Prophecy

Chapter Ten

City of London

1st October, Year of Our Lord 1583

‘Mary Stuart won’t be happy.’

Thomas Phelippes doesn’t raise his eyes as he makes this observation; instead I watch them flicker with quick lizard movements over the lines of numbers written in the letter he has just expertly unsealed. Walsingham once told me that Phelippes only had to read a cipher once or twice to have it by heart; he said this with almost fatherly pride. If he weren’t such a phenomenon as a code-breaker, Walsingham had added, with an indulgent laugh, he could make a fortune in a travelling fair with his feats of memory. Naturally, I am fascinated by the reports of this man’s prodigious powers of recall, but he doesn’t have the kind of demeanour that invites intimate conversation. In fact, he seems singularly ill equipped to deal with other people; he rarely looks directly at you, shifting uncomfortably unless he has been asked to explain some piece of his business, when he holds forth at length in his curious monotone, firing the information at you with barely a pause for breath. Here, in the dim back room of his house on Leadenhall Street, shuttered and lantern-lit even in the day, to protect his secretive work, he seems like a woodland creature, content to hide in its burrow. If Nature has blessed him with exceptional gifts of intellect, she has sought balance by withholding from him any physical charm; the man is short and squat, with a heavy jaw, a flattish nose and the scars of smallpox on his cheeks.

‘Mary Stuart is never happy,’ I remark, as his keen gaze continues to search the letter that I know comes from Lord Henry Howard, and is on its way to Francis Throckmorton for delivery on his next trip to Sheffield Castle. Idly, I pick up a block of sealing wax from Phelippes’s broad desk, examine it, put it back. In the corner of the room, Dumas is making a hasty copy of one of Castelnau’s letters to Mary before he delivers the original, his nib scratching frantically like a mouse trapped behind a panel. Phelippes reaches over without looking up and replaces the wax in the exact spot it had been, a fraction of an inch to the left, with a little irritated click of the tongue. Then he picks up a book from his desk and leafs urgently through the pages, glancing from it to the paper in his hand. As he lifts the book up, I see that it is Henry Howard’s A Defensative Against the Poison of Supposed Prophecies.

‘Good read?’ I ask.

Phelippes lifts his head sufficiently for me to catch the look of disdain on his face.

‘It’s the cipher,’ he mutters, as if it were hardly worth the effort of explaining this to someone so wilfully stupid. ‘The book is the code. It’s one of the most basic devices. That’s why he sends her a copy. See here, where the numbers are set out in groups of three?’ He tilts the paper towards me enough for me to see what he means, the lines of figures squeezed together in Howard’s cramped handwriting. ‘Page, line, word. You see? Meaningless to anyone who doesn’t know the edition the numbers refer to or doesn’t have a copy, and in theory endlessly varied, because one need never use the same reference for the same word twice. But Howard in particular is lazy. He frequently uses the same page reference for common words rather than looking for other examples. Makes my job easier, anyway.’

‘So you have memorised these page references?’

‘A good number of them, yes.’

If he catches the tone of admiration in my voice, he gives no sign of it, nor does he speak with any trace of pride. He is merely stating facts. He crouches closer over the letter, rifling through the pages of the book at the same time.

‘For instance, I will have to double check some of these words against the book but the gist of this letter is Henry Howard saying he knows nothing about any ring. Apparently Mary sent him a valuable ring that belonged to her mother, with a family crest engraved. In a green velvet casket. Weeks ago, this is. She wanted him to use it as a seal to guarantee his letters were genuine, but he protests he never had any such casket nor ring from her. You’d think they were betrothed, all this giving and receiving of rings.’ Phelippes barks out a sudden laugh, the sound unnatural in his throat.

‘Except that Howard never did receive it,’ I murmur, my mind spinning into action. The ring Mary had sent as a gift to Henry Howard had ended up being given as a love-token to Cecily Ashe — it could only be the same one — but by whom? If all Mary’s correspondence to Howard comes through the French embassy, then the package containing the ring could have been intercepted either before it was passed on to Howard — by Throckmorton, say, or someone at Salisbury Court — or else Howard is lying to Mary, and he was the one who gave the ring to Cecily. Or his nephew, Philip Howard, who I have already marked out as fitting the description Abigail gave of Cecily’s lover. I shake my head; again, the question remains: why give a token so clearly identifiable, one which, if found, would point straight back to the conspirators around Mary Stuart? It seemed almost like a deliberate betrayal of Mary.

