Treachery (60 page)

I shrug. ‘I have been useful to him. But I fear his regard will diminish very quickly, if we cannot find sufficient evidence against Pettifer.’

Sidney sucks in his breath through his teeth. ‘It is infuriating – everything you said back there fits, everything points to the chaplain. It is just a matter of proving it.’

‘That is what we said about Savile.’ In truth, I have begun to admit a sliver of doubt over confronting Pettifer so publicly with such stark accusations.

‘The boy’s testimony will be good enough, won’t it?’ He sounds as if he wants reassurance.

‘He will be afraid, though. He may feel it is in his best interest to hold his tongue.’

Sidney’s armed escorts are broad-shouldered, solid young men with rough, good-natured faces. They clatter up to us, looking hastily assembled and a little awkward; they had not expected to be called upon this evening and there is a faint smell of the ale-house about them, though they all seem sufficiently alert and clear-eyed to do their job. Just the sight of them, big and confident, surrounding us with their bright liveried tunics and swords at their belts, would be enough to deter all but the most determined assailant, I think, as we set out together up the hill towards the House of Vesta. Groups of bystanders part before us, pointing and muttering. I am not used to feeling so conspicuous, though there is a curious satisfaction in being taken for a man of status.

When we reach the apothecary’s shop, I motion for Sidney and the guards to stay outside, but I leave the door open so they can be seen. The little man is standing on a stool taking an inventory of his shelves when I enter; his expectant look withers immediately when he recognises me.

‘Oh. It is you,’ he says.

‘Where is the boy? I need to see him urgently.’

Pengilly curls his lip in disgust. ‘I thought I made myself clear to you. In any case, he is not here.’

‘Then where is he?’

‘What business is it of yours?’

‘My friends would like to know,’ I say, gesturing to the open door. He catches sight of the men, who grin at him but stand so their swords are visible. He swallows.

‘She called him back to the house. I expect you’ll find him there. And you can find him there in future, as I told you.’

I nod and turn towards the door.

‘Sir,’ he calls out, as I reach the threshold. He gestures to the armed men. ‘You won’t hurt him, will you? He’s a good lad.’

‘He will be fine, I assure you.’

Sidney and I run up the alleyway beside the shop into the rear courtyard, followed by the men. There is no sign of life in the windows above us. I bang on the House of Vesta’s door and do not let up until I hear footsteps approaching.

‘For the love of God,’ comes a female voice from inside, ‘we are resting. Come back later.’

‘Open this door now, or we will open it for you,’ Sidney shouts, in his most commanding tone.

There is a short pause, and the panel behind the iron grille is slid back. A woman’s face appears. It is not Mistress Grace.

‘What do you want?’ She looks frightened. ‘We are not open yet.’

‘I want to see the boy,’ I say.

‘He is unwell,’ she says, but there is a small hesitation that gives her away. She reaches to close the panel.

‘Go on, lads,’ I say, standing aside. ‘Get this door open.’

It is an empty threat; the door looks solid enough to withstand cannon fire, but the woman gives a little cry and a moment later I hear the click of a lock and the door opens a fraction.

‘Do not hurt anyone,’ she pleads, crossing herself as I push past her and take the stairs two at a time to the second landing, closely followed by Sidney and his men. Women’s screams echo through the house at the sound of our invasion. I fling open the door to Toby’s room to see him lying on the bed in his shirt and breeches, convulsing. Mistress Grace stands by the window looking on, her slender silhouette framed against the light. She regains her composure remarkably quickly after the shock of my arrival and arranges her expression into a sad smile.

‘Poor boy,’ she says, in a tone whose sincerity would fool no one. ‘I fear he has eaten something that disagreed with him.’

I rush to the bedside. Toby’s breathing is laboured and his skin has a greenish hue. There is a thin trickle of blood-flecked vomit running from the corner of his mouth. All around his head on the sheet are spots of dark red. I curse my stupidity; I have been so concerned about Mistress Grace wanting to silence me that I missed the far more obvious danger. I lean close to the boy’s face. His breath smells foul and his eyes are clouded. His muscles spasm again and he gives a plaintive cry.

‘Toby.’ I give his shoulders a little shake. ‘Toby, can you hear me?’

