Treachery (43 page)

‘If that day ever comes,’ Drake says, in a voice of infinite weariness. ‘I used to thrive on little sleep. I was famed for it. But these past few days …’ He shakes his head. ‘I begin to feel sleep will elude me for ever. Sir Philip says you have something to tell me about the Dunne business?’

I tell Drake all that happened the day before concerning Savile and Mistress Dunne, including my discovery of the sleeves with the missing button and the traces of nutmeg, and my conclusion that Dunne must have been given the spice in his wine the night he died. I finish with Lady Arden’s observation about Martha Dunne’s pregnancy. He does not interrupt, but the creases between his eyebrows grow deeper as I speak.

‘Savile?’ he says, eventually. He looks as if he has been slapped. ‘But he has put up a good deal of his own money for this venture. And I heard good reports of him, from men I trust. He fought in Ireland as a youth, I believe.’ He passes a hand across his mouth and chin. ‘It may be true that he is involved with Martha Dunne – they would have met at court, I suppose. It may even be true that she is carrying his child. But there is one flaw in your theory – if Savile killed Dunne so that Martha would be free to marry him, why is she making such a fuss about proving it to be murder, not suicide? She must realise that any attempt to investigate could throw an unwelcome light on them.’ He purses his lips and shakes his head again. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘I thought the same,’ I say. ‘But I can only conclude that she is trying to divert attention away from herself and Savile.’

‘But why dress the murder up as suicide in the first place?’ Drake asks. ‘If he went to the trouble of drugging him with nutmeg, why not give him something that would finish him off?’

‘Perhaps he thought it would look too obvious if Dunne died by poisoning aboard the ship. He might have meant only to make sure Dunne was not in his right mind, and deal with him later. The plan must have gone awry somehow.’ I shift my gaze to the window; it is clear that Drake is not convinced. ‘Savile said “the priest was with him”. Either he meant in his cabin or on the walk back to the harbour that night, when Padre Pettifer found Dunne wandering drunk in the street and brought him back to the ship. Perhaps Savile intended to attack him in the town, but was forced to carry out the murder by a different means and tried to disguise it as suicide as a last resort.’ I end with an apologetic shrug. ‘I don’t have all the answers, I’m afraid.’

‘That is the difficulty,’ Drake says, still frowning. ‘Nothing is clear enough for me to come out and accuse a man like Sir William of murder.’

‘It is clear he was drinking with Dunne in his cabin that night,’ Sidney says, quick to support me. ‘We have his pearl button as evidence.’

‘That is no proof that he murdered Dunne,’ Drake says. ‘He could easily deny the nutmeg. Listen.’ He sighs. ‘I don’t have to like or admire a man to value him as an investor. I would have to see the blood on his hands before I risk an accusation of that kind. I could not replace him or his money at this stage.’

‘You could ask him where Jonas is,’ I say. His expression changes and I know I have touched a nerve. ‘My guess is that Jonas suspected the killer – let us say it is Savile. Perhaps the Spaniard confronted him. So he had to be silenced – and the killer decided to try and tie up the whole business neatly with the false confession, knowing there was already some doubt over the suicide and fearing there would be an investigation. Whoever killed Dunne knows what happened to Jonas, I am certain of it. There is even a chance he may yet be alive somewhere. And Savile speaks Spanish,’ I add.

Drake sucks in his cheeks and gives me a long look. ‘Very well, then. I will speak to Savile after the inquest. He is due to give testimony as a witness. Meanwhile, if we are to pursue this, you must bring me better evidence. Talk to Dunne’s widow again – see if your honeyed Italian tongue can trick her into giving anything away. You have a gift for charming the ladies, I understand.’ He almost smiles, and there is the hint of a twinkle in his eye. I feel the colour rising in my face, though I keep my expression steady.

‘It would seem Mistress Dunne has been charmed quite successfully already,’ Sidney observes.

Drake picks up the bag with the manuscript and crosses to the door. ‘The inquest starts at nine. I am going to break my fast and gather the men I need. It might be useful for you to be there, both of you, to hear all the witnesses’ versions of events in one place. Perhaps it would be wise to keep an open mind, at least for now.’

‘He does not want to confront Savile.’ I wait until the door has closed behind Drake before voicing the obvious.

‘Understandably,’ Sidney says. ‘Murder is a grave accusation – he doesn’t want to risk Savile taking offence and withdrawing his stake in the expedition at this stage.’

