Kitabı oku: «Execution», sayfa 2

‘You do not wish to rest?’

‘The enemies of England are not resting.’

He pursed his lips, as if he approved this answer. ‘Then put on dry clothes, if you have them, and I will meet you outside in half an hour with everything you need.’

He clapped me on both shoulders and left. I stood and stretched my back, catching sight of myself in the darkened window. Thirty-eight, and looking haggard with it. Black hair, stiff with salt, curling past my collar; a four-day growth of beard; dark hollows under my eyes and below my cheekbones from lack of sleep, and lack of something else. Purpose? Peace of mind? These last few months in Paris had been melancholy. No wonder those two searchers at the port had suspected me of desperate measures; I looked like a vagrant – which was, I reflected, not so far from the truth. I had been living in exile for a decade now, one eye turned always over my shoulder, as a man with powerful enemies must. The Queen of England could put an end to that, if she chose, once I had proved my worth to her.

I undid my pack and pressed along the stitching of the secret compartment. I could feel the slight ridge of the leather wallet inside containing the documents. But the letter’s contents were committed word for word to my memory, and its cipher too. Let it be stolen; the paper would be useless to anyone without the knowledge I alone carried in my head. I would bring it to the door of Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster and lay it at his feet, to remind him – and his sovereign – what service I had done England in the past.

TWO

‘Lady Sidney will see you now.’

The man who grudgingly addressed me wore a steward’s chain of office, a black doublet with a blanched muslin ruff and soft leather indoor shoes; he kept his distance, halfway up the path to the entrance of the red-brick mansion on Seething Lane. I jerked my head up at his voice; we had been waiting half an hour already and I had almost given up hope of a response. I was not exactly surprised; if I had looked like a desperate man when I landed in Rye, it was fortunate I could not see myself in a glass by the time we reached London, on the evening of 29th July, our second day on the road. I must have had the appearance of a lunatic assassin: mad-eyed, unslept, unwashed, unshaven. The guards had had their weapons in my face before I had even dismounted. It fell to my taciturn companion, Richard Daniel’s man, to step forward with his official messenger’s livery and prove that I had not come to murder Queen Elizabeth’s Secretary of State in his own home.

One of the guards held his halberd lowered towards me, the point a foot from my chest, while his colleague unlocked the tall iron gates and nodded me through.

‘Just you,’ the steward added. ‘He can go to the servants’ quarters.’ He motioned to Daniel’s rider, a sturdy Sussex man who had spoken little on the journey, except to mutter occasional resentment at having his progress slowed by an incompetent foreigner half-asleep in the saddle.

Golden evening sun caught the many diamond-paned windows of Walsingham’s town house. The light softened its mellow brick and glazed the tall twisted chimneys like sugar sculptures. It was a house that discreetly announced its owner’s wealth. The Queen had rewarded her spymaster handsomely for his tireless service, as well she might; most of his spare funds were diverted into paying his intelligencers, since Elizabeth’s Treasury was notoriously miserly with resources, preferring not to acknowledge the underground networks of information and interception that protected her realm just as surely as her warships and soldiers, with a great deal less expense.

‘You will find Lady Sidney in a sombre cast of mind,’ the steward informed me, with a pompous air, as the heavy oak door was drawn back by a young woman in a black dress and white coif. ‘I hope it is no bad news you bring, as she should not be troubled further. Perhaps it would be best if I relayed your message to her?’

‘My news is for Lady Sidney’s ears alone,’ I said. His moustache twitched with disapproval, but to my relief he did not press me further, only gestured for me to follow him along a panelled corridor hung with tapestries.

I had guessed Walsingham would not be here; he would likely be at court, at the Queen’s right hand, or at his country house upriver in Barn Elms, near Mortlake. I had gambled on the house at Seething Lane, where his daughter lived, as the quickest way to him, wherever he was currently to be found. I barely knew Frances Sidney, as she now was, and was not at all convinced that my name would mean anything to her; I had only dared hope she might receive me for the sake of her husband, Sir Philip, who had been my closest friend when I lived in England a year ago. Sidney was now away in the Low Countries, fighting with Elizabeth’s forces against the Spanish under the command of his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, but I hoped there would be a vicarious pleasure in hearing news of him from his wife.

