The Reckoning

by M. J. Trow

  ‘What happened?’ Marlowe asked, gently. ‘Was she here?’

  ‘Yes,’ the girl said. ‘She went out after you’d gone and did some decent business, from what she said. In this cold weather, nobody wants to linger, if you know what I mean. I’ve seen some of my best custom … well, I don’t have to paint a picture, I’m sure. The cold takes some men funny ways. So you can get through a lot of business when the weather is on your side.’

  She smiled a lop-sided smile. It was hard to think that Moll wasn’t going to come in shaking snowflakes from her hood and jingling her purse, laughing and blessing the weather.

  ‘But she must have brought someone home with her,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘No one saw anyone,’ the blonde girl said.

  ‘But do you usually see the men you bring back?’ he asked.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she shrugged. ‘Sometimes we don’t want the others to see. We’ve all got someone … special,’ she said, with a blush. ‘Not always business, if you know what I mean. So we learn to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘And did Moll have anyone special?’ Marlowe asked.

  The girl sat back, looking puzzled. ‘I always thought it was you,’ she said.

  Marlowe blinked. ‘Me?’ he said. ‘No. I’m friends with all you girls, you know that.’

  ‘I think she wouldn’t have minded, Master Marlowe. She would have given up this life for you.’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Mind you, it wouldn’t take much for us to give up this life.’

  Marlowe didn’t know what to say. Moll had given up the life, of that there was no doubt. He thought perhaps a change of subject, however grisly, might help them both. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘We couldn’t tell at first,’ the blonde said. ‘She was curled up on her bed and she looked as though she was asleep. Sarah went to call her because she had a regular come in and she shook her shoulder when she didn’t answer and she …’ the girl put her hands over her face and shook her head.

  Marlowe patted her knee and waited for her to recover her control. Finally, she looked up, tears staining her cheeks.

  ‘Her throat had been cut, Master Marlowe. From ear to ear.’ She sniffed and looked up with swimming eyes. ‘She didn’t know about it, did she, Master Marlowe? She didn’t feel any pain or anything? Any fear?’

  Marlowe smiled softly at her. ‘No, she would have felt nothing,’ he said, only lying a little. If this was the man who had rigged up the knife to kill Foxe, he would have struck like a snake and she would have felt nothing. He would have slashed her before getting his money’s worth, that was certain; he wouldn’t want her to recognize the only thing she could. The girl was beginning to cry again and Marlowe brought the conversation back to the here and now. ‘I don’t want you girls to have to bury her,’ he said, reaching for his purse. He knew they always looked after their own.

  ‘No need for that, Master Marlowe,’ the girl said. ‘A gentleman came by and left enough to bury her and pay for a wake, too.’

  ‘A gentleman?’ Marlowe asked sharply. ‘Can you tell me what he looked like?’

  She waved her hands vaguely in the air. ‘Tall. Tallish, perhaps. Not fat. Unless he was only tallish, in which case he might be a bit on the heavy side.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Yes. He had hair.’ She twirled her hand around her head. ‘Not like yours. Short. But definitely hair.’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘Or it might have been a hat.’

  Marlowe started to struggle out of the cushions.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more accurate, Master Marlowe,’ she said. ‘But he was just a man who knew Moll, I expect. That’s most of the men in London, if you think it through. We were upset. Crying, you know.’

  ‘How long had she been dead?’

  ‘When?’ She was puzzled.

  ‘When the gentleman called to leave the money for her funeral.’

  She looked at him for a moment, then he saw the light dawn. ‘Not … long. Master Marlowe, was he the man who killed her, then?’

  ‘Unless he is in the habit of randomly paying funeral expenses for people he doesn’t even know are dead, then yes. Are you sure you can’t tell me more about his appearance?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘Well, if you can’t, you can’t.’ Marlowe was finally on his feet, freed from the clinging cushions. ‘If you do remember anything, then let me know. A message at the Rose will find me. But please, please don’t tell a soul we have spoken.’

  ‘Did Moll …?’

  ‘I don’t know if she went looking for him or he for her. But if you see a tallish man with hair then remember, least said, soonest mended.’ Marlowe reached into his purse and took out two coins. ‘One for Moll; buy her some flowers. The other is for you; stay at home today, on me. Think about Moll and don’t forget her.’

