Treachery (2019 Edition)

by S. J. Parris

  ‘They didn’t touch me. Listen,’ I say, leaning in, ‘if you no longer have the book, do you at least have the page you tore from it?’ He hesitates, long enough for me to take it as an affirmative. ‘The page you tore out because it had an inscription to its owner, yes? Or else he had written his own name in it. You have kept it, haven’t you?’

  He looks at his feet again and gives one guilty nod. ‘I liked the picture.’ His colour deepens.

  ‘Toby,’ I say, making my voice as gentle as I can, ‘I really need that page. I can’t explain fully but it could be vital evidence.’

  ‘Then you will know his name, and he will accuse me of stealing it,’ the boy says, miserably.

  ‘I know his name already,’ I say quietly. His mouth falls open. ‘And he won’t dare accuse you of anything,’ I continue. ‘He will be too busy defending himself.’

  He shakes his head again. ‘Mistress Grace has threatened to throw me on the street already for thieving from a customer.’

  ‘If you get me that page, I will tell Mistress Grace that I gave you the book. Without that page, she can’t prove it was not mine to give. But if she finds it, she has all the proof she needs against you.’

  He looks doubtful.

  ‘They cut off your hands for stealing,’ I add casually. His gaze shifts to his blistered fingers with their chewed nails then back to me, terror in his eyes. ‘Though for an item of that value, it would probably be hanging.’

  ‘All right, I will get it,’ he says, so soft I can barely hear him. ‘But I can’t go yet – you’ll have to wait till I finish for the day.’

  ‘I need it now. Besides, what if she shows him the book and he confirms that you stole it from him before I have a chance to speak to her?’

  His face creases with the weight of his dilemma. ‘But my master won’t allow . . .’ He points to the shop.

  ‘My friend is keeping your master busy spending good money in there,’ I say. ‘It will only take you a few moments to run upstairs. Hurry now.’

  He hesitates, then scuttles along the alley to the far end and disappears around the corner.

  Minutes pass, and after five I begin to worry: perhaps he has forgotten where he hid the page, or perhaps the madam has caught him. I glance back to the door into the apothecary’s; the boy’s master will come out if we don’t return soon, wondering why I have dragged his apprentice away from his work for so long and fearing what depraved scenes he may discover in the alley. At least I can rely on Sidney to keep him talking. He is probably inventing an entire textbook’s worth of maladies.

  My relief on hearing footsteps from the end of the alleyway is shortlived when I realise they are accompanied by a woman’s voice, followed by a man’s muttered response. I dive back inside the shop, where the apothecary and Sidney raise their heads together from the scrutiny of some greenish powder and look at me as if I am interrupting something intimate.

  ‘Where is my apprentice?’ the apothecary demands, as if I might have buried him in the alley.

  ‘I think he had to go and relieve himself,’ I say pleasantly. He scowls.

  ‘You were saying?’ Sidney indicates the substance laid out on a square of waxed paper on the ware-bench.

  But we never hear the apothecary’s exposition of whatever miracle cure he is offering, because the front door opens and Mistress Grace enters, plucking off her gloves, borne along on wafts of lavender perfume, her bearing as haughty and composed as any court lady. Over one arm she carries a velvet pouch on a slim gold chain, and in her hands a woven basket. She raises her carefully plucked brows in surprise on seeing us.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t our friends . . .’ She twirls her fingers in a searching gesture. ‘I’m sorry, I have forgotten your name.’

  ‘I think you know my name, mistress,’ I say, unsmiling. She allows her sharp gaze to travel up and down me.

  ‘You do not look well, sir. Perhaps the rigours of Plymouth life do not agree with you.’ She turns to Sidney with an elegant curtsey. ‘Good day, Sir Philip. I trust you are in better health.’ Her face is impassive, but there is no doubt that she is mocking him. Nonetheless, the apothecary stares and stands up a little straighter, realising he is in the presence of a knight. Perhaps he is wishing he had thought to charge more.

  ‘I am glad to have seen you again, mistress,’ I say, matching her smoothness. ‘I wanted to ask you about a friend of yours. Master John Doughty.’

