‘Clara never took it off. But she wore it under her clothes, in case anyone got close enough to read the inscription.’
He clicked the face shut again and lifted it so that I could see more clearly. Around the edge, the engraved letters spelled out ‘Veritas Temporis Filia’. I raised my eyes and met his.
‘Truth is the daughter of time. But why should that be hidden?’
He seemed pleased by my ignorance. ‘You really don’t know? It was the motto of Mary Tudor, the Queen’s sister, may she burn in Hell.’
‘Bloody Mary? But why did Clara have that?’
‘Ann – Clara’s mother – served in Queen Mary’s household as a young woman. Ann was twenty-five when Mary died, and Elizabeth took the throne. You didn’t go about telling people you’d worked for Bloody Mary after that – you kept your mouth shut and acted like a good Protestant if you didn’t want repercussions. My father forbade Ann ever to speak of it. But she used to tell her stories to Clara, as soon as she was old enough to hear.’
‘So Ann was Catholic too?’ I wondered what effect those old stories might have had on Clara. Could she have harboured secret sympathies for Babington and his friends, despite her debt to Walsingham?
‘Ann worshipped as the law demanded, my father was careful about that. He was taking enough risks with his own double life, he didn’t want his wife doing the same. But Clara said she never gave up her rosary. Nor this locket. Clara wouldn’t have been parted from this lightly.’ His jaw clenched. ‘See here where the chain is broken? Do you suppose he tore it off her if she was resisting him?’
I rubbed the backs of my hands where the thorns had pricked them, glancing to either side with an uneasy sense of being watched. Something didn’t feel right here; I had known that feeling too often not to trust my instincts. It seemed to me that Clara’s locket had jumped too readily to my hand. If the girl’s shoes and sleeves had been stripped from her to sell before her body was handed over, surely a piece of gold jewellery would not have been left behind unless someone wanted it found? We were the only souls in the graveyard, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were playing on a stage, for the benefit of an unseen spectator. I pulled the kerchief up around my face again, just in case.
‘She could have lost it climbing the wall,’ I suggested, unconvinced.
‘Or – wait – she could have thrown it into the brambles herself,’ he countered, suddenly animated. ‘Suppose she realised what was happening, that her life was in danger? She might have ripped it off and tossed it away to stop him getting his hands on it.’
‘If she was intimate with Babington or one of his friends, they would have known she wore the locket,’ I suggested. ‘Wouldn’t they have searched for it?’
Poole looked at me as if he pitied my stupidity. ‘Babington and his friends were all dining together the night she was killed,’ he said. ‘All save Ballard, who was in France – or so we believe. They didn’t necessarily murder her with their own hands. And if they paid someone to lure her here and get rid of her, he might not have known to look for a locket. Besides, there would have been nothing but moonlight to see by – he couldn’t have lit a lantern for fear of disturbing the old watchman. And if the killer was hurt, he must have wanted to get away as quick as he could. He wouldn’t have wasted time scrabbling through bushes.’
I held my tongue; I could not contradict this thesis without revealing that Clara’s assailant had had the leisure to cut off her hair and ears, and that the blood was not his but hers. It was not for me to take from him the idea of his sister bravely resisting her attacker until her last breath. But the appearance of the locket so conveniently troubled me. Poole was staring at it, rapt, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the surface.
‘Should we keep searching?’
‘What?’ He jerked his head up. ‘Forgive me, I was …’ He indicated the locket with a diffident nod, as if embarrassed by his grief, before slipping it into the pouch at his belt. ‘I suppose we should see if there is anything else.’ But his earlier resolve seemed to have ebbed away; he looked around with the air of a man who has entered a room to find he has no memory of what he came in for. I picked up the broken branch I had discarded and pulled back the undergrowth where I had found the locket, hoping a cursory search would satisfy him so that we could make our way back across the river; there had been no mention of breaking our fast and my stomach was cramping with hunger. As I stepped closer to peer through the leaves, my foot struck something solid. I kicked it back towards me and bent to retrieve an earthenware carafe decorated with the embossed head of a unicorn. I sniffed it; the scent of spiced wine was still strong.
‘What have you there?’ Poole asked, snapping out of his reverie.
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
