Treachery (62 page)

‘Where would Gilbert get any such poison at short notice?’

I shrug. ‘No one has cleared out Jonas’s quarters, I imagine? There is a whole trunk of potential poisons on board. Gilbert is an educated man – I would not put it past him to have read up on physick.’

Drake nods, taking it in.

‘And you gave him a key to your cabin?’ I ask.

‘He had one already, so that he can work there if I am occupied elsewhere. He can only open the main door and the chest where my papers and charts are kept – everything else of value is locked away. I saw no harm in it.’ He rubs his knuckles into the hollow between his eyes. ‘I trusted him, God damn it!’ He lifts his head and looks at me. ‘My brother berates me for investing my faith too quickly in my men. He begs me to remember the price on my head. But I pride myself on being a good judge of character. Pride that comes before a fall, it seems.’ He presses his lips together. ‘Dom Antonio and I fought together, some years ago. I led a force that was supposed to help him recapture the Portuguese throne. Philip of Spain was too strong – all we managed to take were the Azores. That poor man has been running from Spanish assassins for as long as I have – if anything should happen to him aboard my ship, at the hands of my own clerk, Her Majesty would—’ He breaks off; perhaps he cannot even imagine how the Queen would respond. ‘Gilbert came to me from Walsingham, you know. I thought I could trust him.’ He turns to me, his expression somewhere between pleading and outrage. It is not clear if he means Gilbert or Walsingham.

‘Walsingham has been wrong before,’ I say, quietly, tucking my chin down into my collar. I will not forget my own experience at the hands of a man Walsingham had also trusted, mistakenly.

Drake shakes his head and sinks into silence. I count every wave, every slice of the blades through the water, every breath, every heartbeat. The boatman is clearly working at the limit of his strength, and still the journey seems to take half a lifetime. By the time we bump up against the hull of the
Elizabeth
and Drake shouts for a ladder, I begin to dread every buffet of the waves, every moment’s delay.

Captain Fenner hurries across the main deck as soon as he sees Drake climbing aboard.

‘Captain-General – we did not expect you back so soon. Is everything all right?’

‘Where is Dom Antonio?’ Once again, I admire Drake’s ability not to let his fear show in his demeanour. His voice is brusque, but you would never suspect him of panicking.

‘In your cabin, with young Gilbert,’ Fenner says. ‘I showed him all the munitions when he arrived, then he said he wanted to look at the charts. They went off together and I went back to my duties. Shall I fetch—’

‘Thank you, Fenner.’ Drake places a hand on the captain’s arm. ‘Come, Bruno. You too, Fenner – we may have need of you.’

A suspicion of alarm crosses Fenner’s grizzled face, but he merely nods.

I follow Drake up the stairs to the captain’s cabin. Two armed guards flank the door. Drake greets them quietly.

‘Is the Portuguese inside?’

One of the guards nods. ‘With your clerk, sir. They told us to keep watch out here.’

Drake turns to me, dropping his voice. ‘We must proceed carefully. We do not want to startle him – he may do something rash if he thinks he is cornered.’

‘Does Gilbert carry a weapon?’ I ask.

‘Not to my knowledge.’ Drake grimaces. ‘But then it appears he does a great many things outside my knowledge, so that is no guarantee.’

He turns the door handle. It is locked. He takes the key from the ring at his belt, and slides it quietly into the lock, but it meets with resistance halfway. The Captain-General curses under his breath.

‘He has left the key in the lock on the inside, so that it cannot be opened,’ he mouths.

‘Must we break it down, sir?’ Fenner asks.

Drake shakes his head. ‘No. Let us avoid force unless it proves necessary.’

‘Can we get in from the other side?’ I whisper. ‘From the quarter gallery?’

Drake frowns. ‘It could be done, if the rear door or a window was open. You would have to climb down a rope from the poop deck, though – it would be dangerous.’ He gives me an appraising look. ‘You are injured, Bruno – better one of my men tries it.’

I shake my head. ‘I am fit enough. Let me do it while you remain here – we will trap him from two sides.’

Drake considers this and gives a curt nod. ‘Very well. Fenner – take him up and see that he is safe. Hurry – they will be aware that we are out here by now. And, Fenner’ – he drops his voice to a whisper – ‘when you are done up there, I want you to go down and search Master Crosse’s quarters. Bring me any papers, money – anything you find of interest. Search thoroughly.’ He turns back to the cabin door. ‘Gilbert! Are you in there? I cannot open the door – could you unlock it?’