‘I could understand that, were it not for the disappearance of Jonas.’ I rise from the desk and stretch to ease my back. ‘Drake claims affection for the Spaniard. You would think he’d take the chance to question someone who might be able to account for him.’

‘Perhaps he means to present that forged confession to the inquest after all,’ Sidney says. ‘It would make his life easier. Then maybe he’ll just cut off William Savile’s head once we are west of the Azores,’ he adds cheerfully. ‘I’m going downstairs for some food. You should clean yourself up, Bruno.’

I change my shirt, wash my face and attempt to impose some order on my hair. Before I leave the room, I hide my new translation of the Judas Gospel under the mattress and make sure the room is locked.

Downstairs, I take a piece of bread from the tap-room and wander out into the inn yard, feeling the need for some air. The morning is chilly, the sky blank and grey, with rows of cloud stacked to the horizon. The gulls sound more mournful than ever. I shiver; summer seems to have given up on England, or vice versa. The serving girl Hetty appears around a corner, carrying two full pails of water, and gives me a knowing look. I try not to read too much into this; she always has a knowing look, though I cannot help wondering if it was her scuffling about in the shadows when I visited Lady Arden’s room last night. At the memory of Lady Arden I experience a quick stab of guilt; I have barely given her a thought since I left her. I picture her sleeping, dark hair spread over the white pillow, breathing softly through parted lips. The image prompts me to smile to myself as I hurry back inside before Hetty can catch me out with any insinuating comments.

In the entrance hall, Sidney stands talking to Pettifer. The chaplain wears his black clerical robes and tugs repeatedly at the ribbon tying his neck-bands, as if it restricts his breathing. Sidney catches sight of me and beckons me over.

‘Drake has gone on ahead with his brother, he asked for us to follow.’

‘I bid you farewell, gentlemen,’ Pettifer says, clasping his hands together. ‘I must get to the Guildhall on time.’

‘You are a principal witness, are you not?’ I ask.

He frowns. ‘I suppose I am. Being one of the last to have seen him.’

‘But you will not tell the coroner’s court what Dunne wanted to pray about on that last night?’

‘You know I cannot.’ He draws himself up, his cheeks flushing. ‘That is to say – I will mention that he seemed distressed. But not so much that anyone could have predicted the consequences.’ He lowers his eyes. ‘It will be a sad business for all of us, I fear. Those who knew him.’

‘Most especially for his widow,’ Sidney says.

‘At least when this is done she will be able to bury him,’ I remark.

‘Yes, but where?’ Pettifer says ominously.

Sidney nudges me; Savile is springing down the stairs, spry and hearty as ever and dressed in his usual finery: a doublet of grey-green silk with knee-length breeches to match and soft leather shoes better fitted for dancing on fine Turkish carpets than crossing the cobbled streets of Plymouth with their open gutters.

‘Give you good morrow, gentlemen,’ he says, rubbing his hands as if anticipating some great sport. He turns to me with a roguish smile. ‘Find your room in the end, Doctor Bruno?’

‘Yes, thank you. And you?’

‘I did. But I tell you – I fear the security at this inn. I am fairly certain someone broke into my room yesterday, though I cannot say when. The lock had been tampered with. You have observed nothing suspicious since you arrived?’

‘That is worrying,’ Sidney says, his face a picture of concern. ‘Was anything taken?’

‘Not that I could see. But I think someone had been through my bag. It is my good fortune that there was nothing of any great value there for them to find.’ He looks at me as he says this and I return his gaze, unblinking, until he looks away. ‘I think I shall move back to the ship tonight – I feel safer there, for all the sailors’ talk of Dunne’s unquiet soul keening around the decks. It can’t be moaning any more than he did in life.’

Pettifer tuts quietly at the lack of respect. I exchange a glance with Sidney.

‘In any case,’ Savile adds, in a breezier tone, ‘once we have this business out of the way, the fleet will be free to sail.’

‘I for one shall be glad to haul anchor,’ Pettifer observes, nodding solemnly. ‘I think we would all like to leave this unfortunate tragedy behind us and look ahead to our mission.’

We all concur with sympathetic murmurs, though I feel Savile’s eyes on me again. Does he suspect something? In any case, he has been put on his guard now; it will be harder to catch him out.

Sidney elbows me as we emerge from the Star’s main door into the street and I look up to find the boy Sam lolling against the wall of a house opposite. His dirt-streaked face lights up when he sees me. He wipes his nose on his hand and skips across, nimbly dodging a pile of horse dung, to clutch at my sleeve.

