The Scar-Crow Men

by Mark Chadbourn

  CHAPTER SIX

  WILL WAS SLAMMED AGAINST THE PLASTER WALL OF THE WALKWAY outside the tiring house before he even realized he was no longer alone. His head throbbed from the impact, jarring the last vestiges of his thoughts of Jenny. Before he could recover, strong hands grasped his shoulders and thrust him into the dressing room. He fell, sprawling across the hard mortar floor. Shattered bottles drove shards of glass into his flesh and drenched him in wine.

  Ignoring the pain, he rolled on to his haunches, whirling towards the doorway. Looming out of the darkened walkway was a crimson face with black-ringed eyes and horns. It took only a moment for Will to see it was a mask, not the devil returned to destroy him but a man, as tall as Will and wrapped in a black woollen cloak. To his back, he had affixed the angel wings that had been suspended in the storage rooms. Silver glinted in the light of the single candle on the floor in one corner. The spy saw it was a blade gripped in his opponent’s right hand, not a cut-throat’s knife but one lovingly crafted for ritual purposes, with a slight curve to the tip, and a cleft for cutting ligaments. Black symbols had been inscribed into the steel.

  The attacker lunged like a raven falling on a dead rabbit, thrusting the knife towards Will’s neck. Still shaky from his vision, he sluggishly pulled aside. The blade missed him by a finger’s-width, gouging a furrow in the wall plaster.

  Will lashed out at his attacker’s groin. When the masked man danced away, the spy found a moment to leap to his feet.

  ‘You are confused,’ Will mocked. ‘A devil or an angel?’ He couldn’t see any sign of the masked man’s true identity, or guess the purpose of the attack.

  From the yard in front of the stage came relieved chatter and the hearty laughter that is heard only after the release of fear. The audience was creeping back inside. The theatre manager loudly directed the throng to their positions, promising wonders to come.

  Lunging forward, the knife-wielding foe drove Will back against the wall, and with a strength as demonic as his appearance, crushed the breath out of him. Gradually, the attacker increased the pressure. Fire burned in Will’s chest.

  ‘Will? Are you here?’ Nathaniel’s voice echoed along the walkway.

  Distracted, the devil-masked attacker flinched. Will head-butted his opponent, smashing the mask from the top edge to just above the painted, grimacing mouth. As the man threw himself back, clutching at his crumbling disguise, Will glimpsed wild eyes filled with fury. He lashed out, trying to knock the mask away. It slid off further, revealing a hint of a familiar face, but before Will could fathom the man’s identity, he stumbled back, dragging the mask into place.

  ‘Will!’ Nathaniel’s concerned voice rang out closer.

  ‘Show yourself. I would know what name to carve upon your gravestone,’ Will growled, drawing his rapier.

  Closing the rift in his mask with his left hand, the murderous foe bolted from the room.

  Will pursued the man into the walkway, ignoring Nathaniel’s surprised cry. The angel wings shimmered in the half-light, creating the illusion that the devil-masked man was flying just above the mortar floor.

  Ahead, excited chatter filled the passage. A group of five players in garish make-up and wigs hurried back to their rooms from the front of the stage, eager to return to their performance. The masked attacker darted in front of them into a corridor to his left. Barely noticing his drawn rapier, the players swarmed around Will. Roughly, the agent thrust them to one side. Turning left, he was confronted by a large door hanging open.

  Will raced out into a small area of hard-packed chalk where the wagons were unloaded. The sweet-apple scent of horse dung filled the air.

  Night had fallen, hiding whatever path the devil-masked man had taken from the Rose. In the distance, the lights of Bankside gleamed. Clouds obscured the moon, and the wind took away any sound of disappearing feet.

  A breathless Nathaniel arrived at Will’s side. ‘Thank God you are alive,’ he gasped. The young man was flushed and his clothes were dishevelled from fighting his way through the milling crowd.

  ‘I was caught up in the business of devils and angels, Nat,’ Will responded, trying to make light. His heart ached with memories of Jenny, close enough to touch yet as far away as ever. His thoughts spun with the echoes of his vision, tinged with dread by the still-clear sight of the living scarecrow.