  She turns pale under her paint but maintains her composure. ‘You are mistaken, sir – I do not know anyone of that name.’

  ‘Really? That is curious – he distinctly said he knew you. Perhaps you knew him by a different name. In any case, he is wanted for murder, so it is as well you are not acquainted. His close friends and associates would certainly be questioned, under suspicion of hiding him, or helping him escape.’ I smile through my teeth.

  She looks towards the street window, where the shadow of her broad-shouldered bodyservant can be seen loitering outside, cleaning his ear with his finger.

  ‘It is indeed fortunate, then, that I do not associate with people of that sort,’ she says sweetly, and turns to the apothecary as if to show that the subject is closed and I am of no further interest.

  He holds out to her a selection of packets wrapped in paper. ‘Here you are, Mistress Grace – common rue, mugwort and pennyroyal. I was a bit short on the rue this week but I can make it up when the next batch comes in. I will adjust your account, of course.’

  ‘Those are all abortifacients, are they not?’ I pick up a jar from the ware-bench and sniff it. The apothecary gives me a hard look.

  ‘They are herbs with a variety of medicinal purposes, sir, for those with the knowledge to use them,’ he says.

  ‘But principally known for prompting miscarriage,’ I say. ‘Though not always successfully, from what I hear. Of course there are other ways of dealing with unwanted children.’

  Mistress Grace gives no sign of having heard this; she is engaged in checking her packages, weighing them in her hand before opening each one, lifting it to her nose and delicately sniffing the contents. Each time she pauses after smelling them and her eyes wander, unfocused, to the shelves on the wall as if she is deep in contemplation, while the little apothecary twists his hands and fidgets behind his bench, nervously awaiting her verdict. It would be a foolish man who tried to cheat her, I reflect. Sidney gives me a warning look.

  The door to the alleyway opens at that moment and Toby reappears, breathless. He freezes in the doorway at the sight of Mistress Grace and looks wildly from me to his master.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ the little man says, though I suspect his show of anger is more for Mistress Grace’s benefit. ‘Empty your bowels in your own time, boy, not mine. And it would make everyone’s life easier if you didn’t have strange men coming in this shop asking after you.’ He glares at me and Mistress Grace finally turns around with a sweet smile.

  ‘Pengilly, I find I could use more nutmeg,’ she says to the apothecary. I snort, but she ignores it. ‘I’m sure you have some in the back you could look for.’

  He takes the hint, and with a small bow, leaves us alone in the shop. Mistress Grace places her packets carefully in the basket, shifting its weight on her arm.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she says, still smiling, ‘I fear you did not receive the best of our hospitality on your first visit to my house. Especially you, sir.’ She tilts her head towards me with a look of sympathy. ‘I feel we should make it up to you. Come and take a drink with us this evening, as my guests.’ She looks up from under her lashes and her eyes glitter in a way that must once have been devastating.

  ‘I have seen how you treat your guests, madam,’ I say, avoiding her eye. ‘I would rather not repeat the experience.’

  She lays a white hand on my arm. ‘That was an unfortunate misunderstanding. I should be glad to speak to you. But I would ask you not to bother this boy while he is at his work. Master Pengilly and I have an agreement. And this boy ta
lks too much nonsense as it is.’ Her eyes flit again to the tall shape of her servant outside the door. Toby flinches as surely as if she had struck him.

  ‘I thank you, mistress,’ Sidney says, before I can reply, ‘but we dine with Captain Drake this evening so I fear we must refuse your invitation.’

  ‘I would gladly talk with you though, mistress,’ I say, ‘if you would give me a minute of your time without the company of your friend outside.’ I nod to the door. ‘I am unarmed,’ I add, holding up my hands to show her the absence of any weapon at my belt.

  ‘That’s what you said last time,’ she says tartly.

  ‘Fortunate that I lied, then. Since I was almost attacked by your friend John Doughty.’

  She laughs. ‘I have no friend of that name, as I said. You were very drunk that night, sir. I fear you were imagining things.’