‘What are we doing today, sir?’

I smile down at him and ruffle his hair, thinking as I do so that he almost certainly has lice. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, Sam, but I am going to an inquest at the Guildhall. It will be very dull and I’m afraid I won’t need any assistance.’

His face falls, but only briefly. ‘I seen that man you said. With no ears.’

I stop dead. ‘Where? When?’

He points down the street. ‘Early today. At the end of Hoe Lane. He was talking to a girl.’

‘What girl? What did she look like? Did you know her?’

He nods vigorously and points back to the Star. ‘She’s from there. She has brown hair and small eyes. The fat one.’

My heart turns over. Hetty.
Dio porco
. ‘What did they do? Did you hear anything they said?’ I grip him by the shoulder.

‘He gave her money. And a letter.’

‘And then what? Did you see where he went?’

‘I followed him to the Market Square, but then my brother came running to tell me about the body so I went with him to see it.’ He grows more animated. ‘My brother says drowned men come out the sea at night and steal children from their beds but he’s a liar.’

‘What body? Philip, wait.’ Sidney has gone on ahead; he turns and frowns, questioning. I beckon him back.

‘They found him in the Sound early this morning,’ Sam says, proud to be the bearer of such significant news. ‘The fishermen found him. Washed up on the rocks by the Hoe. My uncle helped pull him into the boat and they rowed him round to the wharf. His head was all bashed in.’ He looks delighted with this detail.

‘Where is the body now?’ I crouch so that I can look him in the face.

‘They put it in a shed. It was all swelled up and it stank worse’n a dead dog,’ he says, with relish.

‘Has the coroner examined it yet?’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind. Sam, you must take me there. I need to see this body.’

‘Whose body?’ Sidney strides up, impatient. ‘Come, Bruno, we shall be late for this inquest.’

‘A body has been washed ashore this morning. I want to see if it is – you know. You go on to the Guildhall. Take note of the testimonies, look out for discrepancies, or those witnesses who seem unsure of their story. Or those who seem too sure.’

His jaw twitches. ‘I am not your clerk, Bruno.’

‘I thought you wanted to help Drake?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘I will save a space for you. Come as soon as you can.’

I nod and allow Sam to lead me by the hand towards the harbour.

A row of wooden huts stands along the north-east wharf of Sutton Pool, many with doors barely attached to their hinges. Those that stand open disgorge fishing nets, oak barrels cracked with age, iron buckets, coils of rope and rusted chains over the quayside. Outside one I see Sam’s uncle Amos with a group of other men, conferring in low voices. One carries a sword buckled around his waist and talks louder than the others.

Amos greets me with a curt nod.

‘Is the body in there?’ I ask, though the question is redundant; you could smell it from the other side of the Pool if you were downwind.

‘What is it to you?’ says the loud man, swinging around to face me. ‘Who are you?’

I suspect he is a parish constable; I have come across his kind before. ‘My name is Giordano Bruno of Nola.’

‘I hope you don’t expect me to repeat that,’ he says, glancing around at the fishermen, who respond with a smattering of laughter. ‘What’s your business with this? How did you know about it?’

‘The boy told me,’ I say, indicating Sam. ‘I am with Captain Drake’s party. A man went missing from his flagship the night before last. I have been sent to enquire about this body.’

A shadow of suspicion passes over the man’s face, but he takes a step back, and when he speaks again his tone is markedly less aggressive.

‘You can look if you want, but I doubt it’s one of Drake’s crew. This one looks foreign. Like you.’

‘Spanish?’

‘How should I know? He hasn’t been saying much.’ The fishermen cackle again. I give the constable a sardonic smile.

‘That’s my shed,’ Amos says, as I stand on the threshold. ‘If it’s your man, can you ask Captain Drake to send someone for him? I’ve had to take all my gear out and it looks like rain later. And there’s the smell to think of.’

‘I will. If you could stand back – there is not much light in here.’

Amos obliges, clearing his colleagues out of the way. I step into the narrow hut and once again find myself looking down at a bloated body. The man has been laid out on a piece of canvas sailcloth, presumably used to carry him ashore. Tangled black hair falls across his face. Gingerly I pull it back to reveal the swollen features of Jonas Solon. His eyes stare up at me, wide and glassy. The tongue protrudes slightly. The face and head are badly bruised and the clothes are torn in several places; it is impossible to tell whether this is the result of being pounded against rocks by the tide, or if he was attacked before he ended up in the water.