  She stood and watched him go then sighed, tucking the coins into her bodice. What did a girl have to do to catch a man like Christopher Marlowe?

  The cranes swung in the Vintry that night, creaking in their chains and timbers. Along the Queen’s wharves, the merchantmen rode at anchor, the sluggish Thames lapping against their tarred, clinkered hulls. The rats scurried along the cables, gnawing here and there at the hemp and skittering into the shadows of the planking on the quays, tails high and whiskers alert. Kit Marlowe followed them into the shadows, like a pied piper in reverse, driving the wet-furred creatures ahead of him. But he carried no pipe and his clothes were darkest black, so that he could vanish into the night.

  The house he was looking for was typical of the dwellings north of the river. It was large and old, leaning towards its opposite number across the street. The lane gleamed silver for a moment under the fleeting moon, then the clouds closed again and it was lost in blackness. The first floor. Why was it always the first floor? He checked the window ledges. They were firm enough, so he shinned up the brickwork until the brickwork stopped, then he had to drag himself hand over hand from timber to timber, feeling the plaster cold on his face and hands. He peered in through the lattice window. Darkness. He didn’t know – couldn’t know – whether John Foxe’s rooms had been re-let. He cursed himself for not having done this sooner and now, it might be too late. For all he knew, the nest into which this cuckoo was stealing was full of fledglings, all of whom would wake up screaming blue murder when he freed the casement. That was a risk he would have to take. In an instant, the dagger was in his hand and its blade-tip was springing the catch. He swung the window wide and peered in. The moon helped him now, lighting his way as clearly as a candle. There was no one there, but there had been. Foxe’s travelling chest stood open and empty. His bed had been ransacked, the sheets and mattress torn with a blade. Even the curtains had been slashed and in one corner, the floorboards had had their nails ripped out, rattling as Marlowe stepped on them. Whoever had been here after John Foxe had carried out a very thorough job. His spare shirt and venetians lay strewn on the floor, his cloak, shredded, dangling from a peg behind the door. There was just one place left for Marlowe to look – the press which loomed dark against the far wall. But before he could reach it, he heard a rustle in the room’s darkest corner and spun round, his dagger slashing the air and scraping on another blade, coming at him out of the darkness. A second clash and this time Marlowe struck home, feeling his knife rip velvet and skin and hearing a hiss of pain. A figure was stumbling backwards, clutching his arm and breathing hard. Then he hauled over the press in Marlowe’s path and was gone through the now open door. Suddenly, the house was alive. Candle lights and lantern beams danced in the darkness. Dogs barked and shouts and screams sounded in the Vintry night. ‘Who’s there?’ Marlowe heard somebody shout, but whether they were asking him or his mystery assailant, he didn’t wait to find out.

  Marlowe’s bay clattered over the drawbridge at Scadbury, a little before noon. He had been riding hard since early morning, the wind at his back and he was frozen to the marrow despite the padding of his Colleyweston cloak. The great house had stood a
head of him for miles, like a grey ghost in the mist and he had trotted up the slope through the orchards and hopyards, dead and deserted now in their winter stillness, the poles and wires empty and waiting for spring.

  Frost had sprinkled the hovels he had ridden past as he left London, but as the day lengthened, the ground had warmed and the hedgerows of the closed sheep pens stood stark and dripping in the morning.

  The gates of Scadbury were thrown back and there was no guard. In a way, Marlowe expected more. Thomas Walsingham was not merely the Lord of the Manor; he was cousin to the late, lamented Queen’s spymaster, Sir Francis, a man whose home had every concealed contrivance known to science secreted in its walls.

  A priest in a white alb and Puritan collar was crossing the courtyard as Marlowe reined in.

  ‘Master Marlowe?’ he greeted him. ‘I am the Reverend Richard Baines, priest of the parish of St Nicholas and chaplain to Thomas Walsingham. Welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Baines,’ Marlowe shook the man’s hand, gratefully swinging out of the saddle before handing his reins to a lackey.

  ‘I’m afraid Sir Thomas is not at home at the moment. He was called to London unexpectedly. You may have passed him on the road.’

