raucous laughter. I wait for Sidney to elaborate.
When he is certain I am paying attention, he leans in closer and lowers his voice.
‘Apparently Dunne was a regular at the town’s most notorious brothel. A place they call the House of Vesta.’
‘Really? After the Vestal Virgins of Rome, I suppose. Very subtle. So his wife found out, climbed aboard the ship in disguise, and strung him up?’
‘Try to take this seriously, Bruno. Dunne had been seen more than once in the company of the same two men.’
‘In the brothel?’
‘No – in the taverns. No one knows who they were. And these Plymouth merchants and traders, believe me, they make it their business to know everyone. They knew who I was before I’d opened my mouth. But Dunne’s companions remained a mystery.’
‘Was one of them a man in a black cloak?’
Sidney rolls his eyes. ‘Actually,’ he says, tapping a finger against his teeth, ‘they did say one of the men always wore a hat. Even indoors. Did your phantom last night have a hat?’
‘Yes – a black one, pulled low over his ears. And both he and his hat were quite real, I assure you.’
Sidney considers this. ‘Every one of those foul-breathed fishmongers last night claimed to have seen Dunne with his companions around and about, yet not one of them got a close look at their faces.’
‘Well, at least we know one of them had a hat. That narrows it down.’
He grins. ‘Not much of a start, is it?’
‘Drake said Dunne got into a tavern fight the night he died. Do your reliable sources know anything about that?’
He leans in. ‘The favourite theory is that these strangers were using Dunne to get at Drake’s treasure.’
‘What treasure?’
‘Drake is famous in Plymouth, as you’d expect, and well liked with it, he has done a great deal for the town, but of course elaborate theories multiply around him – that when he came back from his trip around the world he gave up only a fraction of his booty to the Queen and has hidden the rest somewhere nearby.’
‘And these honest souls would like to recover it and hand it over to Her Majesty?’
Sidney laughs. ‘I’m sure that’s exactly what they plan to do with it. But you should hear the stories they tell about what else Drake brought back with him.’
‘Such as?’
‘Books written by the hand of the Devil, birds with feathers of real gold, young women with two heads who give birth to children that are half-dragon, half-man. The sort of things everyone knows they have on the other side of the world.’
‘Oh, those. Where is Drake supposedly keeping this diabolical menagerie?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose they think that’s what Dunne was being paid to find out.’
We follow the street along the quayside by the row of limewashed houses and taverns facing the water. Suddenly Sidney elbows me in the ribs and nods to the path ahead, where two well-dressed young women are walking towards us arm-in-arm, followed at a discreet distance by a manservant. One is tall, with red-gold curls pinned back under a French hood, the other darker, with pale skin and strong brows. From their glances and shared whispers it is clear that they have also noticed us. Sidney is about to embark on an elaborate bow, when one of the ladies cries out, her hand flying to her mouth; she is not looking at us but beyond, to the harbour wall. Wheeling around, I see one of the boys who was fighting; he is calling urgently and pointing down. The smallest of his companions has fallen from the quay into the water, where he flails and splutters, attempting to cry out.
‘It’s my brother, he can’t swim. I never meant to push him in,’ squeals the boy on the quay, hopping up and down and flapping his hands.
The blond head in the water sinks below the surface, bobs up again in a brief frenzy of foam, then disappears. Without thinking, I tear off my doublet and plunge in, fighting to open my eyes in the murky water, my ribs jarring at the shock of the cold. At first I can see no sign of the child, then I look down and see his little body sinking in a silver chain of bubbles, his smock shirt billowing around him. I surge forward and grab at his waist, dragged back by the weight of my wool breeches in the water; he is surprisingly heavy, but once I break through the surface, gasping at the air, it is not far to the wall. Hands reach out to lift the boy; he is laid on the cobbles, while one of the fishermen bends his ear over the boy’s face. I haul myself on to the quay and kneel on the stone to recover my breath, water coursing from my clothes and hair. The boy lies there, unmoving; the man beside him tries shaking him to provoke a response.
‘Is he dead?’ wails the child who pushed him, clawing at his shirt in anguish. ‘Mother will kill me.’
‘Here.’ I kneel beside the boy and press hard several times on his chest. ‘I have seen this done in Venice, when a boy fell in a canal.’ The child promptly raises his head and vomits over the shoes of the man beside him, who lets out a surprised curse and cuffs the older boy round the head.
‘Do that again, you little bugger, and I’ll throw you in after him,’ he says, as the boy howls even louder. ‘Give us all a fright like that. If this gentleman hadn’t been so quick you’d have lost your brother, and I wouldn’t have liked to be the one to tell your mother her darling was gone.’
It strikes me that this distinction may have prompted the boy’s desire to push his brother in the first place, but I keep silent. The fisherman turns to me. ‘Thank you, sir. My nephews – always scrapping where they shouldn’t be. Their mother’s a widow. If you hadn’t been here – I can’t swim myself, see.’ He glances back at the murky water with a grimace. ‘Amos Prisk, sir. That’s my boat there.’ He points, then wipes a hand on his smock and holds it out to me. He has a firm grip, though somewhat slippery. I try not to think about fish guts. ‘I would stand you a drink, only my sister’s not back from the market with the day’s takings.’ He lets go of my hand and turns his palms out, empty.
‘No need,’ I say, embarrassed. Quite a crowd has gathered to watch the drama; at its edge, I see the two attractive women looking at me and whispering to one another. I wipe my hand surreptitiously on my wet breeches, push my dripping hair out of my face and give them an awkward smile. The taller one leans over to whisper something to her friend and they both laugh. I glance away and, over their heads, some distance off, I glimpse a figure in black, standing between two houses at the mouth of one of the alleys that curves down from the town towards the harbour. He remains completely still, observing the scene, his face cast into shadow by the brim of his hat. I take a step forward, but Sidney cuts across my line of sight.
‘Heroic of you, Bruno. You’ve got seaweed on your face. Here.’ He picks off the offending plant, folds his arms and nods, as if impressed, though he can’t quite disguise the irritation in his voice. I motion him out of the way, impatient, but the man in black has disappeared. Sidney has my doublet draped over one arm.
‘I’m sure you’d have done the same if your clothes were less valuable,’ I say, reaching down to wring out my breeches. He gives me a pointed smile.
‘We had better get you away from the ladies – the way that shirt is clinging to you verges on indecent.’
