see by your face that you have met him. Yes — a duplicitous fellow. They offered talks, but it all came to nothing. As always, with King Philip.’ His mouth turns down.

‘And Master Crosse here?’ I say, cutting off any further lament.

Dom Antonio narrows his eyes to peer at Gilbert. ‘I would swear that I saw this young man at Mendoza’s residence, being shown in as I was shown out. But if he says it is impossible …’ He shrugs again.

‘Now that I think of it,’ Gilbert says carefully, ‘it is possible that I was delivering a letter to the Ambassador. That was sometimes part of my duties when I was in Paris.’

‘Was that where you cultivated the habit of passing letters to the Spanish?’ I say. My dagger is held level, pointed towards him. Light glints dully off its blade. Gilbert jerks his head up and stares at me.

‘What?’ The colour drains from his face. His gaze swings wildly to Drake, who holds up a hand to silence me.

‘Put away your weapon, Bruno, we are only talking,’ he says, with quiet authority. Gilbert’s face visibly smooths out as he watches me sheath the dagger. ‘Speaking of letters — I received a very distressing letter from Jonas Solon shortly before his body was found at the foot of the cliffs. In it he confessed to the murder of Robert Dunne.’

He allows this to hang in the air as we both watch Gilbert’s reaction. For a moment he works to master his expression, then he looks at Drake as if confused.

‘Then — why did you not mention it at the inquest, Sir Francis, if you knew he had confessed?’

He is good, I will grant him that. He blinks in innocent confusion behind his glasses, holding his master’s gaze steady. I could almost believe him.

‘Because I knew the letter to be a forgery,’ Drake says, looking calmly at Gilbert. ‘Jonas Solon could not read or write. That letter could only have come from someone trying to cast the blame elsewhere. Presumably the man who killed both Dunne and Jonas.’

‘But-’ Gilbert is staring at him, shaking his head, though it is hard to tell whether the frozen expression in his eyes is fear or disbelief. ‘That can’t be, there was-’

‘A letter among my papers, signed by Jonas?’ Drake almost smiles. ‘Yes. It was written for him. But someone with access to my personal correspondence might have seen it and not realised.’

Gilbert shakes his head; he moves back against the table as if it might offer some protection.

‘Did they recruit you at the Spanish embassy?’ I ask, in a conversational tone. ‘You were afraid that Dom Antonio would identify you, weren’t you? What did you put in the wine you gave him?’

‘There was nothing in the wine. I don’t know what you are talking about. I wrote no letters from Jonas — my Castilian is not good enough. You must be mistaken, both of you …’ His words tumble over one another, until he falters.

‘Who told you the letter from Jonas was in Castilian?’ I ask. Gilbert’s mouth falls open; his Adam’s apple bounces in his throat as he tries to swallow.

‘I have not shown that letter to anyone except Bruno,’ Drake says. ‘Though I almost asked you to translate it. You were counting on that, I suppose?’

‘No — I — there are others on this ship who speak Spanish — why do you not ask them?’ he blurts.

‘Because they are not left-handed,’ I say. He seems to crumple at this; the fight goes out of him and he slumps against the edge of the table so that he is half sitting on it.

Drake holds his hands wide. ‘Why, Gilbert?’ He sounds like a disappointed father. Gilbert raises his eyes briefly to his captain, then drops his gaze to the floor. He does not answer.

‘Robert Dunne found out what you were up to, didn’t he?’ I say. ‘And he tried to use it to his own advantage. Five gold angels is a lot of money, whatever the Spaniards are paying you. And then he asked for more. I’d have been angry too. And afraid that the money would not buy his discretion for long. Better to silence him permanently.’

Gilbert still does not speak, nor look up.

‘And even then you realised you weren’t safe,’ I continue. ‘Sir Francis was not convinced by the suicide, so you decided to make Jonas your scapegoat.’

Still nothing. I catch Drake’s eye; he gives a minute shake of the head. After some moments, Gilbert looks up.

‘You cannot prove any of this.’ His voice sounds dull, as if he does not believe it.

‘I have asked Captain Fenner to search your quarters,’ Drake says. ‘If you have any correspondence hidden there, we will bring it to light.’

‘You cannot do that.’ He looks indignant. ‘Not my private things-’

‘Nothing is private on my ship,’ Drake snaps.

‘You will find nothing,’ Gilbert says, though he sounds afraid.

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘He thought he was going to church this evening, before you asked him to stay and show Dom Antonio the maps. Perhaps you should search his person. You hide the letters inside your shirt, don’t you?’ I take a step closer to Gilbert. ‘When you fell against me in the boat that first night, you were afraid I had dislodged them.’

In this instant, I know we have him. Gilbert’s face grows white and rigid; his left hand closes instinctively over his breast, as if to protect whatever is hidden there. Drake glances at me, nods approval; the brief hesitation is enough for Gilbert. He swings his legs over the table and lunges for Dom Antonio. The Portuguese, who has been watching all this time with a face of growing incredulity, is caught unawares; before he can react, Gilbert has whipped Dom Antonio’s ornamental dagger from its sheath at his belt and is holding it to the Portuguese’s throat.

‘Gilbert, let him go. What good will it do you now?’ Drake fights to keep his voice reassuring. Dom Antonio lets out a strangled whimper.