‘A little,’ said Lewgar.
‘He and his men hunted down the old hulk. Boarded and drove holes in her. She remained afloat. Towed her in towards Wembury and let her smash into the Mewstone.’ She tutted. ‘Even that wouldn’t finish her. Not before she was on everyone’s lips. I’ve thought she should be named The Ship That Would Not Sink.’ She gave her own little laugh. ‘An unfortunate time for her to return and be wrecked. People said she’d returned as a warning against those folks sent off to the New World.’ She sighed. ‘The sea has her now though. You don’t cheat the sea.’
Lewgar cleared his throat. ‘I mean no disrespect to the dead, madam. But your husband and his friends were cheats. Sir Francis Drake thinks them dead. He thinks the gold gone. Long gone. They have … they were … unnatural criminals.’
‘Were they?’ she asked. She gave a foxy look, her poor teeth shining.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Marlowe.
‘Perhaps … I cannot … you must speak to Sir Francis Drake, if you are who you say you are. Men of the state. Speak to him.’
‘Do you mean,’ began Lewgar, ‘that Drake knew what they–’
‘Would you like to see the gold?’ she asked, cutting him off.
Marlowe sprang up. ‘You have gold left?!’
‘Young woman, take a candle off the sideboard there. Light it. Now… Come,’ she smiled. ‘Follow me.’
***
The room into which she showed them was small. Bess knew it. ‘This is the room he bathed in,’ she said. ‘My – that – Howton.’
As if proof were needed, she pointed at a tin tub which stood before an unlit fire. Mistress Benham put her hands on her hips. ‘The dirty dog. Poor John had to scrub the hairs stuck to the thing. Move it, will you, boys? Over to the side. Away from the grate.’
Marlowe and Lewgar did as they were bid. The thing wasn’t too heavy; it slid easily enough across the bare floorboards.
When the space it had occupied was clear, the old woman got to her knees. ‘Have you a dagger? Or a knife?’ Marlowe passed her his, and she pried up a floorboard. When that was done, she lifted another, and another, passing them over to Lewgar, who stacked them neatly beside the tub.
Beneath them was a thin criss-cross of larger wooden boards. ‘Careful now,’ she said, lifting them gently and passing them over. Beneath, a dark space had opened up – a hole, deeper than a man was tall, visible through the supporting timber struts. It seemed to be a large hollow set into a thick wall dividing the rooms below. Unless one judged the thickness of those walls, one wouldn’t know it was there.
‘This,’ she said, stepping up and nodding her thanks to Marlowe, who offered her a hand, ‘is where the old papist who lived her before kept hidden his trinkets and crosses and suchlike. Stuff for the mass.’ Lewgar’s face wrinkled in disapproval. ‘I didn’t have it filled in. I put it to better use.’ She smiled. ‘See for yourselves. The candle?’ she asked Bess.
Lewgar, Bess, and Marlowe each peered down, careful not to step too close to the edge – the boards around it might have loosened with the loss of their fellows. ‘My God,’ said Marlowe.
Bess started, dropping the candle. ‘Oh!’ she cried.
But before the flame guttered out, it had reflected a world of light and glory.
Down in the secret space were stacked golden ingots, dishes, chains, and coins. He had also had the impression of sparkling green and red gemstones. This was of a different order from the cash Thorne had kept in Canterbury. This was a hidden store of treasure – a trove – a trove of lost Spanish gold. And Drake had claimed that only a little had been captured by the Sparrowhawk! Lewgar’s breath seemed to have stopped in his chest.
Drake…
‘Dear God,’ he said. ‘Dear God. It’s … madam, you are sitting on a heap of her Majesty’s gold.’
‘It’s not her Majesty’s,’ she said. ‘It’s mine. My husband left it to me.’ And then, quickly, ‘but if the Queen would have it … I’m an old woman. I can’t change such stuff into cash. It just sits there, gathering dust. Yet if you mean to go to the court … to the Queen. As I said, you might wish to speak to Sir Francis Drake first. This was all captured on his voyage.’
