“I have not seen him today,” she says, and then she looks at him in sudden understanding. “Oh, have you taken him up?”

Gracie nods. “And his confederates.”

“He came straight to me though they had bribed him,” she says. “He is loyal. I would vouch for him.”

“He will be questioned but not tortured,” Gracie says. He is matter-of-fact; I note that torture is now a routine part of Cecil’s questioning, and it can be mentioned in front of a lady in an earl’s own house without remark. We have come to this: that a man can be taken without warrant, without a word from a justice of the peace, without the permission of his master, and he can be tortured on the say-so of Cecil. This is not how it was. This is not English justice. This is not how it should be.

“And your intention was only to discover the full plot before you alerted your husband or Secretary Cecil?” he confirms.

Bess widens her eyes. “Of course,” she says. “What else? And John Hall will tell you, those were my exact instructions to him. To lead them on and report to me.”

Herbert Gracie is satisfied, and Bess is plausible. “Then I must ask you to forgive my intrusion and I shall leave.” He smiles at me. “I promised it would only be a moment.”

“But you must eat!” Bess presses him.

“No, I must go. My lord expects me back at once. I was only to ascertain what you have kindly told me, take the relevant men into custody, and bring them back to London. I do thank you for your hospitality.” He bows to Bess, he bows to me, he turns on his heel, and he has gone. We hear his riding boots clatter away down the stone steps before we realize that we are safe. We never even got as far as the gallery; this interrogation all took place on the stairs. It started and was completed in a moment.

Bess and I look at each other as if a storm has blown through our garden destroying every blossom, and we don’t know what to say.

“Well,” she says with pretended ease, “that’s all right then.”

She turns to leave me, to go back to her business, as if nothing has happened, as if she was not meeting with plotters in my house, conspiring with my own servants, and surviving an interrogation from Cecil’s agents.

“Bess!” I call her. It comes out too loudly and too harshly.

She stops and turns to me at once. “My lord?”

“Bess, tell me. Tell me the truth.”

Her face is as yielding as stone.