Treachery (26 page)

Three doors lead off this landing. She moves to the one at the rear of the house, turns the handle and stands aside. She regards me for a moment longer, as if she is debating whether to add something further, but eventually she gives me a brief nod and turns away to the stairs. I breathe in, and push the door open. The sense of unease prickling in my stomach has intensified, though I cannot quite pinpoint the reason.

The room is small and dim; it seems to have been partitioned from a larger room and through the thin plaster a series of unmistakable groans and creaks can be heard from next door. Two candles burn in a wall sconce and one on a small table. There is no other furniture except the bed with a nightstand beside it holding an earthenware jug and bowl for washing. A thin figure sits hunched on the bed, wearing a cotton shift. Her hands are clasped in her lap and her head droops down, lank hair obscuring her face. I can’t help thinking that if I were a genuine customer I would want a slightly better show of enthusiasm, not this hangdog creature.

‘Hello,’ I say, as gently as I can.

She raises her head and with a sudden shock I understand. The figure before me is a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, the skin of his face still downy, though the dead look in his eyes belongs to someone who has already lived too long.

‘Ah,’ I say, as I try to hide my reaction behind a blank expression. I back up against the door, scanning the room for hiding places of possible assailants. Either this is a trap, or Robert Dunne had more secrets than we have yet discovered.

‘Do you want me as a boy or a girl, sir?’ The child’s voice is entirely empty of emotion. When I do not reply, he crosses his legs and the shift rides up towards his skinny thighs. A blue bruise stands out against the white skin. ‘I have women’s clothes I can put on, if that’s your preference. As you like.’ He shrugs, to show his compliance either way.

‘Right.’ I want to sit but there is no chair; instead I lean against the door and allow myself to sink down until I am sitting on the floor. ‘I would like a drink, I think. What is your name?’

The boy tips his head back and looks down at me from under his hair, weighing me up. ‘What do you want it to be?’

‘The truth.’

An expression passes over his face that at first I do not understand; he seems to shrink into himself and glances at the door, as if hoping for some kind of assistance. Then I realise he is afraid. And with good reason; sodomy is a hanging offence under English law, and the same goes for those who sell or procure it. No wonder he keeps his identity to himself.

‘Give me whatever name pleases you, then,’ I say, anxious that I have put him on his guard.

He relaxes a little. ‘You can call me Toby.’

‘Well then, Toby …’ I am considering where to begin when there is a knock at the door. I jump up and fling it open, ready to reach for my knife, but there is only a pale girl with a low-cut bodice, who hands me two large pewter cups without once looking up to meet my eye. She is pretty, and very young – perhaps of an age with him. As soon as I have taken the cups she turns on her heel and stalks silently away. I close the door. Toby sits still on the bed, impassive.

‘Wine?’

The boy nods, mutely watching me. He pulls his knees up under the shift and hugs them to him, an oddly touching gesture that makes him seem all the more childlike. Perhaps he knows something; my difficulty is how to win his trust without making him afraid.

I cross slowly, holding out the cups in front of me, as you might approach a nervous animal. He reaches out and takes one, large brown eyes fixed on me with no particular expression that I can discern. I sit beside him on the bed, though far enough away not to appear threatening. My nerves are taut, my senses alert for any indication of movement outside the chamber. The boy turns and looks at me, expectant.

‘Should we begin, sir?’ His small fingers tug at the collar of his shift. ‘Tell me what you wish, and I—’

‘Toby.’ I adjust my position, tucking one leg under me, and take a gulp of wine, though not too much – I need to keep my wits sharp. I have found myself in some strange situations over the years, but nothing that quite compares to this. As I move, I feel a ridge jutting into my thigh. Lifting the bedsheet, I pull out a book, bound in calfskin, very new and expensive-looking. The boy lurches forward to grab it but I am too quick for him; I dart to my feet and hold it up, out of his reach, until he sinks back to the bed, glowering at me. I open the book to the frontispiece to find that it is a volume of Ovid’s
Fables
. I note the printer’s mark. The book was only printed last year. The front endpaper has been torn out.

‘Is this yours?’

The boy looks stricken. ‘I was given it. By a gentleman. I never stole it.’ He holds out a hand for it, though half-heartedly.