Before Lewgar or Marlowe could respond, Bess’s shrill laughter rent the air. She was shaking her head, wiping at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. ‘I – I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It – it was here. Under where he bathed. What he sought – all along – it was here, under his crooked carcass! All along!’
Howton.
‘She speaks of the man,’ said Marlowe. ‘Mistress Benham, when we said you stood in danger of this Howton creature, we did not lie. So you are. So are we all. He knows as much as we. It is only good fortune that he has not reached you before we did, or he would have had what you gave us at the end of his sword.’
Lewgar nodded. ‘It’s true.’
‘Well, I shan’t be frightened nor attacked in my own home by no man.’ The old woman put her hands on her hips. ‘Nor no murderous brute who killed one of our village lads.’
Marlowe gave a short shake of his head, as though frustrated at her not taking him seriously. He glanced down at the hole in the floor, dark now, its store of treasure hidden. ‘Ay,’ he said, apparently to himself. ‘Come, he will. And soon.’ He looked up. ‘You have a stable here?’ She nodded. ‘Lewgar – see to the horses.’
‘Stable them?’
‘No. No, take them down to the village. Hide them there. And quickly. Let him think, when he comes, that he has beaten us here. Tell the villagers that we weren’t here. Tell them anything that keeps them quiet. I’ll go to the stable. Is there a saw there? Never mind – I’ll find something.’ He clapped his fingers, excitement making him look more like a schoolboy than ever. ‘We have much, much work to do before the bastard comes here.’
28
Dawn had broken when Howton reached Wembury, exhausted, irritated, and well disgusted with England. He had ridden through the night, despite a sudden downpour which had left him and his horse sodden. It had been over a week since he’d made his aching way from Canterbury, creeping out of the town like a criminal. Then, his face had ached again with every thundering step the horse he’d whipped to a foam had taken. To London he’d went, reasoning that Marlowe and Lewgar might have returned to share news with whatever master they served. After a single wakeful night at an inn on Shooter’s Hill, from which he could see the Great Dover Road which led from Canterbury, he’d given up.
One night amongst the thieves and riff-raff had been enough.
Lewgar and Marlowe didn’t matter.
What mattered was finding what remained of the gold and, in particular, El Sol Dorado.
He rode directly into the village, ignoring the shabby stone shacks of the creatures who dwelled there. They didn’t matter either. His quarry was in the manor house – the same house he’d taken up lodging in, by some infuriating twist of fortune. Or, he thought, as he jerked his latest horse up the path towards it – sun dappled now that the rain had ceased – not fortune at all. The ship’s corpse which had brought him to Wembury must have been brought there somehow, perhaps to be wrecked. And the Widow Benham had kept the finest house in the place, quite naturally, with some portion of her husband’s stolen treasure. There had been no fortune in at all. It had been a conspiracy of which he’d had no understanding.
He had it now.
And the weather even seemed to have vented its fury and decided to smile upon him. Fancying he could see the steam rising from himself, he led his horse around the broad front of the old manse and into the archway cut into its side. He didn’t bother to stable the beast but, after slipping down, he tethered it and circled back out and around to the front door.
Howton didn’t bother to knock. Instead, he pushed at the door.
To his surprise, it opened easily. Old people, he knew, rose early. Perhaps the withered crone was out, enjoying the change in the air or visiting a bakehouse for her morning bread.
He would wait if he had to – take her by surprise.
The entrance hall was innocent of servants, of activity. Likely her minions were local folk who had their own hovels down the hill. Still, he crept as quietly as he might, his fist tight on his sword hilt. He tried the door on the left. This, too, fell open at his touch. The room beyond was long, stretching apparently to the back of the house: a great hall, with a raised dais at one end, as though the old harridan might keep court like some ancient baronial king. The wood panelled walls, the painted cloths, the stretches of carpet – all were silent. Dust twirled and danced lazily in the shafts of pearly light glancing in from the mean windows. He turned away, not bothering to shut the door.
Upstairs.
