I reached out a finger and dipped it in a half-dried puddle of the ruby liquid, then cautiously raised it to my lips. There was a slightly strange taste to it, but that, of course, could be nothing more than the taint of damp and mildew from the flagstones. It wasn’t in itself proof that the wine had been drugged, but the evidence of the mouse seemed to point that way. If a strong soporific had been used, it might well have proved too much for a little rodent. I ruled out poison. That would have been stupid, indicating at once that there were others anxious to learn of the duke’s intentions, others who suspected that my and Mistress Gray’s journey to France was a cloak for another, more secret mission. But thanks to my clumsiness, I had failed to drink the wine and so been alerted to possible danger. Nor were the unknown ‘they’ any the wiser.
I picked up my clothes, laid them on the chair again and got back into bed, shivering with cold. If I caught an ague on top of everything else, I should have a few harsh words to say to Timothy Plummer. On reflection, I would have more than a few harsh words to say to him in the morning. I lay for a while, straining my ears, but I doubted anyone would risk a return visit, especially as whoever it was had probably satisfied himself that what he was looking for was no longer among my possessions.
But why did I naturally assume that my visitor had been a man? It might equally as well have been a woman. I had been too drugged with sleep to have any clear idea of the intruder’s sex, yet a certain sense of bulk persuaded me that the presence had been male. But who? Who, apart from Timothy and the duke, knew of my secret instructions, and, above all, who could possibly have been aware that I was carrying them in my pouch?
I had a sudden picture of myself the previous evening with the duke. I was saying something, something about ‘when I read what you had written’, and tapping my belt. . And the servant, who had entered unobserved by me, was there, pouring the wine, the same servant who had insisted on accompanying me to my room so that he might know where I was housed. .
A Woodville agent? He had to be! I could at least provide Timothy with a description, although I doubted that morning would still find the man in the castle. He would slip out at first light to report his failure to his superiors, and if he had any sense, he wouldn’t come back. On the other hand, he might underrate my intelligence. Plenty of people had done that before now. To their cost.
Eventually, I drifted into an uneasy sleep, a tangle of nightmarish dreams that again featured Reynold Makepeace and Jeanne Lamprey and a whole host of grinning skeletons who were dancing round and round me in a ring.
I awoke the following morning with a crick in my neck and feeling far from refreshed. By the time I had finished dressing, I was in a foul temper, angry with all the world and ready to take offence if someone so much as looked at me the wrong way. Sensing my mood, I was given a wide berth at breakfast by the duchess’s servants, so I seized the opportunity to look around at the neighbouring tables to see if I could spot the wine-server of the previous evening, but there was no one resembling him that I could make out — at least, not enough to say positively, ‘That is the man.’ My guess was probably correct: he had already left the castle.
A page came to tell me that Timothy wanted to see me as soon as I had finished eating. ‘The same room as yesterday, overlooking the water-stairs.’ The boy nodded towards my plate, indicating the half-eaten oatcake. ‘Don’t you want that?’
I shook my head and he leaned over and grabbed it, cramming it into his mouth all in one go.
‘Don’t they feed you in this place?’ I asked. ‘It’s as dry as last week’s bread.’
He grimaced. ‘Her Grace doesn’t believe in too much indulgence of the flesh.’
Not now, I thought, not now she’s an old woman, but in the past. . that might well have been a different story.
I found the spymaster waiting for me, impatiently pacing up and down the room. He rounded on me as I entered. ‘Where have you been?’
‘At breakfast,’ I snapped. ‘And pretty poor victuals they were, too. That’s beside the point. I overslept, but there was a reason for it.’
‘It had better be a good one.’
‘Oh, it is,’ I said, seating myself on one of the stools. ‘The best.’ And I told him what had happened.
Timothy cursed softly under his breath. ‘Would you recognize this server again?’
I pursed my lips. ‘I might, although there was nothing outstanding about him. Couldn’t you ask the duke? His Grace might know who he is.’
My companion snorted derisively. ‘I don’t suppose the duke even glanced at the man’s face, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know his name. He doesn’t recognize half his own servants, let alone his mother’s. But why do you think this fellow suspected you?’
I explained and received a tongue-lashing for my pains.
‘You must be more careful,’ Timothy ended, but then sat down beside me and patted my arm, probably being able to tell from my expression that I was in a right royal rage. ‘However, I suppose it wasn’t really your fault,’ he added placatingly. ‘And at least it’s put us on our guard. We know now that the Woodvilles have got wind of something, but thanks to the fact that you had already committed the paper’s contents to memory and then destroyed it, they still don’t know what it is we’re after.’
I was in no mood to be buttered up and asked abruptly, ‘Where do I find this Humphrey Culpepper, then? Stinking Lane, did you say?’
Timothy nodded. ‘It’s off the Shambles. The first turning after Pentecost Lane as you come from West Cheap.’
‘Which house?’
‘The third one on the left.’
I was surprised and showed it. ‘Not like your men to be so precise,’ I sneered, getting a little of my own back. ‘They must have been having one of their better days.’
Timothy scowled. ‘None of this is a joke, Roger. It’s damnably dangerous.’
‘Oho!’ I exclaimed. ‘The truth at last! Of course it’s dangerous. I told you yesterday we were dabbling in treason. It’s all very well saying that the duke will protect us. He may not be able to. He could be in the Tower — or worse.’
Timothy’s irritation was written large on his face. He was under great strain, and suddenly it showed. ‘That’s enough of that sort of talk.’ The corner of his right eye had developed a twitch. ‘Now listen to me carefully. Make sure that no one is watching you when you enter Culpepper’s house and be certain it’s him when he answers the door. He’s a widower. Lives alone. An old man, over sixty, as you’d expect. Grey hair, thickset. None too keen on using the communal pump.’
‘You mean he stinks more than normal?’
‘We-ell. . yes. But it’s another way of identifying him. Here, take this token.’ The spymaster pushed a bone disc, with the emblem of the White Boar carved on one side, towards me. ‘If he jibs at letting you in, show him this. But not unless you have to. Then ask him for a description of Robin Gaunt. That’s all you want. Nothing more. Don’t enter into conversation with him.’
‘And if he can’t remember this Robin Gaunt, or perhaps won’t say unless I tell him why I wish to know?’
Timothy sighed, the lines of weariness about his eyes seeming to increase. ‘Then I’ll have to have him brought in for questioning. Frighten him a bit. But I don’t want to do that unless it’s necessary. His neighbours are bound to get wind of it, and the last thing I want is to draw any attention to him.’
‘But isn’t he going to discuss my visit with the neighbours anyway?’
‘The man who’s been keeping an eye on him these past few days reports that Culpepper doesn’t like company and speaks to very few people. Other people tend to avoid him.’