‘It is a generous gift,’ I say, flicking through the pages. ‘A book like this is worth a good deal of money, being so new. Although it is a shame this one has a page torn out – that might devalue it.’

His eyes flicker briefly to me, guilty. I decide to try another tack.

‘Do you like the stories?’

His face brightens. ‘Oh, yes. I like Perseus and the sea monster best, and Narcissus, who fell in love with himself.’

‘Can you
read
them?’

He drops his gaze. ‘Not really. He read them to me sometimes. He promised to teach me my letters from it if I was good.’

‘If you were good and did as he asked?’

He does not reply, only bites his lower lip. When he looks up, he wears the expression of a child forced to confess he has been stealing from the larder. ‘You won’t tell Mistress Grace, will you? She would take it. And he would be angry.’

‘I won’t say a word.’ I pass the book back to him; he immediately stuffs it under the mattress and sits on top. ‘How would it be, Toby,’ I say, leaning back, ‘if we were to talk for a while?’

‘Talk?’ His brow creases and he glances to the door as if seeking approval for this unlikely suggestion. ‘What for?’

I shrug, and take another sip. The wine is warm and aromatic and makes me think of Christmas; I feel it curl thickly through my blood and gently soothe my nerves. ‘I am a stranger here, and I miss having someone to talk to. My friend Robert Dunne used to say you were a good listener.’

It is a gamble; I know this before I drop the name. No man with a predilection for illegal pursuits shares this information widely. The boy frowns, perplexed, and he glances again at the door.

‘Robert Dunne?’

‘Indeed so. He spoke highly of you.’

The boy only looks down at his hands, twisted in his lap, and murmurs something indistinct.

Perhaps this has been the wrong tack; for all I know, Robert Dunne was a violent pervert and the boy dreaded the sight of him and is glad he’s dead. Perhaps he has never met Robert Dunne in his life. I try again.

‘You heard what happened to him, I suppose?’

His head jerks up at this and his eyes briefly lock with mine; I read fear in them.

‘What?’ he whispers.

‘He is dead. Did you not know?’

Confusion flits across his face. ‘I …’ He scratches the back of his neck, then reaches out and lays a hand on my thigh. ‘Sir, do you want to undress?’

‘No!’ I say, with more alarm than I intended, jumping to my feet. I move purposefully to the window in case he tries to touch me again. The wind bangs the shutters softly against the glass. ‘Not yet. Let us talk some more.’

‘Then should I? I am sure you did not come here to talk.’ He pulls again at the half-unlaced strings of his shift. The conversation is making him more uncomfortable than the prospect of whatever he thinks I have come for.

‘No, really – we are both fine as we are. Forgive me, Toby – I am of a strange cast of mind tonight. I suppose I am in mourning for my friend Robert. You understand?’

He makes a movement with his head.

‘Do you mourn him too?’

He shrugs, avoiding my eye.

‘Did he visit you often?’

‘Why do you ask me so many questions about him?’

‘When someone you were close to dies, talking about them is a way of bringing them back. Making it seem as if they were still here. Do you not think? Have you never lost anyone you cared for?’

‘My parents.’ He doesn’t lift his head.

‘Is that how you came to be here?’ I ask gently. He lifts his eyes and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. When he speaks, it is a whisper so soft I can barely catch it.

‘Mistress Grace brought me here to work in the kitchen when I was small. Now I am apprenticed to the apothecary downstairs, but she still gives me a room.’

‘And she puts you to work like the girls?’

Again, the stubborn silence, lips pressed tight. He will not meet my eye. The candlelight seems to flicker and dance, so that at first I think there must be a draught in the room, but as I watch the flames I see that it is the wall itself that is undulating, as if ripples were spreading across its surface. Toby goes on looking at me, and I notice that his unhappy face has duplicated itself: two pale discs alongside one another, each blurring where they intersect. I take a step towards him and my legs feel strangely remote; I put a hand out to the wall to steady myself. Too late, I realise what has happened, and curse my own carelessness: I should have noticed that the boy did not touch his wine. In one lurching movement, I grab the bowl from the nightstand and force my fingers down my throat, gagging as bile rises in my stomach. I have the sense of being on board ship; the walls seem to pulse in time with my head, but I persist, bending double as the sharp salt of saliva fills my mouth and my stomach heaves once, twice, before I retch violently and its contents erupt into the bowl and splash on to the bare boards.

