Treachery (29 page)

‘Again, I am most sorry.’

She acknowledges this empty courtesy with a small inclination of her head, though her eyes remain on me, still suspicious.

Drake coughs again, anxious to get to the point. ‘Naturally, this is a difficult time for Mistress Dunne and her family,’ he begins, twisting his big hands together. ‘She has expressed some
concerns
.’ He stops, as if unsure of the correct phrase for what he wants to say. It strikes me that this is the first time I have seen Drake appear at a disadvantage; it does not suit him. A pause elapses, as if he is hoping the sentence will complete itself. I look from one to the other, awaiting further explanation.

‘My late husband was many things, Doctor Bruno—’ Mistress Dunne stops and regards me with a tilt of her head. ‘Are you a physician?’

‘I am a doctor of theology.’

‘I see.’ She makes a dismissive noise through her nose.

Drake steps forward. ‘Doctor Bruno, as I mentioned, is greatly skilled in this sort of matter,’ he says quickly, as though someone has tried to argue otherwise. I say nothing. I have an inkling of where he is leading, and I do not like it.

‘My late husband had many faults,’ Mistress Dunne begins again, addressing me in the same level tone, ‘but I do not believe that self-slaughter would have been among them.’

I glance at Drake; he is urging me to something with his eyes, but I have no idea what it might be.

‘Do you have a particular reason for saying so, madam?’

‘Because he was a coward,’ she says, fixing me with a look that dares me to contradict her. Pettifer opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, then closes it again.

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow—’

‘To end one’s own life, if one felt it had become an insupportable burden to oneself and others – that is an act that requires a certain amount of courage, do you not think?’ she asks, with the same direct gaze.

‘One might argue the opposite,’ I say. ‘To shoulder one’s burdens, to take responsibility for one’s failings – surely that is the courageous course?’

Pettifer can no longer contain himself. ‘Suicide is a grievous sin, Mistress Dunne, a violation of the sixth commandment. The Church makes that most clear. Man is the
imago dei
– to determine his own end is to usurp the prerogative of God, who alone knows the number of our days.’ He shakes his head, as if to absolve her of such a heretical notion. ‘Think of Judas Iscariot, who took his life through guilt and remorse after betraying Our Lord to death – you would not call him a model of courage, would you?’

Mistress Dunne turns to him, her smile fading. ‘Perhaps each of us has our own definition of courage, Padre. But I hope you are not making a comparison between them?’

Flustered, Pettifer seems to realise he has tied himself in a knot; his round face flushes with his efforts to deny any intentional offence. I watch him, wondering why he was prompted to pluck that particular example.

‘Mistress Dunne doubts the accuracy of my judgement regarding the manner of her husband’s death,’ Drake says, cutting across Pettifer’s flapping apologies.

‘I’m sure Captain Drake did his best in what must have been a very distressing situation,’ she says, turning to me, the polite smile once more in place, ‘but I fear he may have jumped to a hasty conclusion, not being in possession of certain facts.’

A tense silence unfolds. I look from her to Drake and back.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite—’

‘Self-slaughter, as Padre Pettifer tells us, is a terrible stain on the soul,’ Mistress Dunne continues. Her voice is firm, but I notice her fingers busily plucking at the cloth of her skirts, a sign that there is some emotion at work beneath the surface. ‘Not to mention on a man’s reputation and the fate of his family. I cannot accept that my husband died by his own hand. I intend to make the coroner investigate his death to my satisfaction, so that he can at least have Christian burial.’

On this last sentence, her composure falters and she presses a hand to her mouth. The maid passes her an embroidered handkerchief but she waves it away as she fights to bend her feelings to her will. Or so it seems. Asserting herself against the authority of Sir Francis Drake would be daunting for any woman, yet there is something in her demeanour that leaves room for a chink of doubt. It is true that the English like to keep their emotions buried so deep that an Italian could be forgiven for thinking they have never experienced any passion greater than mild irritation at the weather, but I cannot escape the sense that Mistress Dunne is playing a part here, and not playing it with total conviction. That little catch in the voice just now, the hand pressed to the lips: it is as if she has learned the expressions of grief from a book. Though I may be doing her a disservice; perhaps, as a well-born lady, this is as near as her breeding permits her to feeling.