He moved across the hall, one ear cocked, and rose the few steps to the landing, turning and ascending the rest, his left hand on the carved wooden balustrade. The whole house – or at least this front block of it, was familiar enough. He fought the urge – it had come many times upon him on the interminable journey back – to curse aloud.
If only he’d known.
If only.
He’d dismissed the woman, not even thought of her since he’d paid her for the use of her house. She had been nothing more than a local, the only local, creature of worth, owner of the only house of worth. Had he known she shared the name of the captain of the lost Sparrowhawk – a name that no one seemed to know, for Queen Elizabeth had ordered secrecy around Drake’s voyage – he might have saved himself much tedium, much journeying. And much money.
Soon to be recompensed, he thought, smiling. Soon.
The gallery at the top of the stairs ran in either direction. To the left was the solar, with another staircase leading up to the room in which the useless boy had been whipped to death. The door to it was open, but there was no light within, no warmth. An old creature would like her warmth, especially after a night of heavy rain. To the right lay the bedroom and, before it, a doorway to the little bathing room. He went this way.
What?!
A sound like scurrying, like mice in the walls. He froze, listening, but the sound didn’t repeat. His mind worked quickly: mice? Rats? The whisper of skirts? The shuffling of little feet?
It had come, he thought, from ahead, from the left rather than the bedchamber directly ahead. The door to the bathing room was open too.
Keeping one hand braced against the wainscoting, another still tightly grasping the hilt of his sword, he slid along the gallery. Reaching the doorframe, he bent his head and peered in.
Yes!
There she was, the old witch, bent over the unlit grate on the far side. She had even had the tin tub moved; it lay upside down against the right-hand wall, giving him a clear shot at her. He stepped into the room.
‘Mistress Benham,’ he said. She jumped, and turned, one hand rising to her throat.
‘S-sir – Mr Howton, sir. You startled me.’
I’ll do more than that, he thought.
‘You recall me. Good.’ He hovered in the doorway for a moment. He wished to frighten her. She deserved it – wicked wife of a wicked, thieving husband. It was she who had led him this long, merry, expensive dance. She made no effort to move towards him. Instead, she remained almost pressed against the grate. He took a step forward. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know all.’ Another step – an advance, he thought, as a soldier might advance on a cowering enemy. ‘Of your husband. His friends.’ Another step. ‘Their gold stolen from the Sparrowhawk. Stolen from that withered whore Elizabeth. Stolen from that pious papist Philip.’ Another step.
Mistress Benham remained rooted to the spot, her little hands clutching and unclutching at her throat. She was dressed all in black, with fashionably impractical fingerless gloves. She looked tired, old, weak, as though she’d had little rest. ‘You’ve … come for the gold,’ she said. Her voice barely breached the air between them. So strangulated, it was.
He felt his eyes widen. Oh, the old boot knew, to be sure. ‘You have it! You old dog’s bitch. You always had it.’
He ceased his halting advance and stepped boldly, cutting the distance between them in a stride.
Jesus Christ!
A crack-crack-crack tore at the air.
His stomach lurched. His hands flew up, flailed; the old witch was rising, flying up; he lost sight of her – she disappeared, vanished in a blur. ‘Argh!’ He was falling, sinking.
Then everything stopped in a great, cracking shudder.
Pain shot through him.
Darkness swallowed him.
He didn’t cry out, didn’t even think to. He was scarcely thinking at all. Still, in his head, he was walking towards her. And then some sorcery, some madness – had he been shot? – happened. It had taken him, thunder-clapped him. He lay – he was lying – and ground his teeth, forcing his eyes open.
Yet … they were open. His eyes were open. He really had been swallowed up into some yawning, terrifying darkness, blackness. He opened his mouth and felt and heard a puppy’s yelp emerge. And then the pain burnt through him again.
My leg, he thought.
It was his knee. He’d been shot in the knee. He’d died.
No.
He tried to move and cried out again. It was definitely his leg. And he could see it now, see its outline before him. Light was coming to him. It was shining down from above. He tilted his head.
Overhead was a rough rectangle of light. He was in some kind of pit or hole. He’d fallen, been dropped. And he’d broken his knee, shattered it. As if in agreement, the pain seared again.
