Treachery (2019 Edition) Page 20

  ‘Twenty shillings?’ Sidney repeats, still hoping he has misheard.

  She looks at me. ‘Each.’

  ‘Christ and all his saints. What do I get for that?’

  ‘A little taste of heaven.’

  ‘A little taste? For a sovereign I expect a five-course banquet.’

  ‘With respect, sir.’ That same, smooth tone. ‘As with so much in life, you get the quality you pay for. If you don’t like our prices, there are plenty of places where you can pay a good deal less. Here you know what you are buying.’ Her lips curve again into the ghost of a smile. We might be talking about any transaction, it is all so carefully couched in the language of business.

  ‘I meant no offence, madam,’ Sidney says, all gallantry once more. He takes a couple of coins from his purse, glaring at me as he does so; if we find nothing useful here, he will not easily let me forget the loss of two sovereigns. She glances at the money and regards us with the same inscrutable expression, before the reserved smile reappears and she nods towards a door.

  ‘Follow me, then.’

  I watch her with curiosity as she leads us through to a small parlour, the air over-warm and thick with the smell of good wax candles. She carries herself with a dignified bearing, as if she were a lady of quality. Perhaps she once was. I guess her to be nearer forty than thirty, though her figure is that of a younger woman and she has clearly kept her pale skin away from the sun and wind. I am curious to know how a woman of evident breeding came by this trade, but her manner does not invite questions. Sidney flings himself into a chair with velvet cushions worn shiny with age and slides down, his long legs stretching out across a faded Turkish carpet. I stand by the hearth, where a neglected fire splutters and smokes in the grate.

  ‘Well then – what is your taste, gentlemen?’ She puts her head on one side and studies us. ‘Tell me what is to your liking and I will see if we can oblige.’ She makes it sound as if she is asking how we like our meat cooked.

  ‘Robert Dunne told me I should ask for his favourite,’ I say, before Sidney can answer. He glances at me.

  ‘Did he now?’ Her painted eyebrows arch; she seems almost interested. ‘And what did he tell you about his favourite?’

  I try to look nonchalant. ‘Only that I would not be disappointed.’

  She tilts her head. ‘Well. I’ll see what I can do. Wait here.’ She leaves the parlour by a side door and we hear the sound of footsteps climbing stairs overhead. As soon as she is gone, I feel the clench of fear in my gut.

  ‘She knows I am lying,’ I hiss, when I am sure she is out of earshot.

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Sidney turns his hat in his hands and examines the feather. ‘Do you think she knows anything about the letter?’

  I shrug. ‘I doubt it. The imprint in that seal came from one of those silver tokens. Anyone among her elite clientele could have used it. But whoever it was wanted to direct us here, there can be no question about that. All we can do now is tread carefully and hope to discover why.’

  ‘And hope it was not for the purpose of running you through with a sword.’ Sidney crosses and uncrosses his legs and turns his attention to a loose pearl on his sleeve. ‘What do you suppose Dunne’s tastes were? What if he was one of those who liked to be roughed up? Tied and whipped, that sort of thing. Then there are some who like hot candle wax—’

  ‘She won’t get anywhere near me with a candle, don’t worry.’ The fire spits a fat ember on to the carpet; I stretch out a foot and stamp it out. ‘The girl will probably be so relieved to find that I only want to talk, she will be more than willing to help me.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ he says. ‘And what am I to do while you charm this vestal virgin into spilling Dunne’s secrets?’

  ‘Perhaps you could find someone to talk to. Ask a few questions.’

  ‘I shall be badly out of pocket if I don’t.’ He offers a wry smile. At least the amusement is some compensation for being dragged away from Lady Drake. ‘She intrigues me,’ he says, sotto voce, gesturing to the ceiling, where creaking timbers and footsteps can be heard overhead. ‘House of Vesta, indeed. Did she name the place herself, I wonder. She must be educated, if so. And she speaks like a gentlewoman.’

  ‘The Vestal Virgins,’ I muse, recalling my Roman history. ‘Noble-born girls of Rome, sworn to celibacy in the service of the goddess. The penalty for defiling any of them was death, was it not? You have to admire her taste for irony.’