‘Just coming, Captain.’ Gilbert’s voice sounds bright and easy from inside. I hesitate, half-expecting him to throw the door wide to reveal Dom Antonio peacefully poring over navigational charts, no harm done, just to prove me wrong. But the door does not open. Drake rattles the handle.

‘Gilbert – let me in! That is an order.’

‘I am trying, Sir Francis – there seems to be a problem with the lock.’ His tone is still cheerful; it is clear from the acoustics that he is not speaking from close to the door.

‘He’s playing for time,’ I whisper. Drake makes a savage gesture with his head as he lifts his hand to bang on the door. Fenner and I hurry up to the poop deck on the level above.

The old captain does not waste any time with questions about what is happening below; he wordlessly gestures over the wooden guardrail on the starboard side. I lean down and see where the rigging of the mizzenmast is secured to the sides of the sterncastle; it looks straightforward to shin down one of these ropes and drop on to the quarter gallery below.

‘You all right?’ Fenner says. I nod, hoisting myself over the rail, so that I am clinging to it on the other side. Below me is a sheer drop to the water. I shudder, and concentrate my attention on the side of the hull immediately before me. I shuffle along until I can grip the taut rope of the rigging, leaning out, pushing with my feet against the wood as I pass one hand over the other, finding footholds where I can, keeping the tension in my arms though I can feel the rough rope burning the palms of my hands. Once my foot slips against the hull as the ship rocks on a sudden swell; my shoulder wrenches sharply as my full weight hangs from my arms, some thirty or so feet above the sea, but I scrabble with my feet and find my balance again, until I can stretch out my left leg and gain a foothold on the rail of the gallery.

I drop as quietly as I can on to the wooden planks and crouch below the level of the wide casement that runs around three sides of the cabin. The door into the captain’s quarters is directly in front of me; I consider trying it, but if it is locked, Gilbert will hear and we will have lost the element of surprise. I ease myself along until I can raise my head enough to peer through the window.

Dom Antonio is closest to me, seated at the bench behind the captain’s wide table, his back to the window, a series of papers spread before him. His right hand toys with the stem of a wine glass; it is full of a deep-red liquid. My heart lurches, but the Portuguese seems distracted; he is watching Gilbert, who stands behind the inner door. He appears to be fiddling with the key, or at least, he is making a show of doing so. From my vantage point it does not appear that he has any kind of weapon in his hands, though I cannot take that for granted – Gilbert is nothing if not resourceful. Glancing across the cabin, I see that one of the casements on the other side is open a fraction, just enough for me to ease my hand inside. I do not want to alert Gilbert to my presence until I am able to get inside the cabin with my knife, in case he should lunge for Dom Antonio.

‘What is the matter?’ I hear Dom Antonio ask, anxiety in his voice.

‘Nothing to worry about – I think the lock is a little stiff,’ Gilbert replies. ‘Is the wine good?’

Dom Antonio looks at the glass in his hand as if he had forgotten it was there. Drake is hammering impatiently on the door. I have no time to lose. Crouching lower, I scuttle around the gallery until I am under the open casement. I draw my dagger silently, clamp the handle between my teeth; in one movement I reach up, grip the lintel above the window and swing myself through the gap to land on the table. The gust of air sends all the papers flapping to the floor. Dom Antonio jumps back, pressing himself against the seat and making the sign of the cross. Gilbert spins around, staring at me.

‘What—’

‘Jesu, Mary and Joseph – he has come to murder me!’ Dom Antonio cries out. I take the knife from my teeth and point it towards him; he cowers behind the table.

‘Don’t touch that wine,’ I bark. ‘Put it down. Have you drunk any?’

The Portuguese shakes his head and does as he is told.

‘You,’ I say to Gilbert, turning the point of my dagger towards him and jumping down from the table. ‘Get away from that door. And keep your hands where I can see them.’

The young cartographer blinks rapidly behind his eye-glasses and edges across the room, holding his hands up before him, palms outwards, as if to ward off the madman. His tongue darts nervously around his lips. ‘Doctor Bruno, have you quite lost your wits?’

I hold the dagger out, keeping it level and my eyes fixed on him while I cross to the door and, feeling behind me, turn the key with one smooth movement. ‘Nothing wrong with that lock as far as I can see,’ I say, as Drake bursts in, followed by his two armed guards. Gilbert backs towards the table, staring from me to Drake in amazement.

