Execution

by S. J. Parris

  By early evening I was ready to beg Phelippes to let me go at least as far as a tavern for supper instead of sending out for food again; even a low place where no one would know me was better than those four walls in the company of Gifford. I was pulling on my boots in readiness when Phelippes’s head appeared around the door to summon us into the study.

  ‘Good news,’ he said abruptly as he settled behind his desk, leaving us standing before it like two schoolboys waiting to be reprimanded. ‘We’ve received word that Mendoza’s Jesuit was apprehended the day before yesterday coming ashore at Southampton and is already on his way to London in custody. Even better news for you, Bruno – he is in his thirties with a full complement of limbs, so we are more than halfway there. His name is Xavier Prado, so you’d better get used to it. He is expected to arrive at Barn Elms some time tonight and will be interrogated immediately.’

  I felt Gifford stiffen beside me. If Phelippes noticed, he ignored it, and pointed his penknife at me.

  ‘If by tomorrow morning we have sufficient information from him to make the operation plausible, you will be introduced to the conspirators the same night, when Gilbert will deliver the latest correspondence from Mary. They are meeting for supper at The Castle tavern on Cornhill. Ballard is expected back from France today or tomorrow – they will want to discuss how to proceed in the light of her encouragement and their new-found Spanish support.’

  ‘That hardly seems enough time to prepare,’ I ventured. I did not relish another day confined in Phelippes’s rooms, but the prospect of being thrown in with all the conspirators at once, especially with the famously sharp eyes of John Ballard on me, seemed suddenly alarmingly real.

  ‘There is no time to waste.’ Phelippes tapped the handle of his knife on the desk as if to reinforce the urgency. ‘If Clara Poole was killed because they guessed she was a spy, they will want to reconsider their strategy as soon as possible. I would speculate that they are awaiting the return of Ballard – none of them would dare alter their course without his say-so, not even Babington. Master Secretary wants you at that table tomorrow, to observe what is said of her, and by whom. We must assume at least one of them knows of her death – but was it agreed among them all, or is the killer hiding it from his fellows?’

  ‘They may not wish to discuss the matter in front of a newcomer,’ I said. ‘If they are counting on Spanish support, they will not want Spain to know the plot may be compromised.’

  Phelippes considered this. ‘True. But that in itself would be worth noting. Robin will be there – we can have him make some reference to his sister, you can observe their reactions.’

  ‘This is a mad scheme.’ Gifford folded his arms and crossed to the window, making his pique evident with small huffy noises through his nose. He had been regaling me with his objections all day, all of which centred on his own fear of being found out and punished. ‘They’ll never believe Bruno’s a Spanish Jesuit.’

  A crease appeared between Phelippes’s brows, as it always did when he found a question irrational. ‘Why would they not? Look at him. He has the looks, he speaks the language, he knows Catholic doctrine inside out – unlike you, Gilbert, Bruno did manage to get himself successfully ordained, whereas you were thrown out of the seminary, I believe.’

  Gifford pushed out his lip and snorted again; I almost laughed.

  ‘I was excommunicated later,’ I said, to make him feel better.

  ‘He will bring letters and money from Ambassador Mendoza, and the promise of Spanish troops – they will think all their prayers have been answered at once.’

  Gifford hunched his shoulders, tucking his chin into his chest. ‘But you don’t know them, Thomas.’ His voice had grown quiet, and less petulant. ‘If he puts one foot wrong, one word, it would be enough to arouse their suspicion… It’s hard enough already trying to keep on top of my own double life without having to remember to call him by the right name and not give away that I know Clara’s dead.’ He looked tired and pale, and very young. I felt sorry for him.