The room is oddly still; I glance up and realise that Dumas has stopped his scribbling. Instead he is staring at me, his face white and strained, his eyes bulging more alarmingly than usual. I send him a quizzical frown; he only bites his lip and mouths the word ‘time’.

He is right; he must take the packet of letters to Throckmorton and I have Fowler waiting for me at the Mitre. We work as fast as we can in this back room of Phelippes’s house, but there is always the fear that someone from Salisbury Court will have seen Dumas meet me at the Lud Gate or noticed our detour through the city to Leadenhall, particularly now it seems certain that someone is watching my movements. Already the best part of the day is gone, thanks to Marie and her diversions, but I still have hopes of making my way to Mortlake in pursuit of Ned Kelley, or clues to his whereabouts. Phelippes seems to have frozen at his task; I give a small cough behind my fist but he merely blinks.

‘Almost there,’ he says mildly, still staring fixedly at the letter, and I realise he is memorising the numbers. I would love to ask him his technique but do not want to break his concentration. When he has jotted down what he needs, he refolds Howard’s letter and arranges the instruments of his other skill, the forging of seals: several bars of wax, a candle, a selection of small silver-bladed knives, some no bigger than the nib of a quill. He takes a moment to compare the new wax, matching the colour carefully to the original seal. I watch, mesmerised, as his quick fingers deftly reattach it, part heating the underside and adding just enough fresh wax to press it home without cracking the surface or disturbing the cords set into the original wax. Any careless move at this crucial stage could damage Howard’s seal so that the tampering became evident; Mary’s sharp eyes would be looking for any such sign of treachery. I find I am holding my breath in sympathy, anxious not to make any move or sound that might distract Phelippes, but he seems oblivious; for a thick-set man, he has surprisingly delicate fingers, long and white like a seamstress’s. With his little knife he prods and tweaks the soft wax until he is satisfied with its appearance. He replaces the letter inside the oilskin wrapping of the package Dumas must deliver to Throckmorton imminently.

At the edge of my vision I can see Dumas fidgeting; he is anxious to be gone. When he has handed over the letter he has been copying and the packet for Throckmorton has been resealed satisfactorily, Phelippes ushers us out of the back door of his house, bidding us good day with an awkward twitch of his shoulders, eyes still turned to the ground.

We cross a yard and emerge into a side street that leads us out by the little churchyard of St Katherine Cree. A cold gust throws a handful of raindrops into our faces and Dumas shivers, a violent tremor that rattles through his thin body. He seems unusually tense; as we step out into the street, our collars pulled up against the squall, a boy dashes suddenly from the mouth of an alley and Dumas leaps a foot into the air like a rabbit, clutching at my sleeve.

‘Are you all right, Leon?’ I ask, as the boy swerves between puddles and disappears behind houses on the opposite side of the street. Dumas looks at me with an oddly pleading expression, as if there is something he wants to say, then shakes his head tightly, mumbling that he must hurry. I, too, am already late for my meeting with Fowler; earlier this morning I had regretted the necessity of seeing him, adding another distraction to my day, but now I feel something approaching relief. Walsingham’s anger at the palace has taught me that I cannot hope to find this killer alone, and the quiet, composed Scot, with his network of contacts and his knowledge of Salisbury Court, may be just the confidant I need. Walsingham has as good as instructed me to share my information, and the prospect of sharing the burden is no longer unwelcome.

I lay a hand on Dumas’s shoulder and he flinches. We must part ways here, I west to Creed Lane, he south to Paul’s Wharf and Throckmorton’s house.

‘I will see you back at Salisbury Court.’

He looks around briefly, then leans in towards me.

‘They will know now, won’t they? That the letters have been opened?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘The ring. If the casket and the ring has been stolen from inside the package, they will start looking for anyone who might have had the chance to do so.’ He is clutching at my sleeve again, his eyes bright with panic.

‘Slow down, Leon — the ring could have disappeared at any stage in its journey. Or it may not have disappeared at all. There is no reason to think we will be under any more suspicion than we are now.’

But he is not convinced; in fact, he looks more stricken than I have ever seen him. If his fear gets the better of him and he tries to pull out of the arrangement to avoid discovery, we could lose our access to Mary’s correspondence with Salisbury Court and with it any advance information about the invasion plans or concrete evidence of plots against the queen. This must not be allowed to happen; the entire operation depends on Dumas’s peace of mind, and it is up to me to reassure him.

