Treachery (22 page)

‘Coptic? So it
is
the same book,’ he says softly. I swear inwardly at my own stupidity.

‘These are vivid superstitions – you said it yourself.’

‘A priest was murdered for that book, Doctor Bruno, and that alone is enough to make it a bad talisman for a sailor.’ He grasps my sleeve again. ‘Tell me this much, then –
is
it a work of heresy? Because, God knows I am no superstitious deckhand – I took my degree at Cambridge, you know – but as a churchman I cannot help but wonder what Captain Drake is about, dabbling in such matters?’

‘Perhaps he regards it as a curiosity,’ I say, keeping my eyes on the rest of our group as they progress along the harbour wall towards the town. ‘And in any case – one man’s heresy may be another man’s gospel.’

‘Gospel.’ He whispers the word as if tasting it, and nods to himself. ‘And you, Doctor Bruno?’ he says. ‘Who were once in holy orders – do you not ask yourself if what you do is right, bringing a heretical text into the light? A book that may shake men’s faith in their salvation?’

‘Why would you suppose it contains any such matter, if no one has yet read it?’

‘How do you square such work with your conscience?’ he fires back, as if I have not spoken.

‘My conscience is principally concerned with the advancement of knowledge.’

‘
Knowledge
.’ He presses his lips together and nods, as if he expected such a response. ‘I have met priests like you before, Doctor Bruno, in the universities, who prize intellectual ambition over humble obedience to God’s law. You would no doubt argue there should be no limit to human knowledge – but at what price? Do you consider that?’ His fingers tighten on my sleeve and his tone is so portentous that I am compelled to turn and look at him. Gently I extract myself from his grip and begin walking briskly after the others, so that he has no choice but to keep up.

‘May I ask you a question in return?’ I say, without looking at him, as he scurries alongside me. A fine drizzle has begun to fall, whipped into unruly patterns by intermittent gusts of wind. The boats in the harbour knock together, their chains clanking like forlorn ghosts over the water.

‘If I am permitted to answer in the same elusive fashion you favour,’ he says, with a flicker of a smile.

‘I deserve nothing less, I suppose.’ I return the smile, in the hope that this will soften him.

‘Well?’

‘When Robert Dunne unburdened himself to you, the night before he died – did you sense then that he …’ I pause, considering how best to phrase it. ‘That he saw his own death imminent?’

‘Of course not.’ He stops dead and blinks rapidly at me. ‘Else I would have done something. You think I would have left a man I feared might hold such intentions?’

‘I was not suggesting you were to blame.’ I hold up a hand to show I mean no offence. He is defensive, certainly, but what does he fear being accused of? ‘But you do not consider it surprising that he took his own life a short time later? You said he wanted to confess—’

‘Why, has someone suggested otherwise?’ When I do not reply, he nods slowly and the half-smile hovers over his lips again. ‘Well, you have me in a cleft stick here, sir. If I say I have no doubt he took his own life, I am admitting that I abandoned him to his despair, since it seems I must have been one of the last to speak with him. And if I were to say that he did not seem like a suicide, I cast doubt on the manner of his death and suspicion on the whole crew.’ He leaves this hanging in the air, then shakes his head. ‘Better I say nothing. Especially to a stranger,’ he adds.

‘What did he despair of?’ I ask, lowering my voice.

He gives a condescending laugh. ‘I may not be able to give the sacrament of absolution, sir, but I still respect the sanctity of a man’s last confession. If that is what you want to call it.’

‘Do you think he knew it was his last confession?’

Pettifer makes an impatient noise with his tongue, as if he considers this a question too far. ‘Dunne was troubled. Many sailors are troubled on the eve of a long voyage such as this. They know they are putting their lives into God’s hands, and naturally that leads them to reflect on how they would stand before God, were they to face Him. I did not perceive Robert to be on the brink of committing such a grievous sin, but his conscience was certainly weighed down …’ He hesitates, pulling nervously at his ear. I have the sense that this is not the whole story.

‘Was he troubled by something in particular that night?’

He responds with a thin smile. ‘You asked for one question, sir. You have already far exceeded your allowance.’