‘Dom Antonio – are you all right?’ Drake says, unsure who to address first.

‘I am quite well, thank you. I was just taking a look through your charts here, when – what is happening, Francis? Is this man dangerous?’ He gestures to me.

‘This one, no,’ Drake says, his shoulders settling now that he has regained control of the situation. ‘Gilbert – I see you are giving Dom Antonio my good wine?’

Gilbert colours. ‘I – yes, I thought, in your absence, Sir Francis, you would have wanted me to show your guest the proper hospitality—’

‘Most thoughtful of you,’ Drake says, taking a step closer to the table. There is an edge to his voice that Gilbert cannot fail to have noticed. ‘But he does not appear to be thirsty. Why don’t you drink it instead?’ Drake swipes up the glass from under Dom Antonio’s nose and holds it out to Gilbert.

The young cartographer shakes his head urgently. ‘I can’t, Sir Francis – you know I do not touch strong liquor. I have a weak constitution.’ He breaks into a nervous laugh.

‘Nonsense – this is excellent stuff. It’ll put fire in your belly. Drink it down.’

Gilbert opens and closes his mouth again, blinks hard and appears to decide he has no choice. He reaches out a hand for the glass, but as he takes it from Drake, he allows it to slip through his fingers. The fine Venetian crystal shatters against the boards, the wine splashing in an arc like blood. Gilbert cries out and presses his fingers to his lips.

‘Forgive my clumsiness, Sir Francis – I did not mean …’ He swallows hard. ‘I will repay the damage, of course.’

‘Will you?’ Drake raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you know how much Venetian glass costs, Gilbert? Where will you come by that kind of money?’

Gilbert swallows. The puddle of wine seeps into the wood at his feet. So we will never know now whether it was poisoned, though Gilbert’s reluctance to drink it himself does not argue in his favour. I watch him closely; if he is acting, it is skilfully done. He has said nothing so far to give himself away, despite being caught off guard.

‘Dom Antonio,’ I say, turning to the Portuguese, who looks entirely confused by the intrusion, ‘the other night you thought you recognised this man.’ I jerk my dagger in Gilbert’s direction.

‘Yes, but it seems I was mistaken.’ Dom Antonio gives a theatrical sigh. ‘I lose track, you see, in all my travels. Faces seem familiar, even when they are not.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I struggle to keep the impatience from my voice, ‘but where did you think you knew him from? You must have an idea.’

‘Well, yes.’ Dom Antonio looks at me, mildly bewildered. ‘It seemed to me that we had met before in Paris. Not more than a year ago, certainly. This young man had a beard then, but it didn’t suit him.’

‘I have told Dom Antonio, with the greatest respect, that he is mistaken,’ Gilbert cuts in. ‘We have never met before. Nor have I grown a beard, not since I tried at twenty.’ Again, the self-deprecating laugh.

Dom Antonio holds out his hands, palms up. ‘There you are,’ he says. ‘An old man gets confused.’

‘Where in Paris?’ I demand.

‘If I had to pin it down,’ the Portuguese says, creasing his face in concentration until his brows knit together, ‘I would say I had seen him at the Spanish embassy. I was there trying to negotiate terms of an accord with Spain through the Ambassador—’

‘Bernadino de Mendoza.’

‘I see by your face that you have met him. Yes – a duplicitous fellow. They offered talks, but it all came to nothing. As always, with King Philip.’ His mouth turns down.

‘And Master Crosse here?’ I say, cutting off any further lament.

Dom Antonio narrows his eyes to peer at Gilbert. ‘I would swear that I saw this young man at Mendoza’s residence, being shown in as I was shown out. But if he says it is impossible …’ He shrugs again.

‘Now that I think of it,’ Gilbert says carefully, ‘it is possible that I was delivering a letter to the Ambassador. That was sometimes part of my duties when I was in Paris.’

‘Was that where you cultivated the habit of passing letters to the Spanish?’ I say. My dagger is held level, pointed towards him. Light glints dully off its blade. Gilbert jerks his head up and stares at me.

‘What?’ The colour drains from his face. His gaze swings wildly to Drake, who holds up a hand to silence me.

‘Put away your weapon, Bruno, we are only talking,’ he says, with quiet authority. Gilbert’s face visibly smooths out as he watches me sheath the dagger. ‘Speaking of letters – I received a very distressing letter from Jonas Solon shortly before his body was found at the foot of the cliffs. In it he confessed to the murder of Robert Dunne.’