Gasping, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and lean against the wall. Toby watches me without moving, though there is fear in his eyes.

‘What do they put in it?’ I demand.

His voice almost disappears. ‘Nutmeg.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what she does sometimes. It means she doesn’t trust you. That’s why she brought you here.’

I rub my forehead. I am still dizzy and off-balance; I can feel the heat of it working into my system, though I think I caught it in time to prevent worse damage. I wonder if they have done the same to Sidney, and if they mean to rob us. Padre Pettifer warned me; I should have listened. Then, through my muddied thoughts, there emerges a pinpoint of clarity: Mistress Grace addressed me as ‘Doctor Bruno’. Yet I did not give her my title at the door, therefore:
she knows who I am
. She was waiting for me. Was it her that wrote the letter, then? But how could she know me, and why bring me here?

‘Did Robert Dunne’ – I speak slowly and deliberately, hearing my voice as if it comes from elsewhere – ‘did he come to you as a client? Were you his favourite?’

He shakes his head. His outline is still blurry to me, but I see him dart another nervous glance at the door.

‘Then why did she bring me to you? Is it a trap? What do they mean to do?’

When he does not reply, I take a step forward, my hand outstretched; he gives a little yelp, as if he expects to be struck. I grab the pitcher and pour its contents over my upturned face, then shake my head like a dog, scattering droplets.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ he whimpers. ‘I just do as I am asked.’

‘Who sent the letter?’ I wipe the water from my eyes and take another step forward, looming over him as he backs away with a whimper.

‘I don’t know about any letter, sir. I never even spoke to Robert Dunne. He didn’t come here for me.’ He presses up against the wall, trying to make himself smaller. ‘You need to talk to Eve. She was his special one. I don’t know anything.’

‘And where is Eve?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘Where? Where can I find her?’ I kneel on the bed and grip his arm. ‘Tell me – or shall I mention your book to Mistress Grace?’

‘No!’ He bites his lip. ‘She sends them away when they get with child. They’re no use to her here after that.’

‘But
where
?’

‘I don’t know!’ His voice is squeaky with panic; his eyes skitter to the door again, just as it is flung open and the figure of a man in black fills the space.

For the space of a heartbeat I freeze; Toby takes advantage of my confusion to slip from my grasp and dart for the open door, past the man, who gives him a cuff around the head as he ducks by. The door slams behind him. My vision is still slightly unfocused; all I can see is that he is tall, with a beard, and that he is holding something behind him.

I stand back, facing him, squinting to bring him into alignment. I can feel my head clearing, though my heart is galloping behind my ribs.

‘So you are the famous Giordano Bruno?’ he says, glancing around the room. He has a refined voice, much like Sidney’s, but with an odd lisp. ‘You know buying boys is against the law in this country? As well as against God’s law, I hardly need add.’

‘Who are you?’ For one terrifying heartbeat I fear he is come from the authorities, that I have been set up to be caught with the boy. But that would make no sense; the madam and her entire business would be condemned with me.

His face splits into a knowing smile and I focus enough to see that he is missing most of his teeth.

‘You don’t know me, though I dare say you are familiar with my name. But I have a friend who is keen to acquaint himself with you. Or
re
-acquaint, I should say.’

My throat tightens. ‘Did you send the letter?’

‘That would have been my friend. I don’t write so well any more. Not after what they did to me.’ He holds up his right hand. It dangles at an unnatural angle from his wrist, twisted under. The tendons have clearly been damaged beyond repair. I have seen this before: in a man who was hung by the wrists for several hours during an unofficial interrogation. It is one of the Privy Council’s preferred techniques in the Tower. A cold understanding begins to dawn.

‘You are John Doughty.’ My voice emerges as a croak.

He tilts his head and smiles, as if to imply that this is an interesting guess. At the same time he brings out his left hand from behind his back to show that he is holding a knife. I force myself to keep still. He believes I am unarmed; I will have only one chance to catch him while he thinks he has the advantage and I must time it exactly.