I acknowledge the truth of this and we begin walking again. He has taken against me over the Judas book, though how he knows as much as he does about its contents, I have no idea. And he is over-sensitive on the matter of Dunne; perhaps he fears he will be accused of failing in his pastoral duty towards the dead man, or perhaps there is more to it than that, since it seems now that the chaplain was the last to see Dunne alive.

‘One more question,’ I press him. ‘And in return, when I have read more of Captain Drake’s book I will be better placed to tell you whether it poses a danger to anyone’s soul.’

A flash of greed lights his eyes at this and he nods. ‘A fair exchange. What, then?’

‘When you went back to him, was he still under the influence of drink? And did it seem to you the normal behaviour of a drunken man?’

‘That is two questions, by my count.’ He passes a hand across his receding hairline and sighs. ‘When I found him in the street, he was very much the worse for drink. Naturally one sees this all too often with mariners, but it was unusual for Dunne – I had not seen him so lost to the bottle before.’ He runs the tip of his tongue around his lips. ‘When I knocked, he was still groggy, but he spoke coherently enough. Perhaps he had slept the worst of it off by then.’ He tilts his head to one side and gives me a long look. ‘But I have discussed all this with Sir Francis. I do not believe you knew Dunne.’

‘No. I’m afraid I am afflicted with insatiable curiosity.’ I peer ahead through the rain to where the others have disappeared around the corner of a house into one of the crooked streets leading up into the Barbican.

‘Well, that is always a curse,’ he says. ‘An unbridled hunger for knowledge was the downfall of our first father in the garden.’

‘So it was,’ I say, with a tight smile.

Ahead of us, Sidney reappears from the side street, arms folded. ‘For the love of God, Bruno, what are you hanging about for? We have company awaiting us.’

Pettifer glances back to me. ‘I suppose he means to visit that brothel,’ he says, lowering his voice. It is clear that he has already judged us for it.

I look at him. ‘Sir Philip is married, Padre Pettifer.’

‘Doesn’t stop most of them.’ He sniffs. ‘No business of mine, of course, but you might tell him to give it a wide berth. Whatever Sir William says, it is no place for a respectable man. Dangerous too, so I hear.’

‘In what way?’

‘Aside from the usual?’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘Cutpurses,’ he whispers, tapping his belt.

Sidney calls again, and I turn to take my leave.

‘Well, this has been most interesting, Doctor Bruno,’ Pettifer says. ‘I look forward to speaking further with you, as promised.’ I glance back; the look he gives me is weighted with unspoken meaning. He sounds as if he believes himself to have won.

‘What were you talking so closely to him about?’ Sidney asks, when we are safely around the corner.

‘Robert Dunne, what else?’

‘You did not make him suspicious?’

‘It is impossible to talk about the man without someone becoming suspicious. But that chaplain is defensive enough already. You know he heard Dunne’s confession the night he died. So he says.’

‘I heard you mention confession in the boat, but I couldn’t catch his answer. You think he’s lying?’

I hold out my hands. ‘Someone is lying. Jonas says Dunne was passed out beyond all hope of waking when he went to his cabin. Pettifer says he prayed with him not more than an hour later.’

‘It’s not impossible. Perhaps Dunne woke with the drinker’s guilt and wanted spiritual comfort.’ He stretches his arms out. ‘Though I must say, I would not turn to that insipid fellow, if it were me.’

‘Listen – whoever killed Dunne must have done it while he was unconscious, to avoid any struggle. Pettifer said Dunne seemed troubled that night. He could be saying that to make the suicide idea more plausible.’

‘So it could have been Pettifer. Or perhaps Jonas slipped something into that potion that needed a while to take effect. He could have gone back later, after Pettifer left, knowing Dunne would be under the influence.’ Sidney sighs. ‘We still don’t know why any of them would have reason to kill him.’

‘Something he knew. Something he had that they wanted. Why did he have so much money hidden in that book, for instance?’ I push my hands through my hair. ‘Someone could have been looking for that.’

‘There are eighty men on board,’ he says, throwing his hands up.

‘But how many of those could enter Dunne’s cabin unremarked? And on a crowded ship there seem always to be people around. Any of the common sailors near an officer’s cabin would surely have been noticed.’

‘Maybe not in the dead of night. And if he was passed out from drink he could have left the door unlocked. It would only take a moment to slip inside.’

