Treachery (50 page)

A thin smile. ‘Persuade … yes, it sounds better when you put it like that. Robert Dunne was a despicable coward. You can make a coward do anything if he thinks he will save his own skin. Especially a coward in debt. I settled his debts at the House of Vesta, you know. After that he was my creature.’

‘But he wasn’t, was he?’ I say. ‘He didn’t do what you wanted, in the end.’

‘True.’ He sounds regretful. ‘I thought he was desperate enough to do it for the money. A small dose of monkshood in Drake’s wine would have done it – hardly a problem once they’re out at sea. I even showed Dunne how the poison was distilled. He seemed so willing at first.’ He makes a sharp, wincing motion and clicks his tongue. ‘I should have realised he had that pathetic filial loyalty some men develop towards Drake. In the end his conscience weighed heavier than his fear. He took the coward’s way out.’

So he really believes Dunne killed himself? I recall the letter Drake received the day after Dunne’s death with the verse from Matthew’s gospel, with its reference to Judas’s remorseful suicide.

‘Is that why you sent that letter?’ I ask. ‘So that Drake would think Dunne’s death was connected with the Judas book?’

A small crease appears between his brows; he darts a glance at Jenkes. ‘Which letter?’

‘The one with the Bible verse: Matthew 27 verse 5.’

Doughty only looks more confused; the crease in his forehead deepens. ‘
Matthew?
’

‘Judas went from that place and hanged himself,’ Jenkes says, smoothly.

‘You see? He knows it word for word.’

‘My dear Bruno – I know most of the scriptures word for word. As do you. But why would anyone send such a letter?’ He arches an eyebrow.

‘You tell me. To imply that Dunne hanged himself out of remorse for his treachery, just like Judas? To serve as a warning to Drake, that the Judas Gospel brings nothing but harm?’ I suggest. ‘Or simply to frighten him. To show him once again that you know everything that touches him, even on his ship.’

Doughty lets out a bark of laughter. ‘Frighten him? It would take more than a letter with a line of scripture to frighten El Draco.’

‘Really? What would it take – a letter threatening the curse of the Devil? No, that did not work. One telling him you are watching his wife, perhaps?’

John Doughty looks abashed, but only briefly. ‘I was not quite myself when I sent those. Prison can turn a man’s wits, you know. But I never sent him any Bible verse.’

‘No more did I,’ Jenkes says, with a shrug. ‘The others, yes, via the girl to you and this lady here. But no verses.’

‘We are wasting time,’ Doughty says, impatient. ‘The ship sails on the evening tide and we must be on it, or risk being found by the hue and cry. What does it matter who sent the letter?’

‘It matters,’ I begin, ‘because …’ But I find I cannot answer the question. All along we have believed that the letter was sent either by Dunne’s killer, or someone who knew his identity and wanted to toy with Drake. The other letters had led me to assume that they were connected with the first one. But the recent discoveries about Savile and Martha Dunne have thrown all those theories into confusion.

‘Do you know who killed Robert Dunne?’ I ask. ‘Indulge me – it is not as if I can tell anyone now. Satisfy my curiosity.’

‘Is that your last request, Bruno?’ Jenkes cocks his head to one side, but Doughty holds a hand up to silence him, still frowning at me.

‘Does Francis Drake truly believe Dunne did not kill himself?’ He shakes his head, looking perplexed. ‘I knew there was an inquest, but I thought that was the widow’s doing, it was to be expected. Who would want Dunne dead?’ He appears disconcerted.

‘Other than you?’ I say.

‘He was no use to me dead. Not yet, at least. Not until he had served his purpose. Dunne knew I had marked him for his part in the jury that falsely convicted my brother. But as I told you, he was a coward. I convinced him that by killing Drake for me, he had a chance to save himself and his women.’ He lets out a sharp laugh. ‘I even promised him a share of the price on Drake’s head. I thought that would swing the balance.’

‘The twenty thousand ducats,’ I murmur. ‘You meant to claim that from Spain?’

‘Of course.’ He says this in a clipped, businesslike tone. ‘But I suspected Dunne was not such a fool as to believe I would let him live. I had supposed he decided it was better to damn his soul with suicide than with murder.’ He purses his lips and his brow creases again. ‘But you seriously think someone else killed him?’ He glances at Jenkes. ‘Someone who guessed what he planned and wanted to save Drake, I suppose?’ He smacks a fist into his palm. ‘So he must have confessed his purpose to someone else on board. Who?’