‘Have a care – not too close!’ The old woman was speaking, her voice coming down to him.
‘Help me,’ he cried up.
Laughter floated down. And then a face appeared. He couldn’t make it out at first – a child’s face, a small face. An imp, a demon, surely, come to torment him. ‘There’s no help for you, Mr Howton.’
He gritted his teeth, trying not to move more than he had to. ‘Who goes there?’ he cried.
‘It’s good Mr Marlowe,’ he said. ‘Friend to this lady. You are too late.’
Howton shook his head, disbelieving. They had trapped him. Somehow, they had weakened the floorboards and trapped him. He tried to feel around without jouncing his knee. The floor was hard beneath him – stone. The walls were clammy and cold. They’d trapped him!
‘Now,’ shouted Marlowe into the void. ‘We must decide what’s to be done with you.’
29
Lewgar had watched from inside old Gillingham’s house as Howton – he assumed it was Howton, from the swollen face which had been bloody in Canterbury – had ridden into town. The creature on the steaming horse had made directly for the path up to Mistress Benham’s house, where Marlowe had stationed himself, claiming he would hide under the upturned tin tub.
They had all worked through the night, hauling up the gold and treasures – so many of them, glittering and strange – and stowing them in a coffer at the foot of the old lady’s bed. And then Marlowe had set to weakening the struts and floorboards over the hidden hole. They had not tested its strength, but the little man had seemed set on the notion, insisting that if Howton could be lured into stepping through the room, he would fall, hopefully to his death. Lewgar suspected, if they’d had more time, the fellow would have filled the hole with boiling oil or lined it with shards of glass. As it was, he settled for hoping the drop would do.
He and the woman had then come into the town, to watch in case Howton attempted something there first. Lewgar had half expected that the untrustworthy wench would run out to him – would warn him. He’d almost wish she had, so that his feelings on her would be vindicated.
Alas, Bess had remained quiet, hidden, watching, presumably, as he was watching.
He’d given enough time for, he assumed, the plan to have worked or not, as God decreed. Straightening himself, he moved away from the small shutter. It was the same one through which he’d first seen Howton’s evil Spanish friar. If only, he thought, they�
��d known more then. But God had decided otherwise, and he was not a man to question divine will.
Jamming his hat on his head, he went to the ewer and washed his face. Stupid, really, yet he didn’t want anyone – Bess? – seeing him look a fright, and he’d had a long and tiring night, for all it had glittered. He was just drying himself when a commotion started up in the street, blasting its way into the house.
His heart skipped.
Something had gone wrong.
Gillingham appeared, stepping through the doorway which led to the rear bedchamber. ‘What the devil?’ he asked.
Lewgar ignored him. Tossing down the damp rag, he hopped across the floor and jerked in the door. He repeated Gillingham’s question himself.
Men and women – young and old – were pouring from the houses around the village square. He spotted Bess amongst them, her face set. The people were pooling, converging, on the road, some pointing up the rise which led to the Benham house. One of them, he noticed, was the widow’s elderly steward – John, he thought his name was – leading a younger woman by the hand. And there was the fisherman Tolchard – deceitful, silent creature – whose little fish-gutting blade glinted as he waved it aloft.
‘Bess,’ he cried. It was, he realised, the first time he’d used her real name.
She rose on her tiptoes and saw him, and then began folding her way through the crowd. ‘Thomas,’ she said breathlessly. He shivered. She said his name in the voice of Cecily Gage. She was Cecily Gage, but not. It thrilled him to hear her use his Christian name, and yet it irritated him. It was like being touched by a stranger you knew well.
‘What is this?’ he asked, deepening his voice as he had when speaking to the woman she wasn’t.
‘I’ve told them.’
‘Told them wha–’
‘Told them that the devil who murdered their boy has gone up to the house.’
‘What?’ he gasped. The Wembury folk were, indeed, throwing looks up the path, spitting. Some had weapons: clubs, daggers, lengths of rope.
The Queen's Gold: A Christopher Marlowe Spy Thriller Page 26