by S. J. Parris
I point the tip of a forefinger to the centre of his chest and step towards him; he looks so surprised that he backs up, despite himself. ‘Not orders. Just friendly advice,’ I say, with a terse smile. I take a last look at Jonas’s battered body, spread out on the sailcloth, and silently pay my respects.
I can feel their eyes on me as I walk away around the quayside; I hear the tenor of their muttering, if not the actual words. Fucking foreigners, cause more trouble than they’re worth, is the gist of it. As I turn up one of the little cobbled streets that leads towards the Market Square, Sam comes trotting after me like an obedient pup.
‘Leave the gentleman alone, Sam,’ Amos calls. ‘He has business to attend to, I’m sure.’ Sam looks crestfallen, but he allows his uncle to lead him away.
A crowd has gathered outside the Guildhall, largely in the hope of catching a glimpse of Drake himself, or so I gather from the snatches of conversation that brush past me as I push through, provoking angry shouts as I do so. Armed men in the livery of the Plymouth Town Corporation stand each side of the door, barring it with their staffs; I explain my business and, though it takes some persuasion, they finally step aside to let me pass. Inside I find a large room with a high beamed ceiling and clean, stone-flagged floor, laid out with benches to either side and a long trestle table on a dais at the far end, where three men in the black robes of lawyers are perched like rooks, shuffling their papers and murmuring among themselves. Mistress Dunne sits to their right, a handkerchief pressed to her lips; the very picture of dignified grief. Arrayed along the benches I recognise a number of sailors from the Elizabeth, including Gilbert Crosse, Thomas Drake, Padre Pettifer and William Savile, who looks straight ahead with perfect composure. He does not once glance at Martha Dunne. I think of the wrecked body I have just seen at the wharf, and a knot of anger tightens in my stomach as I watch Savile lean across to Gilbert and make some disparaging comment about the lawyers, which makes both men laugh. Let him laugh for now; the joke will lose its shine soon enough. Sir Francis Drake sits opposite Mistress Dunne, his mouth set in a hard line. Sidney stands at the back with other onlookers and briefly raises a hand in greeting when he spots me in the doorway.
I have to rest a hand on the door post to steady myself; the scene recalls so sharply my previous experience of English justice, in a courtroom in Canterbury. It is an experience I had hoped not to revisit.
‘Well then, Captain Drake,’ says the lawyer sitting in the centre, a man with a severe stare and bristling eyebrows whom I presume to be the coroner. ‘You say you have no reason to believe that Robert Dunne’s death was anything other than it appeared – a clear case of self-slaughter by hanging.’
Drake inclines his head by way of affirmation, his expression inscrutable.
‘And yet,’ the coroner continues, ‘we have heard the testimony of Master …’ He consults his notes. ‘… Master Gilbert Crosse, who saw the Spaniard Jonas Solon entering Dunne’s cabin that night with a draught of something. It is known that he is a skilled herbalist. This same Jonas has now absconded, which might be seen to support Mistress Dunne’s contention that her husband was unlawfully killed by person or persons unknown aboard the Elizabeth Bonaventure.’
Mistress Dunne evinces a muffled sob here; it is expertly done.
‘However …’ The coroner sifts his papers and allows his gaze to travel ponderously around the assembly. ‘I do not think we can infer proof of guilt merely from a man’s absence. Is there any further evidence, Sir Francis, anything at all, that might assist me in my conclusion? Anything you might add concerning this Spaniard?’
Drake stands, straightens his doublet and clears his throat. I fix my eyes on those gathered on the benches: if one among them forged that confession from Jonas, he must be expecting Drake to present it to the coroner at this point. I watch Savile in particular.
‘Nothing else, Master Coroner,’ Drake says. ‘Whatever the reason for Jonas’s absence, I am certain it has no connection with the suicide of Robert Dunne.’