  ‘What makes you think it is ironic?’ We both start; the madam has appeared in the other doorway, soundless as a cat, a gleam in her eyes. ‘Do not alarm yourself, sir, I am only teasing. You.’ She points to me. ‘Come with me. I will return for you, sir,’ she adds, to Sidney. ‘Meanwhile, I will have some wine brought to you.’

  ‘Listen – don’t go without me,’ I say, turning back to him. ‘Wait for me here, after . . .’ I leave the sentence open, with a shrug. Something in the way the woman looks at us makes me uneasy, though perhaps it is just my anxious imagination.

  ‘I’ll be waiting here. Go and get your money’s worth.’ He mimes what I can only suppose is his version of a man surprised by hot wax on his parts. I glare at him and turn back to the madam, who offers me her creamy smile and gestures to the second door.

  She hitches her skirts and her narrow hips sway purposefully as she leads me up the stairs to a landing. From behind one of the doors comes the rumble of male voices and laughter; two or three men, it sounds like. There is a sudden outburst of cursing and cheering, as if a card game is in progress. I glance around, the fingers of my right hand flexing, ready to grab for my knife if I need to; I have not seen any armed men yet, but they will be here somewhere, lurking in the shadows, close enough to pounce at her signal on anyone who threatens trouble. Every brothel has them. I am beginning to question the wisdom of coming here.

  ‘You know your Roman history then, sir,’ the woman observes over her shoulder, in her precise accent, as she leads me past the door and up a further flight of stairs. Another staccato burst of laughter erupts from the room we have just passed. ‘Perhaps you are a scholar?’ The remark is innocent enough, but I am not inclined to give anything away.

  ‘I have been many things,’ I say.

  ‘I do not doubt it. But you are not, at any rate, a sailor. Of that I am fairly certain.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘You are too courteous. You have none of that roughness that months in the company of men can breed, even in gentlemen.’

  I incline my head with what I hope is an enigmatic smile. She laughs. ‘So what brings you to Plymouth?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘And you have seen Robert Dunne here?’ She asks the question lightly. I meet her eye and look away. Neither of us has mentioned Dunne’s death; I wonder if she is waiting for me to broach the subject.

  ‘Yes.’ I offer no more than that. She lowers her gaze and nods.

  ‘Poor Robert,’ she says. ‘We heard the news, of course.’

  ‘You knew him well?’

  ‘As well as I ever-know our visitors,’ she replies evenly, looking at me from the corner of her eye. A politician’s answer; I have underestimated her if I think I can trick her into giving anything away. A brothel-keeper – especially one who evidently counts men of influence among her clients – must be as practised in the art of discretion as any diplomat or spy. Down in Southwark, there are a couple of madams in Walsingham’s pay; it is surprising how much a man will reveal when his breeches and his guard are down.

  ‘Were you close friends?’ she asks, as we reach a second landing.

  ‘Close enough.’ Like her, I would prefer to avoid questions about Dunne.

  She touches the pearls at her throat and turns to regard me with a steady gaze. ‘Yet he gave you his token. People usually come to us by personal invitation, you see. We pride ourselves on a certain . . .’ she affects to search for the word ‘. . . exclusivity.’

  I smile sadly, my eyes not wavering from her
s. ‘He gave it to my friend. Perhaps he had other things on his mind. But I’m sure you will find our money is as good as anyone’s, Mistress . . .’ I raise a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Grace.’ She drops a half-curtsey, though I cannot tell if she is mocking me. ‘They call me Mistress Grace. Well, I hope you will be satisfied, Doctor Bruno. I’ll have wine sent up.’

  Three doors lead off this landing. She moves to the one at the rear of the house, turns the handle and stands aside. She regards me for a moment longer, as if she is debating whether to add something further, but eventually she gives me a brief nod and turns away to the stairs. I breathe in, and push the door open. The sense of unease prickling in my stomach has intensified, though I cannot quite pinpoint the reason.

