S. Parris - Treachery

‘I could take it for you, Sir Francis. Sidney has four armed men on the way to Plymouth to escort Dom Antonio to the Queen. I could travel back with them.’ The idea takes shape as I speak; with letters of introduction from Drake, might I not even persuade the Queen that I am the man to study the manuscript? She would want such a volatile document examined and understood, and there would be few men in England with the knowledge and experience to probe its mysteries. Certainly none of the half-wits I had met in Oxford were up to the task. It might, at least, give me a reason to stay in London, and a means of showing the Queen she had need of my skills. And it would be a legitimate reason to leave Plymouth.

Drake narrows his eyes, but I see he is suppressing a smile. ‘My brother will not countenance that, I fear, now that he knows how valuable it is. He already thinks me a fool to leave you alone with it. Besides, Sir Philip wants a berth aboard my ship to the New World. One for you too. He will be sorely disappointed if you abandon him.’

‘He can always bring me back a souvenir.’

Drake laughs, and drains his second glass. ‘Not that we will be going anywhere until this business with Dunne is resolved. And his widow arrives in Plymouth tomorrow,’ he adds, in the same heavy tone, glancing at the window. ‘She is bound to oppose a verdict of suicide, and the coroner may feel obliged to consider her case.’

We are interrupted by a knock at the door. Drake gathers up the manuscript in one swift move and replaces it inside the cupboard, which he locks with a key from his belt just as the door opens and Gilbert enters. I bow in greeting; he responds with a bashful smile and turns to Drake.

‘The captains are here for supper. Shall I show them in?’

Drake nods, then motions to my notes still scattered across the table. ‘Clear those away, Bruno. Should I keep them here under lock and key?’

I gather the papers into a pile. ‘Better I keep them in my lodgings, Sir Francis. That way we have two copies, in case anything should happen to one.’

‘Can you keep them secure?’ He looks doubtful.

‘Secure enough. Besides, no one except us knows I have made this copy.’ No one except Jonas, I think, as I tuck the pages into my leather bag.

Out on deck, the wind has freshened and the ship’s motion is more insistent. To the west, the light is fading and heavy clouds are massing on the horizon, obscuring the setting sun. There is quite a party bound for Plymouth this evening from the Elizabeth : Sidney and Savile are waiting on deck, along with Gilbert Crosse, Jonas, Thomas Drake and Pettifer the chaplain.

‘Planning a night of revelry ashore, Padre?’ Savile says, with a wink. The clergyman blinks slowly and stares at him, unsmiling.

‘I am going to pray, Sir William,’ he replies. ‘My soul feels the need of sustenance in our present troubles.’

‘Don’t blame you, sir. Savage company like this.’ Savile jerks his thumb in the direction of the main deck. ‘We could all do with a little elevation.’

‘And where will you look for yours, Sir William, in Plymouth?’ Sidney sounds charming, as always, but there is a bite to his tone. I deduce that he and Savile have not spent the most harmonious afternoon together.

Savile raises an eyebrow. ‘There is only one place in Plymouth fitting for a gentleman, Sir Philip. One must seek the sacred flame.’

Pettifer tuts loudly and turns his face away. I catch Sidney’s eye as understanding dawns.

‘You mean the House of Vesta?’ I say to Savile. ‘It is a whorehouse, is it not? Is the sacred flame its emblem?’

Savile looks down at me and cocks his head. ‘The cognoscenti do not have to ask such questions, my friend.’ He offers a condescending smile.

‘Surely a great scholar has his mind on higher things,’ Jonas says, laughing. I sense he is trying to deflect any tension.

‘You do not know many scholars then,’ Savile replies, his tone dry. ‘Every one I ever met goes to it like a street dog. Every priest, too,’ he adds, with a nod to Pettifer, who scowls and exhales through his nose, as if his patience is being tested to its limit. ‘Isn’t that so, Gilbert?’ Savile nudges the young clerk. ‘All this talk of Evensong is just a cover, surely?’

Gilbert stares at him, alarmed, a fierce colour spreading up his face. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Sir William,’ he falters.

‘Come on — you’re off to a bawdy house later, surely, fine young lad like you?’

Gilbert looks distraught at the very idea. Sidney claps him on the shoulder. ‘He is teasing you, Master Crosse. Pay him no heed. He would benefit from a couple of hours in church himself,’ he adds, glancing at Savile.

‘Wouldn’t we all, Sir Philip,’ Savile says, with a rueful smile. ‘Though you will not have time, I fear — are you not appointed to entertain Lady Drake and her cousin while they are here?’ He asks the question innocently enough, but I see Sidney’s face harden.

‘The boat is below, my masters,’ Jonas says quietly, indicating the rope ladder. He throws one leg over the side and begins to make his descent. One by one, we move to follow him.

The sea is choppy, even in the Sound; one of the oarsmen holds the small rowing boat as steady as he can against the hull of the Elizabeth while I climb in, with Pettifer following, but he has to cling hard to the rope ladder as the waves buffet us in contrary directions. The ladder sways and I have to half turn and jump into the boat, setting it rocking wildly, as a wave thumps it hard against the hull of the ship and spray hits us full in the face. I am glad we have only a short journey to make, though we will surely be soaked by the end of it; the wind is high now and the oarsmen’s faces strain with the effort of pulling us through the white-flecked water.

‘You have packed up Robert Dunne’s belongings for his widow, Sir Philip?’ Gilbert Crosse leans towards Sidney and shouts into the spray. Both Pettifer and Jonas look across at us with interest.

‘That’s right,’ he shouts back. ‘She arrives tomorrow, I believe. Poor woman.’

‘Did you find anything?’ Gilbert persists. ‘I mean, anything that might explain why he took his life?’ The conspiratorial look he gives me is so lacking in subtlety he may as well be acting it in a playhouse.

‘No letter or any explanation, if that is what you mean,’ I say. ‘Any such thing would surely have been found already. We only put away his possessions and made certain nothing was left behind. It was a service Sir Philip wished to perform for an old friend.’ I glance at Sidney, who lowers his head in a solemn nod.

‘Remind me how you knew him again, Sir Philip,’ says Savile lightly, ‘for I never heard him speak of you.’

‘Family connection,’ Sidney says, with a wave of his hand, as if this covered every possibility. Savile does not press the matter, just watches him with an expression of knowing amusement. I begin to suspect that Savile is a good deal shrewder than his public face would have people believe, and that we should keep an eye on him.

‘We may never know what drove a man to such a dreadful sin,’ Pettifer remarks, assuming a righteous expression. Jonas scowls at him, though the chaplain appears not to notice.

‘If anyone were to know the state of his mind, it would be you, Padre, surely?’ Savile says.

The chaplain blinks at him, his eyes wary. ‘How so, Sir William?’

‘Did you not visit him later on, the night he died? I was restless and thought to take some air on deck, and I was certain I saw you coming from his cabin — this would have been past midnight, I suppose.’

‘Well — yes, I did — that is, I went to see how he was. I wanted to be sure he was recovering, given the state he was in earlier.’