  Marlowe had not.

  ‘But if you’ll come this way, Mistress Walsingham is expecting you.’

  Marlowe followed the man up a twist of wooden stairs to the first floor, past the plodroom and what had clearly been a nursery. What was once the solar had been enlarged and extended to be a great brown parlour, its windows to the floor and allowing the cold light of December to flood the chamber. A wolfhound, shabby and grey, raised a tired old head from the Ottoman rug in front of the huge fire, but other than that, paid Marlowe no attention at all.

  ‘Master Marlowe.’ The lady near him stood up and crossed the floor. She was beautiful in a haughty way with a mass of auburn hair caught up in a snood of pearls and Marlowe imagined that this was probably how the Queen had once looked and how she still saw herself, despite the black teeth and sagging breasts. Audrey Walsingham would have many years to go before she found herself in that position. ‘Welcome to Scadbury.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ Marlowe bowed. ‘The honour is mine.’

  ‘Audrey, please.’ She raised her hand for him to kiss and held it against his lips for just a trifle longer than was strictly necessary. ‘Baines,’ she said to the priest, barely turning her head, ‘see them in the kitchen, will you? Master Marlowe and I will take luncheon.’

  The priest looked less than pleased to receive an order normally given to a steward but he bowed briefly and left.

  ‘Puritans, eh?’ Audrey murmured and patted the settle beside her.

  Marlowe sat opposite her on a settle of his own, the great dog snoring between them.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘poor old Padraig isn’t what he was. Do you like dogs, Master Marlowe?’

  ‘I can take them or leave them,’ Marlowe smiled.

  ‘Tell me, Master Marlowe,’ she said, leaning back and resting one hand on the carved arm of her seat, the other caressing the smooth fabric of the cushion beside her, ‘what play do you have in store for us?’

  ‘Edward the Second, Audrey,’ he told her, ‘a little something of my own.’

  ‘Edward the second,’ she repeated. ‘They killed him, didn’t they? Rebellious earls, that sort of thing?’

  ‘That sort of thing,’ Marlowe nodded. Few women he knew had much of a grasp of history.

  ‘And what made you write about that?’ she asked.

  ‘Its dramatic possibilities,’ Marlowe said. ‘To kill a king is a serious matter.’

  ‘With a poker up his fundament,’ Audrey said, without a hint of embarrassment, ‘red hot, as I understand it.’

  Marlowe blinked, but carried on regardless. ‘I leave such directions to my stage manager,’ he said. ‘Thomas Sledd. I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘Christopher Marlowe,’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘The Muse’s darling. They say you are the finest playwright in England.’

  ‘They flatter,’ Marlowe laughed.

  ‘And what does Mistress Marlowe say?’ she asked. She had already looked at his hands and saw no wedding band.

  ‘Very little,’ Marlowe said. ‘She does not as yet exist. Unless, of course, you ask after my mother.’

  Audrey laughed. ‘Not the marrying kind, eh? Well, neither is Thomas but I am persuading him of the error of his ways. There is a great scandal in this house, Master Marlowe; Thomas and I are not man and wife. Are you shocked?’

  ‘No, Audrey,’ he smiled. ‘I am not shocked.’

  ‘Good, because Thomas speaks highly of you.’

  ‘He is very kind.’

  She stood up and he with her. ‘Let me show you the great hall,’ she said, ‘before we eat. The weather is too unkind, I fancy, for an outdoor performance but I think your Master Sledd will be intrigued by the hall. It has …’ she closed to him and hooked a finger in an errant curl, tucking it behind his ear as if putting a child to bed, ‘nooks and crannies, confined spaces.’

  Marlowe smiled and released the lock of hair to fall again with the others. ‘Ideal for a conspiracy,’ he said.

  FIVE

  ‘So, Kit.’ Thomas Walsingham was a head taller than his mercurial cousin the spymaster and years younger. ‘You’ve met Audrey. What do you think?’

  He and Marlowe were sitting in the brown parlour as night settled on Scadbury. Whatever business he had had in London had been handled quickly and he had ridden back through the short December afternoon, his black flecked with foam and breathing hard as he clattered over the drawbridge. They had dined and Audrey had made her departure, leaving the men alone with a bottle of fine Rhenish and their pipes.

