S. Parris - Treachery

Sidney has declined to accompany us; he says he has heard Savile’s version of events already and in Sidney’s view it wouldn’t fool a child. Drake wisely ignored the remark, but that had not diffused the tension between them. Sidney is bristling with resentment; he thought he would have all the credit for catching the murderer and, though he will never admit it, he wants Drake’s praise as well. But taking matters into his own hands without asking the Captain-General has worked against him. I sigh. If the story of Thomas Doughty and its repercussions has taught us anything, it is that Drake will not tolerate any challenge to his authority. You’d think Sidney would have realised that by now.

Drake knocks sharply on the door. Despite the circumstances, he is evidently determined to treat Savile with courtesy. The question of degree is part of what makes this situation so fraught, and Drake knows it; though Drake is also a knight, Savile is a gentleman born, like Sidney, and almost certainly does not regard the Captain-General as his equal in status.

‘Yes?’ says an imperious voice from within.

Drake opens the door to a small though comfortably appointed chamber. Savile is seated at a table, writing a letter. He looks up as we enter and his expression hardens when he sees me.

‘What, Francis — have you brought this monk to hear my confession?’

‘In a sense,’ Drake says, ignoring his tone. ‘I want you to tell Doctor Bruno your account, as you told it to me.’

‘Why? What authority has he to judge me?’

‘None. But it was he who gathered the evidence against you, and so he would be called to testify, if it comes to that. Besides, I want a witness, in case you should try to deny your story.’

A muscle twitches in Savile’s jaw.

‘I thought we had reached an agreement?’

‘This is part of the agreement,’ Drake says calmly. He takes up a place on the window seat. I remain standing. Savile turns his chair around to face us.

‘Well, now. Where would you like me to begin?’ he says.

‘All the evidence suggests that you intended to kill Robert Dunne so that you could marry his wife, who is carrying your child,’ I say. ‘Begin with that.’

‘And I challenge you to prove any of it,’ he says, with a self-satisfied smile. If he had been shaken by the accusations the night before, he shows no sign of it now. He carries himself like a man who has already won.

‘Robert Dunne had not seen his wife for four months,’ I say. ‘His landlady will testify that he had not left Plymouth since April. And they were never able to conceive together before.’

Savile looks as if he is formulating another lawyer’s argument to this point, but Drake cuts in.

‘Just give your account, Sir William. And keep it brief.’

Savile hesitates, then turns to me.

‘Very well. I tell you this in confidence,’ he says. ‘Sir Francis has agreed to that. And I tell you only because what you already know looks bad for me. But I did not kill Robert Dunne that night.’ He crosses and uncrosses his legs and stares at his folded hands for a long time, as if deciding where to begin.

‘Martha Dunne wanted to be free of her marriage, it is true. She had suggested an annulment, but her husband would not hear of it,’ he says eventually, looking up. ‘There was no affection involved, of course — the grasping dog was clinging on because he knew she would inherit from her father. Martha could only be rid of him if he died, but she was afraid that people would suspect her if anything happened to him. As you know, a woman who kills her husband is guilty of treason, and would be burned.’ He pauses, rubbing a thumb along his lower lip. ‘She was unwilling to take the risk. But she could not stand the thought of Robert laying hold of her inheritance, so she knew she would be forced to act sooner or later. When he announced his plan to come on this expedition with Sir Francis, she hoped he might meet with an accident at sea. Sadly, he had proved remarkably resilient in the past.’

‘Were you and she already …?’

‘I was fascinated by Martha the first time I met her,’ he says, with emphasis, as if I have called the strength of his feeling into question. ‘We were introduced at court last year when she attended with her husband.’ He gives a wry laugh. ‘She is a formidable woman, Martha. Well, you have spent time with her, you must realise that.’ A distant expression drifts over his face and I see that he is genuinely captivated by the woman. I cannot begin to imagine bedding Martha Dunne; her flintiness shrivels me completely. There is no logic to desire, I suppose. Although the attraction of her father’s money must also have been formidable.

‘So she persuaded you to help her with her difficulty,’ I say, trying to shake the image of Savile and Martha Dunne in the act.

He sucks in his cheeks. ‘I knew I would be at sea with Robert for many months together. There are ample opportunities aboard ship for a man to meet with an accident.’

‘But Dunne was an experienced sailor, and you are not,’ I point out. ‘Was that why you took the nutmeg — so that you could make him disorientated and push him overboard?’

‘I had no plan so clearly devised as that,’ Savile says, examining his nails. ‘In the event, there was a more pressing problem.’

‘She found herself pregnant.’

He gives a barely perceptible nod. ‘I hear it was you who noticed that. Surprisingly sharp eye you have, Bruno — most unmarried men would not be able to spot the signs for another few months. But then, you were a monk, of course — I imagine you and your brothers knocked up countless serving girls down there in Rome, didn’t you?’

‘Naples,’ I say drily. ‘Hundreds of them.’

‘Go on, Sir William,’ Drake says from the window.

‘At first she thought she could keep it a secret,’ Savile says, ‘so that her husband would not learn of it before he set sail. He was the only one in a position to deny the child was his, and if all went well, he would not return to do so. But Martha was very ill with the child in the first weeks, and though she only confided in her maid Agnes, one of the other servants had eyes as sharp as yours in these matters, Bruno. Rumours began among their household in Dartington. Their steward still had some loyalty to his master, for all his faults, and sent word to Robert in Plymouth that his wife may be with child — knowing, of course, that Robert had not seen her for weeks. This steward also told Robert that I had stopped at the house as a guest on my way to Plymouth.’

‘So Robert could be in little doubt as to the father,’ I say. ‘And he tried to blackmail you?’

‘ Blackmail? ’ He frowns, as if he does not understand.

‘For five gold angels. Did he write you letters threatening to expose you?’

Savile looks bemused. ‘What a strange question. Of course not. He did what any self-respecting man would do on learning he has been cuckolded. He punched me in the face.’ He rubs the cut on his lip, now pulling tight into a scab.

‘But he was already under the influence of the nutmeg by then, according to those who saw him,’ I say. ‘Why did you give it to him that night? Had he confronted you earlier?’

‘That evening, before the party was due to go ashore, he asked me to take a drink with him in his cabin. I was apprehensive, of course. I took some spiced wine, as a precaution. I thought if I could dose him with nutmeg, he would grow incoherent — that way, if he made any wild claims, I could always claim it was the drink talking.’

‘And he accused you?’

‘At that point he was not unreasonable,’ Savile says. ‘He only told me that he had received this letter and wanted to know if there was truth in it. I said we should discuss it in private, over a drink.’ He flexes his fingers and glances at Drake. ‘I denied everything, of course. I said I had called in at his house looking for him, and had ridden on to Plymouth when I found he was not at home. Told him the steward was probably just trying to make trouble, undermine Martha and assert his own authority in Robert’s absence, the way servants will.’ He gives a lofty wave of the hand, as if we all sympathise with the devious ways of servants. ‘I said it would be pure folly to repeat any such unfounded rumours, especially in the hearing of others — he would only dishonour himself and his wife. He wanted to believe it. He grasped me by the wrists and apologised for having impugned my reputation.’