‘What of your nervous friend Dumas, the clerk?’ Fowler asks. ‘Has anyone pointed the finger at him?’
‘Not yet. He has kept his head down.’
‘Good. Then at the moment, their suspicions are only born of malice. We may hope to shrug that off easily enough. What matters is that no one should think to look in Dumas’s direction. If anyone questions him, we are finished.’
‘Quite right,’ I say, with feeling. Dumas would fall apart at the first accusation; at all costs, he must remain below their line of sight. Then I recall the figure I thought I saw slipping behind the church on Leadenhall Street when Dumas and I left Phelippes’s house, and the coincidence of Douglas’s sudden appearance at the very place where I was meeting Fowler, and again a sense of unease prickles at the back of my skull. It is impossible to know who to trust.
‘What of this new murder, then?’ Fowler whispers, as we tuck ourselves into the fringes of the preacher’s audience. ‘It must have happened right under our noses. Was that why you were called out of the room?’
In a low voice I tell him all that happened the previous night at Whitehall, including my previous dealings with Abigail, the murder of Cecily Ashe and my suspicions that the murder of both maids is bound up with the plots brewing at Salisbury Court. When I have finished, he gives a brief whistle, shaking his head, his eyes still fixed on the pulpit.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ he murmurs. ‘Bruno, this plot is bigger than we imagined. You think they do mean to kill Elizabeth? I had thought the Duke of Guise wanted to take her prisoner, if this invasion succeeds, to try her publicly for heresy, make an example of her.’
‘Perhaps they feel it would be more likely to succeed if the country has no sovereign to rally behind,’ I whisper back. ‘It would leave England in disarray, entirely vulnerable. As a prisoner, she would inspire loyalty, the way Mary does now. Dead, she can do nothing.’
‘The people would cry out for a strong monarch then.’ Fowler squints into the wind. ‘My God. So you think one of our friends at Salisbury Court is the killer?’
‘Behind the killings, at any rate, if not holding the knife himself. I don’t see how it can be otherwise. Cecily Ashe was given the ring Mary Stuart sent Howard, it must be as a token of her part in the conspiracy. And the man who gave it to her has to be the man who killed her, probably out of fear that she would betray the plot.’
‘And the same man murdered the girl Abigail?’
‘Abigail must have been killed because she was Cecily’s friend, because the killer thought she knew something of his identity or the plot. But it’s my belief that she was killed because he saw her talking to me that day.’ I lower my eyes, take a deep breath. ‘And the one person who was there and saw us was Philip Howard. He fits Abigail’s description too.’
Fowler frowns.
‘But the Earl of Arundel was at the concert last night, I saw him. They all were, now I think of it.’
‘He would have only needed a few minutes before it started to find the kitchen boy and make sure she had the message to meet at the kitchen dock. Then his accomplice would have known where to find her.’
‘All we really know about this man,’ Fowler says slowly, rubbing his forefinger across his chin, ‘is that he is an eminent figure and young women regard him as handsome. But you might reasonably say that of any of the men who gather around the ambassador’s table. Courcelles, for instance, is of noble birth and considered very attractive to women, I believe. Madame de Castelnau certainly thinks so, you only have to see the way she looks at him. And he’d have ample opportunity to spirit away a package sent to the embassy.’
‘By that token, so would Throckmorton, and he is a good-looking boy, I suppose.’
‘But Throckmorton is never here for long enough to plot a regicide or two murders, he is always on the road to Sheffield. He could have taken the ring from the package, I suppose, but I don’t believe he has the ingenuity. He’s one of those who will happily obey as long as someone tells him where to go, but he does not invent plots for himself.’ He shakes his head. ‘That only leaves Douglas and Henry Howard.’
‘Douglas?’ Incredulous, I forget to keep my voice down; a woman in front turns and pins us with a stern look, her finger to her lips, though how she can hope to hear the sermon over the crowd’s cheerful jeering and whooping, I have no idea. I consider Douglas for a moment, and wonder if Fowler might have a point. He may have that weathered look and greying hair, but he has a strong jaw and a mischievous gleam in his eye that goes with a sense of being at ease in his skin; it’s possible that a green girl might describe him as handsome. And even Henry Howard, with his pointed beard and pointed eyebrows, has a certain commanding presence that might be attractive. In any event, it seems clear that such a subjective description will not be much help to us.
‘Who is to say what women find handsome anyway?’ Fowler whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘There may even be those who say so of you, Bruno,’ he adds, with a sideways smile.