  The room is small and dim; it seems to have been partitioned from a larger room and through the thin plaster a series of unmistakable groans and creaks can be heard from next door. Two candles burn in a wall sconce and one on a small table. There is no other furniture except the bed with a nightstand beside it holding an earthenware jug and bowl for washing. A thin figure sits hunched on the bed, wearing a cotton shift. Her hands are clasped in her lap and her head droops down, lank hair obscuring her face. I can’t help thinking that if I were a genuine customer I would want a slightly better show of enthusiasm, not this hangdog creature.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, as gently as I can.

  She raises her head and with a sudden shock I understand. The figure before me is a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, the skin of his face still downy, though the dead look in his eyes belongs to someone who has already lived too long.

  ‘Ah,’ I say, as I try to hide my reaction behind a blank expression. I back up against the door, scanning the room for hiding places of possible assailants. Either this is a trap, or Robert Dunne had more secrets than we have yet discovered.

  ‘Do you want me as a boy or a girl, sir?’ The child’s voice is entirely empty of emotion. When I do not reply, he crosses his legs and the shift rides up towards his skinny thighs. A blue bruise stands out against the white skin. ‘I have women’s clothes I can put on, if that’s your preference. As you like.’ He shrugs, to show his compliance either way.

  ‘Right.’ I want to sit but there is no chair; instead I lean against the door and allow myself to sink down until I am sitting on the floor. ‘I would like a drink, I think. What is your name?’

  The boy tips his head back and looks down at me from under his hair, weighing me up. ‘What do you want it to be?’

  ‘The truth.’

  An expression passes over his face that at first I do not understand; he seems to shrink into himself and glances at the door, as if hoping for some kind of assistance. Then I realise he is afraid. And with good reason; sodomy is a hanging offence under English law, and the same goes for those who sell or procure it. No wonder he keeps his identity to himself.

  ‘Give me whatever name pleases you, then,’ I say, anxious that I have put him on his guard.

  He relaxes a little. ‘You can call me Toby.’

  ‘Well then, Toby . . .’ I am considering where to begin when there is a knock at the door. I jump up and fling it open, ready to reach for my knife, but there is only a pale girl with a low-cut bodice, who hands me two large pewter cups without once looking up to meet my eye. She is pretty, and very young – perhaps of an age with him. As soon as I have taken the cups she turns on her heel and stalks silently away. I close the door. Toby sits still on the bed, impassive.

  ‘Wine?’

  The boy nods, mutely watching me. He pulls his knees up under the shift and hugs them to him, an oddly touching gesture that makes him seem all the more childlike. Perhaps he knows something; my difficulty is how to win his trust without making him afraid.

  I cross slowly, holding out the cups in front of me, as you might approach a nervous animal. He reaches out and takes one, large brown eyes fixed on me with no particular expression that I can discern. I sit beside him on the bed, though far enough away not to appear threatening. My nerves are taut, my senses alert for any indication of movement outside the chamber. The boy turns and looks at me, expectant.

  ‘Should we begin, sir?’ His small fingers tug at the collar of his shift. ‘Tell me what you wish, and I—’

  ‘Toby.’ I adjust my position, tucking one leg under me, and take a gulp of wine, though not too much – I need to keep my wits sharp. I have found myself in some strange situations over the years, but nothing that quite compares to this. As I move, I feel a ridge jutting into my thigh. Lifting the bedsheet, I pull out a book, bound in calfskin, very new and expensive-looking. The boy lurches forward to grab it but I am too quick for him; I dart to my feet and hold it up, out of his reach, until he sinks back to the bed, glowering at me. I open the book to the frontispiece to find that it is a volume of Ovid’s Fables. I note the printer’s mark. The book was only printed last year. The front endpaper has been torn out.

  ‘Is this yours?’

  The boy looks stricken. ‘I was given it. By a gentleman. I never stole it.’ He holds out a hand for it, though half-heartedly.

  ‘It is a generous gift,’ I say, flicking through the pages. ‘A book like this is worth a good deal of money, being so new. Although it is a shame this one has a page torn out – that might devalue it.’

  His eyes flicker briefly to me, guilty. I decide to try another tack.

  ‘Do you like the stories?’

  His face brightens. ‘Oh, yes. I like Perseus and the sea monster best, and Narcissus, who fell in love with himself.’