‘We must remain calm, Leon, and give nothing away from our behaviour. You and I will speak of this further. Come to my room when you can,’ I say, clapping him on the shoulder again, ‘but for now, Godspeed.’ And I watch him as he sets off south towards the river, his shoulders hunched against the rain. As I turn to make my own way up the hill, I am certain I see a flicker of movement, a figure darting away into the shadows behind St Katherine’s Church. My stomach twists for a moment, as my hand reaches for the bone-handled dagger I carry always at my belt, the only possession I took from the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples the night I fled. But as I draw level with the churchyard I can see no one; two men are walking eastwards towards me, deep in conversation, and I pull my shoulders back and breathe deeply. London is full of people going about their business, despite the rain, and I must guard against becoming as nervous as Dumas, leaping at shadows. I pull the peak of my cap down against the weather and walk on, though I keep one hand on the dagger, just in case.

Creed Lane runs to the west of St Paul’s churchyard, and the narrow street is already thronged with people as I approach the sign of the Mitre, jostling one another with sharp insults as they try to protect themselves and their wares from the weather. Just as I reach the door of the tavern, a hand clamps down on my shoulder; again, I start, my hand instinctively tightening around the knife as I turn to find the grinning face of Archibald Douglas only a few inches from mine, his breath already thick with the fumes of drink but his eyes bright and mischievous.

‘Bruno! I thought it was you. Recognised your hat through the crowds. What brings you to this part of town?’

I look at him through narrowed eyes, immediately alert. Douglas has never to my knowledge seen me wearing a hat, and in any case, mine is of black leather, the same as every second man in London. Could it possibly be Douglas following me?

‘Books,’ I say, hastily recovering myself. ‘I wanted to look at the booksellers’ stalls outside St Paul’s.’

‘I’m not sure they sell your kind of books on public stalls,’ he says, winking broadly and hooking his arm around my neck as he pushes the door open. ‘Come on, let me buy you a drink.’

I am wary of his sudden appearance and unprecedented display of bonhomie, but since I was so obviously on my way into the tavern, it is impossible to refuse his offer without looking suspicious myself, so I shrug and allow him to usher me through the door into the steaming tap-room, where the smell of wet wool vies with the warming aromas of pastry and yeasty beer.

Douglas shoulders his way through the press of damp bodies sheltering from the cloudburst, calling for beer as a put-upon girl eases past, splashing from the four tankards she carries, two in each hand, and cursing as she does so.

‘Watch you don’t get your pockets picked in here,’ he says to me, over his shoulder, then he pauses, looks over my head across the other side of the room, makes a face and mutters, ‘Fuck.’ When he reaches a corner table, he motions to the other drinkers to shove up along the bench, let us sit down; grumbling, they obey. There is something oddly compelling about Douglas’s presence; though I don’t like him, neither do I want to be on the wrong side of him, and since he is so entangled with the conspirators at Salisbury Court, it would be foolish of me not to use this opportunity to take a close look at him. Still, I can’t escape the sense that it is he who has decided to take a look at me.

When we are seated and drinks set in front of us, he leans in, beckoning me closer.

‘You’ll never guess who I just saw over the other side of the room.’ Without waiting for me to answer, he breathes, in a gust of beer fumes, ‘William Fowler.’

‘Fowler? Really?’ I concentrate on the tankard in front of me. Poor Fowler. I wonder if he noticed me come in with Douglas, having kept him waiting for more than half an hour. I can only hope he understands that, in our business, plans have to change at a moment’s notice.

‘Aye. What do you make of him?’

‘Who, Fowler?’ Douglas’s question pulls my attention back; he is tilted forward eagerly, and his eyes are fixed sharply enough on mine. I shrug. ‘I barely know him. He seems like a quiet sort.’

‘Aye.’ Douglas nods, and takes a noisy draught. ‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? Keeps to himself, right enough.’ He taps the table with an ink-stained forefinger. ‘My lord Howard suspects someone is tampering with the correspondence. To Queen Mary, I mean.’

‘What makes him say that?’ I am forced to lean nearer to him; between his Scots accent and my Italian one, and the general hubbub of talk in the tavern, the conversation is not easy to follow.

‘He says there are things missing. Disappearing, you know. So he concludes someone has a hand in the packets that come from Sheffield Castle.’

‘What things?’

Douglas shakes his head. ‘Letters and packets that should have come to him from Mary. He didn’t say any more than that. But naturally he’s looking at Salisbury Court.’ He lets this fall casually, glancing away to the next table as he says it, but immediately my sinews stiffen.

‘Howard has no reason to suspect anyone at the embassy,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level. Bitter experience has taught me that when you are accused of anything, regardless of whether you are innocent or guilty, it is almost impossible to deny the accusation without sounding as though you are protesting too hard. It was for this reason that I chose to run away from my monastery rather than stay and face an interrogation by the Father Inquisitor.

