He grimaces. ‘But I have been a fool. That letter I wrote to Mary assuring her of my loyalty in the face of Howard’s accusations - I wrote it in haste, to catch Throckmorton before he left, so I did not bother to use the cipher. It has the embassy seal - if it should have fallen into the wrong hands -‘
His eyes are fixed on me, asking for some reassurance. I would like to tell him that I think whoever killed Dumas would not have the slightest interest in his letter, but I can’t be certain of anything any more. My mind is a cat’s-cradle of connections and theories, but this habit of chasing one idea until I begin to believe it is truth has led me into trouble before and I must not repeat the same mistake I made over Henry Howard. Even so, I cannot help returning to my encounter that morning - Dumas’s almost-confession and Marie’s abrupt appearance - like a tongue probing a sore tooth.
Marie
. Her devotion to the Duke of Guise and his cause; her ruthlessness; her intimacy with Courcelles. If Marie had overheard Dumas in my room before she knocked, if she feared what he might confide - what could that mean? That
she
was behind the theft of the ring? Dumas had certainly looked stricken when she appeared, though I had assumed that was just the awkwardness of the situation. But Dumas, as I had learned last night, also paid a visit to Arundel House on the day he died, before his errand to Throckmorton; in his agitated state, what might he have said there, and to whom, that could have led someone to fear his loose tongue?
The thought of Arundel House recalls in an instant the events of the past night, momentarily forgotten in the shock of seeing Dumas dead. I pass my hand across my brow and my knees almost buckle under a sudden wash of exhaustion, so that I have to put out a hand to steady myself against the trestle.
‘Are you all right, Bruno?’ Castelnau takes a step forward, offers me his hand. ‘You should go inside. I’ll have the kitchen servants heat you some water to bathe.’
I rub at my face self-consciously as I begin to walk slowly around the trestle, peering at Dumas’s corpse as if intense scrutiny might yield some clue, as if his poor dead limbs might speak to me of who did this. I pause for a moment by his head and lightly touch his hair, matted and darkened from the river; perhaps out of tiredness, frustration, sorrow or guilt, my eyes are suddenly filled with tears and I have to turn aside to rub them brusquely away with the heel of my hand.
‘He was fond of you,’ Castelnau says gently. ‘He was an odd one, Leon - kept to himself. But he spoke highly of you. I think you were the nearest he had to a friend in this country.’
‘I should have been a better friend,’ I say, and it comes out as a croak.
‘We could all have served him better. The pity is that we never thought of it while he lived. So often the way. Come,’ Castelnau says, gesturing towards the door. I whisper a silent farewell and am about to step away when my eye is caught by a mark on the front of Dumas’s shirt. On the left side, over his heart, a crimson stain blossoms, barely visible under the grime left by the water. Cautiously I peel back his shirt to see the skin beneath cut and matted with blood, just in that one spot, about the size of a gold angel. I spit on my hand and rub it on the dried blood, using the mud-stiffened linen of his shirt to scrape away the scab.
‘What are you doing, Bruno?’ Castelnau moves closer, peering now as if his curiosity has overcome his aversion. I find I cannot speak.
On Dumas’s breast, cut with the point of a knife, is an astrological symbol. A circle with a cross beneath, a semicircle balanced on top, curving upwards. For a moment I can’t fathom it; this sign is out of keeping with the others, it has nothing to do with the apocalypse prophecies or the Great Conjunction. But as I stare at the mark deftly cut into my friend’s flesh, I understand: this is the sign of Mercury, the messenger of the gods. Whoever killed Dumas left this as a signature, a deliberate nod to his connection with the other deaths and surely a mocking reference to his role as courier. I clench my teeth; anger boils up and sticks in my throat. This murderer treats death as a game, carving signs into skin as a private joke - but meant for whom? Unlike the marks of Jupiter and Saturn on the bodies of Cecily and Abigail, this one is discreet, almost an afterthought. Dumas’s death was a matter of necessity, not intended as a public display, and yet this mark stands out as a taunt, a message from the killer to someone he - or she - knew would understand its meaning, just in case they should see it. Is that someone me, I wonder?
‘What is that?’ Castelnau points a finger at the raw-edged cut.
‘A knife wound, I think.’ I lift the dead man’s shirt back into place and press my palm for a moment over his still heart.