I was ushered through a door at the end of the corridor into a wide receiving-room, flooded with light from its west-facing windows. Lady Sidney rose from a chair by the fireplace and held out a hand in greeting. She was as slight as I remembered, in a gown of dark grey satin, though it was barely eight months since her child was born. Her pale face was still almost a girl’s, but as she approached I saw that her smile was brittle and shaky, her eyes puffy with traces of tears. The weight of my journey and lack of sleep seemed to land on me with one blow as I struggled with the import of her appearance. Why had the steward not warned me more clearly? Not Sidney, surely, it couldn’t be? There would have been news in Paris – he was well connected among the English diplomats there – I would have heard, would I not? My knees buckled; I stumbled back a pace as I stared at her, open-mouthed, forgetting all etiquette, unable to form the words I dreaded to speak.

Frances Sidney darted forward and drew a stool from the hearth to offer me.

‘Marston, fetch this man food and drink at once, can’t you see the journey he’s had?’ She spoke sternly to the steward, but she was so young, barely twenty, and her command sounded like a child playing at running a household. The man gave a curt bow, but his look was not one of deference.

‘With respect, madam – I am not sure I should leave you alone with this man. Your father—’

‘My father trusts this man with his life,’ she said hotly. ‘Now go and do as I ask before our guest faints from hunger.’ She turned to me, her hands outstretched. ‘Bruno.’ There was warmth in her smile, as well as sadness. ‘I did not think we would see you again. You left for Paris last autumn, I thought?’

‘I had good reason to return.’ I took her hands in mine and kissed them briefly. ‘But my lady, tell me …’ I stood back and searched her face. ‘I intrude on some private grief? I pray it is not …’ I hesitated again ‘… news from the front?’

She gave a little gasp and pressed a hand to her mouth, then let out a brief, panicked laugh. ‘Oh God, no – you thought …? No, Philip is well, I am sorry to have alarmed you. If anything had happened to him, you would have heard my lament all the way from London Bridge. The whole city would be in mourning. But you are right that you find us a house of sorrow. We have suffered—’ She broke off, pressing her lips together as if afraid of breaking a confidence. ‘That is a story for another time. Sit – you look exhausted. Tell me in truth, though – I will wager you have not travelled from Paris without rest just to visit me.’

‘I must see Sir Francis,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘As soon as possible.’ Lady Sidney’s waiting woman stood by the window, her hands folded neatly behind her back, not observing her mistress, but nevertheless I felt I should be discreet, even in this household where secrets were a native language.

Frances nodded, her face solemn again. ‘Plots?’

‘What else?’

She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and worried its edges between her fingers. ‘Father never sleeps now, you know – he says the Catholic plots are like the Hydra, you cut the head off one and a hundred more grow in its place. He is making himself ill with it, and still Her Majesty remains stubborn, she will not heed his advice nor pass the laws that would make her safer. She wills herself to believe that her subjects love her, and her cousin Scotch Mary would never scheme against her, despite all evidence. But you are in luck – he dines here tonight, or so he has promised. I expect he will be late, as always.’ I caught a peevish edge to her voice; the frustration of a girl sidelined by the men in her life for matters of state. ‘Why cannot the damned Catholics see reason?’ she burst out, so suddenly I flinched, as she brandished the kerchief in her fist towards me as if I were responsible. ‘Can it be so hard for them, to worship as the Queen commands? Then they would keep their lands and titles, they would not be thrown in prison, they could cease their plotting to put that fat Scottish bitch on the throne, and innocent people wouldn’t have to die for their schemes.’

I blinked, unsure how to respond; it was an unexpectedly vehement outburst, turning her face red and blotchy, her eyes bright with tears. I presumed she must be thinking of her husband, dug in with the garrison at Flushing.

‘They would tell you, my lady,’ I said gently, when it seemed the question was not merely rhetorical, ‘that they fear the sin of heresy more than England’s laws. They would say they had rather keep their immortal souls than their titles.’

‘Oh, but they don’t mind staining their souls with the sin of murder, which they say is no sin if it suits their purpose.’ Her eyes blazed at me and for an instant I saw the image of her father, his anger and ruthlessness. ‘Could they not just leave off their relics and rosaries and do as the law commands? It is the same God underneath it all, is it not?’

‘My lady—’ The maid by the window turned and stepped forward, her hands held out as if to break up a fight.