  ‘A vision, Thomas,’ Marlowe said. ‘A face that could launch a thousand ships.’

  ‘Ah, you poets,’ Walsingham chuckled, freshening Marlowe’s cup. ‘That’s Faustus, isn’t it? My favourite, in fact.’

  ‘I’m flattered that you recognize it,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘No, I must confess, this marriage lark intrigues me. How long have we known each other, Kit, you and I?’

  ‘Four years, Thomas, perhaps a little more.’

  ‘Exactly,’ the Master of Scadbury said, ‘and would you say that I was the marrying type, had I asked you, say, two years ago? One?’

  ‘No,’ Marlowe laughed. ‘Horses. Dogs. The hunt.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Walsingham nodded. ‘Then I met Audrey. Not a whirlwind romance, but she’s grown on me. Believe me, I’m a different man.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Marlowe smiled.

  ‘Now,’ Walsingham leaned in closer, ‘I’ve read the missive Hunsdon sent with you, obviously. But what’s going on? Why this new play? And why here?’

  Marlowe leaned back, sipping his wine. ‘There’s no mystery, Thomas,’ he said. ‘We playwrights have to put quill to parchment now and again to earn our crust. And there has to be something new. Otherwise we’d still be doing the miracle plays or Ralph Roister Doister.’

  ‘Spare me!’ Walsingham said.

  ‘Quite. As to why Scadbury, that’s a little tricky.’

  ‘Come on, Kit, this is me; Tom Walsingham. You and my cousin, God rest him, were thick as thieves back in the day. You can tell me.’

  ‘Baron Hunsdon is trying to raise an acting troupe.’

  ‘Is he, by God?’

  ‘It’s all the rage at the moment. To be called the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Walsingham nodded, ‘seeing as how he’s the Lord Chamberlain.’

  ‘We were going to travel with it,’ Marlowe went on, ‘despite the season. Unfortunately, one of our number was killed.’

  ‘Not Burbage was it?’ Walsingham asked, almost gleefully. ‘Only, I can’t stand Burbage.’

  ‘No,’ Marlowe laughed darkly. He’d heard that before. ‘John Foxe, one of Lord Hunsdon’s people.’

  Walsingham shook his head. �
��Don’t know him,’ he said. ‘Baines might. My chaplain knows everybody.’

  ‘I thought he was the parish priest,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘Well, yes, he’s that too. Ambitious fellow, Baines. No doubt after the top job when old Whitgift leaves this vale of tears. Oh, no, that’s a pity about the play and all. I was hoping for some sort of skulduggery. Nothing ever happens here at Scadbury.’

  It was warm and comfortable in one of Thomas Walsingham’s best beds that night. Christopher Marlowe always tried to do himself well, wherever he was, but he knew that whenever he was beneath a Walsingham roof, he would do himself better than well; he would be safe as well as warm and comfortable. There was something very relaxing in feeling safe for a man who spent most of his life looking over his shoulder. The mattress was soft, the linen smooth and scented with lavender. The pillows were, unless he missed his guess, stuffed to perfection with only the softest of goose down, hand-picked so that not a single needle-sharp feather remained to spear the unwary cheek. How typical, he thought, as he began to drift off to sleep, of Thomas Walsingham to think of every last detail.

  The last threads holding the playwright to the day began to stretch and finally break. He hung in a hammock made of frost and starlight, his eyelids drooping as he gazed from his warm bed out at the night sky. The moon was almost full, circled with a haze of faint rainbows. The Pole Star sat beneath the moon, seeming to twinkle in the frosty air. Marlowe made a note to himself to include that star in a poem one day and let his eyelids drop over his tired eyes. It had been a long day. He stretched his legs out in the bed, feeling the cool linen against his warm, bare skin.

  Suddenly, he was awake! His bare legs were no longer just touching cool linen; other bare legs were twining with his. He held his breath. This wasn’t a dream he had had before, but there was a first time for everything. A hand snaked up his thigh and soft fingers walked their way across his hip and down; he stopped them just before they reached their destination and gripped them firmly. He knew without turning round to whom those sharp nails belonged. ‘Good evening, Mistress Walsingham,’ he murmured.