  ‘You would find it easier to remember the detail if you stayed away from the alehouse,’ Phelippes remarked, without sympathy. I watched the cryptographer arranging his papers neatly in front of him, and wondered if he had any life away from that desk. Had he ever fallen wildly and hopelessly in love, or got drunk and laughed until the sun came up, or jumped on a tavern table to dance when a musician struck up a tune? Had he even had a woman? No doubt he would go at it with the same methodical concentration he brought to everything, point by point. The image made me convulse with sudden giggles, like a schoolboy. Phelippes glanced up, frowning.

  ‘They meet in alehouses, for God’s sake, I can hardly avoid it.’ Gifford’s voice had grown plaintive again. ‘If they suspect Bruno of being a spy, they will suspect me too, for bringing him to the group. They will cut both our throats before the first course is served.’

  Phelippes wrinkled his nose. ‘That would be inconvenient. I think it more likely they would wait until you left the tavern. Two corpses would be difficult to dispose of without attracting attention. Besides, I do not think they would cut your throats, it would be too quick. If they suspect you, they will want to question you hard to find out what you know first.’

  ‘Why must you be so damned literal, always?’ Gifford pushed both hands through his hair, made a strangled noise of frustration and wrapped his arms around his chest.

  Phelippes blinked twice and returned his attention to the desk, considering.

  ‘That is a good thought, however. Perhaps we should have a system in place which would allow you to dispatch yourselves quickly, should it come to that, before they can make you talk. A small vial of poison concealed about your person, if it were concentrated enough—’

  I let out a bark of laughter, and heard a high note of panic in it. ‘I do love this about you, Thomas – I can never tell when you’re joking.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Why would I joke about your deaths? It would make life very difficult. Especially his.’ He gestured towards Gifford. ‘We could not find another plausible courier at such short notice.’

  Even Gifford laughed then, as he caught my eye. ‘Well, I’ll do my best not to add to your load by getting murdered. I am going out now.’

  ‘Where?’ Phelippes looked alarmed.

  ‘Who are you, my mother?’ Gifford pulled his short, green cloak around his shoulder and settled his sword belt. ‘Must I report my every move for your approval? I am going for food and drink and company. I have friends in London, you know.’

  Phelippes’s gaze travelled slowly to me; Gifford raised a hand to pre-empt him.

  ‘And no, I will not take Bruno with me. I have no need of a nursemaid. Give you good night. Leave the latch off – I don’t know what time I’ll be back.’

  With that, he swung open the door with a great show of defiance and indignation, but his cloak became entangled with the bolt and ruined the effect. He pulled it free with a huff and swept out. I suppressed a smile.

  Phelippes looked at the door as it slammed, worrying at his lip.

  ‘Follow him,’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘Dio mio. All day you’ve had me cooped up in this room like a mad dog because I mustn’t be seen in London until I am introduced to Babington tomorrow, and now you want me running around after Gifford? Leave him to his diversions. What harm if he has a few drinks with friends?’

  ‘He is lying. He has no friends in the city that we know of, outside Babington’s group.’

  ‘Then he must be seeing them. The last thing you would want is for them to spot me trailing him.’

  ‘So make sure they do not, if it is them. Cover your head.’ Phelippes tapped the handle of the penknife against his open palm, his brow creased in concentration. ‘I find it unlikely he would meet Babington or the others tonight, since he can’t take the letters yet, and to the best of my knowledge they do not know he is back in London. But if he is seeing any of them separately, we should know of it.
’

  ‘Perhaps he is meeting a girl.’

  ‘That would be worse. He is liable to drink and brag about his secret work to impress her. Master Secretary does not trust him, as you know. But we should learn if he has other associates. Hurry, he will be gone.’

  ‘Why can’t you follow him? Might do you good to get out to a tavern for the night, Thomas.’

  ‘I have all this to get through.’ He made a sweeping motion over the piles of paper on the desk. ‘Besides—’ he hesitated, and his gaze dropped to his hands. ‘I lack the skill for it. I cannot converse easily in a tavern – people think me odd. I would stand out.’

  ‘You think I do not?’