My gaze flits again from her to Drake and back; I would not like to wager which of them will concede first.

‘In the light of this,’ Drake continues, clasping his hands behind him and pacing the floor as if he were giving a summary in court, ‘I have persuaded Mistress Dunne to accept a temporary compromise. We will look into the circumstances of her husband’s death more closely before the inquest, with all the discretion a matter of this nature requires. If we uncover nothing useful, she will formally object to the verdict of
felo de se
at the inquest and ask the coroner to investigate further.’ He looks to Mistress Drake for confirmation; she gives a curt nod.

‘I have told her you are the man for investigating this sort of business,’ Drake continues, his voice bolder now, ‘and she has agreed that you and I between us should do what we can to determine how Robert came by his untimely end.’

Every pair of eyes in the room is fixed on me – with the exception of Lady Arden, whose attention, I notice when I glance up, is studiously concentrated on the cat. I realise that I am expected to say something.

‘But the inquest is tomorrow.’ I say this half as a question, hoping that someone will contradict me; no one does.

‘Then you will have to work quickly,’ Mistress Dunne says, with a terse little smile that briefly shows her teeth.

I draw a deep breath. ‘It is your belief, then, madam, that your husband was unlawfully killed?’

‘If he did not take his own life – and I have already told you why that is impossible – then it follows that someone else must have taken it,’ she says, impatience replacing the tremor in her voice.

‘Forgive me,’ I begin, with a nervous half-laugh to soften the blow, ‘but you are implying that someone aboard Sir Francis’s ship killed your husband?’ I glance at Drake; he has cupped a hand over his mouth and chin to disguise his reaction.

‘That’s what I wish to find out, Doctor Bruno.’ She sighs, as if the detail tires her. ‘You did not know Robert, but he had a particular gift for making enemies. One might say that is to be expected, given his pursuits. You cannot fail to have learned of his reputation, I’m sure.’ She stands, brushes down her skirts and turns slowly to look at the rest of the company with a tight smile, to prove that she will not be shamed by whatever gossip followed her husband. The maid takes a step forward, her hand outstretched. Mistress Dunne neatly sidesteps her and waves the hand away. Again I have the sense that she manages perfectly well without assistance from anyone.

‘But you have reason to believe that these enemies are to be found among Captain Drake’s crew?’ I persist.

‘No!’ The denial is immediate; she flushes, apparently shocked by the suggestion. ‘I say no such thing. I merely—’

She crosses the room and stops directly in front of me. She is tall for a woman; we are almost the same height.

‘You have seen Plymouth, I suppose?’ She flings an arm out in the direction of the window. ‘Heaving with mercenaries – soldiers, sailors, foreigners – begging your pardon. Plenty of them more than willing to dispatch a man for a ready coin. If my husband’s enemies wanted him dead, they would not be short of willing hands. And they would have known exactly where to find him.’

‘I assure you once again, Mistress, that no assassin could possibly have boarded my ship, that night or any other,’ Drake says. The conversation appears to be taxing his diplomatic skills. ‘I have more than enough reason to be scrupulous about the security of my vessel. No one could have found his way past my watchmen.’

‘Sir Francis, if you are determined from the beginning that there is no murderer to be apprehended, then our agreement would seem redundant.’ Her smile suggests this is meant half in jest, but her eyes say otherwise. I think I understand Drake’s reasoning: by nominating someone outside his own circle to satisfy Mistress Dunne’s thirst for enquiries, he can distance himself from me if I fail. On the other hand, I am a stranger in this city; it may be that I can move among the crowds, asking questions, slipping obscurely into places where the famous Sir Francis Drake could not hope to pass unnoticed.

Drake bows his head. ‘You are right, madam. I will do my best to keep an open mind.’

‘I hope so, Sir Francis. There is a great deal at stake here, for both of us. I only want to make sure the truth is served.’ She juts her chin upwards and keeps her eyes on him for a moment, to let him know she is not someone he can hoodwink. ‘Come, Agnes.’ She flicks a hand at the maid, who scuttles to follow her. On her way past me, Mistress Dunne stops. ‘I am going to break my fast now, Doctor Bruno, and then I wish to view my husband’s body. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?’