He sits down. Martha Dunne narrows her eyes. Savile’s gaze flits briefly to her before he fixes it steadily on his folded hands before him. Gilbert blinks at Drake, his expression somewhat chastened; perhaps he is disappointed that his testimony is apparently being disregarded. Pettifer appears more interested in watching the rest of the assembly; as his gaze travels around the room his eyes meet mine and he looks quickly away, as if embarrassed. Thomas Drake sits with his arms folded tightly across his chest, watching his brother. He can be discounted, I think; he knew Jonas was illiterate. Not one of the others has reacted in a way that suggests they were hoping for a mention of the letter, but then they would be obliged to dissemble, or else give themselves away.
‘Very well,’ the coroner says, suppressing a small sigh. ‘It is a pity we cannot hear a first-hand testimony from this Jonas Solon.’
‘That would be difficult,’ I say, stepping forward and raising my voice. All eyes turn to look at me. ‘Jonas Solon is dead.’
TWENTY
There is a rush of whispering around the courtroom. I see Drake lower his eyes, as if he is turning his feelings inward. He cannot be surprised by the news, but perhaps until now he still harboured some hope. The coroner lays down his papers and peers forward over the edge of the table, frowning.
‘Who are you, sir, to interrupt my court?’
‘Dr Giordano Bruno of Nola, sir,’ I reply.
‘This man travels with Sir Philip Sidney,’ Drake adds, validating my presence.
The coroner studies me a moment longer, then gestures for me to continue.
‘Jonas Solon was pulled out of the water this morning,’ I say, loud enough for the room to hear. ‘It seems he fell from the cliffs of the Hoe and was washed up on the rocks. His body is at the wharf by Sutton Pool awaiting your attention, sir.’
The coroner nods slowly, but his expression suggests he is taking a while to catch up with these developments.
‘He must have thrown himself from the cliff in remorse for what he did,’ Mistress Dunne says, her voice strident over the urgent, muttered speculations. If she and Savile did not produce that confession letter, she is certainly quick to seize the advantage.
‘It is equally possible that his death was a terrible accident,’ Drake says, his voice composed.
The coroner inhales, takes his papers in both hands and examines them in silence as if hoping to find the correct answer written down somewhere. At length he looks up, clears his throat and addresses the room.
‘It would appear that this business is more complex than was originally thought. I suggest that we adjourn this inquest until the circumstances of this new death have been properly examined and taken into account. Therefore, I would ask both parties—’
At this, Mistress Dunne rises to her feet to protest. I do not stay for the summary. Instead I fight my way back through the crowd to the market place, ignored by the people pressing towards the doorway for a sight of Plymouth’s most famous citizen. I sit down on the base of the market cross and rest my head in my hands, suddenly overcome by weariness and a sense of defeat. How can anything be proved? If Savile pushed Jonas to his death, there can be no evidence for it, unless someone saw him. And if it was not Savile, then who? Mistress Dunne too: her face was tight with anger at the adjournment. She had the perfect solution within her grasp, if she could persuade the coroner to see it her way: a murderer who apparently threw himself from a cliff in a fit of remorse, and moreover a foreigner, whom everyone would be willing to believe guilty. Everyone, that is, except Drake. There would have been no verdict of felo de se, no prolonged investigation; she would have been free of her husband, free of his accusations about the provenance of her child, free to inherit her father’s estate and share it, in due course, with the man she chose to remarry. The more I consider it, the more certain it seems that Savile and Martha Dunne engineered Dunne’s death between them. The others may be behaving oddly, though perhaps that is to be expected, with
the tension affecting the crew. But I have no idea how to prove Savile killed him, unless it be with a forced confession – and that I leave to Drake’s discretion. I hang my head between my knees and punch one fist into the palm of my other hand, cursing softly in my own language until I become aware of a shadow looming over me. I look up and see Sidney outlined against the sky, peacock feather bouncing in his cap.
‘There is no more we can do now. Come back to the Star and get some dinner.’
I haul myself to my feet and we trudge through the market in the direction of the inn, each sunk in our own thoughts.
‘Do you suppose Savile killed Jonas, then?’ Sidney says, after a while.
‘He must have done. We know he speaks Spanish – he could have written the letter. It would have worked out very neatly for him and Martha Dunne if Jonas could be made to take the blame.’
