Majesty the King's Chief Secretary.'
Mistake, Gresham thought. Your first mistake. You should not need to use your rank to boost your credibility.
'I would not worry overmuch, my Lord.'
'And why should that be, sir?' enquired Cecil, raising one thin eyebrow and feigning boredom despite the patronising impertinence of Gresham's tone.
'The scoundrels in question were an unhealthy lot. Indeed, I believe all but two of them died of a sudden, one is near to death and another broke a limb.'
Let Cecil think one of the murderers lived on. All the bodies could not have been washed up yet, and even Cecil could not keep a count of every body in the Thames…
'How very unfortunate,' mused Cecil.
‘Not at all, my Lord,' replied Gresham. 'Rather I view it now as God's justice on any soul impertinent enough to pretend to be in your Lordship's employ. Thanks be to God.'
'Well, well,' said Cecil, flatly. 'This has been most interesting. Most interesting.' His tone suggested it had been as interesting as an examination of his master's scrotum. 'But do tell me, as you are here, how things go with the investigation of… Sir Francis Bacon.'
Gresham leant forward, suddenly, conspiratorially. Even the icy control of Cecil could not stop him from a sudden, sharp movement back in his seat.
'I have it on the firmest evidence,' said Gresham with total sincerity, 'that he is the Fiend incarnate.'
'How so?' said Cecil, revealing more interest than he intended.
'It is said that he possesses the Philosopher's Stone, the alchemist's secret, the magic stone that turns all it touches to gold. There is one problem, and one problem alone.'
Cecil's avarice overcame his intelligence. 'Problem?' he said, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration. 'What problem?'
'In its present refinement Sir Francis's stone will turn to gold only the turds of members of the true aristocracy. He has tried it on all manner of substances, and on all manner of turds, but it will only work with those produced from men of the highest breeding.'
Gresham stared hard at Cecil. Cecil's family was of low birth, brought to ascendancy by the mind and not the breeding of Cecil's father, old Lord Burghley.
'This is a problem indeed, my Lord, because as my Lord knows better than I, there are many cheap and imitation Lords about the place nowadays, my Lord, Lords who claim, my Lord, high birth and breeding but who are only lately come into their Lordships, my Lord, and have no more breeding than a turd. My Lord.'
If ever hate could bum a hole in a man's eye sockets there is smoke in your eyes now, thought Gresham.
'Clearly,' Gresham continued, relaxing against the hard back of the chair, 'this matter is of equal importance to the enquiry into Sir Francis Bacon's sodomite tendencies, a matter which I know carries the highest importance to the welfare of the nation. Indeed, one part of the anatomy seems to turn up wherever one looks in the case of Sir Francis. I shall enlarge the scope of my enquiries to cover both areas, so to speak.'
Cecil was stockstill, as if frozen. Gresham could see the tick, tick of the pulse in his neck. It was double Gresham's pulse.
I think you do not have a very great sense of humour, Chief Secretary to the King, particularly where the butt of die humour is yourself.
'On less serious matters, I must report, my Lord, that I have been experiencing minor difficulties in the conduct of my investigation.'
Cecil's eyes had gone on a brief journey to Hell, noted the suffering that could be inflicted on a human body, and returned to the land of the living with renewed enthusiasm, particularly as they looked at Gresham.
'Do tell me,' he said, in a voice of coach wheels on gravel.
'I suspect the wicked Sir Francis has detected my enquiries.'
Let's play you at your own game, thought Gresham, bluff and double bluff. Let Sir Francis be my code for Robert Cecil. Let's see your mind race to break that code.
'Sir Francis has set men to spy upon me and scoundrels to murder me. I believe he has also forged letters in my hand, purporting to show me as a Papist.'
'Good heavens!' said Cecil softly. 'Such wickedness!'
'I know, my Lord,' said Gresham, shaking his head in sadness, 'such wickedness is almost beyond the imagining of men of good conscience such as you and me. However, I am reassured in my heart. You see, I have weapons against such villainy.'
'You do?' enquired Cecil, his voice caressing Gresham.
'I do, my Lord. You see,' he leant forward to whisper the information near to Cecil's ear, 'I have letters from Sir Francis to the Infanta of Spain offering his support to her claim to succeed Her Majesty the Queen upon Her Majesty's most untimely death — whilst at the same time he was expressing his total loyal service to His Majesty King James when His Majesty was King of Scotland! Can you imagine such infamous double-dealing from a servant of the Crown! And what is more, these letters have Sir Francis's very own personal seal on them, the seal he never lets off his hand. They are potent proof, beyond the wit of even the best forger.'
'And how,' said Cecil in a voice that was almost also a whisper, 'did you acquire these letters?'
'I murdered the messenger that was taking them to Spain, as he sought to board a ship in Dover,' said Gresham flatly. 'You will understand, I am sure, my Lord. We servants of the King have sometimes to take drastic action to preserve the peace. They are good letters, remember. The hand and the style are unmistakable, and, as I said, they are sealed with… Sir Francis's seal. His special signet. I believe he uses it still.'
Gresham did not glance at the signet ring on Cecil's finger, the ring containing his personal seal. Nor did Cecil.
'Yet Sir Francis could still do you great harm, Sir Henry. The Papist threat is ever with us. You would do well not to be implicated.'
It had taken very little time for Cecil to pick up the code.
'That is true, my Lord. But were you ever familiar with the work of that great rogue, Kit Marlowe? The lines are from his Doctor Faustus. I believe it is Mephistopheles who speaks them.
'It is great consolation to the damned to have companions in distress.'
If Sir Francis succeeds in implicating me, I know of course I would have your Lordship's support in any charges brought against me. Your Lordship has always supported his friends.'
Take that in Raleigh's name, and for his sake!
‘Not to mention the support of several Bishops in the House of Lords who know my fervent Anglicanism. Even were that mighty support to fail, I would at least have the comfort of knowing that I would drag my accuser down to Hell alongside of me.'
'So many secrets, Sir Henry. So many secrets,' mused Cecil. His eyes swivelled back from the window where they had rested their gaze, and fixed on Gresham. There was no change in the tone of his voice, or the posture of his body.
'Tell me, does Sir Francis know that you once sodomised a young man in the Low Countries, and that the young man in question was executed in a most gruesome manner when you refused to acknowledge your crime? I am sure that your… niece knows what happened. I understand you are very close to her. And that servant of yours… and the students in the fine College you have endowed in Cambridge, and its Fellows. It is in the nature of academics to be forgiving, of course, and they and students never gossip or laugh at a man… how could they, when their studies bring them so close to God? No, I am sure those who have cause to love you will find forgiveness in their hearts, should this thing become known…'
The sinking feeling, as if given a sudden blow to the stomach. He had known it would come. This was what had been in the papers Cecil had stolen from Walsingham, in the paper that Cecil had produced in order to blackmail him into going on that stupid mission overseas so long ago. He had steeled himself for it, knew that Cecil would not be able to resist playing his final card. It was a victory over Cecil, after all. It was Cecil declaring his hand, when he, Gresham, had cards in hiding still. Victory; yet it hurt still like the pains of Hell.
No-one looking at Gresham's neck would have seen the tick of his pulse increase. There was no film of sweat on his brow. Knowing that the human eye could sense the tiniest tightening of muscle — it was the sense that had
