Treachery by S. J. Parris Page A

We turn and follow the path back towards the town.
    ‘The townspeople talk of murder, then?’
    ‘Murder, witchcraft, curses – you name it. The sailors are not popular in Plymouth, for all the people here depend on them for a living.’ He glances around for dramatic effect, though there is no one else out walking. A sharp wind cuts across the headland; up here it feels more like November than August.
    ‘So it seems,’ he continues, ‘that our friend Dunne—’
    ‘Stop calling him that.’
    ‘Why?’ He frowns. ‘Why are you so irritable today? I’m the one who’s been poisoned by that ale.’
    ‘He wasn’t our friend, and we have no reason to be poking about in the business of his death. It sounds as if you are making light of it.’
    Sidney takes me by the shoulder. ‘His death, as I have already explained to you at least three times, is our ticket on board that ship there.’ He points. ‘A ship that in a year’s time will come back to this harbour so weighed down with gold you’ll barely see the bowsprit above the waves.’
    I do not bother to argue. ‘Go on, then. Dunne.’
    He clicks his tongue impatiently and pulls his hat down tighter against the wind. ‘Robert Dunne was well known in Plymouth, they said. He had been living here for the past few months, though his home was in Dartington, a day’s ride away.’
    ‘Not on good terms with his wife, then?’
    ‘That’s part of it.’
    The path begins to slope down towards the street that runs alongside the inner harbour, where the little fishing boats are moored. Below us, men sit on upturned barrels on the quay, mending nets or examining sailcloth. A group of small boys are scuffling on the harbour wall, fistfighting or trying to hit gulls with their slingshots. Occasionally a pebble goes astray, and one of the fishermen raises a fist and shouts a bloodthirsty curse as the boys dart away in a gale of 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