‘
Grazie
. You’re not so bad yourself,’ I reply with a grin, though my mind flits unavoidably to Marie and her attempt to seduce me. Whatever her motive, I do not think it was my face.
‘Listen to us - debating who is handsome and who is not, like a pair of old priests at the Southwark boy-houses.’ Fowler gives a grim laugh. ‘We’ll need better evidence if we are to find this man. But where to start?’
‘I know where I mean to look,’ I say, through my teeth.
The preacher at Paul’s Cross appears to have reached some kind of conclusion; a smattering of applause erupts, as if for a travelling show, then the crowd around us begins to break and dissipate, like ink in water, of its own accord, drifting in twos and threes away from the pulpit. Clouds are scudding up across the sky from the river and the wind has lifted; the air smells of rain again. Fowler pulls his cap down and we turn away, back towards the south side of the cathedral and its bustle of merchants, pedlars and cut-purses. There is a strange kind of relief that comes from talking, even if no solution is found. I feel lighter for confiding in Fowler, and curse myself again for my stubborn desire to find Cecily’s killer without help. Perhaps if I had been less preoccupied with my own success, Abigail might not have paid the price. The weight of remorse sits like stones in my stomach when I picture her body laid out on the cold floor of that storeroom, and the determination to see this man brought to justice burns with a new intensity.
‘Listen, Bruno,’ Fowler says gently, laying a hand on my arm. ‘You want it to be one or other of the Howards. I don’t blame you - there is much to dislike about them. But we need to keep our eyes and our minds open. There is something strange about this. If poisoning the queen was always a part of this Guise invasion plan, then why has no one mentioned it at any of Castelnau’s secret meetings? And if the murder of Cecily Ashe was to protect their mission, why do they all behave as if it is news to them?’
These are questions that touch on my own misgivings. I crane my head skywards; the light is fading and I must make haste if I am to find a boatman who will take me as far as Mortlake this evening.
‘One or more of them is dissembling,’ I offer. ‘But the group that gathers at Salisbury Court has been brought together by Castelnau. It does not necessarily follow that all its members will like or trust one another. Perhaps those who are plotting Elizabeth’s death are brewing their own plans and merely using the French invasion as a vehicle.’ Again, I consider the possibility that Henry Howard may be courting Mary Stuart with his eye on the throne, but I say nothing to Fowler. Perhaps it is childish, but I want the credit for suggesting this theory to Walsingham.
‘True,’ he says, thoughtfully, squinting up at the sky. ‘I have the impression Henry Howard would rather be directing this enterprise himself, but the authorities are rather too interested in his family’s business for him to take full control without being discovered. He needs the cover of the French embassy to communicate with Mary’s supporters in Paris, but you can see he doesn’t like Castelnau involving the likes of you and me.’
‘What’s your relationship with Howard?’ I ask, curious.
Fowler shrugs.
‘He tolerates me because Castelnau has persuaded him I have useful connections at the Scottish court and, as you know, any intelligence about King James’s inclinations with regard to his mother’s claim is worth a great deal to the conspiracy. I do not think Howard mistrusts me as such, but he never seems at ease when I am there. I sense that he doubts the loyalty of anyone who does not share the ferocity of his own motives.’
‘Then he must doubt all of us,’ I reflect. ‘No one else has such a personal vendetta against Elizabeth and her government as he.’
He nods, with feeling.
‘What’s more, as you saw the other night, he has lost patience with Castelnau’s insistence on diplomatic relations. With Spanish money committed, Howard may be tempted to dispatch with the French embassy altogether and pursue his course with Mendoza.’ He presses his lips together. ‘In the Spanish ambassador he has found an ally as ruthless as he.’
I picture Howard huddled with Mendoza at the Whitehall concert, their dark heads bent close together, the contempt they both turned on me when I approached. I am about to reply when a movement catches my eye; I turn, but the churchyard is a constant tide of bodies, eddying around one another, many with their hoods pulled up or hats pulled down against the wind. It is impossible to tell one from another, and yet for a moment there, I sensed that prickling sensation of being watched. Is he here? Or am I growing as skittish as Leon Dumas?
‘Well, we may learn more tomorrow night at Arundel House,’ Fowler mutters, as we pass the magnificent doors of the south transept and turn our steps away from the churchyard. ‘The Earl of Arundel is giving a supper party for the usual guests.’
‘I fear I am not top of the Howards’ invitation list.’
‘I’m sure the ambassador can find a way to include you. Speak to him. And let us keep our wits sharp. Which way are you walking?’
I pause, glancing towards the mouth of a narrow alley that leads between timber-framed buildings to a lane that will take me down to Paul’s Wharf. ‘To the river. I will see you soon, no doubt.’
