S. Parris - Treachery

‘But you have reason to believe that these enemies are to be found among Captain Drake’s crew?’ I persist.

‘No!’ The denial is immediate; she flushes, apparently shocked by the suggestion. ‘I say no such thing. I merely-’

She crosses the room and stops directly in front of me. She is tall for a woman; we are almost the same height.

‘You have seen Plymouth, I suppose?’ She flings an arm out in the direction of the window. ‘Heaving with mercenaries — soldiers, sailors, foreigners — begging your pardon. Plenty of them more than willing to dispatch a man for a ready coin. If my husband’s enemies wanted him dead, they would not be short of willing hands. And they would have known exactly where to find him.’

‘I assure you once again, Mistress, that no assassin could possibly have boarded my ship, that night or any other,’ Drake says. The conversation appears to be taxing his diplomatic skills. ‘I have more than enough reason to be scrupulous about the security of my vessel. No one could have found his way past my watchmen.’

‘Sir Francis, if you are determined from the beginning that there is no murderer to be apprehended, then our agreement would seem redundant.’ Her smile suggests this is meant half in jest, but her eyes say otherwise. I think I understand Drake’s reasoning: by nominating someone outside his own circle to satisfy Mistress Dunne’s thirst for enquiries, he can distance himself from me if I fail. On the other hand, I am a stranger in this city; it may be that I can move among the crowds, asking questions, slipping obscurely into places where the famous Sir Francis Drake could not hope to pass unnoticed.

Drake bows his head. ‘You are right, madam. I will do my best to keep an open mind.’

‘I hope so, Sir Francis. There is a great deal at stake here, for both of us. I only want to make sure the truth is served.’ She juts her chin upwards and keeps her eyes on him for a moment, to let him know she is not someone he can hoodwink. ‘Come, Agnes.’ She flicks a hand at the maid, who scuttles to follow her. On her way past me, Mistress Dunne stops. ‘I am going to break my fast now, Doctor Bruno, and then I wish to view my husband’s body. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?’

‘Is that wise?’ Drake cuts in.

‘If he is to reconsider the cause of my husband’s death, would it not make sense for him to examine the body? Perhaps all his theological training may help him to notice some symptom that escaped your attention,’ she adds pointedly, drawing her veil down over her face.

‘I meant rather, is it wise for you to go?’ Drake pulls at the point of his beard. ‘Robert has been dead three days, madam, and it was not a sight for ladies even when he was fresh.’

I notice Lady Drake flinch slightly at her husband’s choice of words; fame and wealth have not taught him to be more delicate with his language. No wonder she is susceptible to a sonnet or two. I try to catch Lady Arden’s eye, but she keeps her head turned towards the window.

‘I was raised in the country, Sir Francis,’ Mistress Dunne replies, extending a hand, palm upwards. The maidservant lays a pair of kidskin gloves across it. ‘I have seen both my brothers and my sister in their coffins, and one of my brothers was kicked in the head by a horse — that was not pretty, I promise you. I will not faint at the sight of a corpse. I feel it proper that I should see him before he is buried — wherever that may be.’ She pulls on her gloves carefully, her slender fingers extended.

‘So, you are the last surviving child of your family?’ I ask.

She gives me a sharp look. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

I shake my head. ‘I was only thinking it is hard you should have to bear so much loss.’ I assume a sympathetic expression. She narrows her eyes.

‘Even so,’ Drake says, still rubbing at his beard, ‘I fear the sight may distress you.’

‘What distresses me, Sir Francis,’ she says, shaping the words clearly and precisely, ‘is the thought that my husband may be wrongly declared a suicide while his murderer escapes justice.’ With this, she sets her shoulders back and sweeps from the room, her maid scurrying in her wake. At the door she turns to me. ‘Meet me here in the entrance hall in half an hour.’

Pettifer makes as if to follow her. ‘Would you like me to pray with you, madam, before you address yourself to this sad task?’ He knots his fingers together in supplication, his round cheeks flushed. Priests never feel a greater sense of their own importance than around the dying and the newly bereaved, I have noticed.

A spasm of irritation twitches Mistress Dunne’s face, but she masters it.

‘Thank you, Padre, that is kind — perhaps when I return I shall have greater need of comfort.’

‘As you wish, madam. Just send me word here — I am at your disposal.’ He bows his head and follows her out.

Drake closes the door behind them and exhales with some force. ‘Elizabeth, I have told Mistress Dunne you and Lady Arden will dine with her today. We must show her Christian compassion, and she may be glad of female company.’ He pushes both hands through his hair and walks to the window.

‘She didn’t look as if she was much interested in any company.’ Lady Drake clutches the protesting cat, who appears to be making a bid for freedom. ‘She was quite rude when you introduced me and my lady cousin — she barely acknowledged us at all.’

‘Well, you must allow that she is in the first shock of grief, my dear,’ Drake says, still looking out at the street. ‘She is perhaps not herself.’

‘I might want to hang myself if I’d married her,’ Lady Arden remarks, to no one in particular. Drake and his brother turn and stare at her. I catch her eye and grin; she allows a brief smile, which she hides behind her hand. Perhaps she has forgiven me after all.

The ladies stand and stretch delicately; the cat seizes his chance and darts under the day-bed. As they leave, Lady Arden glances over her shoulder at me, but she is gone before I can convey anything with my eyes alone.

‘Bruno — a word.’ Drake beckons me towards the window. We look out through the small diamond panes of glass, the street outside distorted by their warps and bubbles. He lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to have sprung this on you. Especially when …’ he indicates my injuries. ‘What happened to you?’

I hesitate. ‘I visited the House of Vesta last night.’

‘Ah.’ A brief frown crosses his brow. ‘Someone should have warned you about that place. They don’t tend to welcome strangers who arrive unannounced.’

‘That is the complicated part. I was not unannounced — I was lured there by an anonymous letter that made reference to the Judas gospel. I believe it came from Rowland Jenkes — the book dealer with no ears that Dunne took you to.’

Drake looks even more bemused. ‘What has he to do with the House of Vesta?’

‘I don’t know. But Dunne was a regular there. I thought someone might recall something, but when I started asking questions about him, I was cornered and set upon by a man I am certain was John Doughty.’

‘Doughty? Good God.’ Drake rubs his temple with the flat of his hand as he processes all this. ‘So he is in Plymouth. What would he want with you?’

I shake my head. ‘I didn’t stay to find out.’ I point to the cut on my face. ‘I jumped out of a window. Unfortunately, it was on the first floor.’

Drake smiles, despite himself.

‘What I do know is that they were waiting for me. The madam was part of it — she led me into a trap, ready for Doughty. So perhaps she could be questioned, if you want to find him.’

Drake nods slowly, his face grim. ‘I will make some discreet enquiries. The difficulty with the House of Vesta, Bruno, is that it is not an ordinary brothel. It operates by discretion and exclusivity. Customers come to her by introduction only. She takes the girls very young, so she can guarantee to her clients that they are clean. Some as young as eleven, and you won’t find any over fifteen. They say it’s the one place in Plymouth you can be sure you won’t get the pox, and there are plenty willing to pay her prices for the peace of mind.’