  We stare at one another for a moment longer. She makes a point of turning away first.

  ‘Do you have that nutmeg, Pengilly?’ she calls. ‘I am ready to leave now.’

  I plant myself in front of her, blocking her way to the door.

  ‘How much do you get for them? The babies,’ I ask, riled by her supercilious stare. ‘Sir Francis Drake thought he had reformed that practice, but you found a way round it, didn’t you? You and your collaborator. Did you fear Robert Dunne would try to stop you, was that it?’

  For the first time, her composure is disturbed; she falters, looking to the street door, then to the back room of the shop. I glance at Toby; he is cowering by the door to the alley, trying to make himself invisible. I notice his right hand is balled into a fist.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, sir,’ she says, pulling herself up with a little shake of her shoulders. ‘But it sounds like malicious slander, which in this country is punishable by law.’

  ‘Accuse me before the Sheriff, then,’ I say. ‘I will repeat it for his benefit. And the Mayor, and anyone you care to name.’

  She gives a low, tinkling laugh, tinged with pity. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. I fear you would not find them sympathetic, however.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right – you believe you have them all by the balls,’ I say, taking a step towards her. ‘We could take the matter to the Star Chamber, if you prefer. We might find an impartial judge there.’

  ‘The Star Chamber would not concern themselves with provincial matters such as this,’ she says, but the laughter sounds forced this time.

  ‘They would concern themselves with the murder of a gentleman,’ I say, folding my arms.

  ‘I fear you must be confused, sir. No gentleman has been murdered on or near my premises, nor any other sort of man.’

  ‘One may have been murdered at your behest, by someone close to you. Someone who also had a vested interest in silencing him.’

  ‘I think you have said enough, sir. Pengilly!’

  The apothecary appears instantly from the back room; he has evidently been skulking just out of sight, eavesdropping.

  ‘Ah, good,’ Sidney says, rubbing his hands cheerfully to dispel the atmosphere. ‘We should be on our way too – I will take the dandelion infusion and whatever you said the other thing was, for stomach ache. And the salve for my friend. How much?’

  He lays his coins out on the ware-bench. While the apothecary’s attention is held by the glint of silver, I cross the room to Toby, who looks stricken.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I say, holding out my hand for him to shake. He stares at it, then understanding dawns and he grasps it tight. I palm the wad of paper between my fingers. ‘Take care of yourself now, and work hard for your master,’ I say, nodding to the apothecary, who looks up briefly and snorts. Toby’s eyes are full of panicked questions; I answer with a brief shake of my head. Mistress Grace is watching us. I realise that, for now, she does not know whether I have any proof for my accusations; if I mention the book, I lose that advantage. I have no choice but to break my promise to Toby.

  ‘And you be sure to take care of yourself too, Doctor Bruno,’ she says, with an icy smile. ‘The streets of Plymouth can be dangerous for foreigners.’ With a last piercing glance at me, she sweeps out.

  The apothecary pushes Toby towards the room at the back and points a finger at me. ‘Your friend here is a good customer, so I’ll hold my tongue this time. But if you want the boy in future, master, you find him outside my shop. I’m a God-fearing man. You hear?’

  God-fearing enough to make your living selling quack remedies for pox and miscarriage to prostitutes, I almost say, but I too hold my tongue. Instead I incline my head to show my remorse, and take my leave.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ Sidney says, when we are outside the shop. His right hand grips the hilt of his sword; we scan the street in both directions for any sign of Mistress Grace and her muscled servant. ‘You think you can accuse a woman like that of murder to her face? If you’re right, she’ll want to cut out your tongue before you can repeat it to anyone. We’ll be lucky if we make it back to the Star in one piece. Especially now that only one of us is armed.’ He casts another furtive glance behind him and quickens his pace.

  ‘That’s not my fault. And we are not going back to the Star – we’re going to the Elizabeth. At least, I am,’ I say, limping after him. ‘I need to get there before she has a chance to send a message out. I don’t want our man forewarned.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ he says, as we hurry towards the quayside, keeping well away from the mouths of alleys and side streets where anyone might be lurking. ‘Make your grand revelation. Though I think I have guessed,’ he adds, eagerly. He seems to have forgotten his earlier pique at being robbed of his prize in Savile.