‘Drake will have to confront Savile now,’ he says. ‘It will all come out. The child and all.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. There is still no real evidence for any of it, except for a button and the smell of nutmeg – not unless one of them breaks down and confesses. And I would not put money on Mistress Dunne wavering. That woman could lead a battle charge without flinching.’
‘We should have done what I suggested last night,’ Sidney says, irritated. ‘Burst in on them in the act. Then they could not have denied their liaison, at least.’
‘I was busy last night.’
‘So you were.’ He slaps me on the back and grins. ‘Will you visit Lady Arden again tonight? Was she sufficiently gratified by your performance to warrant a reprise?’
‘Vaffanculo, with respect, Sir Philip,’ I murmur, but I cannot keep from smiling; if I close my eyes, the image of Lady Arden’s flushed, eager face briefly displaces the thoughts of battered corpses.
As we enter the Star, we find Lady Drake descending the main staircase, attended by her lady’s maid and one of Drake’s armed men. Sidney greets her with an elegant bow but she barely acknowledges him; her attention is all on me, with a questioning look.
‘Where is she?’ she asks, in a low voice, as she approaches. ‘We are supposed to be dining with the Mayor and his wife today. I had not thought you would keep her so long.’
‘Who?’
She gives me a reproving look and I realise her meaning.
‘I don’t know, my lady.’ I can feel the blush stealing up my neck; I, who pride myself on my ability to give away nothing in my face, colouring like a schoolboy. ‘I have not seen her – this morning.’
Lady Drake frowns. ‘But – you have just been with her, have you not? Walking on the Hoe?’
‘No.’ I look at her, puzzled. ‘I have been at the Guildhall, at the inquest. And before that – on another matter, down at the wharf. I have not seen Lady Arden since, ah …’ I scratch the back of my neck and look down. ‘Since I helped her with her bag last evening.’
‘Her bag,’ Sidney says, with a meaningful nod.
Lady Drake ignores him; anxiety flits across her face. ‘But – what are you saying, Doctor Bruno? You wanted to meet her this morning at the Hoe. You sent her a note.’ She rests a hand on my arm, nodding, as if this will encourage me to agree. A slow coldness begins to spread through my gut. With the discovery of Jonas’s body, I hardly paid attention to the boy Sam’s news that he had seen a man with no ears handing a note to the maid from the Star. I glance up to the first-floor gallery, half expecting to see Hetty peering over, looking pleased with herself.
‘I sent no note,’ I say quietly. Lady Drake covers her mouth with a hand. ‘Did she go out alone?’
She nods. ‘To the old castle.’ There is a tremor in her voice. ‘I warned her, but she is so headstrong – she really believes she can go about with the same liberty as a man. I told her she should not go alone and she rolled her eyes at me. She said she had no need of a chaperone at her age.’
‘I would never have asked her to meet me anywhere so remote,’ I say, subdued. ‘She should have realised that.’
‘She thought it was some game of yours,’ Lady Drake says. ‘She was excited by the prospect. She likes to push the bounds of propriety – it is the sort of thing she would consider daring.’ She looks at me as if this is my fault. ‘Oh God. Is she in danger?’
‘I don’t know.’ I attempt to sound reassuring, but my stomach is knotted with dread. ‘I think we should find her as quickly as possible.’
‘But whoever would want to harm Lady Arden?’ Lady Drake presses her hand to her mouth again; her eyes are wide and threatening tears.
I glance at Sidney. ‘I think it more likely that someone is trying to get to your husband. A woman alone is an easier target – and you are usually surrounded by armed men, my lady.’
Her eyes widen further. ‘You think someone meant to harm me as well?’ She flinches and looks about wildly, as if expecting to see an assassin running at her with a sword.
‘I think, my lady,’ Sidney says, stepping forward and taking her gently by the arm, ‘that you would be advised to go directly to the Mayor’s house and stay there until your cousin is found safe and well. Keep your husband’s armed men close about you.’
‘But I cannot wait there, making polite conversation, not knowing what is happening,’ she cries, clutching at my sleeve. ‘I had rather wait here for Sir Francis, he will know what to do.’
