S. Parris - Treachery

‘I know.’ I place the purse back inside the book and tuck it under my arm with a sigh. ‘I would be glad to hear a simpler one, if you have it.’

He presses his lips together. ‘Not yet. We should show all this to Drake, see what he makes of it.’

‘He may not thank us for suggesting he is next on the murderer’s list.’

‘I doubt he will lose much sleep over the idea. If Drake feared the assassin’s knife he would never set foot outside his own door.’ Sidney affects indifference, but it is plain he is impressed by Drake’s bravery.

Holding up the lantern, I close the cupboard door and take a last look around the dead man’s cabin. A sudden melancholy sweeps over me at the bareness of it, the thought that a life can leave so few traces. Hard not to think of what I would leave behind me, if someone came for me in the dark watches of the night. No widow, no child, no land. Nothing but the books I have written. At least, I suppose, that is some sort of mark in the sand. I am about to leave when something flashes on the floor; a brief wink as I move the light.

‘Wait — what was that?’

I crouch and retrieve from between the floorboards a small pearl button in the shape of a flower. I hold it out on my palm for Sidney to examine.

‘Did this come from any of the shirts or doublets you took out of the chest?’

‘Don’t think so. This is not a cheap thing, and Dunne’s clothes were shabby, for the most part. But let us look again.’

He prises open the chest and dumps an armful of the dead man’s clothes on the bed. Between us we lift up the meagre collection of shirts and doublets. They give off a stale, damp odour.

‘The shirts all lace at the neck,’ I point out.

‘And these doublets have buttons wrapped in thread,’ he says, dropping them back in the chest and wiping his hands. ‘Unless it belonged to the clothes he died in, it’s not his.’

‘So we might conclude that someone else lost this button in here. Perhaps in the course of a scuffle.’

‘Torn off while hoisting him to the ceiling?’ Sidney suggests. ‘That can’t have been an easy task.’

‘Hold on to it,’ I say. ‘And look closely at the buttons of everyone on board from now on. Its owner may not realise it is missing.’

Sidney drops the button into his purse for safekeeping, along with the coin. I slip the list of names inside my doublet and tuck the prayer book back under my arm.

We emerge on to the deck just as the door of the next cabin opens and Sir William Savile appears, fastening a short green cape to his shoulder. He looks surprised to see us in Dunne’s quarters but greets us with his usual heartiness. Again I detect a faint hint of irony in it, as if we are all agreed that we are acting a part. Or perhaps I am too ready to be suspicious.

‘Gentlemen. What are you up to in there — looting?’ He grins, nodding to the book, and I curse myself for not having thought to conceal it.

‘Sorting through Dunne’s belongings for his widow,’ Sidney says, with a touch of hauteur. Savile raises an eyebrow.

‘Ah. I see the Captain-General is not afraid of setting you to menial tasks,’ he says, but his eyes are still fixed on the book. ‘For my part I have told him I will keep the watch once in a while, but I draw the line at scrubbing out the heads. Is that a book of Dunne’s? I never saw him read anything except a hand of cards.’

‘It is a testament,’ I say. ‘Perhaps he preferred to keep his devotions private.’

He inclines his head. ‘Looks like a handsome book. Costly. For a fellow who claimed he didn’t have a shilling. And died owing me, I might add, among others. May I see?’

He meets my eye with an expectant smile as he holds out a hand. I make no move to release the book.

‘You played cards with him, then?’

Savile gives a short laugh. ‘For my sins. His enthusiasm for the card table was in direct proportion to his lack of talent for it, poor devil. The first night we docked in Plymouth, Sir Francis took a private room at the Star and we gentlemen dined together. There was a game after supper. Dunne went out early, and lost with a very bad grace, I must say. I was among those he promised to repay. He stormed away in a great fury. Not what you expect from an officer, but then some of these country gentlemen are rather unpolished, don’t you find?’ He addresses this question to Sidney, who refuses to return the slick smile, despite the fact that he almost certainly shares Savile’s views. There is something unpalatable about seeing one’s own snobbery reflected so nakedly in another.

‘Were the stakes high?’ I ask.

He turns and allows his glance to slide up and down me before resting on my face. ‘As high as befits the status of the players. But etiquette demands that you don’t enter into a game unless you can meet the stakes. Very bad form otherwise.’

‘Did Dunne leave the game owing a lot to the rest of the company?’

‘Not enough to make it worth killing himself,’ Savile says. ‘Or to make it worth anyone’s while to kill him.’ One side of his mouth curves into a smile.

‘Why — has someone suggested that is what happened?’

‘I thought that’s what you were implying. But one always speculates in these matters, don’t you think? Anyhow. Mustn’t speak ill of the dead,’ he adds, without sincerity. ‘Where are you fellows bound? Off to see the Captain-General?’ He looks as if he means to join us. I glance at Sidney; we would not be able to discuss anything with Drake if Savile tags along.

‘I intend to visit the rest of the fleet this afternoon in my capacity as Master of the Ordnance,’ Sidney says, with a little swagger of the shoulders. ‘Doctor Bruno will be helping Sir Francis with his charts.’

Savile looks at me with a flicker of interest. ‘Navigator, are you?’

‘I know something of astronomy.’

‘Huh. I thought he had a fellow for that. The whey-faced boy with the spectacles. Well, I think I shall come with you, Sir Philip. If I have to spend another afternoon in my cabin I fear I shall do away with myself out of boredom.’ He stops when he sees our expressions. ‘Sorry. Thoughtless. But really, it’s enough to drive you out of your wits, cooped up here all day. And the attractions of Plymouth are soon exhausted.’

‘I’m not sure there will be many more entertainments laid on during the months at sea,’ I say.

‘Ah, but that is different. At least we will be in the thick of it then. The journey itself is the adventure! Come, Sir Philip. Where shall we begin?’

Sidney throws me a helpless look as Savile takes him by the arm.

‘I can deliver the key to Sir Francis,’ I say, biting down a grin as I take it from Sidney’s hand. ‘I would not want to keep you from your official business, Sir Philip.’ He purses his lips and glares at me. If he was hoping to ask discreet questions about Dunne as he toured the other ships in the fleet, Savile’s company will be an unfortunate handicap, but that is Sidney’s problem. He can find his own way out of it; my thoughts now are bent on the book in Drake’s cabin.

‘Ah, Bruno. Come in. I hope the women didn’t wear you out with their chatter this afternoon.’ Drake is sitting behind his vast table, a raft of papers spread out before him. Gilbert Crosse is at his side, canted over with a pencil in his hand and his spectacles balanced on his nose. Thomas Drake stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back. He nods acknowledgement without a smile. Sidney is right; the man truly is his brother’s keeper. Gilbert glances from me to Drake in alarm, and moves to gather up the papers. Drake lays a hand on his arm.

‘Don’t worry, Gilbert,’ he says. ‘Doctor Bruno is not here to spy on your charts.’