‘Is that wise?’ Drake cuts in.

‘If he is to reconsider the cause of my husband’s death, would it not make sense for him to examine the body? Perhaps all his theological training may help him to notice some symptom that escaped your attention,’ she adds pointedly, drawing her veil down over her face.

‘I meant rather, is it wise for you to go?’ Drake pulls at the point of his beard. ‘Robert has been dead three days, madam, and it was not a sight for ladies even when he was fresh.’

I notice Lady Drake flinch slightly at her husband’s choice of words; fame and wealth have not taught him to be more delicate with his language. No wonder she is susceptible to a sonnet or two. I try to catch Lady Arden’s eye, but she keeps her head turned towards the window.

‘I was raised in the country, Sir Francis,’ Mistress Dunne replies, extending a hand, palm upwards. The maidservant lays a pair of kidskin gloves across it. ‘I have seen both my brothers and my sister in their coffins, and one of my brothers was kicked in the head by a horse – that was not pretty, I promise you. I will not faint at the sight of a corpse. I feel it proper that I should see him before he is buried – wherever that may be.’ She pulls on her gloves carefully, her slender fingers extended.

‘So, you are the last surviving child of your family?’ I ask.

She gives me a sharp look. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

I shake my head. ‘I was only thinking it is hard you should have to bear so much loss.’ I assume a sympathetic expression. She narrows her eyes.

‘Even so,’ Drake says, still rubbing at his beard, ‘I fear the sight may distress you.’

‘What
distresses
me, Sir Francis,’ she says, shaping the words clearly and precisely, ‘is the thought that my husband may be wrongly declared a suicide while his murderer escapes justice.’ With this, she sets her shoulders back and sweeps from the room, her maid scurrying in her wake. At the door she turns to me. ‘Meet me here in the entrance hall in half an hour.’

Pettifer makes as if to follow her. ‘Would you like me to pray with you, madam, before you address yourself to this sad task?’ He knots his fingers together in supplication, his round cheeks flushed. Priests never feel a greater sense of their own importance than around the dying and the newly bereaved, I have noticed.

A spasm of irritation twitches Mistress Dunne’s face, but she masters it.

‘Thank you, Padre, that is kind – perhaps when I return I shall have greater need of comfort.’

‘As you wish, madam. Just send me word here – I am at your disposal.’ He bows his head and follows her out.

Drake closes the door behind them and exhales with some force. ‘Elizabeth, I have told Mistress Dunne you and Lady Arden will dine with her today. We must show her Christian compassion, and she may be glad of female company.’ He pushes both hands through his hair and walks to the window.

‘She didn’t look as if she was much interested in any company.’ Lady Drake clutches the protesting cat, who appears to be making a bid for freedom. ‘She was quite rude when you introduced me and my lady cousin – she barely acknowledged us at all.’

‘Well, you must allow that she is in the first shock of grief, my dear,’ Drake says, still looking out at the street. ‘She is perhaps not herself.’

‘I might want to hang myself if I’d married her,’ Lady Arden remarks, to no one in particular. Drake and his brother turn and stare at her. I catch her eye and grin; she allows a brief smile, which she hides behind her hand. Perhaps she has forgiven me after all.

The ladies stand and stretch delicately; the cat seizes his chance and darts under the day-bed. As they leave, Lady Arden glances over her shoulder at me, but she is gone before I can convey anything with my eyes alone.

‘Bruno – a word.’ Drake beckons me towards the window. We look out through the small diamond panes of glass, the street outside distorted by their warps and bubbles. He lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to have sprung this on you. Especially when …’ he indicates my injuries. ‘What
happened
to you?’

I hesitate. ‘I visited the House of Vesta last night.’

‘Ah.’ A brief frown crosses his brow. ‘Someone should have warned you about that place. They don’t tend to welcome strangers who arrive unannounced.’

‘That is the complicated part. I was not unannounced – I was lured there by an anonymous letter that made reference to the Judas gospel. I believe it came from Rowland Jenkes – the book dealer with no ears that Dunne took you to.’

Drake looks even more bemused. ‘What has he to do with the House of Vesta?’