‘Are you heading west? Perhaps we could take a boat together?’
‘Mortlake. But I think it will be quicker if I go alone. I mean no offence,’ I add, quickly, ‘only I am late already. And we should be careful.’ I glance over my shoulder.
‘Mortlake? You are not going to see Walsingham?’ He drops his voice again.
‘No. An acquaintance who lives nearby.’
He gives me a long look through narrowed eyes, as if he suspects this is not the whole truth. Perhaps he imagines I am attempting to pass him by, taking some juicy scrap of information to Walsingham that I have kept back from him. Such doubts has our master bred into us; instinctively we sift every man’s words for double meanings, even those we are supposed to trust.
‘God speed, then - you have a long journey.’ Fowler hesitates, as if he has grown suddenly shy. ‘I am glad we spoke of these matters, Bruno. Ours can be a lonely task at times, do you not feel? It is my hope that we can combine our wits and energies to find Walsingham the proof he needs to bring all these intriguers to justice. Well. You know where I am if ever you need a confidant, or some company.’ Then he claps me on the back, pulls up his collar and walks away briskly towards Carter Lane, while I turn towards the river as fat raindrops begin to spit emphatically from the darkening sky.
Mortlake, south-west London
1st October, Year of Our Lord 1583
Out on the river, I find a moment of calm to unravel my tangled thoughts for the first time in what seems like days. The rain clouds have hastened the dusk, and I sit in the prow of the little wherry wrapped in my cloak and a curtain of thin drizzle, lulled by the rhythm of the oars, looking out at the lights winking from windows of the riverside buildings. I have been fortunate in finding one of the few boatmen who doesn’t feel the need to fill the journey with idle chatter; his lantern sways on its hook as he pulls against the tide and in the absence of voices, my thoughts return again to Marie’s behaviour this morning. My refusing her, with the best of intentions, has left me at her mercy, should she decide to make trouble for me. Perhaps it would have been easier to offer her some encouragement, allow her some small measure of what she wanted. In that moment of closeness, when she had leaned in to kiss me, my body had remembered what it was to be touched. It was some months since I had kissed a woman, and that had not ended well. What I had told Marie was true - my years in the Dominican order had at least taught me to master desire, to subdue the stubborn cravings of the body. But no amount of self-discipline can blot out loneliness from the heart. The life I have chosen - or had forced upon me, I am never sure which - offers little opportunity for intimacy of any kind. A writer, especially a writer in exile, must learn to be self-contained, to be content within his own mind, and for the most part I am so. But there is always, somewhere inside, however muted, the dull ache of a longing that I sometimes fear will be a lifelong companion. If I were a different man, I might have had no qualms about Marie; a man like Douglas, I imagine, would not think twice about taking any woman who offered herself. But apart from my loyalty to Castelnau, there is a coldness in Marie that instinctively repels me, even while her obvious attractions draw me in. Inevitably, my thoughts drift back to Sophia Underhill, the last woman I had held in my arms, the one whose mind and beauty had pierced my careful defences only a few months ago. I wonder where she is now and whether she has found some happiness.
Usually when my thoughts tend along this path, I can rein them back by setting my mind to work through the ordered paces of my memory wheel. This evening the images all meta-morphose into a picture of Marie’s lips; as a remedy, it is not especially effective.
As a result, I arrive in Mortlake as soaked in melancholy as in drizzle. Dusk has fallen and along the river bank the shapes of dwellings and trees grow indistinct, blurred by rain against a grey sky. I shiver, and feel suddenly very far from home. I must take hold of myself, I say sternly; my one firm purpose here is to find a killer, and self-pity is a distraction for weak minds.
At first there is no answer from Dee’s house; I stand at the door for some minutes as the rain grows steadily harder, and a cold anxiety creeps up to my throat. Perhaps the whole household has been taken for questioning; perhaps Ned Kelley has returned and is keeping the door barred. I shade my brow with my hand and try to peer through one of the small casements to the side of the front door, but there is no light within. Just as I am contemplating looking for a window I can force or break to climb in, there is a creak and the door opens a crack to show the flame of a candle.
‘Mistress Dee, it is I, Giordano Bruno, come to hear if there is news from court.’ I rush back to the porch, relieved. The face of a woman scowls at me from the darkness within. It is not Dee’s wife. ‘I beg your pardon. Is your mistress at home?’
She turns away; I hear footsteps, voices in hushed conference, then the door is opened wider but no more graciously. Behind the sullen servant I catch sight of Jane Dee, who steps forward into the light as the door is closed behind me, the toddler Arthur hanging on to her skirts, his small oval face tilted warily up to me.