Douglas laughs aloud then, a big open-throated guffaw.

‘Come now, Bruno, don’t pretend to be simple. You’re famed for defying the Holy Office. You’re a defrocked monk, for Christ’s sake! As far as Howard is concerned —‘ here he lowers his voice — ‘you’re an enemy of the Catholic faith, not an ally. I’m not saying that’s my view, I just think you should know what Howard feels. He’s furious with Castelnau for allowing you into those meetings at the embassy.’

‘Well, I hate to disappoint him, but my first loyalty now is to whoever puts a roof over my head and bread in my hand.’

‘Aye, I’ll drink to that,’ he says ruefully, raising his tankard.

‘I know nothing of Mary’s letters, save what I learn around the table with the rest of you.’ I look him in the eye as frankly as I know how. ‘Are you of the Catholic faith yourself?’

A smile curves one side of his mouth.

‘Aye. I suppose you could say I’ve thrown my lot in with the Catholics. But I think of myself as a pragmatist. I know how to read the weather, my friend, and I don’t need any stargazer or ancient prophecy to tell me Elizabeth’s star is waning.’ He glances suddenly to each side, but no one appears to be paying attention to our conversation. ‘I know how to make my services indispensable to those on the way up, then I call in the favours when they’re established. Henry Howard has no illusions about my piety, but he knows I wouldn’t jeopardise my own position. Queen Mary vouches for me and that’s good enough for him. No — it’s Fowler I’ve wondered about. He has a lot of friends at court. Castelnau thinks that works in our favour, but I have my doubts.’

‘I heard you already made yourself indispensable to Queen Mary once,’ I say, partly to change the subject. Too much speculation on Fowler’s trustworthiness among the regulars at Salisbury Court could lead to unwelcome attention.

He grins broadly then, slapping his hand on the table and calling across the melee for more drink.

‘You refer to the unfortunate and untimely death of Queen Mary’s late second husband, Lord Darnley, at Kirk o’Field, I take it?’ He drains his tankard and then regards its empty interior with mild disappointment for a moment. ‘It is said they found my shoes at the scene the next morning. Is that proof, I ask you? Could have been anyone’s shoes — it’s not as if I’d embroidered my bloody name on them. But you try telling that to the Privy Council of Scotland. Of course, there was my erstwhile servant who testified against me on the scaffold, but a man will say anything with a rope around his neck, won’t he? Ah, thank you, my lovely.’ He turns the beam of his smile upon the serving girl, who sets down two new pots of beer before us. I have barely touched my first, but he appears not to have noticed.

‘What was the story about the pie?’ I ask.

Another great bark of laughter.

‘Ah, the pie. I’ll tell you. Mary Stuart, when she learned her husband was dead, invited a host of ladies to attend a ball at her court and they danced the night long, all of them stark naked,’ he whispers, pausing for effect. ‘And you know what they did next? Cut off all their hair.’

‘Their hair?’ I repeat, frowning.

‘On their quims, you numpty.’ He gestures to his crotch, in case I am in any doubt. ‘Then they put the hair inside a fruit pie and fed it to the gentlemen guests, for their amusement. That’s the woman they want to put on the throne.’ He pushes his fringe out of his eyes and nods, apparently delighted with his tale.

‘Is that true?’

He lays a hand flat over his heart.

‘True as I’m sitting here, son.’

‘Gentlemen. I bid you good afternoon. I thought it was you.’

I start and look up at the unexpected voice; Fowler has appeared through the shifting huddle of damp coats to stand by our table. He smiles uncertainly.

‘Oh, hello. Here’s a coincidence. Master Fowler — good day to you.’ Douglas raises his cup and smiles, politely enough, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. Fowler inclines his head with no obvious warmth. There seems to be some unacknowledged mistrust or animosity between the two Scots, giving the lie to the idea that compatriots far from home will always be drawn to one another. I attempt to convey apology to Fowler with my eyes, but with professional sang-froid he just murmurs, ‘Bruno,’ with a nod, before turning his attention back to Douglas.

‘What brings you here, Archie?’ he asks.

