Why would he be watching the Cross Bones?’
‘You think he was spying? For whom?’
Poole rolled his eyes. ‘I wonder that Master Secretary sets such store by your wits,’ he said, and I did not miss the barb in his tone. I realised then that he resented me – and that could only mean Walsingham had spoken highly enough of me for Poole to fear I threatened his standing. I confess that the thought pleased me. ‘No one is supposed to know that Clara is dead, least of all me,’ he continued, his voice a low growl. ‘Coaxing a slip-up from Babington and his friends depends on me pretending I know nothing of her whereabouts. If I have been seen poking about the scene of her murder, my deception will be exposed.’
‘Exactly as Phelippes warned,’ I murmured. He shot me a hostile glare.
‘He saw you too.’
I refrained from reminding him that Phelippes had foreseen that as well.
‘We’re not going to find the boy now. The best thing we can do is get away from here as quickly as possible. It’s probably nothing,’ I added as we retraced his steps past the cottages. ‘Maybe he just took a fancy to the horse. You said yourself the whole borough is full of thieves.’
Poole stopped dead and stared at me. ‘Shit. The gate.’
He broke into a run; I followed him around the corner and we tumbled through the open door of the Cross Bones, to find the graveyard empty. Only a fresh pile of dung by the brazier gave any indication that a horse had ever been there. Poole tore off his hat and flung it on the ground with an impressive string of oaths that would have made a Neapolitan proud. When he had exhausted all the words he knew, he looked at me.
‘Are you laughing?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, leaning against the wall and clutching my stomach. I could not even say why I found the situation so funny; the two of us, vying with each other for Walsingham’s approbation as to who was the best of his espials, while a child thief had played us like a lute. Poole took a step forward and I shrank against the wall, bracing myself to dodge a punch, but he stopped abruptly and doubled over, his shoulders shaking. Eventually I realised he was laughing too.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he said, when he could speak, straightening up and wiping his eyes. ‘It wasn’t even my horse. It was Ballard’s. He’ll have my balls.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and burst into guffaws again. I clapped him on the back. I could see that this was a way for him to release the pent-up emotion of the past hour, and it seemed to have broken the tension between us too. But I couldn’t help a glance behind me. Perhaps the boy was a mere horse thief, but he had seen my face.
We caught a wherry back across the river from Goat Stairs and walked back up through the city to Leadenhall. I bought a pie from a street vendor on the way, though Poole ate nothing; his fit of hilarity had passed in the boat and a morose mood had overtaken him. I wondered if he was brooding on his sister or the loss of the horse.
Back at Phelippes’s rooms, we found Walsingham prowling the large study like one of the Queen’s caged beasts, while his cryptographer sat in his usual place at the desk, head bowed, quill scratching.
‘You took your time,’ Walsingham said, not quite hiding his irritation. ‘I began to think you’d gone back to France.’ This last was directed at me.
‘The journey took a while,’ I said, not looking at Poole.
‘Huh. Was it worth the trouble? Anything useful?’
‘Bruno found this, Your Honour,’ Poole said, holding out the locket. ‘It’s my sister’s all right.’
Walsingham turned it over in his palm and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘That’s worth a bit. I’m surprised it wasn’t spotted by greedy eyes. Where did you find it?’
‘In the undergrowth,’ I said.
‘We think she might have thrown it there when she realised her life was in danger,’ Poole added. Walsingham continued to look at me, a question in his eyes. I could have voiced my reservations about Poole’s theory but I was not about to make him look foolish in front of his superiors.
Walsingham nodded. ‘Thomas.’
He tossed the locket to Phelippes, who snapped it open, removed the lock of hair, then inserted a fine, thin tool into the hinge. Soundlessly, the inner casing flipped up to reveal a hidden compartment. With a pair of tweezers, Phelippes removed a thin strip of paper and unfolded it, while Poole stared in amazement.
‘Ingenious, no?’ Walsingham allowed a brief smile. ‘Bloody Mary gave these as gifts to her trusted women. Useful way to carry secret messages around unseen.’
‘I have seen something similar,’ I said, thinking of a woman I had known long ago, in Naples.
‘Clara never showed me this,’ Poole said, with a hint of indignation, his eyes wide. ‘Is that how she hid messages from the conspirators?’
‘One of the ways.’ Walsingham pressed his lips together with a grim satisfaction. ‘Get to work, Thomas. What have you there, Bruno?’
‘I found this in the same place,’ I said, handing him the pitcher. ‘It’s recent, there’s a little wine left in the bottom. I don’t know if it’s useful. There was nothing else there that I could see.’
Poole frowned. ‘Except a quantity of blood. I would speak with you alone, Your Honour. It’s time I was allowed to see my sister, and bury her.’
‘Long past time,’ Walsingham agreed. ‘But for now I need you close to Babington. Ballard is expected back in London any day and I must have Bruno prepared for his return.’
I opened my mouth to interject but he spoke to Poole over me: ‘Find out what you can. Mark what they ask you about your sister, and who among them seems ill at ease. Continue to tell them you have not heard from her.’
Poole appeared to consider arguing, but subsided under the force of Walsingham’s stare. In the doorway he paused, one hand on the post.
‘That locket belongs to me,’ he said, with a hint of warning. ‘It’s all I have of her.’
‘And you shall have it, as soon as Thomas has finished his work,’ Walsingham said, in the same reasonable tone. ‘Bring your news to Seething Lane after supper and we’ll speak further. I know how hard this must be, Robin. Your loyalty and obedience will be remembered, when this is done.’
Poole gave a curt nod and disappeared. Walsingham waited until his footsteps had died on the stairs before closing the door to Phelippes’s chamber.
‘She’ll be in the ground by then. That curate you met at the leper chapel – he’s burying one of his elderly parishioners this afternoon. Clara will go in the churchyard at the same time, no one will be any the wiser and with luck, Robin will never have to see the body. Especially after my physician opened her this morning, at your suggestion. No sign that she was with child.’
I felt obscurely disappointed; I had wanted to be right about that.
‘Then
