S. Parris - Execution

‘Quick as you can. If it was meant to be found, someone wants us to read it. Perhaps the victim herself. And have the wine in that bottle tested, see if there is anything to be learned. As for you, Bruno,’ he clapped me on the shoulder, ‘I’m expecting news any day of our Spanish Jesuit’s arrival. Time for you to stop dancing around me like a coy maiden, who may or may not. Will you return to your squabbling undergraduates and a French knife in your back, or will you lend your considerable talents to protecting Queen Elizabeth and the freedom of England?’

He spoke as if he had never doubted my decision.

‘Poole says Ballard and Savage are dangerous fanatics.’

‘You knew that. They wish to assassinate the Queen. You saw what was done to Clara.’

‘They will cut my throat in a heartbeat if they suspect me. That would be no use to you. Or to me.’

‘But we shall make sure they won’t.’ He smiled. ‘Come, Bruno. You lived for two years at the French embassy, trusted associate of the ambassador, protégé of King Henri, all the while working for me and never suspected. You know how to play a part quite as if you were born to it.’

‘But I was at least playing a version of myself. And there were those who suspected my loyalty even then – they just couldn’t prove it. You want me to become someone else entirely – I have no experience of that. What if I should slip up, or be recognised?’

‘No experience?’ The smile grew wider, but there was warmth in it. ‘Philip Sidney told me you spent two years travelling through Italy under a false name after you abandoned the Dominican order without permission, with the Inquisition at your heels. You can become someone else when it suits you.’

‘That was ten years ago. I had a greater appetite for adventure then, and no choice about it.’

‘I don’t believe your craving for adventure has diminished since. Else you would not have caught a midnight boat from France to bring me Berden’s letter. As for choice …’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and the smile vanished. ‘Don’t you see, Bruno – you are the only one who can do this for us. The arrival of the Jesuit makes it the perfect opportunity. No one else has the ability to get inside Babington’s circle and make sure this conspiracy plays out as we need it to.’

‘I feel as if we are reliving history,’ I said, suddenly weary. ‘All this happened three years ago with Throckmorton and his plot.’

‘How do you think I feel?’ He threw his hands up with a mirthless laugh. ‘These plots repeat year after year, and they will keep coming, for as long as Mary Stuart lives to shout her claim to anyone who blames the government for his misfortune. The difference this time is that we have a real chance to cut off the source of them for good.’ He drew the edge of his hand across his throat. It was this, more than anything he said, that betrayed his desperation; Walsingham was not given to dramatic gestures.

I hesitated. That was my mistake. His eyes hardened; I had made him doubt my commitment, and he despised above all a man who wavered.

‘There is another consideration,’ he said. ‘Your friend Sophia Underhill.’

‘What of her?’ The immediacy of my response, and its defensiveness, were enough to show him that he had hit the mark.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘In the spring. I don’t remember. February or March, perhaps.’

March 17th; it was etched in my memory. She had told me she thought it best we did not meet any more. She worried about my reputation in Paris, and hers among the English Catholics there if she should be seen with me. She feared I hoped for too much from her. It was then that I had decided to go to Wittenberg.

‘Did you know she planned to return to England?’

‘She mentioned the possibility, though only as a plan for the distant future.’

‘She arrived in London in – when was it, Thomas?’

‘Third of May,’ Phelippes said, not troubling to look up.

‘May.’ Walsingham fixed me with a stern look. ‘Charles Paget wrote and told me. He continues to try and curry favour with me, and thought the information might come in useful. He had set her up with a position, as a companion to Lady Grace Cavendish. Wife of Sir Henry Cavendish, an old gaming associate of Paget’s.’

The names meant nothing to me. I held his gaze, waiting for him to reveal his purpose. Wherever he was tending, it would not be good.

‘Henry Cavendish is the eldest son of Bess of Hardwick, from her first marriage. A libertine, gambler, drunk and an idiot, up to his neck in debt. He was disinherited years ago in favour of his brother. Eight bastard children and not a one with his wife. You can see why she would need a companion, poor creature.’

‘Is Sophia in danger?’ The thought of her living under the same roof as a man like that made the hairs stand up on my arms. Walsingham allowed a wolfish smile; my reaction seemed to have pleased him.

‘Oh, I think your Sophia knows how to take care of entitled men, does she not?’ He left a significant pause. ‘She’s still going by the name of Mary Gifford, by the way. But she had another name once – besides the one she was baptised with, I mean. She was known in Canterbury as Mrs Kate Kingsley. You remember, I’m sure.’

A chill flooded through me and I felt my throat constrict. I understood him now, and did not trust myself to speak.

‘In fact,’ he continued, his voice smooth, ‘she was wanted for murder under that name, do you recall?’

‘The case was closed. She was never convicted.’

‘More accurate to say she was never brought to trial,’ he said. ‘Paget doesn’t know about that business. He took an interest in her because he found her intelligent and he is practised enough to know when someone is hiding their past. And, of course, because he knew she was of interest to you. But it was bold of her to come back to England so soon. There’s every chance of her being recognised, and even a man like Henry Cavendish wouldn’t want a cold-blooded murderess playing chess with his wife.’

‘She’s not a murderess.’ I fought to keep my voice level.

‘I’m sure she is not.’ His tone had grown placatory, which was always the most dangerous. ‘From what you have told me, she is a most resourceful and sharp-witted girl. She must be, to have outwitted you.’

I wondered how he knew of that, and supposed Sidney must have told him the whole story: how I had acted to clear Sophia’s name in Canterbury, believing she returned my feelings, only for her to flee to France after stealing a valuable book from me, as if I meant nothing to her. The betrayal still stung. I said nothing.

‘I should like to make use of her talents,’ Walsingham continued, as if he were merely thinking aloud.

This made me straighten. ‘How?’

‘Henry Cavendish is uncle to the lovely Bessie Pierrepont, who has caught our young friend Gifford’s imagination, as I told you. Bessie is a frequent visitor to her aunt Lady Grace, and shares confidences. Another pair of eyes and ears in that household would be extremely useful.’

‘What makes you think Sophia would work for you?’ The thought of her pressed into Walsingham’s service made my head ache; she would leap at the chance of a role beyond those available to her as a woman of no means, the excitement of it. Just like Clara Poole.

‘Because I could have her arrested for the murder of her husband and sent to stand trial in Canterbury any time I chose,’ he said, with a trace of impatience. ‘But if she helps me, I will help her. She wants to find her son, does she not? The one she was forced to give up three years ago.’

I stared at him. ‘You know where he is? How?’