  ‘Can you read them?’

  He drops his gaze. ‘Not really. He read them to me sometimes. He promised to teach me my letters from it if I was good.’

  ‘If you were good and did as he asked?’

  He does not reply, only bites his lower lip. When he looks up, he wears the expression of a child forced to confess he has been stealing from the larder. ‘You won’t tell Mistress Grace, will you? She would take it. And he would be angry.’

  ‘I won’t say a word.’ I pass the book back to him; he immediately stuffs it under the mattress and sits on top. ‘How would it be, Toby,’ I say, leaning back, ‘if we were to talk for a while?’

  ‘Talk?’ His brow creases and he glances to the door as if seeking approval for this unlikely suggestion. ‘What for?’

  I shrug, and take another sip. The wine is warm and aromatic and makes me think of Christmas; I feel it curl thickly through my blood and gently soothe my nerves. ‘I am a stranger here, and I miss having someone to talk to. My friend Robert Dunne used to say you were a good listener.’

  It is a gamble; I know this before I drop the name. No man with a predilection for illegal pursuits shares this information widely. The boy frowns, perplexed, and he glances again at the door.

  ‘Robert Dunne?’

  ‘Indeed so. He spoke highly of you.’

  The boy only looks down at his hands, twisted in his lap, and murmurs something indistinct.

  Perhaps this has been the wrong tack; for all I know, Robert Dunne was a violent pervert and the boy dreaded the sight of him and is glad he’s dead. Perhaps he has never met Robert Dunne in his life. I try again.

  ‘You heard what happened to him, I suppose?’

  His head jerks up at this and his eyes briefly lock with mine; I read fear in them.

  ‘What?’ he whispers.

  ‘He is dead. Did you not know?’

  Confusion flits across his face. ‘I . . .’ He scratches the back of his neck, then reaches out and lays a hand on my thigh. ‘Sir, do you want to undress?’

  ‘No!’ I say, with more alarm than I intended, jumping to my feet. I move purposefully to the window in case he tries to touch me again. The wind bangs the shutters softly against the glass. ‘Not yet. Let us talk some more.’

  ‘Then should I? I am sure you did not come here to talk.’ He pulls again at the half-unlaced strings of his shift. The conversation is making him more uncom
fortable than the prospect of whatever he thinks I have come for.

  ‘No, really – we are both fine as we are. Forgive me, Toby – I am of a strange cast of mind tonight. I suppose I am in mourning for my friend Robert. You understand?’

  He makes a movement with his head.

  ‘Do you mourn him too?’

  He shrugs, avoiding my eye.

  ‘Did he visit you often?’

  ‘Why do you ask me so many questions about him?’

  ‘When someone you were close to dies, talking about them is a way of bringing them back. Making it seem as if they were still here. Do you not think? Have you never lost anyone you cared for?’

  ‘My parents.’ He doesn’t lift his head.

  ‘Is that how you came to be here?’ I ask gently. He lifts his eyes and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. When he speaks, it is a whisper so soft I can barely catch it.

  ‘Mistress Grace brought me here to work in the kitchen when I was small. Now I am apprenticed to the apothecary downstairs, but she still gives me a room.’

  ‘And she puts you to work like the girls?’

  Again, the stubborn silence, lips pressed tight. He will not meet my eye. The candlelight seems to flicker and dance, so that at first I think there must be a draught in the room, but as I watch the flames I see that it is the wall itself that is undulating, as if ripples were spreading across its surface. Toby goes on looking at me, and I notice that his unhappy face has duplicated itself: two pale discs alongside one another, each blurring where they intersect. I take a step towards him and my legs feel strangely remote; I put a hand out to the wall to steady myself. Too late, I realise what has happened, and curse my own carelessness: I should have noticed that the boy did not touch his wine. In one lurching movement, I grab the bowl from the nightstand and force my fingers down my throat, gagging as bile rises in my stomach. I have the sense of being on board ship; the walls seem to pulse in time with my head, but I persist, bending double as the sharp salt of saliva fills my mouth and my stomach heaves once, twice, before I retch violently and its contents erupt into the bowl and splash on to the bare boards.