Lady Sidney sighed and seemed to subside. ‘Don’t worry, Alice – I will mind my speech. Besides, Doctor Bruno here is the last person in the world who would report me for heretical words, for he is a famous heretic himself. Is it not so?’

I inclined my head. ‘Depends who you ask. It is not a reputation I sought.’

‘But you are proud of it nonetheless,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘Do not tell my father I said bitch. He dislikes profanity in women, even when it concerns Scotch Mary.’ She regarded me with interest. ‘You left the Roman Church, Bruno, did you not? Philip told me you were once in holy orders. But you ran away to become a good Protestant, at great risk to your life.’

She had half the story, at any rate; or perhaps Sidney had wanted the latter part to be true.

‘I am not confident I can claim to be a good anything, my lady,’ I said. ‘I have been thrown in prison for heresy by both the Roman Church and the Calvinists. My ideas do not seem to please anyone who thinks their beliefs cannot be questioned.’

She looked at me, approving. ‘Well, at least you are even-handed in the giving of offence. What God do you believe in, then? Philip says you have written that the universe is infinite, and full of other worlds. Then you think we are not the centre of God’s creation? But how can that be? It would render the whole of Scripture uncertain. For if there are other worlds, did Christ become flesh for them too?’ She jutted her chin upward, defying me to answer to her satisfaction.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes. ‘My lady, I have barely slept in the past three days, and eaten less. I’m not sure I’m fit at present to dispute theology and cosmology with a mind as rapier-sharp as yours.’

Lady Sidney laughed, and her face again looked like a girl’s. ‘Neatly sidestepped, Bruno. Though you know you may say what you like in this house, we have no Inquisition here.’

No, I thought, though your father does not shy away from their methods when he wants to wring names from some terrified student priest in the name of England’s freedom.

‘You will want to wash and rest before Father arrives. Oh, but wait!’ She clapped her hands together, as if an idea had just occurred – ‘you must pay your respects to Elizabeth before you retire.’

I stared at her. ‘The Queen is coming here?’

Her eyes danced with mischief at my amazement. ‘I mean my daughter. Wait till you see her, she is the spit of Philip, with the same little tuft of hair at the front, you know? Named for her godmother, of course.’ Her tone suggested this had not been her idea. ‘We call her Lizzie.’

‘Then the Queen has forgiven Philip?’ Sidney was one of Elizabeth’s favourite courtiers, and she could turn perverse and sulky as a child if he dared move out of her orbit; she had been staunchly set against him going to war, which had only made him more determined.

‘Fortunately for us. She gave the baby the most generous gifts of jewels and coin. And now Philip is made Governor of Flushing, and makes us all proud with his bravery and service.’ I caught it again, that tremble of her lip, a hint of sarcasm in the words. Frances Sidney was afraid; both her protectors, the men she loved, father and husband, courting death in the service of the Queen. ‘Alice, fetch the baby,’ she said, waving at the older maid.

As soon as the latch had clicked shut and we were left alone, Frances drew up a chair beside me and leaned in, her face grave.

‘Now we may talk. Providence has sent you to my door today, I am sure of it.’ I raised an eyebrow; she pressed on, her tone urgent: ‘My dear friend and companion Clara was murdered by papists two days ago, most horribly.’ Here she left a pause and looked at me with an expectant air.

‘Are they arrested?’

‘No.’ She pressed her lips together and in her white face I saw the tremor of emotion, though I was not sure if it was grief or anger. I waited for her to say more but she seemed folded in on herself.

‘But you know who they are?’

‘Yes. Well – not exactly. It’s complicated – my father has …’ She let the thought fall away and examined me again, as if trying to read something in my face. ‘Philip always said you had a talent for sniffing out a murderer.’ I held up a hand to protest but she continued, ‘I remember that business with the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, three years ago, the autumn Philip and I married. My father was called away from the wedding feast because of it. It was you who discovered the truth of all that, was it not? Father said England owed you a great deal.’

Yes, and England has not yet seen fit to settle her debt, I thought of saying, but kept my counsel. ‘Sir Francis spoke to you of that business?’