  ‘You were the intended victim this night.’ Nathaniel stepped in front of Will, his expression grave.

  ‘How so?’ Will asked.

  Before his assistant could reply, a breathless Carpenter and Launceston raced out of the theatre door. The spy could see in the scarred man’s face that something was very wrong. ‘What is it?’ Will demanded.

  Unsure how to reply, Carpenter’s gaze flickered to his emotionless companion for support. ‘Word has just reached us from Deptford,’ he stuttered. ‘A body has been found. Murdered.’

  A silent scream of despair tore through Will’s head. He knew what was to come an instant before Carpenter spoke again.

  ‘Christopher Marlowe is dead.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘THEY’RE KILLING ALL THE DOGS. WON’T BE A HOUND LEFT IN ALL London soon,’ Henry Cressy muttered, flicking his whip to urge the death-cart horse into Candlewick Street. On the seat beside Cressy, Thomas Bailey tied his scarf tighter around his young, pockmarked face. In the summer heat, the first load of the day reeked even worse than usual after the bodies had been left in their houses overnight.

  ‘The Lord Mayor says the hounds disperse the plague,’ Thomas said. ‘Though in the Cross-Keys, they are now taking bets on which will die out first – men or curs.’

  ‘God punishes us for our indiscretions, but he will never see his creations gone.’ The carter, broad-shouldered and round of belly, still stank of the beer he had been drinking all night. After a moment’s drunken reflection, he added thoughtfully, ‘Although the plague’s pace has not slowed. Indeed, it grows faster. Entire streets are now empty around the Tower.’

  ‘I heard tell they are running out of men to watch the houses to make sure the poor, sickened souls do not leave, and now they are hiring boys and women. And the aldermen have called for yet another death-cart to ply this grisly trade.’

  ‘As long as I get my eight pennies a day, and my free beer, I care little.’ Cressy hunched forward, gripping the reins in his chubby fingers as he peered along the quiet street. The carters and merchants had found other routes to take them away from the vicinity of the plague pits.

  To his right, Thomas eyed the constant, sinuous movement in the early morning shadows next to the walls of the timber-framed houses. Rats everywhere, filling the space that the tradesmen had vacated. The vermin had never had so much food to feast upon.

  The wheels rattled across the ruts as Cressy guided the creaking cart towards the plot among the row of houses. It had once been a garden, but now the youth could see only brown earth. A black cloud of cawing crows enveloped the site, rising to the blue sky in a thunder of wings when the cart came to a halt. Tails lashing, the sleek rats scurried around the edge of the yawning pit.

  ‘Nearly full now,’ Cressy grunted, heaving his large frame from the seat. ‘The Lord Mayor’s men will need to find another plot to dig, if they can. Not much left in this here city.’

  Even through his scarf, Thomas choked at the stench. His eyes watering, he levered himself from the cart while the older man ambled to the edge of the pit. A moment later, Cressy’s strangled cry rang out. At first, the youth thought the carter had tumbled into the grave, but with a hand clutched to his mouth, the fat man was staggering backwards, his gaze fixed on the dark hole.

  Thomas ran past the stumbling man, slowing as he neared the pit.

  What horrors has he seen?

  Peering into the stinking grave, the youth thought his heart would stop. The shroud-wrapped bodies had moved. Blackened faces stared up at him, the stained linen torn away from the heads. Thomas remembered laying the corpses flat, but now they were in
a jumble, some leaning against the muddy walls of the pit as if they had tried to climb out, others upended or sprawling in seeping piles.

  Were the dead angry at their plight? Could they no longer rest in peace?

  The youth crossed himself and whispered, ‘In God’s name, what monstrous thing has happened here?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT BLAZED THROUGH THE DIAMOND-PANE window on to the blanket-covered body. Around the head, the rough woollen shroud was stained brown, and more blood had spattered the dry rushes on the floor. A thick-set man in a shabby doublet tore bunches of fresh-picked rosemary, thyme and mint in a futile attempt to disguise the foul smells, but the corpse of Christopher Marlowe had lain in that cramped, hot room for a day and a half.