‘Doctor Bruno.’ She smiles, but the strain shows around her eyes. The baby on her hip rubs its eyes with a small fist, knocking its linen cap awry; Jane expertly rights it with one hand, her expression tightening back to anxiety. She is about thirty years of age, not beautiful but with a kind, open face; Dee depends on her utterly and has joked that I must never think of marrying unless I can find another woman like Jane. I have the greatest respect for her; there are not many wives who would tolerate a house filled with the smell of boiling horse dung and the best of the household income going on manuscripts and astronomical instruments. Her hair is bound up untidily, with strands coming loose where the infant clutches at them, and she looks pale, older than her years. She raises her face to me and attempts another smile.
‘Do you bring news about my husband?’
‘No.’ I hold out my hands, a show of emptiness. ‘I came because I hoped you might have heard some.’
She glances briefly at the maid, who still hovers by the door, something irritatingly furtive in her posture. Jane gestures to me with her head, shifts the baby to her other hip, and I follow her and Arthur along a passageway and into a chilly parlour, where a fire is dying in the hearth. Jane pokes it and a feeble shower of sparks issues up the chimney; for a brief moment the logs gamely struggle back into life. She looks at me apologetically.
‘Take off your wet cloak, Doctor Bruno, and stand here by our sad apology for a fire, if you will. They came for him late last night.’ She brushes her hair from her face and bounces the infant gently to soothe it. Arthur sits down cross-legged, close to his mother’s feet, his eyes still fixed on me. ‘Five men in royal colours, said it was urgent. They bundled him out into a boat, hardly gave him a chance to fetch his cloak.’ Her mouth presses into a white line.
‘Were they rough?’ I lower my voice, glancing at the boy. Jane shakes her head tightly.
‘No. But they were armed, if you can believe it. Why would she send armed men for my husband, Doctor Bruno, who has never done anyone a stroke of harm in his life?’
I hesitate.
‘There was another murder at court. Earlier in the evening. You had not heard?’
Her eyes widen.
‘I have not been out. I have had enough to do with the comings and goings here.’ Her face darkens. ‘A murder? But surely -? What has that to do with us?’
‘When Doctor Dee went to see the queen the night before the murder,’ I begin, in the same low voice, ‘he described to her a vision of a red-haired woman violently killed. What he described was almost exactly what happened the following night to one of the queen’s maids, who had red hair. Not surprisingly, your husband’s apparent foreknowledge is a matter of interest to the Privy Council. These murders are regarded as a threat to the queen herself.’ I pause again, unsure how much I should divulge. Jane nods slowly, her lips still pressed tight. The baby grizzles; without looking, Jane inserts the knuckle of her little finger into its mouth, and it gnaws gratefully.
‘So they believe he prophesied it by some devilry?’ Her scorn is somehow reassuring.
‘I think they are more interested in whether he could have learned of it by more ordinary means.’
She frowns.
‘But of course it wasn’t his vision,’ she says, and the bitterness is unmistakable.
‘No. The vision was told to him by the cunning-man Kelley.’
‘Who has not been seen these past four days,’ she finishes. ‘But naturally my husband won’t tell the queen that. Won’t want her to think he doesn’t have the gift. Poor John.’ She laughs sadly. ‘He doesn’t have it and he never will. It’s not something you can get from books, however much time and money you spend fretting over them. My own grandmother had it, so I should know - she could divine with the sieve and the shears, and tell dreams. But if you ask me, that Ned Kelley has no such gift either. Kelley is many things - and it wouldn’t surprise me if a murderer was one of them - but he doesn’t see the future nor speak with any spirits.’ She nods a full stop and shifts the baby to her other hip.
‘We are agreed on that,’ I say, with feeling. ‘But I would like to know where Ned Kelley had his prophecy from. It cannot be coincidence. And I fear your husband’s loyalty to him is more than he deserves. If John knows anything, he will not divulge it to the queen’s advisors, and I fear that will be to his own cost.’
Jane sucks in her cheeks and glances down at the boy, who has nudged himself a few inches nearer to my feet.
‘You never spoke truer there, Doctor Bruno. It has been a sore enough subject between us these past months. God in heaven only knows how John has allowed himself to be duped by that man, I cannot account for it. Sleeping under our roof, taking the bread from our table, from the mouths of my babes -‘ She breaks off, realising how her voice has risen; there is a sudden colour in her cheeks. Little Arthur cranes his head up with interest.
‘Who took the bread from the table?’