  ‘You attract attention for being foreign, I grant you. But once people see past that they warm to you, Bruno, in a way they do not with me. You can make them laugh. I do not have that talent.’

  I pitied him then; for all his brilliance, there was something childlike about him, as if he did not understand how to move among men. ‘Damn you,’ I said, slapping him on the arm in a way that was meant to be reassuring. He flinched. I shrugged on my doublet and pulled a hat down over my forehead.

  He disappeared under his desk and opened a chest, emerging with a leather purse in his hand, from which he took a handful of silver shillings. ‘In case you need to buy yourself supper,’ he said. ‘Quick, or you will lose him.’

  * * *

  I paused outside the front door, trying to judge whether Gifford was likely to have turned right toward the Aldgate or left, in the direction of Bishopsgate; five minutes of walking in the wrong direction and I would have no hope of catching him up. The prospect was not unappealing; I could take Phelippes’s money, buy myself a quiet supper in a tavern and claim Gifford had escaped me, rather than spend the evening skulking after him. But I had my pride; I did not want Walsingham to think I had lost any of my skills during my months in France. The road to Aldgate was busier, with more places to eat, but there had been something evasive in Gifford’s manner, especially in the way he had so quickly resisted any suggestion of my company, which made me suspect that he preferred not to be seen. I took a gamble and turned left, quickening my pace until I rounded the corner of Leadenhall and, to my relief, caught a glimpse of his green cloak ahead at the end of the street, approaching the city wall. The church bells had tolled seven while we were talking in Phelippes’s rooms, and evening sun glinted on windowpanes from a sky patched with white cloud, though the air was unseasonably cold. I was glad of it; London in the heat smells like a cesspool, and the chill gave me an excuse to wear my hat pulled low and my collar up without looking too out of place.

  Bishopsgate Street was busy, despite the temperature; people making their way home from the markets or out of the city from a day’s labouring, while others were dressed up in their finery, as if for an evening out. Now and again a carriage lurched past, causing people to scatter to either side of the street, cursing as they tried to peer in the windows. One or two passers-by glanced at me sidelong from beneath their caps or kerchiefs, but this was likely because I was intent on keeping to the sides of the street, close to doorways or alleys I could slip into unnoticed if my quarry should turn around, and must have looked as if I were stalking someone to rob them. But no one challenged me, or called me a filthy Spanish son of a whore, as had happened so many times on the streets of London. There seemed no danger of Gifford noticing me either, as I quickened my pace; he continued blithely on his way, the jaunty bounce to his walk making me suspect that I had been right in guessing that he was on his way to a romantic tryst. Would it be the famous Bessie Pierrepont, whose ample virtues he had elaborated to me the night before? But this Bessie was an attendant to the Queen; it seemed unlikely that she would have the opportunity for assignations in city alehouses.

  Gifford passed under the arch of the Bishopsgate and I hung back at a safe distance, hiding myself among the crowds. On our left, the high walls of the Bedlam hospital for the mad cast long shadows over the street; occasional wild cries rose up from the interior, and I noticed people swerving away, as if they might catch the affliction on the air. Londoners in their fine clothes surrounded us, all moving in the same direction, and it was only as I overheard a couple of young gallants with bright slashed sleeves arguing about the competing talents of their favoured performers that I realised, with a sinking of my spirits, that Gifford must be headed for one of the playhouses built out here beyond the city limits, on the outskirts of the village of Shoreditch. The last thing I needed at the end of this long day, tired and hungry, was a night at the theatre.

  The Curtain was set back from the main road, its dirty whitewashed walls softened by the amber glow of evening sun. The audience funnelled into a tight throng as we neared the main gates and I pressed through, despite the protests from those jostling around me, to keep Gifford’s green cloak in my sights. In the yard outside, wooden stalls with bright awnings sold beer and bread; others hired out horsehair cushions to patrons rich enough to pay for a seat. A broad man stood in the entrance, collecting the fee in a ceramic box; as Gifford approached, they greeted one another with a mock salute as if they were old acquaintances and I squeezed forward until only three people stood between us, close enough to hear their conversation.

