S. Parris - Treachery

‘Then the gossips, for once, report the truth — his health is failing badly,’ she says. Her voice remains steady. ‘His physicians fear he is dying.’

Small murmurs of sympathy emanate from the rest of the company at this revelation. I watch Mistress Dunne as she composes her face into the appropriate expression for a woman anticipating grief heaped upon grief.

‘Again, I am most sorry.’

She acknowledges this empty courtesy with a small inclination of her head, though her eyes remain on me, still suspicious.

Drake coughs again, anxious to get to the point. ‘Naturally, this is a difficult time for Mistress Dunne and her family,’ he begins, twisting his big hands together. ‘She has expressed some concerns .’ He stops, as if unsure of the correct phrase for what he wants to say. It strikes me that this is the first time I have seen Drake appear at a disadvantage; it does not suit him. A pause elapses, as if he is hoping the sentence will complete itself. I look from one to the other, awaiting further explanation.

‘My late husband was many things, Doctor Bruno-’ Mistress Dunne stops and regards me with a tilt of her head. ‘Are you a physician?’

‘I am a doctor of theology.’

‘I see.’ She makes a dismissive noise through her nose.

Drake steps forward. ‘Doctor Bruno, as I mentioned, is greatly skilled in this sort of matter,’ he says quickly, as though someone has tried to argue otherwise. I say nothing. I have an inkling of where he is leading, and I do not like it.

‘My late husband had many faults,’ Mistress Dunne begins again, addressing me in the same level tone, ‘but I do not believe that self-slaughter would have been among them.’

I glance at Drake; he is urging me to something with his eyes, but I have no idea what it might be.

‘Do you have a particular reason for saying so, madam?’

‘Because he was a coward,’ she says, fixing me with a look that dares me to contradict her. Pettifer opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, then closes it again.

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow-’

‘To end one’s own life, if one felt it had become an insupportable burden to oneself and others — that is an act that requires a certain amount of courage, do you not think?’ she asks, with the same direct gaze.

‘One might argue the opposite,’ I say. ‘To shoulder one’s burdens, to take responsibility for one’s failings — surely that is the courageous course?’

Pettifer can no longer contain himself. ‘Suicide is a grievous sin, Mistress Dunne, a violation of the sixth commandment. The Church makes that most clear. Man is the imago dei — to determine his own end is to usurp the prerogative of God, who alone knows the number of our days.’ He shakes his head, as if to absolve her of such a heretical notion. ‘Think of Judas Iscariot, who took his life through guilt and remorse after betraying Our Lord to death — you would not call him a model of courage, would you?’

Mistress Dunne turns to him, her smile fading. ‘Perhaps each of us has our own definition of courage, Padre. But I hope you are not making a comparison between them?’

Flustered, Pettifer seems to realise he has tied himself in a knot; his round face flushes with his efforts to deny any intentional offence. I watch him, wondering why he was prompted to pluck that particular example.

‘Mistress Dunne doubts the accuracy of my judgement regarding the manner of her husband’s death,’ Drake says, cutting across Pettifer’s flapping apologies.

‘I’m sure Captain Drake did his best in what must have been a very distressing situation,’ she says, turning to me, the polite smile once more in place, ‘but I fear he may have jumped to a hasty conclusion, not being in possession of certain facts.’

A tense silence unfolds. I look from her to Drake and back.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite-’

‘Self-slaughter, as Padre Pettifer tells us, is a terrible stain on the soul,’ Mistress Dunne continues. Her voice is firm, but I notice her fingers busily plucking at the cloth of her skirts, a sign that there is some emotion at work beneath the surface. ‘Not to mention on a man’s reputation and the fate of his family. I cannot accept that my husband died by his own hand. I intend to make the coroner investigate his death to my satisfaction, so that he can at least have Christian burial.’

On this last sentence, her composure falters and she presses a hand to her mouth. The maid passes her an embroidered handkerchief but she waves it away as she fights to bend her feelings to her will. Or so it seems. Asserting herself against the authority of Sir Francis Drake would be daunting for any woman, yet there is something in her demeanour that leaves room for a chink of doubt. It is true that the English like to keep their emotions buried so deep that an Italian could be forgiven for thinking they have never experienced any passion greater than mild irritation at the weather, but I cannot escape the sense that Mistress Dunne is playing a part here, and not playing it with total conviction. That little catch in the voice just now, the hand pressed to the lips: it is as if she has learned the expressions of grief from a book. Though I may be doing her a disservice; perhaps, as a well-born lady, this is as near as her breeding permits her to feeling.

My gaze flits again from her to Drake and back; I would not like to wager which of them will concede first.

‘In the light of this,’ Drake continues, clasping his hands behind him and pacing the floor as if he were giving a summary in court, ‘I have persuaded Mistress Dunne to accept a temporary compromise. We will look into the circumstances of her husband’s death more closely before the inquest, with all the discretion a matter of this nature requires. If we uncover nothing useful, she will formally object to the verdict of felo de se at the inquest and ask the coroner to investigate further.’ He looks to Mistress Drake for confirmation; she gives a curt nod.

‘I have told her you are the man for investigating this sort of business,’ Drake continues, his voice bolder now, ‘and she has agreed that you and I between us should do what we can to determine how Robert came by his untimely end.’

Every pair of eyes in the room is fixed on me — with the exception of Lady Arden, whose attention, I notice when I glance up, is studiously concentrated on the cat. I realise that I am expected to say something.

‘But the inquest is tomorrow.’ I say this half as a question, hoping that someone will contradict me; no one does.

‘Then you will have to work quickly,’ Mistress Dunne says, with a terse little smile that briefly shows her teeth.

I draw a deep breath. ‘It is your belief, then, madam, that your husband was unlawfully killed?’

‘If he did not take his own life — and I have already told you why that is impossible — then it follows that someone else must have taken it,’ she says, impatience replacing the tremor in her voice.

‘Forgive me,’ I begin, with a nervous half-laugh to soften the blow, ‘but you are implying that someone aboard Sir Francis’s ship killed your husband?’ I glance at Drake; he has cupped a hand over his mouth and chin to disguise his reaction.

‘That’s what I wish to find out, Doctor Bruno.’ She sighs, as if the detail tires her. ‘You did not know Robert, but he had a particular gift for making enemies. One might say that is to be expected, given his pursuits. You cannot fail to have learned of his reputation, I’m sure.’ She stands, brushes down her skirts and turns slowly to look at the rest of the company with a tight smile, to prove that she will not be shamed by whatever gossip followed her husband. The maid takes a step forward, her hand outstretched. Mistress Dunne neatly sidesteps her and waves the hand away. Again I have the sense that she manages perfectly well without assistance from anyone.