‘Hush, my dove.’ Jane stops, motions to me to be silent. We all stand still for a moment, straining to hear, then she tiptoes across the room and flings open the parlour door. The scrabble of hurried footsteps can be heard retreating up the passage. Jane jerks her head towards the sound and casts me a meaningful look, as if to say, You see what I have to put up with?
‘You said there had been comings and goings here,’ I say, as she closes the door again. ‘What did you mean?’
‘John’s library. You know how he welcomes all comers, says his collection should be for any scholar who knows how to read them with due care? All except his magic books, naturally,’ she adds, dropping her voice. ‘Well, this very morning, while John is still detained at court, a man turned up on the doorstep, well before nine, saying he had travelled a long road to consult a particular manuscript, and that he had letters from my husband granting him permission.’ The baby grizzles and she offers it her knuckle again. It seems less willing to be fobbed off this time, and turns its face away, its cheeks an angry red. ‘I didn’t like to let a stranger in with John away and me here on my own with the babies, but neither did I like to turn the fellow away, for John never did, though you can imagine the sorts that fetch up at our door.’
I think of Kelley, and nod. ‘So you let him in?’
‘I didn’t know what else to do.’ She looks up, pained.
‘Did he show you these letters?’
‘He showed me some papers - you have to understand I don’t read well myself, Doctor Bruno, but I know my own husband’s signature. So I let him into the outer library, but I told him I wouldn’t know where to begin with this book he wanted. I said he’d have to look it out for himself, if he could, but as you know, John keeps no rhyme nor reason to his bookshelves.’
‘Did he tell you the title of this book?’
She frowns.
‘I’m sure he must have, but I don’t know if I recall. It was Latin.’ She shakes her head. ‘In any case, it seems he didn’t find it, because I kept an eye on him. Dropped in every few minutes, you know. I’m not a fool - some of those books are worth a year’s wages and I wouldn’t put it past anyone to try and steal them, no matter how much of a fine gentleman they dress. John has noticed a few missing, though I put that down to our house guest.’ Her lips draw tight with dislike.
‘He was a gentleman, then, this visitor?’ I ask, suspicion pricking. ‘Well dressed? What did he look like?’
‘Oh, tall. He wore a hat with a great feather which he didn’t take off even indoors - I thought that ill-mannered, I remember. Just shows you can have all the fine cloth you like and it won’t improve your manners. He had a pointed beard, dark, cut like this in a triangle.’ She indicates with her free hand, taking it from the baby’s mouth; it complains loudly.
‘A young man, was he?’
She considers.
‘Younger than John. Older than you, I’d guess. Forties, maybe.’
My heart seems to contract; it sounds unmistakably like Henry Howard. No doubt there are other men who would fit such a description, but who else would take the opportunity to rifle through Dee’s library, knowing he was detained? And if it had been Howard, what was he hoping to find?
‘So you observed him in the library?’ I make sure my voice betrays no alarm; the poor woman has enough to be anxious about. ‘Did you see what he read? Did he try to take anything?’
‘I don’t think so. But it was strange. He combed those shelves like the hounds of hell were at his heels, almost in a frenzy. And when he thought I wasn’t looking I saw him trying the door to John’s inner rooms, you know, where he keeps his secret books. Thank God John had locked it up and taken the key with him. Tapping on the panelling, too, this fellow was, as if he were looking for some secret hiding place. He even stuck his hand up the chimney breast - I didn’t see him do it, but when he came to leave he had soot on his sleeve.’ She half laughs at the man’s audacity.
I happen to know, as she must, that Dee keeps certain papers in a box hidden in a recess inside the chimney breast in his own office. Whoever this man was, he clearly had a good idea of what he hoped to find, and it must have been something he suspected Dee would keep away from prying eyes.
‘How long did he stay? Did he give the impression that he found what he wanted?’
‘So many questions, Doctor Bruno!’ Jane tries to make her voice light, but I catch the fear in it as she jiggles the baby more urgently on her hip. ‘He stayed until it was past dinner time, though he didn’t seem to notice. He took down one or two books and glanced inside them, I didn’t see what, but that was more for show. I started to think maybe he’d come on purpose, knowing John was away, thinking he’d have free run of the place. But who could have known about that, except the queen and her people?’ Her voice has risen; she looks at me as if for reassurance. ‘Do you know who he was? You suspect something, I can tell by your face.’
‘I think you should not allow any stranger in while your husband is detained,’ I say. ‘Especially not this man, if he shows up again. And I will see if someone can be sent to keep an eye on you while John is at court - it is not right that you should be left alone with the children.’