  ‘Back again, sir? You’re a glutton for punishment,’ said the doorman with a grin, holding out his hand for Gifford’s coin. ‘You’ll like this new one. Three Ladies of London. Tell you what, you could get that down Bankside for half the price, eh? All three at the same time.’

  Gifford joined in with a gust of raucous laughter, trying hard to sound like a man of the world.

  ‘Well, it can’t be worse than the last one, the other day,’ he said with feeling. ‘That revenge thing. There was so much pig’s blood on the stage the heroine slipped right off into the pit as she was stabbing herself.’

  ‘Ah, that was the last night, they were having a laugh among themselves,’ the doorman said, with the air of inside knowledge. ‘Bleedin’ actors. Drives Mr Burbage mad, but the crowds love it. There’ll be none of that tonight, it’s a morality play. Worst of all worlds. Any case, you young fellas only come to gawp at the real girls, am I right?’

  Gifford grinned and ducked his head, but I saw a fierce blush inflame the side of his face and realised I’d guessed right.

  ‘Get a move on, some of us want to get in before the Second Coming,’ called a plump woman in front of me, and the line behind us raised a cheer in support. Gifford glanced around and I ducked behind her broad hat, heart thumping. But he looked straight past me; I paid my penny and followed him through the tall gates into the theatre yard.

  The Curtain was a larger, permanent version of the old inn yard theatres I had seen on my travels through England: tiers of wooden galleries built on three sides of a rectangle around a central pit, with the stage protruding into the space where the crowds milled around, buying hot pies and rolls from vendors with trays around their necks, while girls in garish face-paint swayed their hips and batted their lashes at potential customers. Keeping half an eye on Gifford, I craned my neck to look up at the galleries, where for three or fourpence the wealthier spectators could watch the play seated. The noise of excited chatter echoed around the rafters; I wondered how the actors would ever make themselves heard. A girl wandered past with a tray of pies; I fished for more of Phelippes’s money and bought two. If I was going to spend the evening on my feet watching something as appalling as the doorman made it sound, I would need to keep my strength up.

  Gifford had positioned himself near the stage, leaning back against it, chewing anxiously on his thumbnail as he scanned the upper balconies. I found a spot behind a tall, red-headed man in a leather jacket where I could keep an eye on the boy and hide myself from view if he should turn his gaze on the groundlings. I had just taken a bite of pie – some unidentifiable grey meat in congealing fat, I tried not to look too closely – when the man I was using as my shield stepped back into me, knocking it out of my hand. H
e immediately apologised, the way the English always do in crowds, even if you barge into them.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I said, brushing pastry off my doublet. I held up the second pie. ‘I already have a spare, and I think that might be one too many.’

  He laughed. ‘My mate swears he found a rat’s tail in one of them once. I’ve done you a favour, eh. Mug of beer instead?’ He made as if to head for the stall at the back selling ale; I grabbed his sleeve before he could move and leave me exposed to Gifford’s view.

  ‘No need, I’m fine. Have you seen this play?’ I asked, to distract him.

  ‘Nah, it only opened three nights ago. Saw the one before, though.’

  ‘The revenge thing? I heard it was good.’

  ‘You heard wrong. It was shit.’

  ‘People slipping off the stage in the fake blood? Sounded funny to me.’

  ‘Oh, that was only the last night,’ he said, with an air of expertise. ‘Didn’t happen the other times I saw it. You’re right, it was better as a comedy. The crowd thought so, anyway.’

  ‘It was so bad you saw it more than once?’

  ‘Mate, no one comes for the play. The toffs come to watch each other. Me, I come for the ladies, and not the ones on stage.’ He nudged me and nodded towards the whores strolling around the edges of the crowd. ‘Better quality than you get down Bankside, eh?’