S. Parris - Treachery

‘Wine?’

The boy nods, mutely watching me. He pulls his knees up under the shift and hugs them to him, an oddly touching gesture that makes him seem all the more childlike. Perhaps he knows something; my difficulty is how to win his trust without making him afraid.

I cross slowly, holding out the cups in front of me, as you might approach a nervous animal. He reaches out and takes one, large brown eyes fixed on me with no particular expression that I can discern. I sit beside him on the bed, though far enough away not to appear threatening. My nerves are taut, my senses alert for any indication of movement outside the chamber. The boy turns and looks at me, expectant.

‘Should we begin, sir?’ His small fingers tug at the collar of his shift. ‘Tell me what you wish, and I-’

‘Toby.’ I adjust my position, tucking one leg under me, and take a gulp of wine, though not too much — I need to keep my wits sharp. I have found myself in some strange situations over the years, but nothing that quite compares to this. As I move, I feel a ridge jutting into my thigh. Lifting the bedsheet, I pull out a book, bound in calfskin, very new and expensive-looking. The boy lurches forward to grab it but I am too quick for him; I dart to my feet and hold it up, out of his reach, until he sinks back to the bed, glowering at me. I open the book to the frontispiece to find that it is a volume of Ovid’s Fables . I note the printer’s mark. The book was only printed last year. The front endpaper has been torn out.

‘Is this yours?’

The boy looks stricken. ‘I was given it. By a gentleman. I never stole it.’ He holds out a hand for it, though half-heartedly.

‘It is a generous gift,’ I say, flicking through the pages. ‘A book like this is worth a good deal of money, being so new. Although it is a shame this one has a page torn out — that might devalue it.’

His eyes flicker briefly to me, guilty. I decide to try another tack.

‘Do you like the stories?’

His face brightens. ‘Oh, yes. I like Perseus and the sea monster best, and Narcissus, who fell in love with himself.’

‘Can you read them?’

He drops his gaze. ‘Not really. He read them to me sometimes. He promised to teach me my letters from it if I was good.’

‘If you were good and did as he asked?’

He does not reply, only bites his lower lip. When he looks up, he wears the expression of a child forced to confess he has been stealing from the larder. ‘You won’t tell Mistress Grace, will you? She would take it. And he would be angry.’

‘I won’t say a word.’ I pass the book back to him; he immediately stuffs it under the mattress and sits on top. ‘How would it be, Toby,’ I say, leaning back, ‘if we were to talk for a while?’

‘Talk?’ His brow creases and he glances to the door as if seeking approval for this unlikely suggestion. ‘What for?’

I shrug, and take another sip. The wine is warm and aromatic and makes me think of Christmas; I feel it curl thickly through my blood and gently soothe my nerves. ‘I am a stranger here, and I miss having someone to talk to. My friend Robert Dunne used to say you were a good listener.’

It is a gamble; I know this before I drop the name. No man with a predilection for illegal pursuits shares this information widely. The boy frowns, perplexed, and he glances again at the door.

‘Robert Dunne?’

‘Indeed so. He spoke highly of you.’

The boy only looks down at his hands, twisted in his lap, and murmurs something indistinct.

Perhaps this has been the wrong tack; for all I know, Robert Dunne was a violent pervert and the boy dreaded the sight of him and is glad he’s dead. Perhaps he has never met Robert Dunne in his life. I try again.

‘You heard what happened to him, I suppose?’

His head jerks up at this and his eyes briefly lock with mine; I read fear in them.

‘What?’ he whispers.

‘He is dead. Did you not know?’

Confusion flits across his face. ‘I …’ He scratches the back of his neck, then reaches out and lays a hand on my thigh. ‘Sir, do you want to undress?’

‘No!’ I say, with more alarm than I intended, jumping to my feet. I move purposefully to the window in case he tries to touch me again. The wind bangs the shutters softly against the glass. ‘Not yet. Let us talk some more.’

‘Then should I? I am sure you did not come here to talk.’ He pulls again at the half-unlaced strings of his shift. The conversation is making him more uncomfortable than the prospect of whatever he thinks I have come for.

‘No, really — we are both fine as we are. Forgive me, Toby — I am of a strange cast of mind tonight. I suppose I am in mourning for my friend Robert. You understand?’

He makes a movement with his head.

‘Do you mourn him too?’

He shrugs, avoiding my eye.

‘Did he visit you often?’

‘Why do you ask me so many questions about him?’

‘When someone you were close to dies, talking about them is a way of bringing them back. Making it seem as if they were still here. Do you not think? Have you never lost anyone you cared for?’

‘My parents.’ He doesn’t lift his head.

‘Is that how you came to be here?’ I ask gently. He lifts his eyes and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. When he speaks, it is a whisper so soft I can barely catch it.

‘Mistress Grace brought me here to work in the kitchen when I was small. Now I am apprenticed to the apothecary downstairs, but she still gives me a room.’

‘And she puts you to work like the girls?’

Again, the stubborn silence, lips pressed tight. He will not meet my eye. The candlelight seems to flicker and dance, so that at first I think there must be a draught in the room, but as I watch the flames I see that it is the wall itself that is undulating, as if ripples were spreading across its surface. Toby goes on looking at me, and I notice that his unhappy face has duplicated itself: two pale discs alongside one another, each blurring where they intersect. I take a step towards him and my legs feel strangely remote; I put a hand out to the wall to steady myself. Too late, I realise what has happened, and curse my own carelessness: I should have noticed that the boy did not touch his wine. In one lurching movement, I grab the bowl from the nightstand and force my fingers down my throat, gagging as bile rises in my stomach. I have the sense of being on board ship; the walls seem to pulse in time with my head, but I persist, bending double as the sharp salt of saliva fills my mouth and my stomach heaves once, twice, before I retch violently and its contents erupt into the bowl and splash on to the bare boards.

Gasping, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and lean against the wall. Toby watches me without moving, though there is fear in his eyes.

‘What do they put in it?’ I demand.

His voice almost disappears. ‘Nutmeg.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what she does sometimes. It means she doesn’t trust you. That’s why she brought you here.’

I rub my forehead. I am still dizzy and off-balance; I can feel the heat of it working into my system, though I think I caught it in time to prevent worse damage. I wonder if they have done the same to Sidney, and if they mean to rob us. Padre Pettifer warned me; I should have listened. Then, through my muddied thoughts, there emerges a pinpoint of clarity: Mistress Grace addressed me as ‘Doctor Bruno’. Yet I did not give her my title at the door, therefore: she knows who I am . She was waiting for me. Was it her that wrote the letter, then? But how could she know me, and why bring me here?

‘Did Robert Dunne’ — I speak slowly and deliberately, hearing my voice as if it comes from elsewhere — ‘did he come to you as a client? Were you his favourite?’