Now it is the book dealer’s turn to look impatient. ‘What does it matter? The man is dead and it has nothing to do with us. Enough talking – it is time to go.’

He gestures to me to turn around, and wrenches my arms back, binding my wrists behind me. My knees crack against the floor as he pushes me down and drags me across to the pillar where Lady Arden lies curled up and whimpering, her face buried in her knees, as if she could make herself so small she might escape their notice. Jenkes sits me upright, my back against the pillar. He does the same with Lady Arden on the other side, then takes the remaining length of rope and wraps it around the two of us, binding us fast to the pillar, so tight I can feel the cord cutting into my chest each time I expand my lungs to breathe. Lady Arden makes the occasional hiccupping sob, though subdued, like a child whose tantrum has subsided. It is a defeated sound. I hope that she is only semi-conscious; I wish I were in that state myself, but my awareness seems heightened by the nearness of my death, as if everything is picked out in perfect clarity. I see the black hairs on the back of Jenkes’s hands as he moves the lantern some distance away and begins to shift one of the barrels towards us; I hear the scrape of the wood over the brick floor. I notice how the veins bulge at his temple with the effort of moving it. He does the same with the other two, positioning them around us. When he has arranged them to his satisfaction, he dusts off his hands and smiles, as if pleased with his handiwork.

‘In the time of the heretic queen’s father and grandfather, this undercroft was used as a munitions store,’ he says, in a conversational tone. ‘Some supplies were left, in anticipation of the new fort.’ He takes out my knife and uses it to prise open the bung in the top of one barrel, then calls Doughty to help him lift it. Now I understand why he moved the lantern to a safe distance. He indicates the far side of the undercroft and they carry the barrel between them, tipping it up to release its contents as they move backwards towards me and Lady Arden. A trail of fine black powder snakes behind them; they scatter it liberally around us before wedging the barrel into place next to me. Then they cross the room again and lay a second trail.

When they have done, Doughty surveys the tableau before him and curls his lip. He seems displeased with the result.

‘I would still rather Drake found her head on the altar,’ he says. ‘There should be some poetic justice to this.’

‘Do you know how long it would take to sever a head with a knife like this?’ Jenkes snaps. ‘And how would we walk away, covered head to foot in blood? No, this is the practical solution. The fuse is long enough to give us time to get some way into the passage. The explosion will seal off the entrance here, and will be large enough to attract attention. While Drake’s men are busy trying to dig out what’s left of the gallant Bruno and his lady, we will be long gone. Come – take this lantern.’

‘Should we not at least make sure they are dead first?’ Doughty says, crouching to our level and cocking the gun towards me.

‘Do not waste good shot. We will have need of that. You think three barrels of gunpowder will not suffice? Besides,’ Jenkes looks at me and smiles his lazy, reptilian smile, ‘I want to give Bruno time to repent. To count the minutes as he sees his death stealing towards him. I have often observed that heretics lose their defiance when they realise they will shortly face their Maker. You are a man with a ready wit, Bruno, but I fear it will not hold up when you have to stand before the throne of judgement.’

I say nothing. He looks disappointed, as if I have deliberately spoiled his game.

‘Come, then,’ he says to Doughty, who disables the pistol, tucking it into his belt, then takes one of the lanterns and lowers himself cautiously into the hole. Jenkes sets the other lantern down by the entrance to the tunnel shaft, slips the satchel over his head and traces his path back to the beginnings of the gunpowder trail.

‘At least take the gag from her mouth,’ I say, my voice shrill with panic. I have escaped Jenkes before; I could do so again, if only my thoughts would stop jostling one another long enough for me to see a clear path. I try to move my wrists behind my back but the cords are so tight there is barely any give; I succeed only in making them cut deeper into my flesh.

‘So you can whisper your enduring love to one another as you die?’ Jenkes says, amused. ‘Very well. Never let it be said I am not merciful.’ He breaks into that dry cackle again.

