‘That is what Karl expected you to believe?’
‘He made it sound true.’
‘And gave you some reward no doubt.’
‘He did not offer me a penny,’ she said indignantly. ‘Nor would I take it. What I did was out of love for him. That is the height of my offence.’
Nicholas understood the significance of Fridays. It was the night when she stole away for a regular tryst with her lover. The woman was no practised informer who worked for gain. She put up with the disagreeable things she was forced to do in order to spend one night a week in the arms of her man. The plain, homely face and the plump body suggested that she might have had very few men in her life, perhaps none who took her as seriously as Karl appeared to do. She had given herself completely to him. It never occurred to her that he might be manipulating her cynically for his own ends.
Her admitted dislike of Cecily Brinklow raised an issue that had rather faded into the background. In the light of what Agnes had said, however, it took on a new importance.
‘Walter Dunne was arrested with your master’s wife.’
‘They were taken in the very act, sir.’
‘Who told the constables where to find them?’
She coloured and grew evasive. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Someone must have known the place and sent them to it. Do you not think it strange that they called at precisely the right time to catch two people in a moment of such intimacy?’ He leaned in close. ‘Why did you do it, Agnes?’
‘It was sheer chance that they were found like that.’
‘It was deliberate. Karl ordered it.’
‘He…may have suggested it.’
‘No, Agnes. He made you implicate two people who had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of your master. And you went willingly along with such a pack of lies. I can see that you hated your mistress.’
‘She was harsh with me. And unfaithful to her husband.’
‘Did you never think of warning him about it?’
‘He already knew.’
‘Master Brinklow was aware of his wife’s adultery?’
‘He all but encouraged it.’
Nicholas was startled. Here was an entirely new slant on a murder which he thought he was finally sorting out in his mind. Thomas Brinklow had been portrayed to him as a brilliant inventor and an honest, generous, well-loved man, yet here was a maidservant claiming that he was also a complaisant husband. It compelled him to adjust his whole view of the domestic situation at the house. Agnes reached forward to clutch anxiously at him.
‘What will happen to me, sir?’ she whimpered.
‘I do not know.’
‘Will they chain me up? Will they beat me?’
‘We shall see.’
‘Is there no way that I can make amends?’ she asked. ‘I know I have done wrong but Karl made it seem so right. He has a way of explaining things to me.’
‘How did he explain the death of Master Chaloner?’
‘Karl had nothing to do with that!’
‘He may well have dragged the body here himself.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘He would never do such a thing. Karl is kind and loving. You do not know him as well as I do. He would not dream of committing murder. It was not Karl.’
‘Then who did kill Master Chaloner?’
Agnes was stunned. It was a question which she had blocked out of her mind. A look of total incomprehension spread over her features. Nicholas almost felt sorry for her. She had been pulled unwittingly into a complex plot over which she had no control and which she could not even begin to understand. Like Orlando Reeve, she was as much a victim as an accomplice but that did not exonerate her from blame or lessen the horror of the events in which she had been caught up.
She was now shocked, contrite and fearful.
‘I cannot bring Master Brinklow back from his grave, nor Master Chaloner. But surely there is some way I can atone? Some means by which I can help you?’
Nicholas looked down at the scribbled message that he had found when he intercepted her. He held it up.
‘Where were you taking this?’
‘To the Black Bull Inn,’ she said. ‘There is a man, who is paid to carry my letters to the palace with all haste.’
‘Give him another message,’ said Nicholas.
‘Another?’
‘I will dictate it to you.’
***
Lawrence Firethorn was in his element. As he mingled with the small crowd at the end of the pier, he was playing a part that had been assigned to him. He might not win the applause of a packed audience at the Queen’s Head but his performance was no less important for that. The tide was receding so the boat was moored well down the jetty in order to sit in deep water. Horse-drawn carts had brought its cargo from the palace and the heavy boxes were being winched aboard and lowered into a hold in the middle of the vessel.
The clerk from the armoury was checking his inventory as the cases were roped up in readiness for the huge hook on the winch. Firethorn sidled up to him in the most casual manner.
‘Good day, sir,’ he said.
‘Good day to you,’ said the clerk, sparing him no more than a glance. ‘Stand aside, if you will. I am busy.’
‘I see it well. What are your men loading here?’
‘That is our business.’
Firethorn shrugged. ‘I ask but out of interest, sir.’
‘Then satisfy it and go your way. Those boxes are full of implements for the garden. Spades, hoes, rakes and the like.’
‘Made here in the palace workshops?’ said Firethorn with irony. ‘What are your armourers doing with garden tools? If the Spanish invade us, are we supposed to beat them off with rakes? Here’s strange weaponry indeed.’
‘Away, sir, or I’ll call the guard!’ snapped the clerk.
Firethorn mollified him with a gesture of conciliation. He drifted across to the boat itself and spoke to one of the sailors helping to bring the cargo aboard.
‘Where do you sail?’ he asked.
‘Deptford,’ said the man, spitting into the Thames.
‘These boxes are for the royal dockyards?’
‘Our journey ends there but they will travel on.’
‘To what port?’
‘Who knows?’ said the man, guiding another load of boxes into the hold as it swung towards him. ‘We put them into a larger vessel and our work is done.’
‘Larger vessel?’
Firethorn had heard enough to arouse his suspicions. If a larger vessel were involved, the cargo must be destined for a port across the Channel. It was inconceivable that garden implements were being exported from Greenwich Palace to the Continent. An actor who dominated every stage on which he walked now made himself as inconspicuous as he could by walking to the very tip of the pier and sitting on its edge to stare out into the river. Across its murky water was the Isle of Dogs and Firethorn was grateful that he would not have to visit that reeking swamp again. On the other hand, it did not have a monopoly of evil. The opulent and respectable Greenwich housed villains as loathsome as any across the Thames.
When the cargo was loaded and the clerk departed with his men, Firethorn sauntered back towards the boat. The crew were making ready to set sail. He hailed the captain and requested to come aboard. The latter was a big, bearded man with a weather-tanned face and a distrustful eye. He allowed Firethorn to step over the bulwark but no further.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘Safe passage to Deptford.’
‘This is a cargo boat. We carry no passengers.’
‘Make an exception and you will be well paid.’ He opened his hand to show the silver coins on his palm. ‘Well, sir? It is a good return on a short voyage.’
‘Short, indeed,’ said the man, clearly tempted by the money. ‘But you could get to Deptford much quicker by horse. Why choose the slowest means?’
‘Because I am in no hurry.’
Firethorn beamed at him and disguised the nudging pain he still felt from his bad tooth. The man looked him up and down for a moment before snatching at the coins.