‘Not to me, exactly.’ She pushed her forefinger under the edge of her hood and scratched at her hair. ‘But he often forgot I was there, and have ears, the way he has done all my life. I probably know more of what goes on than most of the Privy Council. I swear, if I turned traitor, I could sell enough secrets to sink the realm.’ The flicker of a weary smile. ‘I know all about that conspiracy in ’83, and your part in stopping it. I’d wager you could find out what happened to Clara in no time, if my father would allow you.’

If he would allow me? The oddness of the phrase did not escape me, but I merely looked apologetic. ‘My lady, my task is to deliver these letters to Sir Francis and see if he has any further use for me in his service. If not, I must return to my employment in Paris.’ Though I hoped for Walsingham’s patronage, I could not forget what I had been dragged into during that last investigation into the murder of a young woman, and the other deaths that had followed it. I was not in a hurry to involve myself in anything similar.

‘I will make him find use for you,’ she said, fixing me with a fierce glare. ‘I can think of no one better to undertake this matter. Philip would wish you to help me, I am sure of it.’ Her eyes glittered; invoking her husband was a clever tactic, and not one I could easily dismiss. I could see she had already made up her mind; it occurred to me that Frances had inherited all her father’s stubbornness along with his name, and that both he and Sidney might have underestimated her.

Before I could quibble, the maid Alice returned carrying a chubby infant who was indeed a miniature of Sidney, swamped in a white lawn dress, her face rumpled and confused from being woken. The child looked around the company in bewilderment, then pushed her fat little fingers through her sparse hair, making it stick up at the front. I laughed in wonder, seeing an exact mirror of the gesture Sidney always made when tired or frustrated, and in that moment I felt a sharp pang for my absent friend.

Frances took the child from Alice’s arms, smiling at my recognition. ‘You see? The very image of him, is she not? Here.’ She dumped the baby in my lap before I had a chance to object; immediately a small hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

‘You must miss him,’ I said, through gritted teeth, wondering how tight I was supposed to hold the squirming bundle.

A shadow passed over Frances’s face. ‘None of this would have happened if he had been at home,’ she said, a dark undertone to her voice. ‘He would not have countenanced it.’

‘None of what?’ I asked, as I sensed I was supposed to.

‘My lady,’ Alice said, with a note of warning. The baby fixed her wide blue eyes on me, her expression uncertain, before opening her mouth and letting forth a furnace of furious noise. I jiggled her fruitlessly, sent a sidelong pleading glance to her mother, who watched me with that wry amusement women save for the spectacle of male incompetence; finally, in the absence of any other solution, I swung the child above my head and held her there. The sudden movement shocked her into silence; I made a face at her, in the air, and after a moment of suspicion she chuckled and squeaked in a manner that seemed to signify approval.

‘You are a natural, Bruno,’ Frances said, as if I had passed a test. ‘Now when you next write to Philip, you can tell him you have held his daughter in your arms. Which is more than he has ever done. But’ – her eyes lit up – ‘next month, God willing, she and I sail for Flushing to join him. The Earl of Leicester himself is making the arrangements.’

‘Your father will let you?’ I lowered the infant, who shrieked immediately to repeat the game, confirming my theory that all children are tyrants, and tyrants merely children who have never been refused.

Frances’s face darkened. ‘He will not dare oppose Sir Philip and the Earl together. Besides, my husband is my master, not my father.’

I nodded quickly. In the ordinary course of events, this would be true. A woman’s duty passed to her husband on her marriage, but theirs was not an ordinary situation; Walsingham had quietly dispatched thousands of pounds of Sidney’s debts on the joining of the two families, and given the young couple this fine house to live in, since Sidney’s youthful extravagance meant he could not afford to provide a home for his wife and daughter. I had always supposed there was little question about who was master in this household. Sidney’s desire to go to war had been partly prompted by the need to escape the weight of being beholden to his father-in-law.

‘But if this business with Clara is not resolved,’ Frances continued, biting at the edge of her thumb, ‘my father may fear further danger and hesitate to let me travel alone.’ She gave me a long look, until she was certain I understood what was at stake, and the part she wanted me to play. This, I supposed, was my cue to ask why the death of her companion should prevent her from travelling to the Low Countries – I guessed it must be to do with the ‘complications’ she had hinted at surrounding the girl’s murder – but before I could form the question, the steward Marston burst through the door carrying a silver jug and a linen towel, his face flushed with his news.

