Gresham looked up at Jane, who was poised on the edge of her seat, tear stains visible on her cheeks where they had cut through the grime.
'Have you shared its content with anyone else?'
She shook her head. 'No. I did tell Jack that if anything were to happen to me on the journey, he should take the letter if it were at all possible from my — body — and make sure that he handed it to you in person.'
Gresham looked at Jane; it was as if he had seen her for the first time.
'Even here in Ireland they have hot water and rooms that can be made warm. Please go and refresh yourself after your — journey.'
From the state of her, the ride from hell might have been a better description.
'Then, if you wish, please join myself, George here and Mannion for supper.'
'Thank you, my Lord,' said Jane, for whom exhaustion had become normal. 'Please…' 'Yes?' said Gresham.
'Please don't punish Jack and Dick and Edward! Or the other three who came with us! It wasn't their fault. I made them do it.'
Gresham looked at her, and for all his control a smile started to play around his mouth. Dammit, he was becoming more attracted to this girl by the minute.
'I bet you did,' he said. 'My plan, actually, is not to hang, draw and quarter them — in front of their families, of course, just for good measure. Rather, I propose to thank, and reward them. They did well. Yet they had the lesser role. As for you, whose role was the greatest, all I have is… my thanks. Just a few moments ago, I thought I was fighting for my life with the Earl of Essex and his cronies. Now I realise the real fight may well have been behind my back. You may well have saved my life.'
He looked at her, and grinned. The way he grinned at Mannion, the way he grinned at George. He only half realised what he was doing.
'Thank you,' he said, simply and cheerfully.
She left, giving him a hesitant, almost fearful smile. As if she could not quite believe her luck. She managed to look stunningly beautiful despite — or was it because of? — her disarray.
There was a long silence after she had left the room.
'Bastard!' said Mannion.
'The one who's in this room?' asked Gresham mildly.
'No,' said Mannion emphatically. 'Not that bastard. Cameron Fuckin' Bloody Buggerin' Johnstone. That bastard.'
Gresham had registered the occasional visits of Cameron's servant. Registered them. Thought nothing of them.
There was always hope for Mannion. It was usually not a spiritual or a metaphysical hope, but a physical hope and expectation: of the next meal, the next drink or the next woman. He had decided long ago that thinking was probably a bad thing. Yet he was thinking long and hard over this one, and suffering.
'You believe the letter? Believe it's genuine?' Gresham was the calmest of all of them.
Mannion and George looked at each other. George was pale as a harvest moon, no colour in his craggy face at all. Something was wrong with him, something Gresham could not define.
'Yes,' said George. 'The girl wasn't lying.' He looked as if he was about to say something, but it never came.
'But you're all missing the interesting point,' said Gresham. 'Actually, three interesting points.'
'That a Scots bastard wants to kill you?' said Mannion.
'That's not the point at all,' said Gresham. There was a faraway look in his eyes. 'The first point is a lesson for us all.'
'A lesson?' said Mannion, only half managing to restrain his look of concern to George. Was his master losing it? 'You ain't in College now.'
'We're none of us ever out of College,' responded Gresham. 'The first lesson is that we can't plan for everything. Least of all a maddened horse. We think we're in control, we think we have it all planned. Then something happens. Something out of our control. Something that doesn't obey our orders. Something we didn't think of — like Jane finding this letter.'
'So where does that wonderful bit of philosophy leave us?' asked George.
'With the second point,' said Gresham. 'From the start of this business, I've been running to catch up. I'd ignored Essex and seen him as the Queen's plaything. I'd become complacent about Cecil, hadn't realised he was building a plot against me, let him steal the advantage. Right from the word go I've been reacting to events, instead of dictating them. I've been following, not leading. And I hate to be a follower.'
'Is there a point to all this?' George suddenly seemed very tired, and rather old. It was the first time that Gresham had considered his friend might be getting old.
'The most important point of all,' said Gresham, suppressing his pang of worry over George. 'Who signed this letter? Who ordered Cameron to kill me?'
George shook himself.
The signature's indecipherable. It could be anyone.' 'But don't you see?' said Gresham, exasperated and showing it. 'I've made the basic mistake!'
'Being born?' asked George glumly.
'No! Not finding out who it is wants to kill me. If I find out who wants me dead, then there's a strong chance I find out why. And if I find out why I start to see some sort of path through this forest that's threatening to make me lose my way.'
'That's Cameron then, isn't it?' said George, more animated now there was something to be done. 'He's the only definite link you have. He's bound to know who gives him his orders. I suppose you'll just have to torture it out of him.' George's lips pursed in a grimace. He disliked even the idea of torture, and Gresham knew that when its possible need arose there were moments when George began to regret his friendship with Gresham, and the avenues it sometimes dragged him down. 'But I don't think you should,' said George. 'I think if you do, you become just like your enemies, and no better than them.'
'Torture?' asked Gresham. 'I'll use it if I have to, but apart from the fact that Cameron's very tough, you can never guarantee that a man in physical pain tells the truth, only that he tells what he thinks will make the pain stop.'
'Physical pain?' said Mannion, picking him up. 'What other pain is there?'
'Mental pain,' said Gresham.
'What's that when it's at 'ome?' asked Mannion scornfully.
'Physical pain is when someone denies you your next meal, drink and woman. Mental pain is when you think that's what they're going to do. Can you get Cameron here, without showing what you think of him?'
'Course I can,' said Mannion. 'I'll be politeness itself.'
'Do that and he will spot there's something up. Just be normal. Tell him Essex has given me a job to do.'
Cameron came in ten minutes later, outwardly cheerful and fumbling in his bag.
'Here, I've a book for you if you…'
He looked up and into the barrel of the pistol Gresham had levelled at him. Instantly he turned and made as if to duck under both the pistol and Mannion, using the speed of his reflexes to get out of the room and gambling that Gresham needed a live man to talk to rather than a dead one to gloat over. His speed of thought was extraordinary.
He turned and the full force of Mannion's fist crashed into him. The impact knocked him two or three feet backwards, and he was unconscious by the time he hit the floor.
'I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that,' said Mannion, rubbing his sore knuckles.
When Cameron came to he was tied to a high-backed, ornate wooden chair, a separate strand of rope round his neck, pulling it back against the wood. He must have been in agony, but he only blinked once. There was a livid bruise down the side of his face already, and a tooth gone on the right-hand side, with a dribble of red blood coming out of his mouth.
Gresham held the letter in front of him so he could read it. Nothing changed in Cameron's face.
'How did you get hold of that?' he asked, slurring his words because his mouth was so swollen.