I shake my head.

‘The chaplain knows more than he is willing to say, that much is certain. And so does Jonas the Spaniard.’

‘Well.’ He lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘Leave off worrying about it for now. A brace of beautiful ladies are expecting us at the Star. One of whom, I happen to know, is very keen to enjoy your company while we are in Plymouth.’

‘I’m afraid you will have to make my apologies to the ladies.’ I slow my pace and he stops, eyebrows raised.

‘Why? Where are you going now?’

‘To church.’

‘
What?
’

I set off up the hill, turning only once to glance over my shoulder and enjoy the look on his face.

The rain is easing now, orange streaks appearing between the clouds over the bay. The hour cannot be much past seven but the streets are still busy, as people with carts and baskets make their way uphill from the harbour and new arrivals, mostly men, spill in from the other direction, coming in from the sea or outlying roads and heading in groups for the taverns and whorehouses. Their coarse voices trail after them, singing and cursing, pumped with lust and aggression, snatched away in fits and starts by the wind that whistles down the narrow streets in search of the sea. The wet cobbles are slippery underfoot; ahead of me I see a man, already far gone in drink, lose his footing and clutch at his companion, howling with laughter. The evening sounds of a port town, nothing out of the ordinary. And yet I keep my hand close to the knife at my belt; I sense a tension in these streets that seems more concentrated tonight, as if building towards some kind of climax. Perhaps it is just the combined presence of so many men, so many sailors and soldiers, cooped up, frustrated, eager to be away, to discharge that raw energy into hauling ropes, swabbing decks, knifing Spaniards in the guts – energy that threatens to spill out here into tavern brawls and street fights instead. No wonder the citizens of Plymouth resent the presence of the fleet, anchored impotently day after day, sending boatloads of these men ashore every night with appetites that demand to be slaked. It is a night to stay indoors and keep the door barred, especially if you are trussed up in silk and lace like a child’s doll, as I am. I quicken my steps, alert to every movement in the shadows from side streets and doorways.

Above the roofs to the west rises the square crenellated tower of a church, the largest to be seen in the close-knit streets around the harbour. The large west door has been pulled shut and the bells have fallen silent.

I slip into the back of the church, the great door creaking on its hinges as it closes behind me. A few people turn at the sound, but I tuck myself away out of sight, in the shadow of a thick stone pillar. Along the broad nave, an avenue of columns and pointed arches leads to the altar. The air smells musty, that scent of old stone that, in the absence of incense, always makes English churches feel uninhabited. For an instant I am reminded sharply of the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral, and it takes some effort to push the unwelcome memories from my mind. Though there are tall windows to either side, the church is still gloomy, the only candles those in the chancel. This suits me; from my vantage point I scan the congregation, my eyes flitting over caps and coifs, the backs of restless heads. There is no sign of Pettifer. True, he did not say where he was going to pray, but this is the largest church in Plymouth, and Pettifer did not strike me as the sort of Christian who would prefer a small, humble chapel to a place where most of the town could witness him at his devotions and ask him about the fleet. Was he lying, then, about how he meant to spend his evening ashore? Some instinct had prompted me to follow him, something in his ostentatious piety that did not quite ring true. I determine to keep a closer eye on Pettifer in future.

Instead, to my surprise, I notice Gilbert Crosse, sitting in the back pew of the church, to my right. He has taken off his hat and hunches forwards, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as if trying to make himself less visible. For a long while, he does not move, only sits with his head bowed, his hands motionless around his upper arms. I wonder what he prays for. He is a strange young man; obviously clever, and favoured by Walsingham for his abilities, yet apparently lacking in confidence. But I detect a fierce ambition beneath his timidity.

I shift from foot to foot as soundlessly as I can; the church is chilly and over the thin voices of the choir I hear rain slapping against the windows with each gust of wind, like a handful of gravel striking the glass. I am reminded again of how unmoved I always feel by the English church, though here it is generally assumed that if I am an enemy of the Inquisition I must, by definition, be a Protestant. Despite all the hypocrisy of the Church of Rome, they do at least have a sense of occasion. A Catholic Mass is a piece of theatre; this service is a cold and soulless affair, and I can never escape the conviction that those attending feel the same.