The ambassador gives me a long look. His eyes are tight and bloodshot, the skin beneath sagging, but he regards me as father might a wayward son.
‘You should clean yourself up, Bruno. Later, I want you to tell me your version of what passed last night at Arundel House. But first, I recommend you sleep.’
‘And you, my lord?’
‘Oh, sleep refuses to keep me company.’ He passes both hands over his face as if washing; it is a gesture of defeat. ‘I must go to see Mendoza this morning. The Spanish grow closer to Mary Stuart by the day and if we are not careful, they will squeeze out even the Duke of Guise once the invasion is underway. I will have Courcelles start the necessary arrangements for Leon’s burial while I am out. The aldermen have the sheriffs making enquiries in the borough, but I do not hold out much hope that we will find the villains who did this.’
‘There must always be hope, my lord,’ I say, touching him lightly on the arm as he opens the door for me. But in this instance I am not sure I believe it any longer.
Bathed and dressed in a fresh shirt and underhose, I lie on the bed of my attic room, staring at the ceiling, a whole choir of pains singing behind my eyes. I have slept fitfully past dinner time, though when I woke a jug of small beer and some bread had been left outside my room, a thoughtful gesture I guessed came from Castelnau. Washing away the layers of soot and Thames mud in a tub of hot water provided by one of the kitchen servants has revealed a colourful array of cuts and bruises, but my exhausted body cannot drag my mind with it into dreams. The shock of seeing Dumas murdered has made me forget temporarily the seriousness of my own predicament: Henry Howard wants me silenced.
‘Rumour travels with winged sandals, like Mercury,’ Howard had said to me at the Whitehall concert, on the night of Abigail’s murder. Mercury, the messenger of the gods. Was that part of his cryptic warning, or merely co incidence? Now our own messenger, Dumas, lies dead with the mark of Mercury cut into his chest. My only protection lies in Howard’s fear for his own reputation and public standing; now that I have deprived him of his chance to kill me in a perfect simulation of an accident, he will at least - I hope - be cautious about anything that would cause a scandal or link my death back to him. Inside Salisbury Court, I ought to be safe, but I have little doubt that as soon as I step into the streets of London it will only be a matter of time before I am the next to be dragged into a side street with a rope around my neck. I could tell Castelnau about the threat from Howard, but what could he do? The ambassador is already too anxious about making an enemy of Howard and pushing him into the arms of Mendoza. I should get a message to Fowler about the genealogy and through him I could alert Walsingham to Howard’s intentions, but here I am torn because I feel an instinctive desire to protect the secret of Howard’s chapel. If Arundel House were to be searched, his experimentation with magic would surely come to light and the Hermes book would be seized by the authorities, who might in their ignorance see fit to destroy it. At least while it is in Henry Howard’s hands I know it will remain protected, even if for the moment it is also out of my reach; though in his eyes we are mortal enemies, we are also curiously bound by this secret and our shared desire for it. I close my eyes and summon to mind the feel of its stiff pages and rough leather binding under my fingertips; the loss of it hits me again like a physical pang. Given time and opportunity, I have no doubt that Dee and I between us could break the Hermetic cipher. It is just a matter of retrieving the book somehow. But if Fowler has already reported the previous night’s meeting to Walsingham, as he surely must, perhaps Master Secretary is already drawing up plans for an official search of Arundel House. I can only trust that Henry Howard, who has taken considerable risks for that book and guarded it for fourteen years, will have the wit to keep it safe from the pursuivants.
Eventually I feel I must get up and do something. I pull on clean breeches, shake my damp hair into some sort of shape and take a look at my reflection in the glass by my bed. The wound on my temple is healing well, but my beard is unruly and to my bleary eyes the past few days seem to have aged me by years. There is still a stubborn rim of soot around my hairline. I pour some water from the pitcher I keep on a table by the window into a shallow bowl and rinse my teeth with salt and water. Well, I think, if Marie’s interest in me is genuine, she will not be deterred by the lingering scent of Thames mud. Now is the time to put her to the test. She is not the only one who can try to use her body to tease out information.
