S. Parris - Treachery

‘Did you speak to him before he died?’

‘Why do you want to know this?’ His eyes narrow to dark slits. Where Gilbert Crosse couldn’t wait to spill his suspicions, this man is unusually sensitive to intrusive questions.

‘Only that it is all people are talking about since we arrived.’ I try to sound casual.

‘And what are they saying?’

‘That everyone finds his suicide unexpected.’

‘Yes. It was surprising.’ The bitter edge infects his voice again, or perhaps it is sarcasm.

‘Because he didn’t seem like a man who would take his own life?’

‘I would not have said so. But who knows what passes in another man’s thoughts. You should finish your drink,’ he says, pointing. ‘They say the wind will freshen tonight, there will be more of a swell. You will thank me then. Although the wind will do us no good if we cannot sail.’

Reluctantly, I take another sip under his watchful eye, and try again.

‘I heard Robert Dunne was very drunk the night he died. In drink, sometimes one is overtaken by melancholy. Perhaps he just …’ I mime a snapping motion.

He takes a step forward, eyes flashing, but he speaks quietly. ‘You know nothing of it. Don’t judge a man you never met because some people on this ship amuse themselves by gossiping like laundrywomen.’

‘I am sorry. I only meant-’

He exhales, and his temper subsides. It is hard to tell if he is angered by my questions because they are impertinent, or because he does not want to discuss the subject. ‘Yes, I saw him that night. Thomas Drake found me and asked me to make something for Robert. He said he had been drinking hard and seemed out of control. I took an infusion, a purgative, to his cabin but there was no reply.’

‘Was he …?’

‘No. Not at that point. The door was not locked so I went in. He was face down on his bed, passed out. I didn’t like to wake him so I took the cup away again. But I should not have left him.’ He presses his lips together and lowers his eyes to the floor.

The Spaniard is giving a plausible impression of someone distressed by the sudden death of a shipmate, but I can’t shake the feeling that he is keeping something to himself. Understandably; we have only just met, after all, and the fact that I can speak to him in his own language is not grounds enough to trust me yet. Even so, Jonas’s story does not tally with Gilbert’s; it would take only a moment to see that Dunne was unconscious on the bed and leave the cabin. But Gilbert said that the Spaniard stayed in there for some time. One of them is lying.

‘You could not have known,’ I say, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘He must have woken in the night and decided on an impulse.’

‘Well, it does no good to wonder now,’ he says, his voice brisk. ‘He is gone and we must bend our minds to the times ahead.’ A shadow passes across his face. ‘War is coming. Only a fool could ignore it. Whatever we do on this voyage will be regarded as an act of war by King Philip. So we had better make sure we succeed.’ His fists are clenched, his jaw tight. We , I think.

‘Will you fight with the English, when the war comes?’

He tilts his chin and gives me a long look. ‘You find it hard to believe? Let me ask you something — why are you not at home in your own country, Giordano Bruno?’

‘I am not welcome there at present.’

‘Well, then. You should understand that the business of loyalty is sometimes complicated. Do you consider yourself an Englishman now? Who would you choose, if you had to, between this English queen and your countrymen?’

‘England is not at war with Italy.’

‘She is at war with the Pope.’

‘I suppose I would say that my enemy’s enemy becomes my friend.’

He nods. ‘Exactly. A man may learn to love a country that is not his own, if his own rejects him.’

I want to ask why he feels Spain has rejected him, but fear if I intrude too far he will clam up. ‘Despite the weather,’ I say instead, looking at the banks of grey cloud through the window.

He smiles, an unexpected flash of white in his tanned face. Unlike most sailors, he still has most of his own teeth. ‘True. I will never learn to love the English rain. But soon, God willing, we will feel Spanish sun on our backs.’ He gestures towards the table. ‘So, what does it say?’

‘What?’

‘The manuscript, of course. That is the book that was taken from the Santa Maria when I sailed with her, no? The book that Padre Bartolomeo died to protect.’ His tone when he speaks of the dead priest is respectful, but curiosity burns in his eyes.

‘Did he tell you anything about it?’

Jonas shakes his head. ‘We did not even know he had brought it aboard until he was killed. But he was a strange one. A priest who acted as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.’

‘Captain Drake said that, when the ship was boarded, he was heard crying out to God for forgiveness,’ I say, careful to tread gently.

‘Does not everyone who fears he is about to die?’

‘In particular, Drake said, he begged forgiveness for bringing the wrath of God on the ship,’ I persist. ‘Did he mean the book?’

Jonas does not reply, only looks at me as if trying to read my face, until his mouth curves into a sly smile. ‘You tell me. No one has been able to read it until now.’ When I do not respond, the smile fades. ‘It is valuable, no?’

‘I don’t know.’ I keep my voice flat. ‘Captain Drake told me Robert Dunne tried to persuade him to sell it. A friend of his, a book dealer, was keen to buy it.’

Something chases across the Spaniard’s face, but he quickly masters it and shrugs. ‘I don’t know what they spoke about in private. I did not even know Captain Drake had it with him on board.’ His eyes stray to the manuscript again with renewed interest. I feel an urge to cover it with my arms, to protect it, even though I know he can’t read it.

‘I should get back to work,’ I say. ‘Thank you for this.’ I hand back the tankard. He looks disappointed when he sees how little I have drunk.

‘You should thank Captain Drake,’ he says. ‘It was his idea. I just do as he asks.’

‘Where do you keep your herbs?’ I ask, as a thought occurs.

He frowns. ‘In my quarters. Why do you ask?’

‘Are they locked away?’

‘Why, are you planning to steal some?’ He laughs, but it peters out as he catches my face. ‘Yes, I keep them in a box with a lock, under my bunk. I think they are quite safe there. Bunches of dried herbs are no good unless you know what they are and how to use them. I ask you again — why do you want to know?’

And does somebody on this ship know how to identify herbs and use them? Robert Dunne had a drink with a companion in his cabin the night he died. He was later reported to be wildly drunk, to the point of hallucinating; did that person slip something into his drink before he left the ship — some substance that might have ensured he would be in no fit state to fight off his killer? I do not say any of this aloud, because the most obvious suspect is Jonas himself.

‘I only wondered — are there any that could be dangerous? If taken in the wrong quantities, I mean?’

‘Any medicine can be dangerous in the wrong quantity. That is why not everyone has the skill to use them. But if you are asking, could a man do himself harm by taking my herbs, I suppose the answer is yes. It is a strange question, Giordano Bruno. It makes me think you still believe I mean to poison somebody.’ He says this with a half-smile, but he watches me keenly with eyes of stone.

‘It was more a question of whether a person might use your herbs to cause harm to others,’ I say evenly.