S. Parris - Treachery

‘Robert Dunne, what else?’

‘You did not make him suspicious?’

‘It is impossible to talk about the man without someone becoming suspicious. But that chaplain is defensive enough already. You know he heard Dunne’s confession the night he died. So he says.’

‘I heard you mention confession in the boat, but I couldn’t catch his answer. You think he’s lying?’

I hold out my hands. ‘Someone is lying. Jonas says Dunne was passed out beyond all hope of waking when he went to his cabin. Pettifer says he prayed with him not more than an hour later.’

‘It’s not impossible. Perhaps Dunne woke with the drinker’s guilt and wanted spiritual comfort.’ He stretches his arms out. ‘Though I must say, I would not turn to that insipid fellow, if it were me.’

‘Listen — whoever killed Dunne must have done it while he was unconscious, to avoid any struggle. Pettifer said Dunne seemed troubled that night. He could be saying that to make the suicide idea more plausible.’

‘So it could have been Pettifer. Or perhaps Jonas slipped something into that potion that needed a while to take effect. He could have gone back later, after Pettifer left, knowing Dunne would be under the influence.’ Sidney sighs. ‘We still don’t know why any of them would have reason to kill him.’

‘Something he knew. Something he had that they wanted. Why did he have so much money hidden in that book, for instance?’ I push my hands through my hair. ‘Someone could have been looking for that.’

‘There are eighty men on board,’ he says, throwing his hands up.

‘But how many of those could enter Dunne’s cabin unremarked? And on a crowded ship there seem always to be people around. Any of the common sailors near an officer’s cabin would surely have been noticed.’

‘Maybe not in the dead of night. And if he was passed out from drink he could have left the door unlocked. It would only take a moment to slip inside.’

I shake my head.

‘The chaplain knows more than he is willing to say, that much is certain. And so does Jonas the Spaniard.’

‘Well.’ He lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘Leave off worrying about it for now. A brace of beautiful ladies are expecting us at the Star. One of whom, I happen to know, is very keen to enjoy your company while we are in Plymouth.’

‘I’m afraid you will have to make my apologies to the ladies.’ I slow my pace and he stops, eyebrows raised.

‘Why? Where are you going now?’

‘To church.’

‘ What? ’

I set off up the hill, turning only once to glance over my shoulder and enjoy the look on his face.

The rain is easing now, orange streaks appearing between the clouds over the bay. The hour cannot be much past seven but the streets are still busy, as people with carts and baskets make their way uphill from the harbour and new arrivals, mostly men, spill in from the other direction, coming in from the sea or outlying roads and heading in groups for the taverns and whorehouses. Their coarse voices trail after them, singing and cursing, pumped with lust and aggression, snatched away in fits and starts by the wind that whistles down the narrow streets in search of the sea. The wet cobbles are slippery underfoot; ahead of me I see a man, already far gone in drink, lose his footing and clutch at his companion, howling with laughter. The evening sounds of a port town, nothing out of the ordinary. And yet I keep my hand close to the knife at my belt; I sense a tension in these streets that seems more concentrated tonight, as if building towards some kind of climax. Perhaps it is just the combined presence of so many men, so many sailors and soldiers, cooped up, frustrated, eager to be away, to discharge that raw energy into hauling ropes, swabbing decks, knifing Spaniards in the guts — energy that threatens to spill out here into tavern brawls and street fights instead. No wonder the citizens of Plymouth resent the presence of the fleet, anchored impotently day after day, sending boatloads of these men ashore every night with appetites that demand to be slaked. It is a night to stay indoors and keep the door barred, especially if you are trussed up in silk and lace like a child’s doll, as I am. I quicken my steps, alert to every movement in the shadows from side streets and doorways.

Above the roofs to the west rises the square crenellated tower of a church, the largest to be seen in the close-knit streets around the harbour. The large west door has been pulled shut and the bells have fallen silent.

I slip into the back of the church, the great door creaking on its hinges as it closes behind me. A few people turn at the sound, but I tuck myself away out of sight, in the shadow of a thick stone pillar. Along the broad nave, an avenue of columns and pointed arches leads to the altar. The air smells musty, that scent of old stone that, in the absence of incense, always makes English churches feel uninhabited. For an instant I am reminded sharply of the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral, and it takes some effort to push the unwelcome memories from my mind. Though there are tall windows to either side, the church is still gloomy, the only candles those in the chancel. This suits me; from my vantage point I scan the congregation, my eyes flitting over caps and coifs, the backs of restless heads. There is no sign of Pettifer. True, he did not say where he was going to pray, but this is the largest church in Plymouth, and Pettifer did not strike me as the sort of Christian who would prefer a small, humble chapel to a place where most of the town could witness him at his devotions and ask him about the fleet. Was he lying, then, about how he meant to spend his evening ashore? Some instinct had prompted me to follow him, something in his ostentatious piety that did not quite ring true. I determine to keep a closer eye on Pettifer in future.

Instead, to my surprise, I notice Gilbert Crosse, sitting in the back pew of the church, to my right. He has taken off his hat and hunches forwards, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as if trying to make himself less visible. For a long while, he does not move, only sits with his head bowed, his hands motionless around his upper arms. I wonder what he prays for. He is a strange young man; obviously clever, and favoured by Walsingham for his abilities, yet apparently lacking in confidence. But I detect a fierce ambition beneath his timidity.

I shift from foot to foot as soundlessly as I can; the church is chilly and over the thin voices of the choir I hear rain slapping against the windows with each gust of wind, like a handful of gravel striking the glass. I am reminded again of how unmoved I always feel by the English church, though here it is generally assumed that if I am an enemy of the Inquisition I must, by definition, be a Protestant. Despite all the hypocrisy of the Church of Rome, they do at least have a sense of occasion. A Catholic Mass is a piece of theatre; this service is a cold and soulless affair, and I can never escape the conviction that those attending feel the same.

When eventually the sparse congregation rise and shuffle forward to take the Eucharist, a man at the other end of Gilbert’s pew slips out and disappears into the shadows of a side door. I watch him idly; I presume he wishes to avoid the communion. There are plenty of Englishmen who, while they attend church as the law demands, secretly consider the English Eucharist blasphemous and look for excuses not to take it. Gilbert himself remains in his seat, apparently still deep in prayer. I try to keep myself tucked away behind the pillar — I do not want him to think I am spying on him — but as he straightens up he glances towards the main door and catches sight of me. He has to squint to be sure, but it is too late for me to do anything other than raise a hand in greeting. He slides out of his seat and approaches, looking surprised, though not displeased to see me.