‘We Cecils don’t push, Nicholas. We advise. We recommend. We persuade. In the end, the outcome tends to be the same.’ Cecil walks over to the Molyneux globe, still standing exactly where it was the last time Nicholas was here. ‘Think of the good you could do for physic. Think of the charitable institutions you could leave behind you, the hospitals and almshouses. Imagine your father’s pride when his son wins the family a coat of arms from the College of Heralds – no longer humble farmers, but gentlemen.’
From out of nowhere, Nicholas hears Bianca’s voice in his head. Nicholas, sweet, Robert Cecil offers nothing without a reason. There is always a price to be paid…
‘And what exactly do you expect of me in return?’ he asks.
Cecil doesn’t answer. He simply lays one hand nonchalantly on the lacquered surface of the globe – beside the etched outline of the Barbary Coast.
‘Marrakech?’ A garrotte of hot anger tightens around Nicholas’s neck.
‘A few months away, that’s all, Nicholas. Maybe less, with favourable winds. Return with knowledge gained, reputation enhanced. Ready to begin the climb to your rightful place as a physician to our sovereign majesty. There are men who would kill for that honour, Nicholas.’
‘I told you before, I’m not interested in your commission, Sir Robert.’
‘Oh, but you are interested in the reward, Nicholas. I can see it in your eyes.’
And to his shame, Nicholas knows it’s true.
‘There is one other factor you might wish to consider.’
Robert Cecil’s voice has suddenly turned from a courtier’s into that of a blackmailer.
‘And that is?’
‘Given the present contagion in the city, I have suggested to the Grocers’ Company that they root out all persons selling false remedies to the public. That includes apothecaries – especially those of the female sex presently residing in the liberty of Southwark.’ Cecil pauses to allow his words to sink in. ‘And if the Privy Council were to order the taverns to close – well, I would imagine someone thus turned out of two livelihoods would find it very hard to put food in her belly. Think upon it for a while.’
And with that, he leaves Nicholas to the fading rumble of the departing storm and the blank stares of the grey mourners on the terrace.
A private coach rolls into view, drawn by two grey palfreys. It looks to Nicholas like a tester bed on wheels, with four corner posts holding up a wooden roof, and curtains to keep out the weather – or any view the traveller might find distressing. He watches it through the open doorway, the horses’ hooves splashing through the puddles, the wheel rims casting a misty wake behind them.
‘He’s not usually this generous, Dr Shelby,’ says Lopez beside him. ‘I wonder if he’s worried what the queen might say to him, if he lets her old physician catch the ague on a walk home in the drizzle.’
His accent is more pronounced now, Nicholas notices. Perhaps when he’s in Privy Council company, Lopez feels the need to downplay his Portuguese origins.
‘I’m going to Mountjoy, Dr Shelby. But if you want a lift to the public water-stairs, I’m sure the coachman won’t object.’
‘That is kind of you, Dr Lopez,’ Nicholas replies. ‘I’ve been awaiting the opportunity for a private word with you since I arrived.’ He pulls his gabardine cloak tight around his neck and follows the old man into the coach.
As they lurch forward, Nicholas tries to make himself comfortable on the plump, velvet-covered bench seat. The interior smells of ambergris and horse-leather. The roof, barely a foot above his head, is studded with golden stars. How many intrigues have been launched in this confined, damask-lined world?
Should I warn him about Cecil’s comments in the study? Nicholas wonders. But what to say? Where to begin? Besides, Lopez was physician to Francis Walsingham and the Earl of Leicester before he got anywhere near the queen. He can’t have lasted this long without developing a nose for intrigue. ‘May I be blunt, Dr Lopez?’ he asks.
Lopez’s rheumy eyes widen in surprise. ‘If it’s about Master Bacon’s new ideas, save your breath, young man. I am not the fellow to champion such wild nonsense.’
‘That’s not what I wanted to talk about. Have you heard of a man named Solomon Mandel?’
Lopez leans back against the cushions. He studies Nicholas as he might study a patient whose symptoms he’s never encountered before. The grey flesh of his furrowed brow is flecked with liver spots. ‘Solomon?’ he says, speaking the name slowly, as though it belongs in his distant past and requires a little effort to drag it into the present. ‘Of course I’ve heard of Solomon. Do you think there are so many Jews in this city that we’re strangers to each other?’
‘Did you know he’s been murdered?’
Lopez’s shock seems genuine. His hollow cheeks give a single quiver of emotion. ‘I had not heard of it,’ he confesses. ‘In Southwark?’
‘Yes, by assailants as yet unknown.’
‘Poor Solomon. What an end.’
‘Was he a friend?’
‘I knew him. But we haven’t spoken for a long while.’
‘You knew he was living in Southwark?’
‘I knew he had taken himself south of the river, yes. Beyond that, nothing more.’
‘Do you happen to know why he left the city to live on Bankside?’
‘Why does anyone go there, Dr Shelby? For the whores and the playhouses, I assume.’
‘Not Solomon Mandel. Not from what I can gather.’
‘Then perhaps he went there to escape.’
‘Escape? From what?’
Lopez scratches at his white beard. ‘Dr Shelby, I am the queen’s physician. That brings certain privileges. I have money. I have some position in this city. I have a nice house at Mountjoy. I am tolerated – even by the queen – with a modicum of civility. Solomon did not have such comforts to shield him from enmity.’
‘Coroner Danby believes Master Mandel was murdered because he was a Jew.’
‘Danby?’ A dismissive snort. ‘Danby is a fool. You could die in a desert and Danby would claim you had drowned.’
‘But on this specific matter could he not be correct?’
Lopez waves one bony hand dismissively across his face. ‘He could, Dr Shelby. He could. But let us hope he is not. With plague in the city once more, it will be all too easy for the ignorant to blame their ills on my people.’
Nicholas wonders if he should tell Lopez about Solomon Mandel’s menorah, perhaps even entrust it to him for safekeeping. But if Lopez has truly converted, he might well find the offer objectionable. And even if he doesn’t, being presented with an artefact that could be viewed as heretical would hardly endear him to the giver. So Nicholas decides against it.
The coach stops. Beyond the drawn curtain, Nicholas can hear the coachman’s raised voice as he argues with a wherryman. The man seems reluctant to take a fare to the far shore. Nicholas hears Robert Cecil’s name mentioned. It secures the wherry, but it will probably double the fare.
‘I studied the parish subsidy roll, Dr Lopez,’ Nicholas says quietly. ‘Solomon Mandel was described there as “the Turk’s man”. Was he once a servant of some sort – to a Moor?’
‘Solomon?’ Lopez says with a dry rasp of laughter. ‘Solomon was no man’s servant. He was an honest merchant, a factor for the Moor traders selling spices to English importers.’
‘You mean he was their agent in London?’
‘Yes. He kept an eye on their interests: sent them news of how much the Venetians were charging for handling Indies spices, that sort of thing. When the envoy of the Sultan of Morocco came to London in 1589, Solomon was his interpreter – he spoke the Moor’s language.’