I see a flash of steel by my right eye; for a dreadful moment I wonder if I have provoked him by asking a favour. Perhaps he will do something worse to Lady Arden. But I hear the swift tear of cloth, followed by a soft sigh and a choking cough. The pillar is narrow but I am tied so tight I cannot turn my head to see her. Jenkes drops the severed gag on the floor and returns to the gunpowder fuse he has laid. He readies a taper and turns back to judge the distance between himself and the entrance to the tunnel, then concentrates on tidying his thin black powder ropes with the tip of his boot, making sure there are no breaks in the trail, nothing which might cause the flame to falter and die before it reaches its goal. When he is satisfied that everything is ready, he strikes his tinder-box carefully, his eyes meeting mine with a black glitter as he lights the taper from its spark. Then, in one practised movement, he lowers the taper to the end of one fuse, waits until he is certain it has taken, repeats the movement with the other, then scuttles across the floor, snatches up the bag and the lantern and disappears into the hole in the corner. When only his head is visible, he pauses.

‘Goodbye, Bruno,’ he says. ‘My lady. I hope Saint Michael hears you.’

His laugh echoes up the shaft as he descends, like some diabolical figure vanishing through the stage in an inn-yard theatre show. The pool of light wavers and diminishes with him.

‘Bruno?’ Lady Arden’s voice emerges harsh and guttural, as if she is unused to using it. I think of her bruised and swollen throat and the rope that almost choked the breath from her – the same rope that now holds us fast to this pillar. Would it have been kinder to let her die there, in the church? Or will it be quicker this way? Would you lose consciousness in an instant, I wonder, or would you be aware of the force ripping through your frame as you were blasted in all directions?

‘I’m here,’ I say, knowing that my tone can convey no reassurance. I cannot even reach for her hand.

‘Will we die?’ she croaks.

There is no light now in the undercroft save the two little blue-gold dancing flames sizzling steadily towards us in a pincer movement. I stretch my legs as far forward as I can, sweeping my left foot and then my right in wide, desperate circles, hoping to disrupt the line of gunpowder, though I cannot see where I am kicking and I know that Jenkes has laid the trail in a loop out of my reach. The flames grow as they eat their way relentlessly along the line of the fuse, as if their progress only makes them hungrier.

‘See if you can kick the powder away,’ I say in desperation. The silence is filled by the short, frantic scratches of our heels in the dust.

‘I can’t see where it is,’ she whispers. ‘And I can’t move my legs much anyway.’

‘Never mind.’ I do not know what else to say. She begins to murmur something soft and urgent under her breath, the cadence rising and falling. I strain to catch the words, but her voice goes on in the same chant, faster and faster, like the senseless babbling of a lunatic and I think the fear has turned her wits, until I catch
now and at the hour of our death, Amen
.

‘Nell?’ I say. The frenzied muttering continues.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen
. ‘I am so sorry,’ I say, raising my voice over her manic repetitions. ‘This is my fault. If it were not for me, you would not be mixed up in this.’

She pauses, mid-prayer. ‘Not true,’ she says. ‘They took me because of Sir Francis, because they could not get to Elizabeth. You heard him. And in any case,’ she adds, her breathing growing fast and shallow, ‘even if it were because of you, I cannot regret it. I would not undo that night with you.’

‘Really?’ I turn my head as far as I can, but all I can see is the twin flames advancing on us. The air is thick with smoke; tears spring to my eyes and I struggle to catch my breath through the acrid smell. I know that her declaration is of a piece with the frantic Hail Mary, a clutching at anything that will make her feel less alone as she waits for death, now moments away, yet it catches at my heart. I wish I could reach her, at least take her hand as we brace ourselves for the impact.

‘Do you love me, Bruno?’ she asks. I can hear the spike of terror in her voice. ‘Do you? Oh, God have mercy on us.’ She starts up a low moan which threatens to break into uncontrolled screaming. I feel I must soothe her, if only to prevent that being the last noise I hear.

‘Yes,’ I reply, surprised at how calm I sound.

‘Then say it,’ she demands, though it emerges as a harsh croak.

‘I love you.’ The words hang in the air with the smell of burning powder. A harmless lie to ease her last minutes; no one is hurt.

I feel oddly empty, as if watching this scene from outside. The flames have sucked their way along the trail and almost reached us, though they loop away on their detour, just out of reach. By the time they have burned around this last curve, they will touch the powder scattered all around us and finally ignite the barrels.