‘Oh, business,’ Douglas says airily. ‘Always business, Fowler, you know me. And our friend Bruno has been browsing for books in Paul’s Churchyard. Speaking of which —‘ he reaches inside his doublet and pulls out a sheet of paper, folded and crumpled — ‘did either of you see this?’ He smooths it out on the table before him; another pamphlet, this time with a woodcut of the astrological sign of Saturn. Douglas pushes it across to me and I open it, with Fowler reading over my shoulder. Inside is a crude drawing of a dead woman, a sword protruding from her breast. The gist of the text is that the second murder of a royal maid must be read as a clear sign from God that Elizabeth’s reign, and with it what the anonymous writer calls the ‘Protestant experiment’, is nearing its end. The killings, with their markings that so clearly refer to the Great Conjunction and its apocalyptic prophecies, are signs of God’s wrath towards the heretic queen, who in her rebellion against God looks for guidance to magicians and servants of the Devil like John Dee rather than to the wisdom of the pope. If it is not the Devil himself carrying out these murders by his own hand, then it is certainly someone moved and guided by Satanic powers.

‘Put that away,’ Fowler hisses, casting his eyes quickly around the room before squatting by the table. ‘It’s illegal even to possess printed prophecies now — you don’t know who’s watching.’

‘These murders are doing our job for us,’ Douglas remarks, ignoring him and prodding the pamphlet, his voice barely raised above a whisper. ‘Undermine the people’s confidence in her, that’s all it needs. You’ll find there’ll be very little resistance to a change of sovereign once they have proof that the Almighty’s set his face against her.’

‘You underestimate the stubbornness of the English,’ Fowler mutters, shaking his head. ‘And their dislike for Rome. Remember the discontent in the streets when it was thought the queen might marry a Catholic Frenchman, the pamphlets that appeared then?’

‘Oh, aye?’ Douglas straightens, as if squaring up for a fight, then remembers where he is and drops his voice again. ‘And you underestimate the number of simple folk in the kingdom, William. There’s far more of them love Rome than you think. People miss the reassurances of the old faith. They miss their wooden saints and pilgrimages and the comfort of confession, penance and absolution.’ He points a finger in Fowler’s face. ‘They knew where they were with the old faith, and simple people like certainty. You set foot in any of the wee towns and villages around the country — no one’s read bloody Erasmus or Tyndale. They go to church where they’re told because they can’t afford the fines, but in their hearts they’ve never stopped believing the miracle of the Mass. Even the churchmen. And if they hear news that the Devil is cutting a swathe through the court because their sovereign flirts with sorcery, they’ll be glad of the chance for a new one, believe me. There’s enough simple folk to fuel an uprising when the day comes, if they’re encouraged in the right way.’

He sounds as enthused about this prospect as if he had planned it himself, and he is right that these murders at court, if the news spreads in the right way, can only be useful to the conspirators if there is to be an invasion of Catholic forces. But once again I am brought back to the same question: If the murders are part of the Catholic plot, why dress them up so obviously to look like a Catholic plot? What is to be gained by such an elaborate double bluff?

‘I wonder if this murderer knows he is helping our cause,’ I say tentatively, still looking down at the pamphlet. The news must have travelled with wings for a pamphlet to have been written and printed less than a day after the murder. But again, there were enough servants at Whitehall who witnessed the events of the previous night to make this possible, and plenty of people who were sufficiently opposed to Elizabeth to risk their lives by printing such material.

‘Of course not.’ Douglas glances around. ‘This is just some lunatic who hates women. But I’m saying we can turn it to our advantage.’

‘A lunatic inside the court, it seems,’ Fowler adds, folding his hands together. ‘Everyone was gathered there last night for the concert.’

Douglas shrugs.

‘No better time to break in, then, when all eyes are turned elsewhere,’ he sniffs. ‘Anyway — that’s not my concern. It’s in our interest to ensure this kind of thing —‘ he waves the pamphlet — ‘finds as wide an audience as possible. Spread the fear. Undo her popularity among her subjects first.’ He levers himself out of his seat, pulls his cloak around his shoulders and, almost as an afterthought, empties his second tankard of beer, slamming it down on the table. ‘Which reminds me — I have matters to attend to. A pleasure, gentlemen. Until some other evening, no doubt.’ He replaces his shapeless wool cap, touches the peak of it with a mock bow, and is absorbed into the crowd.

‘I take it you’re paying for his, then?’ says the serving girl, appearing at my elbow with her hand out impatiently for coins. Only then do I realise that Douglas, having invited me for a drink, has left without paying, an outcome I probably should have foreseen.

Fowler smiles ruefully as I count out money for the beer.

‘You are not yet familiar with the ways of our friend Douglas, I see.’

