‘Far from it, my dear Bruno. It is never a waste to see old friends.’ He moved around the side of the desk and put an awkward arm around my shoulder, patting it briefly. A moment later he moved away – he was not a demonstrative man – and covered his embarrassment with a cough. ‘In fact, since you are here, a thought occurs to me – but you must allow me a pause while it takes shape. Thomas’ – he clicked his fingers in Phelippes’s direction – ‘decipher that letter as quickly as you can – I want to know about this Spanish Jesuit Mendoza is sending. In the meantime, Bruno, you must wash, and eat, and we will talk further.’
He handed me my pack and showed me to the door, patting my shoulder again for reassurance. As it closed behind me I heard Phelippes say, quite clearly, ‘You cannot seriously propose the Italian?’
I waited, keeping as still as possible.
‘Why not?’ Walsingham replied, his tone buoyant. ‘He is Catholic, or was. He can parrot their incantations without missing a word. It is the perfect solution.’
‘I will tell you why not,’ Phelippes said. ‘Because they will kill him.’
I strained to hear more, but at the sound of footsteps I glanced up to see the steward, Marston, approaching from the other end of the corridor; I smiled and stepped towards him, trying not to look as if I had been eavesdropping. I would have to wait for the details of Walsingham’s plan for my impending death.
‘You will wish to leave us now, my dear.’ Walsingham wiped his fingers on a linen cloth, pushed away his plate and directed a meaningful look at his daughter. ‘No doubt the child needs your attention.’
Candles burned low in their sconces, a warm light touching the curves of Venetian glass and the edges of silver platters, softening our faces and the old wood of the panelling. The table was littered with the debris of a fine meal – a soup of asparagus, capons in redcurrant sauce, a custard tart with almonds and cream, sheep’s cheese and soft dark bread. As with the furnishings of the house, the food had been plain, but of excellent quality. Though I had rested for an hour before supper, I could feel myself dragged by my full belly towards sleep, and hoped I might be excused before anyone – Lady Sidney or her father – could draw me into their schemes. In my somnolent state I would likely agree to anything if it would grant me an early night. I was aware that my hosts had barely touched the jug of excellent Rhenish which had been generously poured for me, and Phelippes did not drink wine at all, preferring to concentrate on consuming food methodically, one dish at a time, which he arranged on his plate in geometric patterns and ate without speaking.
Frances Sidney returned Walsingham’s look with cool resistance. ‘She is asleep, and her nurse is with her. I wish to speak to you, Father, in this company, on an important matter. You understand me.’
Walsingham sighed, and made a minute gesture with his head to the serving boys clearing the table. He beckoned Marston, who stood silently in the corner by the door as he had throughout the meal, alert to his master’s needs; Walsingham whispered to him and the steward nodded. When the last dishes had been removed, Marston brought fresh candles and a new jug of wine, before discreetly withdrawing. The door closed softly behind him.
‘I know what you are going to ask me, Frances.’ Walsingham’s eyes rested briefly on me, and there was a warning in his tone.
‘He is the man to do it,’ she said, her voice rising; she nodded at me across the table as she worked her linen cloth between her fingers, twisting and untwisting it. When Walsingham said nothing, she sat up straighter. ‘You know he is. Let him find out the truth – he has done it before.’
‘Frances—’ Walsingham laid both hands flat on the table.
‘What – because it might interfere with your plan? It’s your fault she’s dead!’
She threw down her cloth and glared at her father; I glanced from one to the other and was surprised to see him lower his eyes, his expression pained.
‘That is not a reasonable conclusion,’ Phelippes said mildly, concentrating on folding his napkin into a neat square, the corners precisely aligned. ‘There are a number of factors that contributed—’
‘Oh, shut up, Thomas.’ Frances rounded on him. ‘What would you know? You have no more feeling than a clockwork machine.’
He raised his head at this and blinked rapidly, before returning his gaze to his task.
Walsingham watched his daughter in the flickering light. ‘Do not vent your anger on Thomas, my dear. This was not his doing.’
‘How do you know? Maybe one of his letters gave her away.’
‘Very unlikely, Lady Sidney,’ Phelippes said. ‘My forgeries are excellent and have never yet been detected. It is much more probable that Clara Poole was careless. I had doubts about her ability to perpetrate a deception at that level of sophistication. She was too much at the mercy of her emotions.’
‘Oh, you had doubts? Then why did you let him send her?’ She pointed a trembling finger at her father.
‘Lower your voice, Daughter.’ Walsingham’s tone had grown sharp, the indulgence gone. ‘What is it you want?’
‘You know already.’ She swivelled in her chair to look at me. ‘Let Bruno investigate. He will tell you who killed her and whether your precious operation is compromised.’ Her voice was tight with emotion; when she dropped her gaze I saw tears shining on her lashes. ‘Then, once we know, you can tear the bastard’s insides out while he’s still alive to watch them drop in the flames, and I will be in the front row, applauding.’
There was little that could shock Walsingham, but I saw him flinch at her words.
‘Would someone mind explaining—’ I began.
‘Oh, my father will tell you,’ Frances said, winding the napkin around her knuckles. ‘He can explain how his ward Clara Poole ended up in a whore’s graveyard south of the river with her face smashed up. Oh, I see you look startled, Father – did you not realise I had heard you discuss that detail with Thomas? Perhaps you forgot I was there, as usual.’ She poured herself a glass of wine and drank a deep draught; I saw how her hand shook.
Walsingham brushed down his doublet, took a moment to compose himself, and raised his eyes to fix me across the table with his steady gaze.
‘These men Paget mentions in his letter,’ he said, eventually. ‘A band of devout Catholics sworn to carry out the Pope’s death sentence on Queen Elizabeth. We know who they are.’
‘Then – can you not arrest them?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been waiting for them to give us more conclusive evidence,’ he said evenly.
I nodded, understanding. ‘You want to use them as bait, to catch a bigger prize.’
Walsingham fetched up a faint smile, but it did not touch his eyes. ‘You always were perceptive. They do this in the name of the Queen of Scots, as you know. Part of their plan is to break her from her prison at Chartley and set her on the throne. I have enough in their letters alone to hang and quarter every last one of them. What I lacked was a firm response from her hand.’
‘So you mean to let this plot unfold until she gives it her explicit support in writing?’
‘The instant she signs her name to any approval she will have committed high treason. The only possible sentence under the terms of my new Act