The house is silent as I cross the first-floor gallery, my footsteps echoing around the dark wood as I step through angled shafts of light. At any moment I expect to see one of the servants, or Courcelles, with his gift of appearing wherever I happen to be, wearing his most contemptuous face. But there is no one, and I reach the rear corridor of the first floor, where Marie and her daughter have their rooms, unimpeded. From behind a closed door opposite the back staircase I hear the high-pitched chatter of a little girl interrupted by a woman’s voice, more severe. It does not sound like Marie. The second door must be her chamber. If she is not there, so much the better; I can at least make a search of her room and if she should find me there, I have a ready excuse. With a deep breath, I knock softly at the door.
‘
Entrez
.’
She is seated at a small writing desk by the window, a pen in her hand. She looks up and an expression of confusion flits briefly across her face when she sees me in the doorway, as if I am out of context, an actor who has wandered on to the stage in the wrong scene, but she composes herself quickly and motions to me to close the door.
‘Bruno.’ She stands and smooths down her skirt; she wears a dress of pale gold silk, the bodice sewn with pearl buttons. Her hair is unbound and falls around her shoulders; the light catches the curve of her cheekbone as she moves towards me. I remind myself that I am doing this to catch a murderer, and that this woman may even be the architect of those murders.
‘You have heard the terrible news about the clerk, I suppose?’ She does not immediately approach me but stands a few feet away, her hands folded in front of her. She seems more than a little discomfited by my unexpected visit, which is probably to my advantage.
‘Dumas. Yes. I - I can hardly believe it.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb and lower my eyes. Let her think I am overcome with emotion; women are always glad of an opportunity to comfort a man in distress, I have noticed.
‘One can so easily forget what a dangerous city this is.’ She gives a little shudder of distaste. ‘Especially if you are a Catholic. Poor - Dumas, was it? And how are you today? You must have quite a headache.’ She laughs, nervously, and glances at the door.
‘Yes. I wanted to apologise for my conduct last night -‘ I begin, touching my fingers to my temple.
‘Oh, please think nothing of it. It was amusing to see the Earl of Arundel so shocked. He really is the most unbearable prig.’ She pouts, and this time her laughter sounds more relaxed. ‘I did not take you for a drinker though, Bruno.’
‘No, I am not usually,’ I say, allowing my gaze to wander around the room in a way that I hope is not too obvious. Against the opposite wall stands a bed with white curtains drawn around and beside it a dresser with a looking-glass propped against the wall, strewn with pots of cosmetics, brushes and glass bottles. If someone wanted to fill a perfume bottle with poison, here would be an obvious place to find one. By the window is the small writing desk; several sheets of paper lie covered in neat script where she left off at my interruption. I turn my attention back to her face. ‘It was out of character. I have a lot on my mind. Forgive me.’
Finally she seems to soften; she comes closer, lays a hand on my arm.
‘Nothing to forgive. We are all carrying a great weight at the moment - there is so much at stake here. Not just our lives, if we should fail, but the future of Christendom. Let us not forget that this is what we fight for.’ She looks up at me, her eyes wide and full of meaning. ‘We must all try to stay strong. There are so few of us - we will not succeed divided.’
I nod with feeling as I glance again at her dressing table, and then I see it. Amid the pots and cloths and trailing strings of glass beads, a small green velvet casket, of the size that might hold a signet ring. Mary Stuart’s ring was sent in a green velvet casket, I recall. I cross to the dresser and make a pretence of studying myself in the mirror.
‘I must apologise too for my appearance,’ I say, bending as if to examine my own dishevelled face.
‘Your appearance is as charming as ever, Bruno,’ she says, still smiling, but there is uncertainty in her voice; she would like me to get to the point. I meet her eyes in the mirror as I pick up a necklace and allow its stones to trickle through my fingers.
‘You have some beautiful jewellery here,’ I murmur, trying to sound as if I am a connoisseur. ‘And this is pretty too.’ I pick up the green casket and hold it up to the light, turning it around in my hands.
‘Yes, my husband is very generous with his gifts.’
‘May I see?’ I open the casket; it is empty. ‘Is this from Paris? I have seen some similar -‘
‘I do not recall where it is from,’ she says, and this time her impatience is unmistakable. ‘Bruno - was there anything? Only, I am just writing some correspondence while Katherine is with her governess, and soon they will be finished, so if …’ She leaves the implication suspended.