The girl turns the coins over in her palm and looks at me suspiciously, clearly wondering if I might have tried to deceive her with some dubious foreign currency. Satisfied, she gestures towards the tankards. I look at Fowler, who holds up a hand to decline.

‘Thank you, no. This place is giving me an aching head. The sky is clearing a little, I think. We could walk.’

‘I’m not sure Douglas counts himself much of a friend of yours,’ I say, as we squeeze through to the door. Fowler is right; the sky is still streaked with threatening grey and the wind chivvies leaves along the gutters, but the rain has abated for the moment. The cobbles are slippery with horseshit and sodden straw, and I step carefully to avoid the foul brown stream running down the gutters at the edge of the street.

‘No, I don’t suppose he does.’ He pulls up his collar and we fall into step in the direction of Paul’s Churchyard; among the crowds, there is hardly a better place to pass unobserved, though I keep one hand tightly around my purse. ‘I know too much about Douglas, that’s the problem. When a man flees to another country to reinvent himself, the last thing he wants is to find someone from home, who could spill the whole of his history at any moment. Imagine if someone who remembered you from Italy showed up at Salisbury Court.’ He smiles, but I recall Marie de Castelnau’s sly allusion to the dead man in Rome, and wrap my arms tight around my chest to suppress a shiver.

‘In any case, we had best be on our guard,’ I say, as we slip through the gates into the shadow of the great cathedral, whose walls rise two hundred feet above us, its broken spire poking like the stump of a finger into the sodden sky. ‘They suspect someone of tampering with the correspondence.’ As we saunter by the booksellers’ stalls, their trestles pulled in out of the earlier rain, I tell him of what passed in Phelippes’s workshop, the missing ring and the conspirators’ growing concern over their communications with Mary. I am struck, in the retelling, by the realisation that Henry Howard did not confide in Douglas about what he believed had been stolen; clearly there are secrets within secrets fermenting behind the closed doors of Salisbury Court. Phelippes’s offhand joke about betrothal floats back into my mind with sudden significance, so that I stop dead for a moment. If Howard is conducting his own private correspondence with Mary Stuart, could it be that he aspires to finish what his brother started? It would be a momentous gamble; if these invasion plans stand even a chance of succeeding, then any man who marries Mary could expect to become king of England when she is crowned. Could he be courting her with his private coded letters? Such an aspiration would not be beyond Henry Howard.

‘Bruno?’ Fowler has stopped too and is looking at me with concern. I decide to keep this line of speculation to myself.

‘So Howard thinks it is me, it seems, and Douglas wants to believe it is you,’ I say, as we round the apse at the east end of the building and find ourselves at the back of a crowd gathered at the small outdoor pulpit that marks Paul’s Cross. Buffeted by the wind, the people huddle stoically, craning forward to catch the words of the preacher before they are snatched away into the air. I can barely see the man in his domed pepperpot stand over the hats of the crowd, but from the fragments of his sermon that reach us, it seems he is preaching against divination, fortune-telling and, yes, ancient prophecies. He is shouting something about King Saul and the Witch of Endor, his words whipped away by the wind. I presume the sermon has been officially commissioned; aptly, since the churchyard is the prime market for illegal pamphleteers, peddling handbills like the one Douglas just showed us, slipping through the crowd among the men who sell you prohibited holy relics from inside their coats.

‘What of your nervous friend Dumas, the clerk?’ Fowler asks. ‘Has anyone pointed the finger at him?’

‘Not yet. He has kept his head down.’

‘Good. Then at the moment, their suspicions are only born of malice. We may hope to shrug that off easily enough. What matters is that no one should think to look in Dumas’s direction. If anyone questions him, we are finished.’

‘Quite right,’ I say, with feeling. Dumas would fall apart at the first accusation; at all costs, he must remain below their line of sight. Then I recall the figure I thought I saw slipping behind the church on Leadenhall Street when Dumas and I left Phelippes’s house, and the coincidence of Douglas’s sudden appearance at the very place where I was meeting Fowler, and again a sense of unease prickles at the back of my skull. It is impossible to know who to trust.

‘What of this new murder, then?’ Fowler whispers, as we tuck ourselves into the fringes of the preacher’s audience. ‘It must have happened right under our noses. Was that why you were called out of the room?’

In a low voice I tell him all that happened the previous night at Whitehall, including my previous dealings with Abigail, the murder of Cecily Ashe and my suspicions that the murder of both maids is bound up with the plots brewing at Salisbury Court. When I have finished, he gives a brief whistle, shaking his head, his eyes still fixed on the pulpit.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ he murmurs. ‘Bruno, this plot is bigger than we imagined. You think they do mean to kill Elizabeth? I had thought the Duke of Guise wanted to take her prisoner, if this invasion succeeds, to try her publicly for heresy, make an example of her.’

