‘No one in our entourage is allowed any unsupervised contact with the outside world,’ Alison said gloomily. ‘I was surprised that Paulet didn’t throw you out.’
‘I noticed barrels of beer being brought in here.’
‘Ah,’ said Alison. ‘That’s a thought. You’re very quick.’
‘Where do they come from?’
‘The Lion’s Head inn at Burton, the nearest town.’
‘Does Paulet inspect them?’
‘And look at the beer? No.’
‘Good.’
‘But how could we put letters in barrels of beer? The paper would get wet, and the ink would run . . .’
‘Suppose we put the papers in sealed bottles?’
Alison nodded slowly. ‘And we could do the same with the queen’s replies.’
‘You could put the replies back into the same bottles and re-seal them – you have sealing wax.’
‘The bottles would rattle around in the empty barrels. Someone might investigate the noise.’
‘You could find a way to prevent that. Fill the barrel with straw. Or wrap the bottles in rags and nail them to the wood to stop them moving.’
Alison was feeling more and more thrilled. ‘We’ll think of something. But we would have to persuade the brewer to cooperate.’
‘Yes,’ said Langlais. ‘Leave that to me.’
*
GILBERTGIFFORD LOOKEDinnocent, but that was misleading, Ned Willard thought. The man seemed younger than twenty-four: his smooth face bore only the adolescent fluff of a beard and moustache, and he had probably never shaved. But Alain de Guise had told Sylvie, in a letter that came via the English embassy in Paris, that Gifford had recently met with Pierre Aumande in Paris. In Ned’s opinion, Gifford was a highly dangerous agent of the enemies of Queen Elizabeth.
And yet he was behaving naively. In December of 1585, he crossed the Channel from France, landing in Rye. Of course he did not have the royal permission required by an Englishman to travel abroad, so he had offered the Rye harbourmaster a bribe. In the old days he would have got away with that, but things had changed. A port official who let in a suspicious character nowadays could suffer the death penalty, at least in theory. The harbourmaster had arrested Gifford, and Ned had ordered the man brought to London for interview.
Ned puzzled over the enigma while he and Walsingham faced Gifford across a writing table at the house in Seething Lane. ‘What on earth made you imagine you would get away with it?’ Walsingham asked. ‘Your father is a notorious Catholic. Queen Elizabeth has treated him with great indulgence, even making him High Sheriff of Staffordshire – but, despite that, he refused to attend a service even when the queen herself was at his parish church!’
Gifford seemed only mildly anxious, for one facing an interrogator who had sent so many Catholics to their deaths. Ned guessed the boy had no idea of how much trouble he was in. ‘Of course I know it was wrong of me to leave England without permission,’ he said in the tone of one who confesses a peccadillo. ‘I beg you to bear in mind that I was only nineteen at the time.’ He tried a conspiratorial smile. ‘Did you not do foolish things in your youth, Sir Francis?’
Walsingham did not return the smile. ‘No, I did not,’ he said flatly.
Ned almost laughed. It was probably true.
Ned asked the suspect: ‘Why did you return to England? What is the purpose of your journey?’
‘I haven’t seen my father for almost five years.’
‘Why now?’ Ned persisted. ‘Why not last year, or next year?’
Gifford shrugged. ‘It seemed as good a time as any.’
Ned switched the line of questioning. ‘Where in London do you plan to lodge, if we do not lock you up in the Tower?’
‘At the sign of the Plough.’
The Plough was an inn just beyond Temple Bar, to the west of the city, frequented by Catholic visitors. The head ostler was in Walsingham’s pay, and gave reliable reports on all comings and goings.