‘My lady, Sir Francis has arrived early, with Thomas Phelippes.’ He glanced at me, exaggerating his surprise at seeing me holding the baby aloft. ‘Should I show this man out while you greet your father? He has the dust of the road on him still.’

‘Certainly not. My father is not squeamish about a bit of sweat, Marston. He will be almost as delighted to see Bruno as he is to see Lizzie.’ She turned to me. ‘He dotes on that child. If the Queen of Scots ever saw the doe-eyed grandfather inventing rhymes, singing nursery ditties, braying like a donkey and I don’t know what other nonsense, she would never fear him again.’

‘You had better watch that the Catholics don’t recruit the baby to wheedle her way past his defences,’ I said, smiling.

Marston cut me a disapproving look. I could not picture Master Secretary’s dour, terse expression softening to impersonate animals, though I had glimpsed Walsingham’s more human side now and again when I was last in his service. It was not an aspect of his character he showed often; he wished to be perceived as unbending in his devotion to the security of the realm. Perhaps he needed to believe it himself. Above me, the baby gurgled and released a spool of spittle on to my forehead.

‘Where is my little kitten?’ called that familiar dry voice from the corridor, to the beat of quick footsteps, and here he was, striding across the chamber, dressed head to foot in black as always, his hair greyer under the close-fitting skullcap, his beard too, and his face thinner than when I had last seen him, nearly a year ago. He stopped in his tracks halfway across the room and a broad smile creased his long face.

‘Good God in Heaven. Two people I never thought to see in an embrace.’ He gave his daughter a perfunctory pat on the shoulder on his way past, but his attention was all for the baby, who shrieked in delighted recognition and strained out of my arms towards him. ‘Well, well. Giordano Bruno. So you have come hotfoot all this way from Paris to see the newest shoot of the Walsingham tree, eh?’

‘She’s a Sidney,’ Frances said, her voice tight. I noticed how she hung back; her father managed to command all the space in the room, though he was not a tall or broad man. He laughed and held out his arms for the child; I passed her over gladly.

‘What say you, Bruno?’ He pinched the baby’s cheek while she tugged at his beard and burbled. ‘She has the Walsingham shrewd eye, does she not, and witness the firm set of her jaw? None of your aristocratic foppishness in this little chin, is there, my dove?’

I stood, straightened my clothes, and effected a bow, though he was so absorbed in his granddaughter, he would not have noticed if I had pulled down my breeches.

‘She combines the perfection of all the virtues of her illustrious forebears on both sides, Your Honour.’

‘I see you have been perfecting the empty flattery that passes for diplomacy at the French court,’ he said, giving me a sidelong glance at last. ‘For a more honest answer I shall have to seek the opinion of Master Phelippes. Thomas, what say you – is my granddaughter a Walsingham through and through?’

The man standing patiently in the doorway now stepped forward. Thomas Phelippes, Walsingham’s most trusted assistant and master cryptographer, was unremarkable in appearance – early thirties, thinning sandy hair, long face, his cheeks pitted with smallpox scars – but his looks belied a singular disposition. Phelippes boasted a phenomenal memory, a source of great fascination and envy to me, since it appeared to be the result of a natural gift rather than determined study – he had merely to glance over a cipher once and could not only commit it to mind but analyse and unpick it in the same instant. But he also had a way of not meeting your eye, and an almost comical resistance to the finer points of tact and social niceties. If Phelippes thought you were an idiot or your breath smelled, he would tell you outright, though without malice, finding no need for a polite falsehood. I found his honesty refreshing, if occasionally disconcerting, and liked him, though I sensed that being liked by me or anyone else made no difference to him either way. He put his head on one side and considered the baby.

‘She has enough semblance of the Sidney family to allow for a reasonable degree of certainty about her paternity,’ he said, matter-of-factly. Lady Sidney made a little noise of indignation. ‘Theories of generation differ as to whether the female can imprint characteristics on the growing infant, or is merely a receptacle for the male seed, and as yet there is no conclusive evidence either way. This one is so young it is presently impossible to gauge the quality of her mind. Being female one would naturally expect it to be weaker, so if you are asking whether you can expect to see echoes of your own traits in her, Your Honour, you will probably be disappointed. But this is not really my field of expertise,’ he added, with a shrug.