  ‘Why does a man kill?’ I say.

  He falls back to walk beside me. ‘Money? Jealousy? Revenge? Power?’

  ‘All of those. Or to silence someone who knows a secret about him. Something that could destroy his position and his prospects.’

  ‘Stop your games now and tell me.’

  I pull him into a doorway, checking to see that no one is following us, and unfold the paper Toby pressed into my hand. There is an engraving of the nymph Daphne metamorphosing into a tree, her young breasts peeking boldly through the leaves – I see why poor Toby wanted to keep the picture – but it is the name inscribed in ink at the top of the page that interests me. I feel my chest expand with relief. It would have been better to have the whole book, but this will serve. Sidney stares at it without speaking, then whistles softly and nods, as if conceding victory.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Bruno! Sir Philip – come in, I had not expected you. Take a seat.’ Drake opens the door to his cabin and waves us towards his vast table, now overlaid with piles of papers covered with figures. Thomas Drake sits behind it, quill in hand, his back to the long window. He appears even more irritated than usual at the sight of us.

  ‘My brother has told me of your courage last night, Doctor Bruno,’ he says, inclining his head. ‘It is a shame those rogues escaped – and with the book, too. But it seems God protected you.’ It is difficult to read whether this is sincere or another jibe.

  ‘It was the book or our lives,’ I murmur. ‘It would have taken a miracle to get out of there with both.’

  ‘My family is indebted to you,’ Drake says, with a stern look at Thomas. ‘Now – what brings you out here?’

  ‘Bruno has something to tell you,’ Sidney says, in a conspiratorial tone.

  ‘To do with Dunne?’ Drake almost pounces on me.

  ‘There is a matter I wish to discuss, Sir Francis,’ I say. ‘But could you first send for Padre Pettifer? And ask him to bring a notebook. Don’t mention that Sidney and I are here.’

  Drake frowns, but he opens the door and exchanges a few words with one of the guards outside.

  ‘What is this about, Bruno?’ he says, closing the door as the man’s footsteps can be heard descending the stairs. ‘Is it to do with Savile’s testimony? He is back on board and as good as confined to his cabin, but I’m afr
aid my brother has confirmed his story. They went to and from the House of Vesta in company that night and spent at least half the time there playing cards together, along with several other gentlemen.’ He shoots a fierce glance at Thomas. ‘So it seems unlikely that Savile could have slipped away to meet Jonas.’

  Thomas Drake skewers first me and then Sidney with a black look. Our hasty confrontation of Savile has laid bare his secret and exposed him to his brother’s judgement; clearly he does not thank us for it.

  ‘Let us hear what the chaplain has to say.’ I turn away from Thomas’s glare; I have no wish to provoke him further.

  ‘What has he to do with it?’ Drake asks, faintly impatient.

  ‘It may be that he has some information.’ I think it best to keep vague for now.

  ‘God’s blood – if he knows something about the business, why would he not have told me?’ Drake paces the room, fists clenched at his side. ‘Must everyone on this ship hold on to his secrets, at the expense of my voyage?’ He directs this last at his brother; Thomas shrinks into the seat and lowers his eyes.

  There is a light knock on the door. Drake barks a command and Pettifer appears tentatively on the threshold, a notebook tucked under his arm. Sweat prickles on my back; I only hope I am not wrong this time. At Drake’s gesture, Pettifer closes the door and stands before his captain with an expectant look, hands clasped before him.

  ‘Sir Francis?’

  Drake waves him to a seat at the table. ‘It was Doctor Bruno who wanted to speak to you.’

  Pettifer’s head snaps round, his eyes immediately wary. He lays his notebook on the table and cocks his head to one side, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken question, still that look of slight superiority on his face; he believes he is above being summoned by the likes of me.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a couple more questions about your conversation with Robert Dunne the night he died, Padre,’ I say, in as friendly a manner as I can assume.