S. Parris - Treachery

‘I shall be badly out of pocket if I don’t.’ He offers a wry smile. At least the amusement is some compensation for being dragged away from Lady Drake. ‘She intrigues me,’ he says, sotto voce , gesturing to the ceiling, where creaking timbers and footsteps can be heard overhead. ‘House of Vesta, indeed. Did she name the place herself, I wonder. She must be educated, if so. And she speaks like a gentlewoman.’

‘The Vestal Virgins,’ I muse, recalling my Roman history. ‘Noble-born girls of Rome, sworn to celibacy in the service of the goddess. The penalty for defiling any of them was death, was it not? You have to admire her taste for irony.’

‘What makes you think it is ironic?’ We both start; the madam has appeared in the other doorway, soundless as a cat, a gleam in her eyes. ‘Do not alarm yourself, sir, I am only teasing. You.’ She points to me. ‘Come with me. I will return for you, sir,’ she adds, to Sidney. ‘Meanwhile, I will have some wine brought to you.’

‘Listen — don’t go without me,’ I say, turning back to him. ‘Wait for me here, after …’ I leave the sentence open, with a shrug. Something in the way the woman looks at us makes me uneasy, though perhaps it is just my anxious imagination.

‘I’ll be waiting here. Go and get your money’s worth.’ He mimes what I can only suppose is his version of a man surprised by hot wax on his parts. I glare at him and turn back to the madam, who offers me her creamy smile and gestures to the second door.

She hitches her skirts and her narrow hips sway purposefully as she leads me up the stairs to a landing. From behind one of the doors comes the rumble of male voices and laughter; two or three men, it sounds like. There is a sudden outburst of cursing and cheering, as if a card game is in progress. I glance around, the fingers of my right hand flexing, ready to grab for my knife if I need to; I have not seen any armed men yet, but they will be here somewhere, lurking in the shadows, close enough to pounce at her signal on anyone who threatens trouble. Every brothel has them. I am beginning to question the wisdom of coming here.

‘You know your Roman history then, sir,’ the woman observes over her shoulder, in her precise accent, as she leads me past the door and up a further flight of stairs. Another staccato burst of laughter erupts from the room we have just passed. ‘Perhaps you are a scholar?’ The remark is innocent enough, but I am not inclined to give anything away.

‘I have been many things,’ I say.

‘I do not doubt it. But you are not, at any rate, a sailor. Of that I am fairly certain.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘You are too courteous. You have none of that roughness that months in the company of men can breed, even in gentlemen.’

I incline my head with what I hope is an enigmatic smile. She laughs. ‘So what brings you to Plymouth?’

‘Business.’

‘And you have seen Robert Dunne here?’ She asks the question lightly. I meet her eye and look away. Neither of us has mentioned Dunne’s death; I wonder if she is waiting for me to broach the subject.

‘Yes.’ I offer no more than that. She lowers her gaze and nods.

‘Poor Robert,’ she says. ‘We heard the news, of course.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘As well as I ever know our visitors,’ she replies evenly, looking at me from the corner of her eye. A politician’s answer; I have underestimated her if I think I can trick her into giving anything away. A brothel-keeper — especially one who evidently counts men of influence among her clients — must be as practised in the art of discretion as any diplomat or spy. Down in Southwark, there are a couple of madams in Walsingham’s pay; it is surprising how much a man will reveal when his breeches and his guard are down.

‘Were you close friends?’ she asks, as we reach a second landing.

‘Close enough.’ Like her, I would prefer to avoid questions about Dunne.

She touches the pearls at her throat and turns to regard me with a steady gaze. ‘Yet he gave you his token. People usually come to us by personal invitation, you see. We pride ourselves on a certain …’ she affects to search for the word ‘… exclusivity.’

I smile sadly, my eyes not wavering from hers. ‘He gave it to my friend. Perhaps he had other things on his mind. But I’m sure you will find our money is as good as anyone’s, Mistress …’ I raise a questioning eyebrow.

‘Grace.’ She drops a half-curtsey, though I cannot tell if she is mocking me. ‘They call me Mistress Grace. Well, I hope you will be satisfied, Doctor Bruno. I’ll have wine sent up.’

Three doors lead off this landing. She moves to the one at the rear of the house, turns the handle and stands aside. She regards me for a moment longer, as if she is debating whether to add something further, but eventually she gives me a brief nod and turns away to the stairs. I breathe in, and push the door open. The sense of unease prickling in my stomach has intensified, though I cannot quite pinpoint the reason.

The room is small and dim; it seems to have been partitioned from a larger room and through the thin plaster a series of unmistakable groans and creaks can be heard from next door. Two candles burn in a wall sconce and one on a small table. There is no other furniture except the bed with a nightstand beside it holding an earthenware jug and bowl for washing. A thin figure sits hunched on the bed, wearing a cotton shift. Her hands are clasped in her lap and her head droops down, lank hair obscuring her face. I can’t help thinking that if I were a genuine customer I would want a slightly better show of enthusiasm, not this hangdog creature.

‘Hello,’ I say, as gently as I can.

She raises her head and with a sudden shock I understand. The figure before me is a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, the skin of his face still downy, though the dead look in his eyes belongs to someone who has already lived too long.

‘Ah,’ I say, as I try to hide my reaction behind a blank expression. I back up against the door, scanning the room for hiding places of possible assailants. Either this is a trap, or Robert Dunne had more secrets than we have yet discovered.

‘Do you want me as a boy or a girl, sir?’ The child’s voice is entirely empty of emotion. When I do not reply, he crosses his legs and the shift rides up towards his skinny thighs. A blue bruise stands out against the white skin. ‘I have women’s clothes I can put on, if that’s your preference. As you like.’ He shrugs, to show his compliance either way.

‘Right.’ I want to sit but there is no chair; instead I lean against the door and allow myself to sink down until I am sitting on the floor. ‘I would like a drink, I think. What is your name?’

The boy tips his head back and looks down at me from under his hair, weighing me up. ‘What do you want it to be?’

‘The truth.’

An expression passes over his face that at first I do not understand; he seems to shrink into himself and glances at the door, as if hoping for some kind of assistance. Then I realise he is afraid. And with good reason; sodomy is a hanging offence under English law, and the same goes for those who sell or procure it. No wonder he keeps his identity to himself.

‘Give me whatever name pleases you, then,’ I say, anxious that I have put him on his guard.

He relaxes a little. ‘You can call me Toby.’

‘Well then, Toby …’ I am considering where to begin when there is a knock at the door. I jump up and fling it open, ready to reach for my knife, but there is only a pale girl with a low-cut bodice, who hands me two large pewter cups without once looking up to meet my eye. She is pretty, and very young — perhaps of an age with him. As soon as I have taken the cups she turns on her heel and stalks silently away. I close the door. Toby sits still on the bed, impassive.