Treachery. S. J. Parris
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laughs. ‘Besides, you are perfectly respectable, are you not?’ The sly grin has returned; she looks at me as if we are complicit.
‘I was not thinking so much of you,’ I say, in a low voice, as Sidney and Lady Drake arrive beside us.
‘Let us hurry, I fear it will rain,’ Lady Drake says, squinting up at the clouds massing overhead. ‘Doctor Bruno, you have already had one soaking today, I’m sure you don’t want to ruin another suit of clothes.’
‘Especially one of mine,’ Sidney adds.
‘Until tonight, then,’ Lady Arden says to me, as we reach the inn. I don’t think Sidney has ever looked so impressed with me. The women exchange glances. I leave Sidney to make his farewells while I slip away to the tap-room.
The landlady, a solid, broad-hipped woman in her fifties with the weathered face of those who live by the sea, is engaged in chiding one of the serving girls for her slovenliness. She stops, her mouth open in mid-scold, when she catches sight of me, and her expression softens.
‘Yes, sir, what can I get you?’ She wipes her hands on her apron.
‘I wondered if I might have a word with you in private?’ I offer up my best smile; it has served me well with older women.
She smooths down her skirts and simpers. ‘Well, of course – get along with you, slattern,’ she adds, to the girl. ‘And don’t let me catch you shirking your duties again – there’s plenty would take your position here if you were to lose it.’
The girl mumbles something, bobs a curtsey and scurries away. The landlady turns to me, hands on hips. ‘These girls – act like they’re the ones doing you a favour, turning up at all. Now – what is it, sir?’
‘Mistress, I was with Sir Francis Drake earlier and he expressed some concern about a small matter.’
Immediately her face stiffens; she folds her hands together as if in prayer.
‘Was it the dinner? If it was in any way lacking, please assure him—’
‘No, no – there was no fault with the dinner. It was fit for Her Majesty herself, Sir Philip Sidney said so.’ She relaxes and her expression unfolds into a smile. ‘No, it was only that a couple of days ago he received a letter. It was left here for him. Sir Francis was anxious to know where it came from.’
She frowns.
‘People do deliver letters here for him sometimes. His clerk drops by to collect them, but I don’t remember each one.’
‘It was two days ago. Sunday. There can’t be that many people delivering letters on a Sunday, surely?’
‘You’d be surprised. When a fleet like this is preparing to sail, there’s no such thing as a day of rest. I’ve no recollection. You could ask the girl, she sometimes delivers messages.’ She gestures to the door.
In the corridor outside I find the sullen maidservant sweeping the flagstones, her features set in a pout. She glances up as I pass and I make a face, nodding behind me to indicate her mistress. The girl breaks into a smile.
‘Do you recall someone bringing a letter here on Sunday for Sir Francis Drake?’ I ask.
She leans on her broom. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘I do, obviously.’
She looks me up and down, her eyes coming to rest on the money bag at my belt. Her manner is pert, but her expression, when she looks me in the eye, is shrewd.
‘Are you the Italian?’ She says it as if she has heard mention of me, a thought that makes me uneasy.
‘Who wants to know?’
She gives a brief laugh. ‘Fair enough. No, I don’t recall any letters being left on Sunday.’ She eyes my purse again. ‘Now you have to answer my question,’ she says, when it becomes clear that the purse is staying shut.
‘As you wish. Yes, I am Italian.’
‘And you travel with Sir Philip Sidney?’
‘You are very well informed. Where did you learn this?’
She shrugs, nodding to the door. ‘Mistress Judith said. Her in there.’ Her gaze slides away from mine as she says it. I dislike the thought that people are gossiping about us already, but I suppose it is to be expected, with all the interest around Drake’s expedition. This girl is sly, there is no doubt, but servants’ knowledge can be valuable; they slip in and out of private rooms unobserved, and usually have sharp eyes and ears.
‘You must see everyone who comes and goes in this place,’ I say, casually, as she resumes her sweeping. Her head snaps up and her eyes narrow.
‘Most of them,’ she says. ‘Why?’
‘I wondered if you had noticed a man in black, wears his hat pulled low, even inside. I saw him the other night in the tap-room.’
She shrugs, purses her lips as if considering. ‘Can’t say as I recall. Lot of men come and go round here.’ There is a challenge in her gaze as she waits for me to make the next move.
Reluctantly, I draw out a groat and hold it up. ‘Perhaps you could try to recall.’
She eyes the coin. ‘I know the man you mean. Smallpox scars. Bright blue eyes. That the one?’
I nod, slowly, a chill creeping up my neck. She is describing Rowland Jenkes. ‘Did you notice his ears?’
‘What about them?’
‘He doesn’t have any. That’s why he wears the hat.’
‘Well, then, I wouldn’t have noticed, would I?’ She holds a hand out for her payment. I withdraw it slightly.
‘Is he a regular here?’
She shrugs again. ‘He’s been in a few times. Not seen him before the last fortnight, though.’
‘Listen – what’s your name?’
‘Hetty. Sir,’ she adds, making it sound sarcastic.
‘If you see this man again, Hetty, or you can discover anything about him or where he lodges, let me know and there could be more of these.’ I hand over the groat; it vanishes into a fold of her dirty skirts. ‘You’ll find me around the place. I’m staying here.’
‘I know,’ she says, regarding me with the same level stare. I bid her good day, but I can feel her eyes on me as I walk away.
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