The Desperate remedy

'You wrote to that traitor Owen abroad… and then replied to your own letter yourself?' asked an incredulous Gresham.

A wide grin split Phelippes' ravaged face. 'Why not?' He spread his arms wide. 'A man must live, after all. Cecil wouldn't know a proper spy if one came at him and bit his arse. I put the reply in my best cipher, and called myself Benson. Benson wrote a good letter, hinting at many dark plots against Crown and Country. So I sold his letters to Cecil.'

There was an explosive laugh from Mannion, and an equal snort from Gresham.

'So you forged a letter to Owen, forged his replies and sold them to Cecil? A most economic use of material, Tom. Didn't the Lord Cecil smell a rat?'

'A rat? He smelt nothing except the sweet smell of conspiracy, and loved every second of it And then that fucking bastard, that… skive Tom Barnes stole a copy of a letter in Vincent's hand and a letter in Benson's hand — Cecil had only seen Benson's hand, you understand — and showed them to Cecil. I hadn't bothered to use a different hand. It wasn't at all part of the plan for Cecil to see

Vincent's letters. How was I to know Cecil would see samples of both handwritings, which were, of course, identical?'

'Whereupon his Lordship became… cross?' mused Gresham.

'Cross! He pissed his fine linen and sent for me straightaway, pissed all over me and with a fair dose of shite as well and sent me here, the warped devil that he is. He's no sense of humour, that man. After all I've done for him and his scurvy State!'

'Is he more cross with you by the minute? Your quality of accommodation is hardly the best the Tower can offer.'

'No, that's not Cecil. I do believe he's forgotten I'm here. It's that walking fart Waad — Sir William Waad to you — that walking fart with lumps in it. You know his Fartship is now Lieutenant of the Tower, sworn in only days ago. I could do some swearing. Raleigh and some of the important prisoners put him in a terrible mood when he inspected his new fiefdom. He's too scared to touch them, except with words, but I'm easy meat. I was moved two days ago.'

Phelippes settled back on his stool.

'Enough of me. I accept your charity with good grace, yet there must be a price. Speak. What is it you want of me?'

Gresham gazed calmly at Phelippes. They had known each other for years, and if not friends had at least been comrades in the dark, shadowy world of spies and double-dealing intrigue.

'An explanation, Tom, just an explanation.'

A film of sweat was on Phelippes' brow. It was a warm day, but the cell was dank and chill despite the heat of late summer.

'An explanation? Explanation of what?'

'Of why when your servant Tom Barnes stole letters to show to Cecil, letters you most certainly did not wish Cecil to see, he found a packet of letters which most definitely were for Cecil, one of which appeared to be in the hand of one Henry Gresham. Letters written by you, forging my handwriting and appearing in every regard to come from me. Why, you old devil, you'd even used the same paper as I use myself! Well, Tom Barnes decided to show that packet to me, instead of obeying your orders and delivering it to Cecil. He knew I paid well. You write a fine hand, Tom, particularly so when you seek to make it my hand.'

'I know nothing of…' spluttered Phelippes, real fear showing now in his eyes.

'They are interesting, these letters I seem to have written, Tom. I didn't know I was a Catholic, though my plea to the Pope to support an invasion of England to throw King James off his throne is as powerful a piece of writing as I've never put pen to.'

Not only was the letter a superb forgery. It would have discredited Gresham for ever in the eyes of the masses, showing him a mere lackey of the Spaniards and an enemy of England. With that reputation Cecil's chance of ducking whatever furore the letters in the Papal archive created would have been vastly increased. Who would believe accusations written by a traitor? And, thought Gresham, it was even cleverer than that. The very provenance of the letters giving the dirt on Cecil — letters lodged in the Papal archive — would in itself suggest that Gresham was in league with the Papacy, and therefore a traitor.

'Why, Tom?' asked Gresham, gently. 'Why help to spread false tales about me?'

‘I..'

A dagger had appeared in Gresham's hand, and Mannion had moved to be in front of the iron-bound door.

'I'll kill you, Tom Phelippes, if I have to. You do know that, don't you?' said Gresham conversationally, the fine point of the dagger resting gently on top of the table's rough planking, held vertically there by the tip of Gresham's finger.

'I know it,' said Phelippes, whose face had gone a deathly colour, the pockmarks standing out lividly on the flesh of his face, 'yet if he who gave me the orders to forge your writing kills me for telling, as he surely will, why should I not choose an easy death now?'

'Because you can never know for certain that he will kill you, or find out what you told me, but you know you are surely dead by my hand if you don't tell me.' The level gaze of Gresham's eyes held and locked Phelippes' vision. He started to blink rapidly, like as rabbit caught in the light of a flaring torch. He shook his head, a tone of defiance beginning to underpin his fear.

'You can't kill me here, Henry Gresham!' he announced. 'I've no knife, I'm searched for weapons. Only you are with me. They'll accuse you of my murder as surely as Herod was accused of the slaughter of the innocents.'

'Perhaps they would, Tom, if I were to kill you with my knife,' mused Gresham. 'But you see, you've already drunk your death in that wine I so kindly supplied, and which you were so kind to drink in such quantity. My good friend Dr Simon Forman assures me of the potency of the mixture. You've drunk your death, Thomas Phelippes — unless, that is, I care to let you drink this antidote I happen to have in my purse, within the hour.'

Gresham withdrew a thin, stoppered bottle from his purse, containing a clear fluid. Phelippes' eyes followed it, as they would a vision from Heaven or Hell. Simon Forman was rumoured to have concocted more poisons than the Borgias.

'So do you want your next drink, Tom Phelippes? Or will you have done and be content with your last drink? Your last drink ever, that is…'

'You wouldn't do this to me!' spluttered Phelippes.

'I wouldn't have done it to you, before you betrayed me. Those letters you forged in my hand are my arrest, my trial and my hanging, drawing and quartering on the block, Tom Phelippes, as you full well know. Your death would seem a fair exchange. Enough of this chatter. Do you talk, or do I leave you to die?'

'I talk. The antidote…'

'Comes when you've finished speaking. First the letters. Why?'

'Because Cecil commanded — why else do you think? And because he paid. You know the loyalties in our game. To money and to preservation. Friendship comes a long way third.'

'Your honesty does you credit. A pity it didn't come earlier. Here, you may drink from the one bottle.' Gresham tossed the glass towards him. Phelippes grasped at it convulsively, ripped the stopper out and crammed the fluid down his throat. 'It takes two bottles to stop the work of the poison. The second is there when you finish. These names. Tell me what you know. All that you know.'

Gresham tossed a piece of paper to Phelippes. On it were the names given him by Moll Cutpurse.

Tom Wintour, Robert Catesby, Kit and Jack Wright and Thomas Percy.

Phelippes looked up, startled, his professionalism temporarily overcoming his fear. 'Catholics, one and all. A set of brothers. All related, by birth or by marriage. Catesby and the Wrights were held in the Tower together in '96.'

'Tell me about each one.'

'Why, do you think I've a clerk to hand?' Gresham held the glass bottle over the flagged stone floor. 'This has to come from my head, you know! Peace, peace, I'll try.'

Phelippes rocked back and closed his eyes.