‘Perhaps he had a grudge against Dunne. Or perhaps he knew something about him—’ His speculation is interrupted by a timid knock at the cabin door. Sidney throws it open to reveal Drake’s young clerk, Gilbert, holding a lantern and a tinder-box.
‘Captain Drake asked me to bring this,’ he ventures, proffering the items. ‘Captain Thomas Drake, I should say.’ Sidney nods and takes them with curt thanks, and is about to close the door again when Gilbert steps forward, clearing his throat. ‘Pardon me,’ he begins, then threads his fingers together and hesitates. ‘May I ask what you are looking for?’
‘No,’ Sidney says, putting his hand to the latch. I motion to him to be quiet and move out of the shadows to see Gilbert more clearly. Without his eye-glasses he is obliged to squint, which gives him a permanent frown. He has the pallor of a man who spends his life bent over books, not wind-lashed on the deck of a ship. Again, I find myself curious about his presence here.
‘I knew Robert Dunne well from court,’ says Sidney, relenting. ‘Sir Francis asked me to pack up his belongings for his widow, who is due to arrive any day. So, if you wouldn’t mind …’
‘Yes, of course,’ Gilbert says, though he doesn’t move. His narrowed eyes flit around the walls of the cabin. ‘Poor woman. An awful tragedy to bear. That a man should die in the sin of self-slaughter. Although …’ He hesitates, dangling the bait.
Beside me, I hear Sidney tut with impatience. I lay a hand on his arm. Gilbert Crosse evidently wants to share his thoughts.
‘Although what?’ I ask, with an encouraging smile.
He glances back at the deck before taking a step closer.
‘I cannot help wondering if Sir Francis entertains some doubts on that score,’ he says, in a confidential tone.
‘Really?’ I keep my expression unmoving. ‘Has he said as much?’
‘Not to me.’ Gilbert shakes his head. ‘But he seems uneasy. He has been asking subtle questions about who was on the watch that night, who was the last to speak to Dunne, that sort of thing.’
‘I expect he wanted to ascertain his state of mind,’ I say.
‘Perhaps. Or it may be that he does not take Dunne’s death for what it appeared to be.’ He plucks at the cloth of his sleeve. ‘And I wish I knew for certain because, you see …’ He bites his lip, and his gaze flickers over his shoulder.
‘What is it, Gilbert?’ I prompt gently. It seems that he wants to unburden himself but is afraid of saying too much. ‘Because what?’
‘I know someone is not telling the truth. In answer to Captain Drake’s questions.’
‘Really?’ Sidney bounces forward, suddenly interested. ‘Who?’
There is a pause, heavy with anticipation, while Gilbert twists his hands together and debates whether to say more.
‘I was out on deck that night before Robert Dunne died,’ he says. ‘I saw them come back.’
‘What were you doing?’ Sidney asks, so brusquely that Gilbert jumps as if stung.
‘I was – taking measurements,’ he mumbles. Sidney glances at me. I can tell he has taken a dislike to Gilbert, but I am inclined to hear him out; someone who is so eager to voice his suspicions to strangers may have something useful to impart. Or else his eagerness might be worth noting in itself.
‘I thought it was raining that night?’ Sidney says.
Gilbert blushes and looks flustered. ‘Later. Before midnight it was quite clear still. I just like to practise taking readings with my astrolabe. It’s much harder to use when the ship is in motion and the wind is strong, and I am not experienced at sea, so I want to be prepared.’
‘You have a mariner’s astrolabe?’ I look at him with new admiration. These instruments, designed for calculating latitude out at sea from the stars, are rare and expensive. I find myself wondering what kind of clerk this young man is. ‘So do you navigate as well as copy Captain Drake’s letters?’
He squirms and looks at his shoes. ‘Oh, I just help with the calculations, that’s all.’
‘Go on with your story, if it is worth hearing,’ Sidney says, impatient.
Gilbert stammers an apology and continues. ‘Padre Pettifer, the chaplain, had brought Dunne back to the ship. Even in the dark, I could see he was hopelessly drunk. He could barely stand – the priest was holding him up. Thomas Drake helped Pettifer take Dunne to his cabin. Padre Pettifer stayed with him for a while, and after he left I saw the Spaniard Jonas knock on the door and go in. He was carrying one of his potions.’
‘What potions?’ Sidney says.
‘Jonas has some skill with herbs, they say.’ Gilbert glances between us, his eyes anxious. ‘He can make up a draught to cure seasickness or the effects of ale. I have not tried them myself. It all smacks a bit too much of the village wise woman for my liking, and I am a man of science.’
He draws himself up. Sidney snorts.
‘So Jonas took a draught of something to Dunne that night?’ I ask, with a sharp look at Sidney.
‘I suppose he must have,’ Gilbert says. ‘The thing is – I heard Jonas tell Captain Drake that he only looked in on Dunne, saw he was passed out and left again, taking his remedy with him.’ He drops his voice to an urgent whisper. ‘But that is not the truth.’
‘You mean, Jonas stayed there longer?’
Gilbert bites his lip and nods. ‘I was on deck for at least a half-hour more, until the rain came on, and I did not see the Spaniard come out before I returned to my quarters. It was only the next day, when they said Dunne had hanged himself, that I thought of it …’ His voice tails off and he stares at his feet.
‘So, you are saying …?’ I prompt.
He shakes his head quickly. ‘Nothing. I meant only that Jonas might know something of Dunne’s state of mind that night. Perhaps they had some conversation.’
‘Have you told Sir Francis that you believe Jonas is lying?’
He looks at me in alarm. ‘Oh no – I may have been mistaken. And I would not want to sow doubts in Captain Drake’s mind if he has none.’ He chews at the quick of his thumbnail. ‘I just wondered if perhaps he had voiced any doubts to you?’
Now we come to it. Beneath all the awkward fidgeting, this young man is sharper than he looks; he is fishing for gossip. The question is, why?
‘To us? No – we have only just arrived,’ I say.
‘He is hardly likely to confide any such doubts to us if he has said nothing to his own crew,’ Sidney agrees.
Gilbert looks chastened. ‘Of course. I meant no offence.’
‘Why do you speak of doubts at all?’ I ask, in a lighter tone. ‘Did Robert Dunne not strike you as a man likely to take his own life?’
He purses his lips. ‘I did not know him well, you understand. We did not really mix in the same circles. But on reflection, I would say he did not.’
‘He had heavy gambling debts,’ Sidney remarks. ‘That could push a man to despair.’
‘Yes, that was common knowledge,’ Gilbert says, with a disapproving expression. ‘But he seemed so optimistic about the voyage, on the few occasions I spoke with him. This