Having relieved himself with these insults and imputations, he settled back, satisfied, and fiddled with a pipe. Lighting it from the charcoal brazier, he was soon filling the low cabin with layers of aromatic smoke as a way of further irritating the good doctor.
Jonathan Case said nothing in response to Tallman’s comments. Instead, he changed the subject by announcing that Jack and I might sleep in the great cabin tonight. It would be preferable, he said, to going down to the hold, where the wine barrels were stored, and much preferable to sleeping with the mariners in the fo’c’s’le. He indicated the little curtained alcoves where we might rest our heads. All of this was performed with the air of bestowing a great favour on us. I gathered that Tallman was also sleeping in the cabin, so it may have been that Jonathan wanted protection from his persecutor. Colin Case, however, planned to lay his head elsewhere. Probably he could not bear bedding down near his brother, particularly if Jonathan was occupying the space that would normally be his.
Jack said he wanted to take a turn on deck before putting his head down. He spoke for both of us. In truth, we wanted to escape the stifling air of the cabin, stifling not so much on account of the pipe smoke as for the bad feeling between the other diners.
Outside, the air was bracingly chill. The bad weather had blown itself out for the time being, and, not far above the horizon, a waxing moon bobbed like a boat among the clouds. It was quiet on deck and I wondered whether the mariners were happily asleep in the squalor of the fo’c’s’le or out and about among the delights of Gravesend.
‘Do you know what was going on in there?’ said Jack.
‘It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? The sky-stone doesn’t belong to Dr Jonathan and probably not the person he acquired it from either. According to Tallman, it is the property of an important foreigner. Probably the legate, de la Broderie. I reckon that someone in de la Broderie’s entourage has passed it to Case for disposal in France. He’s no more than an agent for stolen goods.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Jack.
‘No, but I do know I don’t like him. And it would explain why he wanted us with him last night. He felt more confident in company. Perhaps he was fearful that someone would attempt to take back the sky-stone.’
Jack was about to answer but suddenly paused. I sensed rather than saw him hold up his hand. From somewhere close by came a muttering sound. Jack moved towards it, stumbled and swore.
A human shape started up from where it had been lying or crouching on deck and made to dart off. But we were too quick for him. Jack had him by one side and I by the other. Although I could see little, I was fairly sure it was the individual we’d glimpsed on the afterdeck and perhaps down in the hold. His hood fell back to reveal a round face, whitened by the moon. He wriggled but he was smaller than us and after a moment he gave up the struggle. I was glad, because the tussle gave me twinges from my injury the previous evening in Middle Temple.
‘I did not know anyone was there,’ he said, as if to explain his reaction. Even though it was high-pitched in fear, his voice sounded educated.
‘You were talking to yourself,’ said Jack.
‘Was I?’ said the other. ‘Yes, that’s it. I must have been talking to myself.’
‘Who are you, sir?’ I said. ‘You are not a mariner, for sure. You’ve been spying on us.’
‘My name is Nicholas,’ said this person, and I started slightly at meeting in the dark someone who shared my name. Then he said in a more controlled tone, ‘I am no spy but a traveller like you.’
‘Well, we are the most unwilling travellers on earth,’ said Jack. ‘We leave this boat tomorrow.’
‘While I am hoping to sail on,’ said the other meekly.
By this time we had altogether slackened our hold on Nicholas’s person. Whatever he was doing on board was none of our business. Once he was free he immediately bent down and began scrabbling on the wooden boards.
‘Lost something?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
Perhaps we felt slightly guilty for having accosted this harmless gent, for Jack and I also stooped, cautiously in my case, and began to fumble about on deck with splayed hands. I found the dropped object first. It had the feel of a beaded necklace. Before handing it back I said, ‘We share a name, you and I, although people usually call me Nick. Is this what you are looking for, Nicholas?’ As he snatched it from me, I added, half in curiosity, half in mischief, ‘Deo Gratias.’
He repeated ‘Deo gratias,’ then stiffened as if he’d given himself away. Which he had, since his unthinking quickness in responding to the phrase and the discovery of the necklace — or rosary — were signs of his religion. He had not been talking to himself but kneeling in prayer, and so absorbed in his devotions that he was unaware of our presence.
‘You are taking a risk coming out on deck,’ I said.
‘I need some fresh air after a few hours in the hold,’ he said.
‘Some persons of your sort might spend days and nights inside a priest-hole,’ said Jack, showing by his words that he had also realized who — or what — this man was.
‘They have more endurance than I,’ Nicholas said. ‘I cannot bear being cooped up for long. Not that I have ever been in a priest-hole.’
‘You have a… warrant to be aboard the Argo? You are here by arrangement?’
‘My presence is known,’ said the other, choosing his words with care. ‘I do not want to say who knows.’
‘Well, my friend and I mean you no harm, I am sure,’ said Jack. ‘In fact, I am not certain that we have ever met. So goodnight to you.’
Nicholas muttered some indistinct words, presumably of gratitude, and scuttled away. Moments later we heard the sound of the hatch being opened. Jack and I remained out in the dark, as if giving Nicholas a decent interval to hide himself away once more. Neither of us said anything even if the same thoughts were probably running in both our heads. Thoughts to do with treason and conspiracy.
Ever since the Powder-treason and the attempt to blow up the Parliament in the November of ’05 the authorities had shown a new determination to root out the plotters in the Catholic families as well as to hunt down their priests. Rather than face the Pursuivants, more than a few were making their escape to safety overseas. I’d no idea whether Nicholas was a member of a Catholic family or a fugitive priest, though something in his garb and manner suggested the latter. Nor did I know whether Captain Case was a sympathizer with the old religion or was merely being bribed to ferry this individual to St-Malo. It also occurred to me that perhaps Nicholas was on the Argo without the shipmaster’s knowledge. Possibly it was another of Jonathan Case’s enterprises. Or even Henry Tallman’s.
Whatever the answer, it was best that Jack or I stayed ignorant, not so much out of fellow feeling as to avoid trouble. Why, as Jack said, we’d never even met the man. We returned to the great cabin, passing on our way the lad who’d served at table. He was carrying some leftovers of food and a jug of wine, awkwardly cradled in his arms. Perhaps he was taking them forward to share with his fellows. Crumbs from the rich man’s table…
The aura of pipe smoke still hung in the air together with the odours of food and drink, but of our fellow diners there was no sign. I assumed that everyone was tucked up in their beds, Jonathan Case in his privileged quarters at the far end of the great cabin, and Tallman in one of the alcoves, with Colin Case having disappeared elsewhere, although I had heard no steps behind us on deck. A little oil light still burned near the compass, but the candles had been snuffed out. There was nothing for it but to turn in, though I did cast a curious eye at the cabinet containing the sacred stone or, more precisely, I ran my hand over its intricate lock. As I did so, something snagged against my fingers. It was a piece of thread. I rolled it into a little coil and tucked it into a pocket.
Jack and I squeezed into the tiny, neighbouring alcoves and drew the curtains. I could almost stretch out at full length. The wind was getting up again, and the ship groaned and creaked around me as if it were alive. I was aware of the river water just below my berth. Above it was a tiny port that was closed with a kind of shutter. I did not open it. What was there to look at? The Argo was swaying gently but this was not reassuring, not like being rocked in a cradle. The straw mattress was less uncomfortable than our lodgings in the hold on the night before, but the pinched sides of the berth were reminiscent of a coffin and I thought of my bed at Mrs Ellis’s in Tooley Street. Then I wondered how we were going to account for our absence to the Globe shareholders. We’d be fined, for certain. I was reluctant to go to sleep for fear of waking up and finding that we’d set sail once more.