S. Parris - Treachery

‘He sends you threats?’

Drake presses his lips together. ‘Always the same theme — I am guilty of murder, blood demands blood. I would pay them no mind, except that he never fails to include some detail to prove he knows what I have been doing recently.’ He grimaces. ‘That is hard to ignore — especially when he makes reference to my wife.’

‘He threatens her?’

‘Not overtly. He will mention that she looked well in the yellow dress she wore to church on Sunday, that sort of thing. To make clear that he watches her closely. For that I am obliged to take him seriously. Especially since I heard the news about Will Bryte.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Thrown from his horse, supposedly. Even then, I would not have paid it any heed, if I had not had word that Edward Morgan had died barely a month later. In his case it was a stomach sickness. So they said.’ He falls silent and smooths out the list on the table, staring at it.

‘He is picking us off one by one,’ Thomas Drake says, his voice flat.

Drake looks up at his brother, and then at me.

‘Elizabeth said I was being foolish, making too much of accidents and coincidence. But when I heard of Morgan’s death, I felt the breath of fear at my collar. And now there is Robert Dunne …’ He spreads his hands out, indicating helplessness. ‘I said to my brother, John Doughty is behind this somehow, mark my words.’

‘And you think he is in Plymouth now?’

‘I said it could not be,’ Thomas cuts in, stepping closer. ‘There is no question of Doughty boarding this ship — there are too many among our crews who know his face. I refused to believe it. But this-’ He leans in and stabs at the list with a forefinger.

‘Fletcher too, Thomas,’ Drake says, shaking his head. ‘I always wondered.’ He sees my expression. ‘Abe Fletcher had testified against Thomas Doughty during his trial. He was washed overboard during a tempest in the Strait of Magellan, though no other men were lost. He was sailing on the same ship as John Doughty.’

‘He was the first, then,’ Thomas says. He keeps his composure, but he darts a quick glance at the cabin door and his fingers are interlaced so tightly that the knuckles are white.

The atmosphere in the room has changed; fear has insinuated itself among us, and we can all sense it hovering. We look at one another. No one seems to know what to say next.

‘Is this handwriting the same as your letters?’ I ask, to break the silence.

Drake squints at the paper. ‘The letters I received were in a wild hand, full of scrawls and strange symbols. The writing of a madman, you’d say — though that might have been for show. I burned them, of course — I didn’t want them upsetting Elizabeth.’

‘But why was this list in Dunne’s possession? Meant as a threat, I suppose,’ Thomas says, answering his own question as he looks to his brother for affirmation. ‘And why did Dunne not say anything? If he had been given reason to fear that his life was in danger, and those of others, why would he not mention it to the Captain-General? We could have done more to protect him.’

‘Pride, perhaps,’ Drake says. His mood is sombre.

I hesitate. ‘Perhaps there is another reason.’ Both brothers look at me. ‘What if that list was not a warning but an instruction?’

Drake understands me first, amazement dawning in his eyes. ‘You mean to say that Dunne …?’ He frowns, glances at Thomas. ‘No, not Robert. It is not possible. He was a loyal shipmate.’

I hold out my hands, palms up. ‘It is only a theory. But John Doughty must have realised he had little chance of getting close to you or your brother. What if he coerced Dunne, with the promise of sparing his life? Dunne would have been your close companion for months at sea. He would have had ample opportunity and you would not have suspected a thing.’

Drake looks at his brother and shudders.

‘But Robert Dunne’s own name is on that list.’ Thomas Drake shakes his head. ‘And even supposing he did plan on killing Sir Francis — he is dead himself now, and your extravagant theory brings us no closer to knowing why, or who killed him.’

‘But we cannot avoid the conclusion that it was someone on board this ship,’ Drake murmurs. We all glance at the door.

‘Gilbert mentioned that the Spaniard, Jonas, went to Dunne’s cabin that night after Dunne came back early. I wondered whether he might know anything.’ I couch the question carefully, not wishing to sound as if I share Gilbert’s suspicions.

‘Yes, I sent Jonas to see him,’ Thomas says, sounding defiant. ‘The Spaniard has some skill with herbs — he can make infusions which take the edge off an excess of drink. I asked him to prepare a remedy for Dunne.’

‘Did he say how Dunne seemed when he left him? This Jonas may well have been the last person to see Dunne alive. Apart from his killer.’ I do not need to add that they may be one and the same.

Thomas shakes his head. ‘He said only that Dunne had been sleeping when he left.’

‘You can speak to him yourself if you like,’ Drake offers.

‘This is a bad business, Francis.’ Thomas gives his brother a hard look. ‘If the men have begun murmuring against the story you gave out-’

‘It is a bad business altogether!’ Drake pushes the table away and stands, flushed by his outburst. He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. ‘It has been since the minute we found him. But we can go neither forward nor back until we learn the truth about his death.’ He exhales slowly. ‘And now, Bruno,’ he says, turning to me with an effortful smile, ‘the Judas book. Perhaps you will find something there to shed light on this matter.’

He crosses to a corner of the cabin and unlocks a cupboard set into the wooden panelling. From it he retrieves the package we had seen earlier at the Star. I feel a tremor of anticipation in my fingertips at the prospect of opening those fragile pages. He places the book on the table in front of me.

‘Thomas, let us leave Doctor Bruno to his scholarly work. I will make a tour of the ship, speak to the men. You might do the same aboard your own vessel. Reassure them that all is in order.’

I like to think I detect a gentle note of admonition in this last sentence, and smile to myself.

‘You intend leaving him alone with it?’ Thomas points at me, apparently outraged.

Drake turns to his brother. ‘What do you imagine he is going to do — jump out of the window? There is an armed guard outside the door, he would not get very far. And if anyone tries to steal it from him, well — Sir Philip assures me no sane man would attempt to best Bruno in a fight. Isn’t that right, Bruno?’

‘I can defend myself if need be, Sir Francis,’ I say, hoping I will not be called upon to prove it.

Reluctantly, Thomas Drake moves towards the door, with a last glance over his shoulder that seems designed to let me know he has the measure of me. Drake nods once, and closes the door behind them.

Afternoon drifts into early evening. At intervals the sun pushes through the clouds and fractured light scatters in liquid patterns across the wooden panels of the captain’s cabin and the wide desk. I have almost stopped noticing the gentle rocking of the ship, the creaking of timber, the hundred other noises that belong to the sea. Losing track of time, I forge on, sentence by sentence, absorbed in the words before me as my hand copies them to a fresh paper, transforming the curlicues and spirals of the Coptic letters into robust Latin. Frequently I have to pause, take a deep breath, collect myself. These words could be more volatile than all the powder and shot stored in the holds of all these ships put together.

My thoughts are disturbed by a sharp knock on the door. I look up with a start; it must be a visitor for Drake. I have been so absorbed in the book that I have no idea whether the guards are still outside. Shoulders tensed, I turn the paper face down, grasp the handle of my knife and call ‘Come!’