  Will could not take his eyes off the dirty blanket, that simple, pathetic image telling him everything he feared about Marlowe’s life and his own future. He felt the loss more acutely than he would ever have imagined.

  It was mid-morning on 1 June. Standing at the back of the chamber, which contained only a bed, a bench and a trestle, the spy eyed the sixteen men of the inquest jury crowding around him. They pressed scented kerchiefs to their noses, intermittently coughing and gagging, their eyes watering. Will identified the two Deptford bakers, George Halfpenny and Henry Dabyns, florid and sweating, and Robert Miller, who kept Brook Mill on the road between Deptford and Greenwich, a serious, ascetic man. Others were unknown to him, gentlemen and yeomen, mostly local, landholders and wharf owners.

  Will had pushed aside all thoughts of the haunting vision of Jenny at the Rose and the baffling attack upon him. News of Kit’s death had struck him like the wash of an icy winter tide. For most of the night and the next day, he had been numb. His friend was gone. That was all that mattered.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, a tall, thin man with silver hair opened the window and wafted the fresh air inside. Through the casement, Will now had a clear view of the sun-drenched garden of the lodging house of Mrs Eleanor Bull, ablaze with colour, the silver of sea lavender, the crimson of roses, the blue of forget-me-nots, with a row of unruly yews at the far end. The ringing calls of the merchants travelling along Deptford Strand drifted in, accompanied by the rumble of wheels and the neighs of the old nags that pulled their carts. In the distance Will could just hear the shouted orders of the men working in the great shipyards that sprawled along the Thames.

  His attention returned to the black-robed man who faced the jury alongside the body. Wearing a gold medallion of office on a blue sash, William Danby was the coroner to the royal household, a gaunt man in his late sixties, who looked like he would be at home with the many bodies he encountered in his work. Will was surprised to see him in charge of Marlowe’s inquest; Danby would not normally trouble himself with what most would consider such a minor death.

  When Danby pointed at the corpse, his thick-set assistant pulled back the blanket. With a sharp exhalation, the jury recoiled as one. Crusted blood and brains created a caul across Kit’s face. As the assistant measured the wound, Will covered his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on the detail of the murder as if it were some stranger that lay before him.

  Could the playwright truly have died as the result of an argument over money, as everyone claimed? A tragic death, but meaningless? The spy could not believe that.

  In the corner next to Danby stood the accused, Ingram Frizer, sullen, with heavy features and prematurely greying hair, a man of business with a penchant for speculating in property and tricking the naive out of their cash. His head had been bound with blood-stained rags to cover several wounds. As Will looked deep into Frizer’s face, he felt the spark of a slow-burning anger. Had the torch of a sensitive, passionate, talented soul really been extinguished by this man?

  Standing alongside the accused were two other sullen men who had been present when Kit had died: Nicholas Skeres, at thirty a year older than Marlowe, lanky and shabbily dressed, a moneylender with a reputation even shadier than Frizer’s; and Robert Poley. Will knew him. Their eyes met briefly before the other man looked away. Strong and fit, he wore clothes of a finer cut and held his chin at an angle that suggested he required respect.

  Poley was a spy.

  For many years, the older man had worked for Will’s former master, Sir Francis Walsingham, yet he had also been a leading player in the criminal underworld of London. Like Marlowe, he played both sides. Unlike Marlowe, Poley enjoyed his work. Will had heard tell he was a master poisoner, as well as an informer and troublemaker among the Catholic plotters.

  ‘And what have you found?’ Danby said, in a deep, rumbling tone.

  His assistant re-covered the body and stood up. ‘The dagger entered just above the right eye and pierced the brain, sir. One single stroke is all I see.’

  ‘Master Frizer. Step forward and give your account.’ Danby gestured towards the space in front of the jury.

