them to Cecil, his new master. He lived in apparent amity with Arthur Gregory, a Dorset man whose greatest ability was to open sealed letters and reseal them without the final recipient being any the wiser, and that disreputable little runt of a spy by the name of Tom Barnes. It had all seemed very happy, until of a sudden Phelippes had been whisked off to the Tower, apparently at Cecil's command, and left there.
'The world changes little, Tom,' said Gresham easily, 'and the people in it are as corrupt as ever.'
'Well, then,' laughed Phelippes, 'things don't change at all.'
He busied himself with the contents of the basket Mannion had brought with them — the best the kitchen of the House could provide, with three bottles of very speakable wine from its cellar, the best laid on top. Gresham noted the hunger with which Phelippes attacked the food.
Phelippes finished his mouthful, took a swig of wine from the cheap wooden beaker on the bare table and looked at Gresham.
'Others would talk. Ask questions. You just wait. And bring me food and wine. Why?'
'Why wait? Or why bring you food and wine?' Gresham asked. He eased himself forward on the three-legged stool on which he sat, one of the few pieces of furniture in the cell. 'I wait because you're a crafty old fox who'll tell me what you wish to tell me when you wish to tell me, and not before. I bring you food and wine because it costs me little, and because that crafty old fox helped me once in the past, and, who knows, may help me again now.'
'And what help do you need, Sir Henry, with your fine fortune, your fine house and your fine lady? What use can a crafty old fox be, if he's been locked in his lair and looks likely never to leave?'
Gresham spoke softly, without self-pity, as if relating a simple matter of fact: 'They are trying to kill me, Tom.'
A sudden silence descended in the dark, damp room. Was there just too little surprise on Phelippes' face?
'Not for my fine house, I think, nor my fortune, not even for my fine lady. I don't know why, and I don't know who. And you will know that for us, knowledge is all.'
'Aye, I know well enough,' replied Tom, his first hunger assuaged and the lure of the wine taking over. 'Or at least, I used to know. They've tried to kill you before, and will no doubt do sq again. And one day, Sir Henry Gresham, they'll succeed, as they will with all of us.'
'Why, Tom,' exclaimed Gresham cheerfully, 'if they don't succeed, God or the Devil certainly will. But before that I'd like to think I'll give them a run for their money.'
'How many have died so far?' asked Phelippes glumly, looking at Gresham with eyes that had not lost their shrewd cutting edge.
'On my side, just the one. Poor Will Shadwell. Remember Will — the plague in human form, with more illnesses than a trugging house, but loyal in his own way, and worthy of a better death than drinking too much river water. As for the others, hired men, on the river, at night. They won't be the last, on present form.'
'I remember Will Shadwell. He would have died happy if he drank himself to death, but not on water. So what can this poor prisoner do for you?'
'First, tell me how you come to be here in this pit. I thought things were going well for you, before this business. Why has the wheel of fortune cast you down so readily?'
'I became idle, too comfortable. I relaxed — the one thing you have never done. I'd wind of a Papist storm brewing abroad. Too many comings and goings, from the wrong sort of people. I wrote to that damned villain Hugh Owen, calling myself Vincent, pledging myself to whatever cause he was espousing, hoping he'd reveal himself to me, and write back with something I could show to Cecil. There was no reply.'
Phelippes took another swig of wine. The bottle was already half gone.
'So I replied to my letter myself.'
'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