‘Your husband will be occupied with all that is going on here, my lady,’ Sidney says. ‘Better he knows you are out of harm’s way with the Mayor while he searches for Lady Arden. Come – I will walk you there myself.’ He offers his arm; after a brief hesitation, she takes it.
At the door, she turns and pins me with a fierce look. ‘Find her, Bruno. Since you are partly to blame.’ She sweeps out, towing Sidney in her wake. He grimaces at me over her head on his way out.
I throw open the door to the tap-room, where Mistress Judith is wiping down the tables.
‘Where is Hetty?’ I demand. She snaps her head up, alarmed at my tone.
‘What has that slattern done now?’ She straightens, hands on her hips. ‘She has been slow doing her rounds this morning, I know – I had another guest complain his chamber pot had not been emptied since last night. I do apologise, sir – I’ll send her up when I find her, useless wench.’
‘No – I need to speak to her urgently.’
She stares at me for a moment, then appears to think better of arguing. She points to the yard. ‘I sent her out to the pump for some water – that was a good half-hour ago. I dare say she is idling with the stable boys, though I have warned her against it. “Listen up, my little madam,” I told her …’
She is still talking as I stride out into the yard. I doubt the stable boys are of much interest to Hetty – not unless they have pockets full of coins they will trade in return for spying on the guests. Around the corner of a stable block I find her, a wooden pail by her feet, giggling with a gawky lad in a rough canvas jerkin. She glances up and at the sight of me the laughter dies on her lips.
‘Do you know what they do in my country to people who spy?’ I roar, bearing down on her with a hand to the hilt of my knife. ‘Gouge their eyes out with the point of a dagger, that’s what.’ She gives a yelp and stumbles backwards, kicking over the pail. Water spreads in a pool around her feet.
‘Now, look here, mate,’ the youth begins, stepping towards me, ‘you can’t just talk to people—’
‘If you want to keep your balls, my friend, make yourself scarce before I lose my temper,’ I say, facing him down with a stare that could melt lead. The force of this anger is invigorating, and I am only partly putting it on. The weight of my earlier weariness has evaporated, burned up in my fury; I feel every inch alive, coiled, every nerve ending charged. The boy pauses briefly to consider his options, then scrambles around the corner, scattering gravel under his boots in his haste.
‘You are going to tell me everything,’ I say to Hetty when he is gone, circling around so that I have her
backed up against the wall of the stable. My hand still hovers over my knife but I keep it sheathed; let no one say I drew a knife on a young woman. But at least the sight of it has wiped that infuriating smirk from her face. ‘It was you in the corridor last night, wasn’t it? Hiding in the shadows, spying on me?’
‘I just go about my jobs, cleaning and that,’ she says, with that same sulky defiance. ‘Can’t help it if you happen to be where you should not. Sir,’ she adds, with a sarcasm that would wither the leaves on the trees.
‘The man who has had you spying on me,’ I say, taking a slow breath to keep me from losing my temper and slapping her, ‘he gave you a letter this morning. What did it say?’
She glares at me with pure loathing. ‘I can’t read. I told you that already.’
‘Oh, come on. You expect me to believe that? When you have been deceiving me from the beginning?’
‘It’s true!’ She looks indignant. ‘All I know’s he gave me that letter and said I was to wait till you’d gone out, then take it to that woman you been with last night.’
‘Has he been paying you well for spying on me? Bringing me letters?’
‘Better’n you,’ she retorts. The smirk reappears. I raise my hand in a flash of rage; she cowers and I lower it, trembling, shocked at myself. I have never struck a woman in my life, and some have given me better reason than this.
‘That lady you delivered the letter to,’ I say, through my teeth, ‘may die because of it. I hope you think that was worth the few pennies he threw you for your trouble.’
‘What?’ The colour drains from her face; her mouth hangs open and she stares at me in horror. ‘But he’s a respectable gentleman. Least, he talks like one.’
‘Do you think? Did you never question why he has no ears?’
‘He said you cut them off him in a duel. He said he had to fight you because you wronged him, and you cut his ears off, and he has been looking for you ever since.’
‘Dio porco – Hetty, will you believe anything? What kind of a duel would that be?’ I throw my hands up. ‘What else did he tell you?’
