S. Parris - Execution

‘She could have lost it climbing the wall,’ I suggested, unconvinced.

‘Or – wait – she could have thrown it into the brambles herself,’ he countered, suddenly animated. ‘Suppose she realised what was happening, that her life was in danger? She might have ripped it off and tossed it away to stop him getting his hands on it.’

‘If she was intimate with Babington or one of his friends, they would have known she wore the locket,’ I suggested. ‘Wouldn’t they have searched for it?’

Poole looked at me as if he pitied my stupidity. ‘Babington and his friends were all dining together the night she was killed,’ he said. ‘All save Ballard, who was in France – or so we believe. They didn’t necessarily murder her with their own hands. And if they paid someone to lure her here and get rid of her, he might not have known to look for a locket. Besides, there would have been nothing but moonlight to see by – he couldn’t have lit a lantern for fear of disturbing the old watchman. And if the killer was hurt, he must have wanted to get away as quick as he could. He wouldn’t have wasted time scrabbling through bushes.’

I held my tongue; I could not contradict this thesis without revealing that Clara’s assailant had had the leisure to cut off her hair and ears, and that the blood was not his but hers. It was not for me to take from him the idea of his sister bravely resisting her attacker until her last breath. But the appearance of the locket so conveniently troubled me. Poole was staring at it, rapt, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the surface.

‘Should we keep searching?’

‘What?’ He jerked his head up. ‘Forgive me, I was …’ He indicated the locket with a diffident nod, as if embarrassed by his grief, before slipping it into the pouch at his belt. ‘I suppose we should see if there is anything else.’ But his earlier resolve seemed to have ebbed away; he looked around with the air of a man who has entered a room to find he has no memory of what he came in for. I picked up the broken branch I had discarded and pulled back the undergrowth where I had found the locket, hoping a cursory search would satisfy him so that we could make our way back across the river; there had been no mention of breaking our fast and my stomach was cramping with hunger. As I stepped closer to peer through the leaves, my foot struck something solid. I kicked it back towards me and bent to retrieve an earthenware carafe decorated with the embossed head of a unicorn. I sniffed it; the scent of spiced wine was still strong.

‘What have you there?’ Poole asked, snapping out of his reverie.

I held it up to show him. ‘Only a pitcher. Not been there long, by the looks of it.’ I shook it, to hear the dregs sloshing in the bottom. ‘Perhaps whoever killed Clara brought it with him.’

Poole considered. ‘Or it was thrown over the wall, or the old watchman dumped it. Can’t see that it tells us much.’

I tipped the carafe and let a drop of liquid slide on to my finger. It was a cheap, sweet wine, with a bitter aftertaste beneath the sugar. ‘It comes from the Unicorn, look. We passed that on the way – it’s up the road, on the riverfront. Maybe we should ask there.’

‘Ask what?’ He gave me that same pitying look. ‘Good day, did any of your customers happen to strangle a woman in the Cross Bones the other night?’ He shook his head and I realised he was right. ‘You don’t go around the Bankside stews asking questions like you’re the law, not unless you want to end up in the river. I’ll mention it to Walsingham. It might be something or nothing. I’ll bet these bushes are full of old bottles.’

‘Will you tell him about the locket?’

‘Of course. Though it’s mine by rights, I’m her only family.’ His hand moved protectively to the pouch where he had stowed it. I waited, hoping he would decide it was time to go, when a movement at the edge of my vision made me spin around to see a slight figure crouching on the wall across the graveyard, above the gate.

Poole followed my gaze and gave a shout; the intruder straightened, pausing long enough for me to see that it was a boy of about ten, dressed in a ragged cap and breeches. His skin was darker than usual for an English child; he would not have looked out of place on the streets of Naples.

‘You there – stay where you are!’ Poole yelled. The boy instantly disappeared, dropping to the far side of the wall silent as a cat. Poole swore and set off at a run across the grass towards the gate, hampered by his damaged leg. ‘Cut the little fucker off the other side,’ he called to me over his shoulder, pointing at the tree. I launched myself up through the branches and over the wall to the street, landing hard and narrowly missing a pile of horseshit. Cursing, I ran the length of the street towards the row of cottages, but there was no sign of the boy to left or right when I reached the end. A couple of minutes later, Poole rounded the opposite corner, slowing when he saw me. I shook my head; the child could have slipped into any number of hiding places, or simply outrun us.

‘How long was he watching?’ Poole breathed hard, his face rigid with anger.

‘No idea. I saw him a moment before you did.’ But I remember the cold sensation of being watched earlier; had the boy been there all along?

‘I want to know his business.’ He bunched his fists. I was surprised by his anger.

‘We’re not likely to find him now. He was probably just a street boy being nosy.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about. Why would he be watching the Cross Bones?’

‘You think he was spying? For whom?’

Poole rolled his eyes. ‘I wonder that Master Secretary sets such store by your wits,’ he said, and I did not miss the barb in his tone. I realised then that he resented me – and that could only mean Walsingham had spoken highly enough of me for Poole to fear I threatened his standing. I confess that the thought pleased me. ‘No one is supposed to know that Clara is dead, least of all me,’ he continued, his voice a low growl. ‘Coaxing a slip-up from Babington and his friends depends on me pretending I know nothing of her whereabouts. If I have been seen poking about the scene of her murder, my deception will be exposed.’

‘Exactly as Phelippes warned,’ I murmured. He shot me a hostile glare.

‘He saw you too.’

I refrained from reminding him that Phelippes had foreseen that as well.

‘We’re not going to find the boy now. The best thing we can do is get away from here as quickly as possible. It’s probably nothing,’ I added as we retraced his steps past the cottages. ‘Maybe he just took a fancy to the horse. You said yourself the whole borough is full of thieves.’

Poole stopped dead and stared at me. ‘Shit. The gate.’

He broke into a run; I followed him around the corner and we tumbled through the open door of the Cross Bones, to find the graveyard empty. Only a fresh pile of dung by the brazier gave any indication that a horse had ever been there. Poole tore off his hat and flung it on the ground with an impressive string of oaths that would have made a Neapolitan proud. When he had exhausted all the words he knew, he looked at me.

‘Are you laughing ?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, leaning against the wall and clutching my stomach. I could not even say why I found the situation so funny; the two of us, vying with each other for Walsingham’s approbation as to who was the best of his espials, while a child thief had played us like a lute. Poole took a step forward and I shrank against the wall, bracing myself to dodge a punch, but he stopped abruptly and doubled over, his shoulders shaking. Eventually I realised he was laughing too.

‘Oh, fuck,’ he said, when he could speak, straightening up and wiping his eyes. ‘It wasn’t even my horse. It was Ballard’s. He’ll have my balls.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and burst into guffaws again. I clapped him on the back. I could see that this was a way for him to release the pent-up emotion of the past hour, and it seemed to have broken the tension between us too. But I couldn’t help a glance behind me. Perhaps the boy was a mere horse thief, but he had seen my face.