Walsingham chuckled, largely at his daughter’s bunched fists and tight expression. ‘Well, Frances, there you have it. You will want to occupy yourself with the child and supper, I expect,’ he said, handing the baby back to her. ‘I will speak with Bruno in my study. Call us when the food is ready.’

Lady Sidney watched us to the door, eyes dark with mute rebellion. I guessed she was biding her time before suggesting my involvement in the business of her companion to her father, and I hoped I might pre-empt her request.

Though Walsingham had given the Seething Lane house over to Sidney and his wife, he had taken care to make clear that the arrangement was temporary; all the furnishings remained Walsingham’s own, and he had kept his large, book-lined study at the back of the house for use when he was in town. Now he settled himself comfortably behind his desk opposite the fireplace, cast an eye over a pile of letters, moved them to one side and motioned me to a seat. Phelippes took his place at a second desk set against the back wall and bent his head over a leather folder of papers as if no one else were present.

‘So. Urgent news from Paris, I presume.’ Walsingham steepled his fingers and watched me.

I reached into my pack and passed the wallet containing the letters across the desk to him. He turned it carefully between his fingers but did not open it immediately. ‘Give me the meat of it. Thomas will transcribe it later.’

‘Nicholas Berden intercepted a letter from Charles Paget to Mary Stuart, written four days ago. There is an English priest arrived in Paris this last fortnight disguised as a soldier – one Father John Ballard, claims he is part of a well-advanced plot to murder Queen Elizabeth and spring Mary from her prison to take the throne. Paget took him last week to the Spanish ambassador, where this Ballard assured them both that English Catholics at strategic points across the land have pledged to rise up and assist an invading army, if King Philip of Spain will commit troops and money. They believe the timing is apt, with so many of England’s fighting men away in the Low Countries.’ I paused for breath, amazed to see a wide smile spread slowly across Master Secretary’s face.

‘Well, this is excellent news, Thomas, is it not?’ He appeared delighted.

‘We could not have hoped for better,’ Phelippes replied, without looking up from his papers.

I stared at Walsingham, thrown by his reaction.

‘Forgive me, Your Honour, but Berden believes this intelligence to be credible. That is why he sent me with all speed – he dared not trust the diplomatic courier.’

‘I have no doubt that Berden’s intelligence is entirely accurate. He is one of my best men. This is the very letter I have waited for – and from Paget too, the horse’s mouth.’ He gave me a knowing nod, his eyes alight with anticipation. I grimaced. Charles Paget was the self-appointed leader of the English Catholic exiles in Paris; it was he who coordinated links between the extremist Catholic League in France, led by the Duke of Guise, and the English conspirators who wanted to replace Queen Elizabeth with her cousin. He had been behind the plot in ’83, and my encounter with him in Paris had almost cost me my life before Christmas. Walsingham tapped the letter, impatient. ‘What more?’

‘Ballard says he has a band of devout men in London committed to carrying out the execution of Queen Elizabeth. That is the term they use to absolve themselves of regicide.’

‘Good. Names?’

‘Not set down in writing. But Ballard returns to London imminently to further his preparations. Ambassador Mendoza promised he would send one of his men here directly – a Jesuit priest – to bring the conspirators funds, though he has not yet gone so far as to commit Spain to military support. Paget guesses that this Jesuit’s task is to sound out their seriousness and report back to Mendoza, though he tells Mary to take heart, he is sure Spain will champion her cause.’

‘Marvellous. I look forward to hearing more of their progress.’ Walsingham sat back in his chair and folded his hands together, smiling to himself, showing surprisingly white teeth.

‘You do not seem overly concerned,’ I remarked. In truth, I could not help feeling resentful at the reception of my news; I had expected a mix of shock and gratitude, and a flurry of activity as Walsingham rushed to apprehend the plotters and warn the Queen, quietly mentioning my name as the bearer of this timely intervention. Instead, even by Master Secretary’s standards, this reaction seemed unusually phlegmatic.

‘Ah, Bruno. Do not think I don’t appreciate the efforts you have made to bring me this news – I have been waiting for it. We’ve been monitoring John Ballard for some time, waiting for his plans to bear fruit. And now that the game begins …’ he paused, pulling at the point of his beard ‘… all we have worked for stands on a knife-edge. One false step could mar everything. You see?’