  Frizer shuffled forward, his hand springing to the painful wounds on his head. ‘The four of us met here at the house at about ten o’clock that day to discuss our business. We took lunch together and afterwards walked in the garden,’ he began in a low, wavering voice, his gaze darting across the faces of the jury. ‘At about six o’clock that evening, we came in and had our supper. Master Marlowe was tired and lay down.’ Frizer indicated the bed in the corner. ‘The three of us sat on the bench in a row, playing tables. I sat in the centre.’ He pointed to the backgammon board, the counters still in position, the dice rolled to a six. ‘Master Marlowe was in an irritable frame of mind. We argued about the sum of pence owed to Widow Bull for our food and drink that day. The reckoning was a small matter, but Master Marlowe became increasingly incensed and we exchanged malicious words. In anger, he leapt towards me, and with Master Skeres and Master Poley on either side, I could in no way take flight.

  ‘Master Marlowe snatched my own dagger from my sheath and struck me two blows with it.’ His hand went to his head wounds again and he winced. ‘I thought I would die. Master Marlowe was possessed with a terrible rage, and I could do nothing to protect myself but wrest the dagger from his hand. I struck out, unthinking, and the knife went in above his eye. He died instantly.’

  Danby waited for the scribe to finish noting Frizer’s account before he said in a commanding voice, ‘It is to your honour that you neither fled nor withdrew yourself, and this is a matter which must be considered by the jury.’

  ‘Because I struck in defence of my own person, sir, and not to harm Master Marlowe. I would not. He was my friend.’ The accused gave a deep bow. Will could see the man’s hands were shaking so badly he had to clasp the one with the other.

  The spy watched Frizer’s face for any hint of a lie. If he couldn’t prove that he had struck in defence of his own life, the accused would face death. Will accepted that the bandaged man must have been completely sure of his position not to flee the scene of the crime, or at least sure of the outcome of the inquest. But the coroner was experienced, and his reputation was strong. He had held the post for more than four years, with another fifty years of legal work behind him since he began his studies at the Inns of Court. He would not have been open to bribery, nor would he have ignored the slightest fact that threw the evidence into doubt.

  Will listened carefully to the testimonies of Poley and Skeres. They both backed Frizer’s account, as would be expected. After only a brief deliberation by the jury, Danby formally announced the result: ‘That said Ingram Frizer had killed Christopher Marlowe in the defence and saving of his own life.’

  Coughing and spluttering, the jury filed out of the hot chamber, glad to be away from the stench. Will allowed himself one last look at the form under the blanket, choosing to remember one night of joyful, drunken conversation in the Bull at Bishopsgate rather than the misery that had latterly haunted Kit. Stung with grief, Will bid his friend a silent farewell and then stormed into the flower-filled garden in search of answers.

  Frizer, Skeres and Poley were already
slipping around the side of the house, flashing concerned glances in Will’s direction. They flee troubling questions – the very sign of guilt, he thought with mounting anger.

  ‘Hold,’ the spy called. ‘I would have words with you three.’

  Before Will could break into a run, Tobias Strangewayes stepped on to the path from the shade of a sweet-scented lilac. ‘Stay your hand, Swyfte. There will be no trouble here,’ the red-headed rival spy insisted.

  Enraged, Will thrust Essex’s man to one side. ‘No one will stop me reaching the truth, least of all you.’

  Spinning round, Strangewayes drew his rapier and leapt back into Will’s path. ‘I was warned that you would lose control of your wits when you witnessed your friend’s pitiful end. Then it falls to me to restrain the man who was – once – England’s greatest spy.’

  ‘Is this more of the petty jostling for power that your master plays with my master,’ Will blazed, snatching out his own blade, ‘or are you too involved in Kit’s death?’

  Steel clashed.

  ‘The Queen will see she can no longer place her trust in Cecil’s men when they disrupt an inquest into the tawdry murder of an atheist,’ Strangewayes said, grinning.

  Will saw red. Slashing to the right, he almost knocked Strangewayes’ blade from his grip. As Essex’s man struggled to bring his rapier up to parry, Will slashed to left and right in quick succession and then thrust his sword through his opponent’s defences. The tip of the rapier stabbed into the man’s doublet over his breast. The rival spy looked scared, unsure if Will would follow through.

  Before the answer came, Will was knocked roughly to one side. Strong arms clasped him in a bear-hug that forced him to lower his blade. Strangewayes danced backwards, flushed with relief.