‘True, true,’ he says, rolling the tip of his moustache between his fingers. ‘Well – when I come back. A governess or some such might do you nicely.’
‘I humbly thank you.’
At the door, Sidney catches my eye and nods towards the stairs.
‘Where are you two going with such eager expressions, eh?’ Savile asks. ‘Don’t fancy some cards, I suppose? I’m bored witless on that ship.’
‘Have you been starting brawls for entertainment?’ Sidney asks, indicating his lip.
‘What, this?’ Savile reaches up and gingerly touches the cut. ‘It was nothing. A misunderstanding. Idleness frays tempers.’ He lowers his voice. ‘The men just want to set sail, you know. I understand Sir Francis wants to pay his respects to Dunne’s family, but really, there’s the rest of the fleet to think of, not to mention the investors. The longer we delay, the greater the chance one of Philip of Spain’s spies will catch wind of what we’re up to and slip him a warning. We won’t get as far as the Azores before some Spanish fleet jumps out on us.’
‘What spies?’ I ask.
‘They’re everywhere,’ he says, with a theatrical gesture that takes in the inn’s wide entrance hall. I look around. The place is empty, save for us. ‘Well, they’re bound to be – port full of foreigners, easy for them to slip into the crowd. Drake even keeps a damned Spaniard on his own ship – have you ever heard anything so absurd? I’ll wager he’s tipping off his countrymen somehow – terrible shifty look about him, y’know? Well, they all do, the Catholics – it’s those black eyes they have. Can’t tell if they’re looking at you straight.’
I regard him impassively with my black eyes until he gives a little cough. ‘Saving your presence.’
‘I’m afraid we must pass up the card table for now, Sir William,’ Sidney says, to cover the awkward pause. ‘We are going up to read some poetry.’
‘Oh, good Lord,’ Savile says. ‘Poetry. I’d rather put my balls in a wine press. God save you, gentlemen.’ With a brisk bow, he strides away to the tap-room.
‘Perhaps your man in black is one of these Spanish spies that have infested the place,’ Sidney muses, as we climb the stairs. I send him a withering glance. ‘Stop looking at me with your shifty Catholic eyes,’ he says, and skips out of the way before I can land a punch in his ribs.
The room is larger and better furnished than the one I am sharing with Sidney; I see his gaze wandering around it with a touch of envy. There is no sign of the women. Drake sits on the end of an ornately carved bed. On his lap he holds a leather bag, his hands spread protectively over it, as if someone might try to snatch it from him. He looks up with a distracted smile and waves us to a chair with tapestried cushions by the fireplace. There is only one; Sidney sits, I lean against the mantelpiece. Thomas Drake stands with his back to the door and nods to his brother.
‘Gentlemen,’ Drake says. ‘There is something I wish to show you, but it must be done in confidence.’
‘Does it touch on the death of Robert Dunne?’ Sidney asks, sitting forward to the edge of his chair. Drake hesitates.
‘I believe so. I am hoping you might clarify that.’
From his place by the door, Thomas Drake makes a barely audible sound of disapproval. Drake looks up. ‘My brother feels strongly that what I am about to share with you should remain a secret. But I have explained to him that you gentlemen are scholars, as we are not. And I believe we may trust you. After all, you want something from me, do you not?’ He fixes Sidney with a knowing eye. ‘A passage to the New World?’
Sidney nods, silent.
‘Well, then.’ Drake smiles. He pulls at his beard, considering. ‘The question is where to begin.’
‘The letter,’ Thomas prompts. He does not sound enthusiastic.
‘Yes.’ Drake purses his lips, then takes a deep breath, as if he is about to embark on a difficult venture. ‘The same day we discovered poor Dunne’s body – that very evening, in fact – I received a message. It was brought to me on board the Elizabeth by my clerk, Gilbert, who collects letters that arrive for me every day from this inn. Here.’ He reaches inside his doublet and draws out a sheet of paper, which he holds out. I step forward and take it from his hand, as I am nearer. The paper is rough along one edge as if it has been torn from a notebook, folded in three and had been sealed with crimson wax, though there is no mark impressed in the seal. I unfold the paper and lower it so that Sidney can see it too. The message says simply,
Matthew 27 v 5
‘Cryptic,’ Sidney mutters, taking the paper from my hand and turning it over. ‘What is the verse? Bruno?’
‘I’ll wager he knows,’ Drake says, catching my expression and pointing at me.
‘“And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself,”’ I murmur. ‘The death of Judas Iscariot.’
Drake looks impressed. ‘Do you carry the whole of the scriptures in your head?’
‘Oh, Bruno is a master of the art of memory,’ Sidney says, with what might be a hint of pride. ‘He has devised his own system. It is what passes for entertainment where he is from. He can do you the whole of Homer if you find yourself bored one evening.’
‘That will make the voyage fly,’ Thomas Drake says, arching an eyebrow.
I return his sarcastic smile, and tap the paper in Sidney’s hand. ‘This verse. You think it is some reference to Dunne, I suppose?’
‘The day he dies, apparently by hanging himself? I see no other way to read it,’ Drake says.
‘According to the Gospel of Matthew, Judas Iscariot hanged himself from remorse after he betrayed his master,’ I say, running through the text in my mind. ‘Is this mystery correspondent trying to imply that Dunne did the same? That he hanged himself out of guilt? Had Dunne betrayed anyone, that you know of?’
‘But we don’t believe Dunne did hang himself,’ Sidney points out.
We look at Drake. He sighs heavily and opens the bag on his lap.
‘Betrayal. Perhaps. Or it may refer to something else.’ He reaches in and withdraws a bound manuscript. I straighten immediately, feeling goosebumps rise on my skin. In my thirteen years at the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore I spent much of my time in the scriptorium and among the archives of their library, and later among the booksellers of Venice; I can recognise manuscripts almost by touch and smell, and tell you their provenance by the feel of their bindings, their vellum, their ornamentation. I do not need to touch the one Drake now holds carefully between his fingertips to know that it is both old and unusual. Instinctively, I step forward and reach out for it.
He raises a hand. ‘Bear with me, gentlemen, while I tell you a story that will help to explain what I am about to show you.’
Sidney clasps his hands around his knees like an eager child at his grandfather’s chair. I shift my position against the mantel and give Drake my full attention.
‘It begins eight years ago, at the beginning of my voyage to circumnavigate the globe,’ Drake says. ‘Does the name Thomas Doughty mean anything to you?’
He directs this question to Sidney, who sits up, surprised.
‘Doughty? But of course – he used to work for my uncle Leicester. Before he was—’ he checks himself, looking at Drake, uncertain. ‘Before he died.’
‘He was executed,’ Drake says, brusquely. ‘In a