‘Perhaps they feel it would be more likely to succeed if the country has no sovereign to rally behind,’ I whisper back. ‘It would leave England in disarray, entirely vulnerable. As a prisoner, she would inspire loyalty, the way Mary does now. Dead, she can do nothing.’

‘The people would cry out for a strong monarch then.’ Fowler squints into the wind. ‘My God. So you think one of our friends at Salisbury Court is the killer?’

‘Behind the killings, at any rate, if not holding the knife himself. I don’t see how it can be otherwise. Cecily Ashe was given the ring Mary Stuart sent Howard, it must be as a token of her part in the conspiracy. And the man who gave it to her has to be the man who killed her, probably out of fear that she would betray the plot.’

‘And the same man murdered the girl Abigail?’

‘Abigail must have been killed because she was Cecily’s friend, because the killer thought she knew something of his identity or the plot. But it’s my belief that she was killed because he saw her talking to me that day.’ I lower my eyes, take a deep breath. ‘And the one person who was there and saw us was Philip Howard. He fits Abigail’s description too.’

Fowler frowns.

‘But the Earl of Arundel was at the concert last night, I saw him. They all were, now I think of it.’

‘He would have only needed a few minutes before it started to find the kitchen boy and make sure she had the message to meet at the kitchen dock. Then his accomplice would have known where to find her.’

‘All we really know about this man,’ Fowler says slowly, rubbing his forefinger across his chin, ‘is that he is an eminent figure and young women regard him as handsome. But you might reasonably say that of any of the men who gather around the ambassador’s table. Courcelles, for instance, is of noble birth and considered very attractive to women, I believe. Madame de Castelnau certainly thinks so, you only have to see the way she looks at him. And he’d have ample opportunity to spirit away a package sent to the embassy.’

‘By that token, so would Throckmorton, and he is a good-looking boy, I suppose.’

‘But Throckmorton is never here for long enough to plot a regicide or two murders, he is always on the road to Sheffield. He could have taken the ring from the package, I suppose, but I don’t believe he has the ingenuity. He’s one of those who will happily obey as long as someone tells him where to go, but he does not invent plots for himself.’ He shakes his head. ‘That only leaves Douglas and Henry Howard.’

‘Douglas?’ Incredulous, I forget to keep my voice down; a woman in front turns and pins us with a stern look, her finger to her lips, though how she can hope to hear the sermon over the crowd’s cheerful jeering and whooping, I have no idea. I consider Douglas for a moment, and wonder if Fowler might have a point. He may have that weathered look and greying hair, but he has a strong jaw and a mischievous gleam in his eye that goes with a sense of being at ease in his skin; it’s possible that a green girl might describe him as handsome. And even Henry Howard, with his pointed beard and pointed eyebrows, has a certain commanding presence that might be attractive. In any event, it seems clear that such a subjective description will not be much help to us.

‘Who is to say what women find handsome anyway?’ Fowler whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘There may even be those who say so of you, Bruno,’ he adds, with a sideways smile.

‘Grazie. You’re not so bad yourself,’ I reply with a grin, though my mind flits unavoidably to Marie and her attempt to seduce me. Whatever her motive, I do not think it was my face.

‘Listen to us — debating who is handsome and who is not, like a pair of old priests at the Southwark boy-houses.’ Fowler gives a grim laugh. ‘We’ll need better evidence if we are to find this man. But where to start?’

‘I know where I mean to look,’ I say, through my teeth.

The preacher at Paul’s Cross appears to have reached some kind of conclusion; a smattering of applause erupts, as if for a travelling show, then the crowd around us begins to break and dissipate, like ink in water, of its own accord, drifting in twos and threes away from the pulpit. Clouds are scudding up across the sky from the river and the wind has lifted; the air smells of rain again. Fowler pulls his cap down and we turn away, back towards the south side of the cathedral and its bustle of merchants, pedlars and cut-purses. There is a strange kind of relief that comes from talking, even if no solution is found. I feel lighter for confiding in Fowler, and curse myself again for my stubborn desire to find Cecily’s killer without help. Perhaps if I had been less preoccupied with my own success, Abigail might not have paid the price. The weight of remorse sits like stones in my stomach when I picture her body laid out on the cold floor of that storeroom, and the determination to see this man brought to justice burns with a new intensity.

