S. Parris - Treachery

Running footsteps outside; they skid to a halt somewhere further down the lane. Voices carry through the dark.

‘Well, he won’t get far, not in that state.’

‘I thought you said he brought it up.’

‘The boy says he drank half a glass before he made himself sick. It must have done something.’

The second man curses. ‘Then why wasn’t he easier to deal with? You as good as had him by the collar, Devil take you! Did I not warn you about him?’

‘He had a knife. She said she’d taken their weapons.’

‘There you are, then. I told you not to underestimate him — he is a cunning dog. What else did you hear?’

‘He was asking after Robert Dunne. It was all he wanted to talk about.’

Balled up in the cart, under my sackcloth, I cannot quite catch the murmured discussion that follows. My right hand strays down to my belt, and with a wash of relief I find that I must have sheathed my knife before I threw myself from the window, though I have no recollection of doing so. At least I will have some small defence if they should discover me. From the street there comes a cough, and a stamping of feet; I grip the cart’s sides and concentrate on slowing my breathing. The side of my face feels wet.

‘It would serve us better to watch and wait,’ says the first voice. I would swear that I know it, though I do not dare look out to confirm. An attractive voice, if you did not have to look at the face it came from; educated, with a dark timbre. It is a voice I have not heard since I was in Oxford two years ago. ‘We know where to find him.’

‘But if he should discover-’

‘Peace, John! We will find a better way. I have an idea.’

The first man makes some further protest, but it is brief, and the footsteps retreat. I remain still under the sacking, unsure whether they have really gone. Shouts and fragments of drunken catches float in from the street beyond the houses, but the two voices seem to have disappeared. I wait a few minutes longer before I risk peering out of the cart.

Though the lane is sunk further in shadow, it appears to be empty. With some effort I swing a stiff leg over the cart’s side to climb out and tumble on to the ground, pulling myself to my feet to assess the damage. My right side burns with pain when I breathe; I suspect I have cracked my ribs on the way down. My legs are bruised and aching, but I must be grateful that the midden-heap saved me from breaking any limbs. My head throbs and my pulse is still racing, though my vision has returned to normal and the strange sensations brought on by the nutmeg are receding. The night air feels cool on my face. As I stand there, taking shallow breaths so as not to strain my ribcage, I recall a young novice at San Domenico who claimed to have marvellous and terrible visions of angels and demons, after which he would often fall down as if in a dead faint; the other youths were enthralled by his tales and more learned monks than me declared him to have been touched by God and devoted themselves to interpreting his visions, until the novice master, a man of limited imagination but unrivalled common sense, discovered that the boy had been stealing nutmeg from the kitchen and consuming it, ground up, in copious quantities. I exclaim aloud and strike my forehead with the heel of my hand, amazed that I did not think of this sooner — the wine that smelled of spices in Dunne’s cabin must surely have contained a heavy dose of nutmeg. That could explain the strange extremity of his drunkenness, the hallucinations, the irrational fear. Whoever gave it to him probably intended it to take effect over the course of the evening, leaving him confused and disconcerted, unable to defend himself from any attacker, just as the madam at the House of Vesta had intended for me. That was a curious coincidence too — had Dunne’s drinking companion learned the trick at the House of Vesta? If so, then we need only establish who among the ship’s company was also a regular visitor to the brothel. My thoughts flit immediately to Savile and his superior smile as he spoke of the sacred flame.

I emerge from the lane into a cobbled street lined with tall houses, the upper storeys leaning inwards. It is now fully dark, though here and there a candle burns in a window, and occasionally a wan moon peeks out through a gap in the clouds, allowing me enough light to see the curve of the street as it leads downhill. If I follow it, I reason, it must eventually lead me to the harbourside and from there to the Star. I pause to look behind me, wondering what to do about Sidney. I can hardly risk returning to the House of Vesta in search of him; I am in no state to fight now, even if I could confront Doughty alone, and Mistress Grace is sure to have more armed men at her disposal.

I curse again and limp along the street, keeping close to the buildings on my left, neither seeing nor caring that I am stumbling through the gutter. I cannot think of going back to look for Sidney unarmed. Fear of what may have befallen him constricts my throat; if he has been drugged and attacked too, it is all my fault for thinking I could out-manoeuvre what was so clearly a trap. I have gained nothing by it, except a few bruises and the confirmation that John Doughty is in Plymouth and asking questions about Dunne’s death. And the near-certainty that the man he was talking to as I hid in the alley, the ‘friend’ so keen to reacquaint himself with me, could be none other than the book dealer Rowland Jenkes.

At the Star, I let myself in through the yard, keeping to the shadows. The three sides of the building rise up in darkness; from the stalls come the soft stamps and snorts of horses, sunk in sleep. Groping my way around the walls to the door of the tap-room, I find it locked. I hesitate briefly, before deciding I am willing to pay the price of inconveniencing the servants for the sake of my bed and a bath. I hammer on the door and call out. There is no immediate response; I call again and somewhere overhead a casement opens and a voice advises me to shut my fucking noise, people are trying to sleep. I bang on the door one more time and stand back, wondering if I dare break a window. When I raise my voice again, I am surprised by a sudden loud splash from behind me; I realise, as the smell hits my nostrils, that the contents of a chamber pot have been flung from the casement above. I am fortunate that whoever threw it could not see to take aim; it missed only by a few feet. Next time I might not be so lucky. I lean against the door, trying to muster the will to find a storehouse or empty stable where I can sleep until the servants wake, when I hear the fumbling of a lock on the other side and the door creaks open. The maid Hetty stands on the step in a shapeless nightdress, a candle flame throwing shadows on her pale face. She pauses, taking in my bruises and my limp with a knowing glance, and smirks openly.

‘Oh, it’s you. Enjoy your evening at the House of Vesta, did you, sir?’

‘A little too stimulating for my taste.’ I am in no mood for her provocations, but recognise that it behoves me to show some humility here, since I am in the wrong. ‘I am sorry to wake you.’

She waits until I am almost across the threshold. ‘Looks like they know how to throw a punch, them virgins.’

The timing of this remark is impeccable; I cannot help laughing. ‘What I would really like, Hetty,’ I say, turning, ‘is some hot water. As much of it as you can spare. Can that be arranged?’

‘You’ll have to wait till morning,’ she says. ‘And it’ll cost extra. If you’ve any money left.’

‘Put it on our account,’ I say. Poor Sidney. He will need a hold full of Spanish treasure to meet the bill we are mounting up here.

She squints at my eye and hands me her stub of candle. ‘Try not wake the other guests, won’t you? I’ll bring the water first thing. Watch you don’t get blood on the sheets. Mistress Judith will have a fit.’