S Parris - Prophecy

‘What of your nervous friend Dumas, the clerk?’ Fowler asks. ‘Has anyone pointed the finger at him?’

‘Not yet. He has kept his head down.’

‘Good. Then at the moment, their suspicions are only born of malice. We may hope to shrug that off easily enough. What matters is that no one should think to look in Dumas’s direction. If anyone questions him, we are finished.’

‘Quite right,’ I say, with feeling. Dumas would fall apart at the first accusation; at all costs, he must remain below their line of sight. Then I recall the figure I thought I saw slipping behind the church on Leadenhall Street when Dumas and I left Phelippes’s house, and the coincidence of Douglas’s sudden appearance at the very place where I was meeting Fowler, and again a sense of unease prickles at the back of my skull. It is impossible to know who to trust.

‘What of this new murder, then?’ Fowler whispers, as we tuck ourselves into the fringes of the preacher’s audience. ‘It must have happened right under our noses. Was that why you were called out of the room?’

In a low voice I tell him all that happened the previous night at Whitehall, including my previous dealings with Abigail, the murder of Cecily Ashe and my suspicions that the murder of both maids is bound up with the plots brewing at Salisbury Court. When I have finished, he gives a brief whistle, shaking his head, his eyes still fixed on the pulpit.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ he murmurs. ‘Bruno, this plot is bigger than we imagined. You think they do mean to kill Elizabeth? I had thought the Duke of Guise wanted to take her prisoner, if this invasion succeeds, to try her publicly for heresy, make an example of her.’

‘Perhaps they feel it would be more likely to succeed if the country has no sovereign to rally behind,’ I whisper back. ‘It would leave England in disarray, entirely vulnerable. As a prisoner, she would inspire loyalty, the way Mary does now. Dead, she can do nothing.’

‘The people would cry out for a strong monarch then.’ Fowler squints into the wind. ‘My God. So you think one of our friends at Salisbury Court is the killer?’

‘Behind the killings, at any rate, if not holding the knife himself. I don’t see how it can be otherwise. Cecily Ashe was given the ring Mary Stuart sent Howard, it must be as a token of her part in the conspiracy. And the man who gave it to her has to be the man who killed her, probably out of fear that she would betray the plot.’

‘And the same man murdered the girl Abigail?’

‘Abigail must have been killed because she was Cecily’s friend, because the killer thought she knew something of his identity or the plot. But it’s my belief that she was killed because he saw her talking to me that day.’ I lower my eyes, take a deep breath. ‘And the one person who was there and saw us was Philip Howard. He fits Abigail’s description too.’

Fowler frowns.

‘But the Earl of Arundel was at the concert last night, I saw him. They all were, now I think of it.’

‘He would have only needed a few minutes before it started to find the kitchen boy and make sure she had the message to meet at the kitchen dock. Then his accomplice would have known where to find her.’

‘All we really know about this man,’ Fowler says slowly, rubbing his forefinger across his chin, ‘is that he is an eminent figure and young women regard him as handsome. But you might reasonably say that of any of the men who gather around the ambassador’s table. Courcelles, for instance, is of noble birth and considered very attractive to women, I believe. Madame de Castelnau certainly thinks so, you only have to see the way she looks at him. And he’d have ample opportunity to spirit away a package sent to the embassy.’

‘By that token, so would Throckmorton, and he is a good-looking boy, I suppose.’

‘But Throckmorton is never here for long enough to plot a regicide or two murders, he is always on the road to Sheffield. He could have taken the ring from the package, I suppose, but I don’t believe he has the ingenuity. He’s one of those who will happily obey as long as someone tells him where to go, but he does not invent plots for himself.’ He shakes his head. ‘That only leaves Douglas and Henry Howard.’

‘Douglas?’ Incredulous, I forget to keep my voice down; a woman in front turns and pins us with a stern look, her finger to her lips, though how she can hope to hear the sermon over the crowd’s cheerful jeering and whooping, I have no idea. I consider Douglas for a moment, and wonder if Fowler might have a point. He may have that weathered look and greying hair, but he has a strong jaw and a mischievous gleam in his eye that goes with a sense of being at ease in his skin; it’s possible that a green girl might describe him as handsome. And even Henry Howard, with his pointed beard and pointed eyebrows, has a certain commanding presence that might be attractive. In any event, it seems clear that such a subjective description will not be much help to us.

‘Who is to say what women find handsome anyway?’ Fowler whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘There may even be those who say so of you, Bruno,’ he adds, with a sideways smile.

‘ Grazie . You’re not so bad yourself,’ I reply with a grin, though my mind flits unavoidably to Marie and her attempt to seduce me. Whatever her motive, I do not think it was my face.

‘Listen to us — debating who is handsome and who is not, like a pair of old priests at the Southwark boy-houses.’ Fowler gives a grim laugh. ‘We’ll need better evidence if we are to find this man. But where to start?’

‘I know where I mean to look,’ I say, through my teeth.

The preacher at Paul’s Cross appears to have reached some kind of conclusion; a smattering of applause erupts, as if for a travelling show, then the crowd around us begins to break and dissipate, like ink in water, of its own accord, drifting in twos and threes away from the pulpit. Clouds are scudding up across the sky from the river and the wind has lifted; the air smells of rain again. Fowler pulls his cap down and we turn away, back towards the south side of the cathedral and its bustle of merchants, pedlars and cut-purses. There is a strange kind of relief that comes from talking, even if no solution is found. I feel lighter for confiding in Fowler, and curse myself again for my stubborn desire to find Cecily’s killer without help. Perhaps if I had been less preoccupied with my own success, Abigail might not have paid the price. The weight of remorse sits like stones in my stomach when I picture her body laid out on the cold floor of that storeroom, and the determination to see this man brought to justice burns with a new intensity.

‘Listen, Bruno,’ Fowler says gently, laying a hand on my arm. ‘You want it to be one or other of the Howards. I don’t blame you — there is much to dislike about them. But we need to keep our eyes and our minds open. There is something strange about this. If poisoning the queen was always a part of this Guise invasion plan, then why has no one mentioned it at any of Castelnau’s secret meetings? And if the murder of Cecily Ashe was to protect their mission, why do they all behave as if it is news to them?’

These are questions that touch on my own misgivings. I crane my head skywards; the light is fading and I must make haste if I am to find a boatman who will take me as far as Mortlake this evening.

‘One or more of them is dissembling,’ I offer. ‘But the group that gathers at Salisbury Court has been brought together by Castelnau. It does not necessarily follow that all its members will like or trust one another. Perhaps those who are plotting Elizabeth’s death are brewing their own plans and merely using the French invasion as a vehicle.’ Again, I consider the possibility that Henry Howard may be courting Mary Stuart with his eye on the throne, but I say nothing to Fowler. Perhaps it is childish, but I want the credit for suggesting this theory to Walsingham.