‘I think, gentlemen,’ Drake cuts in, ‘that the memory of our late comrade is not honoured by discussion of his death in this way. Especially over dinner.’ He smiles pleasantly but I catch the same warning tone in his voice that I noticed the day before. Savile meets his eye briefly and gives a curt nod of agreement.
The rest of the meal passes in ship talk, but the shadow of Dunne’s mysterious death hovers at the edges of the conversation, the subject we are all consciously avoiding. Whenever Drake talks about being able to set sail, I am conscious that he means when he has identified Dunne’s killer. It would seem that Savile and the women are still under the impression that Dunne hanged himself. If Savile had the cabin next door, Drake must have asked him about any unusual disturbance the night of Dunne’s death – and if he has not, perhaps it is because he has doubts about confiding in Savile. I could not blame him; there is something unconvincing about the man’s bluff bonhomie. I tell myself I should discuss this with Drake before I blunder in asking questions; then remember that I have sworn not to get involved in this business.
Further down the table, Sidney is regaling Drake and his wife with anecdotes of court life. Drake looks politely bored; his wife, by contrast, is hanging on Sidney’s every word, laughing with delight as if on cue, her eyes fixed on his. If that were my wife, I think, I would keep her well away from Sidney; at this rate, he will be writing her sonnets by supper. I watch Drake: his broad, tanned face, his big red hands that dwarf the wine glass he clasps between them. I don’t suppose she has a lot of sonnets from that quarter. When I look up, Lady Arden flashes me a knowing smile, as if she is following my thoughts.
As the servants are clearing the board, Drake leans in to whisper something to his wife and together they stand, excusing themselves as Drake announces he must now attend to his wife’s comfort and will see us later back on board. Savile’s moustache twitches with a smirk at Drake’s choice of words.
‘And who will attend to your comfort, Lady Arden?’ Savile says, from the side of his mouth, with a slight leer. ‘I am sure I could oblige.’
‘How gallant, Sir William,’ she says, with icy courtesy. ‘I’m afraid as a widow I must fend for myself. Now, if you will forgive me, gentlemen, I think I will retire to my room for a while. The emotion of discussing nautical charts at such length has quite worn me out.’ She smiles sweetly around the table and pushes her chair back.
The rest of us rise to our feet as the ladies and Drake take their leave and I turn to find Thomas Drake at my shoulder.
‘Sir Francis attends you and Sir Philip upstairs, in his wife’s chamber,’ he murmurs. ‘He wishes to speak with you in private.’
Padre Pettifer is just leaving, but he turns and catches my eye as Thomas is speaking. I am certain he has overheard. Again, I sense a hostility in the way he looks at me.
‘Rich as Croesus, that one, since the old man died,’ Savile mutters to me, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door.
‘I beg your pardon?’
He leans in with a wolfish grin. ‘Ah, no need to pretend. I saw how you looked at her. We’re all trying, believe me. Who wouldn’t want a ripe young widow with money in her coffers? But I tell you – Bruno, was it? – once a widow, there’s little incentive to become a wife again. They get a taste for independence, y’see.’ He nods a full stop, as if to confirm his disapproval. ‘She’ll make you work for it. They enjoy wielding their power. Still, may the best man win, eh?’
I smile. ‘The field is all yours, Sir William. I am in holy orders.’
‘Good God. Are you really?’ He draws back and squints at me as if I have just told him I have a tail. ‘Man of the cloth, eh? Whatever prompted you to do that? Still, don’t worry’ – he slaps me on the shoulder in that hearty way Sidney has – ‘Her Majesty positively encourages priests to marry these days. You stay in England, you might yet find yourself a nice little wife. Not a woman of rank, mind, but someone. I’ll keep my eye out for you.’
‘That’s very good of you, Sir William. Although you will be at sea for the next twelve months, at least. I fear the options will be limited.’
‘True, true,’ he says, rolling the tip of his moustache between his fingers. ‘Well – when I come back. A governess or some such might do you nicely.’
‘I humbly thank you.’
At the door, Sidney catches my eye and nods towards the stairs.
‘Where are you two going with such eager expressions, eh?’ Savile asks. ‘Don’t fancy some cards, I suppose? I’m bored witless on that ship.’
‘Have you been starting brawls for entertainment?’ Sidney asks, indicating his lip.
‘What, this?’ Savile reaches up and gingerly touches the cut. ‘It was nothing. A misunderstanding. Idleness frays tempers.’ He lowers his voice. ‘The men just want to set sail, you know. I understand Sir Francis wants to pay his respects to Dunne’s family, but really, there’s the rest of the fleet to think of, not to mention the investors. The longer we delay, the greater the chance one of Philip of Spain’s spies will catch wind of what we’re up to and slip him a warning. We won’t get as far as the Azores before some Spanish fleet jumps out on us.’
‘What spies?’ I ask.
‘They’re everywhere,’ he says, with a theatrical gesture that takes in the inn’s wide entrance hall. I look around. The place is empty, save for us. ‘Well, they’re bound to be – port full of foreigners, easy for them to slip into the crowd. Drake even keeps a damned Spaniard on his own ship – have you ever heard anything so absurd? I’ll wager he’s tipping off his countrymen somehow – terrible shifty look about him, y’know? Well, they all do, the Catholics – it’s those black eyes they have. Can’t tell if they’re looking at you straight.’
I regard him impassively with my black eyes until he gives a little cough. ‘Saving your presence.’
‘I’m afraid we must pass up the card table for now, Sir William,’ Sidney says, to cover the awkward pause. ‘We are going up to read some poetry.’
‘Oh, good Lord,’ Savile says. ‘Poetry. I’d rather put my balls in a wine press. God save you, gentlemen.’ With a brisk bow, he strides away to the tap-room.
‘Perhaps your man in black is one of these Spanish spies that have infested the place,’ Sidney muses, as we climb the stairs. I send him a withering glance. ‘Stop looking at me with your shifty Catholic eyes,’ he says, and skips out of the way before I can land a punch in his ribs.
The room is larger and better furnished than the one I am sharing with Sidney; I see his gaze wandering around it with a touch of envy. There is no sign of the women. Drake sits on the end of an ornately carved bed. On his lap he holds a leather bag, his hands spread protectively over it, as if someone might try to snatch it from him. He looks up with a distracted smile and waves us to a chair with tapestried cushions by the fireplace. There is only one; Sidney sits, I lean against the mantelpiece. Thomas Drake stands with his back to the door and nods to his brother.
‘Gentlemen,’ Drake says. ‘There is something I wish to show you, but it must be done