He stares at me, but his eyes register nothing. ‘This boy needs a physician,’ I bark at her, ‘you must send for one right away. And he must be made to vomit immediately.’

‘I think you are overreacting,’ she says, smoothly. ‘It was probably some bad shellfish. But I have sent for a physician nonetheless.’

I look at him. His ribcage hardly moves and he exhales with a strained croak, as if the act becomes harder with each breath. I grab his shoulders and haul him into a sitting position. He is barely conscious. Supporting his bony shoulders with my left arm, I push two fingers of my right hand into his slack mouth and press down until he starts to gag. His chest heaves a few times; I push him forward until a thin yellow slurry dribbles down his chin. Mistress Grace simply stands there watching. It is not enough, and we both know it.

‘What did you give him?’ I demand.

She opens her eyes very wide, as if to say she has no idea what I could mean, and shakes her head. Toby makes a small noise; at the same time, I feel his fingers scrabble weakly at the back of my hand. He is trying to speak. I put my ear to his mouth and hear the word ‘drink’.

‘He wants a drink,’ I say. ‘Get him water.’

She doesn’t move. It is only then that I see the empty cup on the floor. The stains around his head and on his smock are not blood but wine; he must have been force-fed some draught of poison in a cup of wine, that is what he was trying to tell me. His limbs shoot out in different directions and his body bucks under another violent spasm, until he falls horribly limp in my arms. His eyelids twitch faintly.

‘Send one of your men down to the apothecary now, ask for some potion that will induce vomiting, or any antidote to poison,’ I say, turning to Sidney in desperation, but it is clear that we are too late. Whatever Toby has ingested has already done its work. I squeeze the boy’s hand, but though his fingers are still warm, there is no response.

‘The physician will be here soon enough,’ Mistress Grace says, her tone consoling. ‘I’m sure he will know what to do for the best.’

‘The boy will be dead by then, and you know it,’ I say. I lay Toby down again on the narrow bed. His long hair sticks to his forehead and his mouth is half open as he fights for breath, but with less conviction each time. He looks no more than a child. Caught by a great wave of pity and anger, I raise my head and look at Mistress Grace; her complacent expression as she stands there watching a young boy die fills me with rage. I spring across the room and catch her by the upper arm, pushing her against the wall so fast that she hardly has time to flinch. ‘The physician will see what has happened here, and we will have the Sheriff out before you have time to hide the body. You will hang for murder,
mistress.
’

She makes a little moue with her painted lips and leans her face away, as if she finds it indelicate to be so close to a man. Hypocritical witch, I think, though I let go of her in disgust. There is nothing to be gained from threatening her.

She rubs her arm and moves away to the window. ‘You should never have come here. You should have heeded the warning and stopped prying into matters that are no business of yours. See what your meddling has achieved.’ She jerks her head towards the boy on the bed. My fury seems to swell and burst in my chest, so that I can hardly speak.

‘You dare to blame
me
for this? It was a pitiful scrap of a life this boy had, but it was not yours to throw away when it no longer suited you. None of these children are your property to dispose of. And you will hang for this, I will make sure of it.’

‘Will you?’ she says, a ghost of a smile hovering at her lips. ‘You, Doctor Bruno, with all your influence in this town? You are fond of the boy, I see. And after only one night.’

‘Have you no pity?’ I shout, taking a step towards her. My hand flies to the unfamiliar knife at my belt and I am gratified to see that she looks genuinely frightened. ‘He is a child,’ I say, more quietly, letting my hands fall to my sides. ‘A child.’

‘Bruno,’ Sidney says gently, from the doorway. ‘There is nothing we can do here. Let us go.’

‘Listen to your friend, Bruno,’ Mistress Grace says, folding her arms, though her gaze strays warily to the dagger. ‘I have no doubt the physician will find that the boy died of some sudden seizure. It happens all too frequently.’

‘I’m sure it does, in this place.’ Even as I spit the words at her, I feel the weight of hopelessness settle in my chest. The physician will be part of her circle too, as will the magistrate, the Sheriff, the constables. There will be no justice for one orphan boy. And no one now to testify that anything illegal went on at the House of Vesta between him and Ambrose Pettifer. My accusations will look like no more than malicious slander. ‘We should leave two of your men here to make sure she does not run,’ I say, turning to Sidney. ‘Sir Francis Drake wants her questioned.’

