I held it up to show him. ‘Only a pitcher. Not been there long, by the looks of it.’ I shook it, to hear the dregs sloshing in the bottom. ‘Perhaps whoever killed Clara brought it with him.’
Poole considered. ‘Or it was thrown over the wall, or the old watchman dumped it. Can’t see that it tells us much.’
I tipped the carafe and let a drop of liquid slide on to my finger. It was a cheap, sweet wine, with a bitter aftertaste beneath the sugar. ‘It comes from the Unicorn, look. We passed that on the way – it’s up the road, on the riverfront. Maybe we should ask there.’
‘Ask what?’ He gave me that same pitying look. ‘Good day, did any of your customers happen to strangle a woman in the Cross Bones the other night?’ He shook his head and I realised he was right. ‘You don’t go around the Bankside stews asking questions like you’re the law, not unless you want to end up in the river. I’ll mention it to Walsingham. It might be something or nothing. I’ll bet these bushes are full of old bottles.’
‘Will you tell him about the locket?’
‘Of course. Though it’s mine by rights, I’m her only family.’ His hand moved protectively to the pouch where he had stowed it. I waited, hoping he would decide it was time to go, when a movement at the edge of my vision made me spin around to see a slight figure crouching on the wall across the graveyard, above the gate.
Poole followed my gaze and gave a shout; the intruder straightened, pausing long enough for me to see that it was a boy of about ten, dressed in a ragged cap and breeches. His skin was darker than usual for an English child; he would not have looked out of place on the streets of Naples.
‘You there – stay where you are!’ Poole yelled. The boy instantly disappeared, dropping to the far side of the wall silent as a cat. Poole swore and set off at a run across the grass towards the gate, hampered by his damaged leg. ‘Cut the little fucker off the other side,’ he called to me over his shoulder, pointing at the tree. I launched myself up through the branches and over the wall to the street, landing hard and narrowly missing a pile of horseshit. Cursing, I ran the length of the street towards the row of cottages, but there was no sign of the boy to left or right when I reached the end. A couple of minutes later, Poole rounded the opposite corner, slowing when he saw me. I shook my head; the child could have slipped into any number of hiding places, or simply outrun us.
‘How long was he watching?’ Poole breathed hard, his face rigid with anger.
‘No idea. I saw him a moment before you did.’ But I remember the cold sensation of being watched earlier; had the boy been there all along?
‘I want to know his business.’ He bunched his fists. I was surprised by his anger.
‘We’re not likely to find him now. He was probably just a street boy being nosy.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. Why would he be watching the Cross Bones?’
‘You think he was spying? For whom?’
Poole rolled his eyes. ‘I wonder that Master Secretary sets such store by your wits,’ he said, and I did not miss the barb in his tone. I realised then that he resented me – and that could only mean Walsingham had spoken highly enough of me for Poole to fear I threatened his standing. I confess that the thought pleased me. ‘No one is supposed to know that Clara is dead, least of all me,’ he continued, his voice a low growl. ‘Coaxing a slip-up from Babington and his friends depends on me pretending I know nothing of her whereabouts. If I have been seen poking about the scene of her murder, my deception will be exposed.’
‘Exactly as Phelippes warned,’ I murmured. He shot me a hostile glare.
‘He saw you too.’
I refrained from reminding him that Phelippes had foreseen that as well.
‘We’re not going to find the boy now. The best thing we can do is get away from here as quickly as possible. It’s probably nothing,’ I added as we retraced his steps past the cottages. ‘Maybe he just took a fancy to the horse. You said yourself the whole borough is full of thieves.’
Poole stopped dead and stared at me. ‘Shit. The gate.’
He broke into a run; I followed him around the corner and we tumbled through the open door of the Cross Bones, to find the graveyard empty. Only a fresh pile of dung by the brazier gave any indication that a horse had ever been there. Poole tore off his hat and flung it on the ground with an impressive string of oaths that would have made a Neapolitan proud. When he had exhausted all the words he knew, he looked at me.
‘Are you laughing?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, leaning against the wall and clutching my stomach. I could not even say why I found the situation so funny; the two of us, vying with each other for Walsingham’s approbation as to who was the best of his espials, while a child thief had played us like a lute. Poole took a step forward and I shrank against the wall, bracing myself to dodge a punch, but he stopped abruptly and doubled over, his shoulders shaking. Eventually I realised he was laughing too.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he said, when he could speak, straightening up and wiping his eyes. ‘It wasn’t even my horse. It was Ballard’s. He’ll have my balls.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and burst into guffaws again. I clapped him on the back. I could see that this was a way for him to release the pent-up emotion of the past hour, and it seemed to have broken the tension between us too. But I couldn’t help a glance behind me. Perhaps the boy was a mere horse thief, but he had seen my face.
We caught a wherry back across the river from Goat Stairs and walked back up through the city to Leadenhall. I bought a pie from a street vendor on the way, though Poole ate nothing; his fit of hilarity had passed in the boat and a morose mood had overtaken him. I wondered if he was brooding on his sister or the loss of the horse.
Back at Phelippes’s rooms, we found Walsingham prowling the large study like one of the Queen’s caged beasts, while his cryptographer sat in his usual place at the desk, head bowed, quill scratching.
‘You took your time,’ Walsingham said, not quite hiding his irritation. ‘I began to think you’d gone back to France.’ This last was directed at me.
‘The journey took a while,’ I said, not looking at Poole.
‘Huh. Was it worth the trouble? Anything useful?’
‘Bruno found this, Your Honour,’ Poole said, holding out the locket. ‘It’s my sister’s all right.’
Walsingham turned it over in his palm and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘That’s worth a bit. I’m surprised it wasn’t spotted by greedy eyes. Where did you find it?’
‘In the undergrowth,’ I said.
‘We think she might have thrown it there when she realised her life was in danger,’ Poole added. Walsingham continued to look at me, a question in his eyes. I could have voiced my reservations about Poole’s theory but I was not about to make him look foolish in front of his superiors.
Walsingham nodded. ‘Thomas.’
He tossed the locket to Phelippes, who snapped it open, removed the lock of hair, then inserted a fine, thin tool into the hinge. Soundlessly, the inner casing flipped up to reveal a hidden compartment. With a pair of tweezers, Phelippes removed a thin strip of paper and unfolded it, while Poole stared in amazement.
‘Ingenious, no?’ Walsingham allowed a brief smile. ‘Bloody Mary gave these as gifts to her trusted women. Useful way to carry secret messages around unseen.’
‘I have seen something similar,’ I said, thinking of a woman I had known long ago, in Naples.
‘Clara never showed me this,’