S. Parris - Treachery

Moving closer, I see that the papers are covered with detailed drawings of a section of coastline, all marked neatly with latitudes and meridians and carefully labelled with place names. I twist my neck to read and realise I am looking at the coast of north-west Spain, from Cabo de Finisterra to the mouth of the Vigo river. Gilbert watches me reading the map and touches his fingers to his temple, as if the anxiety were giving him a headache.

‘Did you draw these?’ I ask. He must catch the admiration in my voice, because he blushes all the way to his hairline and lays a hand on the edge of one of the pages, a proprietorial gesture.

‘But whose map is it from?’ I peer at it, intrigued. ‘It does not look like any of the extant maps I recognise.’

Gilbert looks at Drake for permission to answer.

‘I should hope it does not,’ Drake says with a smile, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘These drawings are original. Not copied from existing mappa mundae , but sketched from the true calculations and bearings of real navigators and pilots.’

‘You are remaking the map?’ I stare at them. It was common knowledge that the elaborate and often fanciful maps drawn up by cartographers, even the most skilled such as Gerard Mercator, bore little relation to the true shape of the world’s countries and especially their coastlines, as navigated by experienced mariners. Master cartographers more often than not copied their drawings from existing maps, so that the errors were replicated. It had always seemed to me absurd that there was not more collaboration between the adventurers and merchants of different nations when creating new maps — such collaboration would mean enormous leaps in our understanding of the world and how to travel it. But a navigator’s local knowledge is a prized resource, closely guarded; to share it with a rival nation would be to give away military and commercial advantage.

‘War with Spain is inevitable, sooner or later,’ Drake says, giving me a sober look. ‘If not this year, then the year after, or the one after that. I suggested to Master Secretary Walsingham that Her Majesty’s fleet would be a good deal more confident when the time comes if we had accurate maps of the key Spanish ports and coastline. To say nothing of better charts of the Spanish Main and every other vital stronghold. He sent me Gilbert.’

The young man attempts to look modest, but I can see he is glowing.

‘You have some skill in cartography, then?’ I ask, regarding him with new interest.

‘Gilbert is a master draughtsman,’ Drake says, with as much pride as if he had trained the boy himself. ‘And has studied mathematics and cosmography. All he lacks is the experience of seeing a coastline up close, from the deck of a ship. This we hope to remedy.’ He claps the boy on the back.

‘I studied with a master cartographer in Antwerp, who had himself trained with Abraham Ortelius,’ Gilbert explains, puffing out his chest a little. ‘Though for the purposes of this journey, I am merely Captain Drake’s clerk,’ he adds quickly.

‘Yes. These maps do not exist,’ Drake says, tapping the papers on the table and fixing me with a warning look.

I bow to show that I have understood, recalling that the Queen had forbidden Drake to publish any map or account of his voyage around the world, lest it fall into Spanish hands. If these maps of Gilbert’s are to give England an advantage, Spain must not know of their creation. They are, in effect, military intelligence.

‘What have you there, Doctor Bruno?’ Gilbert says, blinking over his eye-glasses, pointing to the book under my arm. ‘Did you find that in Robert Dunne’s cabin?’ He lays down his pencil and looks at it with interest.

Drake glances sharply from me to Gilbert, assesses the situation, and with one practised movement he stands and rolls up the charts on the table, sending Gilbert’s pencil spinning to the floor. While the cartographer scrabbles beneath the seat in search of it, Drake gives me the minutest shake of his head.

‘Thank you, Gilbert. We will continue after supper, if we may, with the approach to the Vigo river.’

Gilbert accepts the dismissal, though he squirms on the spot, his face anxious.

‘I had planned to go ashore this evening, sir,’ he says, a slight waver in his voice. ‘To Evensong, as I always do. Though, of course, if you …’

Drake waves a hand. ‘No, forgive me, I had forgotten. Far be it from me to stand between a man and his prayers. I dare say we will have time enough to discuss the matter before we ever near the coast of Spain.’ He grimaces, as if he sees the prospect receding before his eyes.

Gilbert eases out from behind the table. He gives me a shy smile as his gaze flits again to the book in my hands. If our aim was to avoid speculation over the nature of Dunne’s death, we are making a poor job of it, I reflect; soon the whole ship will be murmuring about Sidney and me rummaging through the dead man’s belongings, and wondering why. Although, after our conversation with Gilbert and Savile, it seems clear that speculation is rife already.

When the door is firmly closed behind Gilbert, Drake pushes both hands through his hair in a distracted gesture, and motions for me to take a seat opposite him.

‘Where is Sir Philip?’ he asks.

‘Gone to speak to the other captains about ordnance. Sir William volunteered to accompany him.’

Drake chuckles. ‘Let them get under each other’s feet. What have you turned up in Dunne’s cabin, then?’

I hand over the book, explaining where I had found it. He nods when he opens it to see the cut-away hiding place and the purse. ‘Yes, I have seen such things before. A good way to hide valuables, though better done with a less showy book, I would think. I wonder where Dunne got this kind of money.’

‘Not at the card table,’ Thomas says, with conviction. It occurs to me that the dead man may have owed him too.

‘However it came into his hands, it suggests that the killer was not interested in valuables,’ I say. ‘It was not much of a hiding place — it would have been short work to find that money. We also discovered this beneath the boards of his bunk.’ I hand him the list. As he scans it, his composure falters and his face grows pale.

‘Thomas, take a look at this.’ Drake hands him the list. Thomas reads it and looks up at his brother, his expression fighting between anger and shock. They exchange a long look, before Sir Francis turns to me.

‘Do you know what this is?’

‘A list of jurymen from Port San Julian?’ I venture. ‘Those who condemned Thomas Doughty to death?’

‘How could you know that?’ Thomas Drake snaps his head up from the paper. He crumples it in his fist and glares at me.

‘Lady Drake mentioned something about it today when we were out walking.’

‘Did she?’ Drake raises an eyebrow and nods, as if this does not surprise him. ‘You know, then, that John Doughty, who was fortunate not to share his brother’s sentence on the voyage, has been seeking his revenge since we returned to England. His attempt to prosecute me failed, and he vowed then to take the law into his own hands.’ He pauses, and his shoulders heave with the force of his sigh.

‘I understood he had spent time in prison?’

‘That was none of my brother’s doing,’ Thomas Drake cuts in, so fast and defiant that it as good as confirms the opposite. Sir Francis gives him a warning glance.

‘John Doughty was accused of taking money from the Spanish for my death or capture. To this day I don’t know if there was truth in it — some said the charges were fabricated to silence him. The reward is real enough, mind — twenty thousand ducats, Philip of Spain has offered for my head.’ There is a flash of gold tooth as he grins briefly, proud of the fact, before his expression grows serious again. ‘John Doughty was imprisoned in the Marshalsea. Worst place for him — it’s my belief he ended up among Catholic recusants with sympathy for the Spanish, which only served to double his hatred of me. He was released in February of this year. That’s when the letters started.’