‘I have no intention of running anywhere, but I will not have your men in my house,’ she says, narrowing her eyes. ‘You have no grounds for it. And Sir Francis Drake would do well to remember he is no longer mayor of this town.’ She says this with a hint of satisfaction. We both know any threats I can make are empty. She is entirely confident of her immunity here and not even Drake’s influence can touch it.

I give her a last, hard stare, to let her know I have not surrendered, then cross to the bed and look down at Toby. His eyelid is still twitching and his limp hand jerks involuntarily, but his face has grown a waxy grey, his eyes sunk into shadow. He is halfway across the threshold of death already; if a physician really has been called, he would need a miracle to bring the boy back now. I reach out and take his hand; his fingers are cold and clammy. I wonder what she gave him; with the arsenal of ingredients she keeps to poison infants in the womb, she would not be short of possibilities. I murmur a benediction over him in my own language; it is many years since I last administered any sacraments of the church, and I never will again, yet in this moment I feel there is nothing else I can offer him. The words form as easily as if I had been repeating them every day, and there is a strange comfort in the old familiar expressions, though only for me – Toby cannot hear me now, and would not understand if he could.

‘
By the sacred mysteries of mankind’s restoration, may Almighty God remit for you the punishment of the present life and of the life to come, and may He open to you the gates of Paradise and admit you to everlasting happiness
.’ The way I say it, the sentiment sounds more like a challenge than a prayer. Yet there is a sense of reverence in the room; when I turn back to the door, Sidney and his armed men are standing with their heads bowed. I shoulder past them to the stairs with my eyes to the ground, so they will not see my face. She is right – I caused his death. I failed to save him. And for what?

TWENTY-EIGHT

‘You cannot blame yourself, Bruno. Who was to know she was so ruthless? Here, this way.’

I have not spoken as Sidney leads us back towards the Mayor’s house. His pace hurts my legs and my ribs but I do not complain; what have I to complain about? A churchbell peals insistently from somewhere beyond the rooftop, summoning the town to Evensong.

‘
I
should have known. A woman who throws young girls into the gutter once they have borne her a child to sell? Look at us – walking the streets with armed guards. We were so busy worrying about our own safety that we did not see the real danger. So much easier for her just to silence the boy. God damn her!’ I burst out, stopping at the corner of a side street to catch my breath. ‘We should have taken him with us this afternoon. He would still be alive.’

‘You could not have known,’ Sidney says again, laying a hand on my arm.

I retreat into silence; he does not know, because I never speak of it, how heavy the dead weigh on my conscience. In the turbulent years since I left San Domenico Maggiore, there have been others whose lives I feel I could have saved if I had been quicker to recognise a killer – even those who became victims precisely because they tried to help me. Some nights, their faces appear to me in the mist of sleep, quietly accusing. Sidney takes the view that regret is the most pointless of all sentiments, since the past cannot be changed, but he is young still; I am finding that the more years I accumulate, the closer my regrets shadow me.

‘I wonder if your inamorata is back from Mount Edgecumbe,’ Sidney says, casually, turning up a small side street. ‘She will want to express her gratitude to you, no doubt.’

‘She is hardly my inamorata.’

He only raises an eyebrow and makes a show of suppressing a smirk.

The Mayor’s house is the grandest in the street: a fine four-storey double-gabled building of white stone, with vast windows that stretch almost the entire width of the façade on the first three floors, their expanse an imposing display of wealth for anyone who knows the cost of glass.

We are shown into a spacious parlour on the ground floor by a liveried servant. Drake is seated behind a table at the far end of the room, poring over papers. His head snaps up as we enter, his eyes questioning.

Lady Drake sits in the window, her auburn hair bound up in a gold caul. She is deep in conversation with a portly older man who wears a fine wool doublet and leather boots, his fingers studded with gold rings. He offers a bow to Sidney and introduces himself to me as the Mayor; as I shake his hand, I recall Mistress Grace’s loaded remark about how Drake should remember he is no longer mayor of Plymouth. Did she mean to imply that she need fear no reprisal from the current mayor? The suspicion colours my impression of the man; there is something unctuous about his manner, and I must force myself to accept his welcome with a smile. But he barely has a chance to speak before Lady Drake launches herself at us and clasps both my hands.