‘Listen, Bruno,’ Fowler says gently, laying a hand on my arm. ‘You want it to be one or other of the Howards. I don’t blame you — there is much to dislike about them. But we need to keep our eyes and our minds open. There is something strange about this. If poisoning the queen was always a part of this Guise invasion plan, then why has no one mentioned it at any of Castelnau’s secret meetings? And if the murder of Cecily Ashe was to protect their mission, why do they all behave as if it is news to them?’

These are questions that touch on my own misgivings. I crane my head skywards; the light is fading and I must make haste if I am to find a boatman who will take me as far as Mortlake this evening.

‘One or more of them is dissembling,’ I offer. ‘But the group that gathers at Salisbury Court has been brought together by Castelnau. It does not necessarily follow that all its members will like or trust one another. Perhaps those who are plotting Elizabeth’s death are brewing their own plans and merely using the French invasion as a vehicle.’ Again, I consider the possibility that Henry Howard may be courting Mary Stuart with his eye on the throne, but I say nothing to Fowler. Perhaps it is childish, but I want the credit for suggesting this theory to Walsingham.

‘True,’ he says, thoughtfully, squinting up at the sky. ‘I have the impression Henry Howard would rather be directing this enterprise himself, but the authorities are rather too interested in his family’s business for him to take full control without being discovered. He needs the cover of the French embassy to communicate with Mary’s supporters in Paris, but you can see he doesn’t like Castelnau involving the likes of you and me.’

‘What’s your relationship with Howard?’ I ask, curious.

Fowler shrugs.

‘He tolerates me because Castelnau has persuaded him I have useful connections at the Scottish court and, as you know, any intelligence about King James’s inclinations with regard to his mother’s claim is worth a great deal to the conspiracy. I do not think Howard mistrusts me as such, but he never seems at ease when I am there. I sense that he doubts the loyalty of anyone who does not share the ferocity of his own motives.’

‘Then he must doubt all of us,’ I reflect. ‘No one else has such a personal vendetta against Elizabeth and her government as he.’

He nods, with feeling.

‘What’s more, as you saw the other night, he has lost patience with Castelnau’s insistence on diplomatic relations. With Spanish money committed, Howard may be tempted to dispatch with the French embassy altogether and pursue his course with Mendoza.’ He presses his lips together. ‘In the Spanish ambassador he has found an ally as ruthless as he.’

I picture Howard huddled with Mendoza at the Whitehall concert, their dark heads bent close together, the contempt they both turned on me when I approached. I am about to reply when a movement catches my eye; I turn, but the churchyard is a constant tide of bodies, eddying around one another, many with their hoods pulled up or hats pulled down against the wind. It is impossible to tell one from another, and yet for a moment there, I sensed that prickling sensation of being watched. Is he here? Or am I growing as skittish as Leon Dumas?

‘Well, we may learn more tomorrow night at Arundel House,’ Fowler mutters, as we pass the magnificent doors of the south transept and turn our steps away from the churchyard. ‘The Earl of Arundel is giving a supper party for the usual guests.’

‘I fear I am not top of the Howards’ invitation list.’

‘I’m sure the ambassador can find a way to include you. Speak to him. And let us keep our wits sharp. Which way are you walking?’

I pause, glancing towards the mouth of a narrow alley that leads between timber-framed buildings to a lane that will take me down to Paul’s Wharf. ‘To the river. I will see you soon, no doubt.’

‘Are you heading west? Perhaps we could take a boat together?’

‘Mortlake. But I think it will be quicker if I go alone. I mean no offence,’ I add, quickly, ‘only I am late already. And we should be careful.’ I glance over my shoulder.

‘Mortlake? You are not going to see Walsingham?’ He drops his voice again.

‘No. An acquaintance who lives nearby.’

He gives me a long look through narrowed eyes, as if he suspects this is not the whole truth. Perhaps he imagines I am attempting to pass him by, taking some juicy scrap of information to Walsingham that I have kept back from him. Such doubts has our master bred into us; instinctively we sift every man’s words for double meanings, even those we are supposed to trust.

‘God speed, then — you have a long journey.’ Fowler hesitates, as if he has grown suddenly shy. ‘I am glad we spoke of these matters, Bruno. Ours can be a lonely task at times, do you not feel? It is my hope that we can combine our wits and energies to find Walsingham the proof he needs to bring all these intriguers to justice. Well. You know where I am if ever you need a confidant, or some company.’ Then he claps me on the back, pulls up his collar and walks away briskly towards Carter Lane, while I turn towards the river as fat raindrops begin to spit emphatically from the darkening sky.