A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery

by P. F. Chisholm

  Marlowe cursed and opened the door so Dodd could come in. He almost fell over a tangled heap of shirts by the door and then had to wade through screwed up papers, bits of pen, drifts of hazelnut shells and mounds of apple cores, and several books lying on the rush mats face down. The bed looked as if a pack of bears had played there and the desk was piled high with paper and more pens. The place reeked of aqua vitae, beer, wine, and pipe smoke, and someone who has been cooped up indoors for too long. At least there were no old turds in the fireplace, although the jordan under the bed badly needed emptying.

  Marlowe was standing by the flickering fire with his arms folded across his embroidered waistcoat. He had his doublet off, presumably lost somewhere in the junk on the floor—no, for a wonder it was hanging on a peg—and his shirtsleeves rolled up and stained with ink. There were bags under his red eyes big enough to hide a pig in and his voice was hoarse with smoking.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What’s so important that you’re bothering me with it?”

  “Have ye been in here all this time?” asked Dodd, tucking the tobacco into his sleeve again.

  From the contempt on Marlowe’s face it was obvious he thought this was a very stupid question. “Yes, of course I have. Where else would I be? I’m writing a play.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Edward II, a King of England who loved boys and was not ashamed to show it,” snapped Marlowe.

  “Like the Scottish king?”

  Something in Marlowe’s face softened slightly. “Perhaps.”

  “Ay,” said Dodd. “And what happened to him?”

  “First his favourite and minion Piers Gaveston was murdered by his lords as happened in Scotland with the Duke of Albany. Then the King was murdered at the orders of the Earl of Mortimer. It is said, by a red-hot poker up the arse.”

  “Ay,” said Dodd after a moment’s assessment to see if the poet was joking. It seemed he wasn’t. “Verra…poetic.”

  Marlowe frowned. “It depends on your definition of poetic. Do you mean appropriate?”

  Dodd coughed. He did, but wasn’t going to admit it.

  “That was done so there would be no mark on the body, you know.” Marlowe explained in a distant tone of voice. “Since he was a king they wanted it to seem that he died of natural causes. However, his screams gave them away.”

  He spoke in a disinterested way as if what he was describing was not quite enough to turn your stomach. He then took a sip from a cup of aqua vitae and Dodd realised that he was actually drunk. Not staggering drunk, nor fighting drunk, just thoroughly pickled. It surprised Dodd that anyone could write anything at all in that condition, but then Robert Greene had been able to scribble away when he was just minutes from death.

  Marlowe sat down again at his desk, picked up his pen, and dipped it.

  “Go away,” he said. “I’m busy. Leave the tobacco on the mantelpiece.”

  God, the man was rude. Dodd considered simply hitting him and seeing what happened. No, he had to talk first. “I bought it because I wanted tae ask ye about a matter of spying as there’s naebody else I can think of.”

  “Why not ask Will?”

  “Ah dinna think he’d tell me. If he knows.”

  Marlowe grunted, dipped, and wrote. It was amazing how fast he did it as well, all the letters flowing out of the tip of his pen as if he didn’t need to think about it at all and the pen not even catching a little, it was so well cut, just sliding smoothly across the paper. Incredible. Dodd enjoyed watching a craftsman at his trade. He noticed that Marlowe didn’t hold the pen the way he did, in a clenched fist that soon became dank with sweat, but lightly, as if it were a woodcarver’s awl.

  “There’s code I need to work out. Ah need tae find out how to break a code? How do you work it out?”

  Marlowe grunted again.

  “Well?”

  “Well what? Are you still there?” He was counting something under his breath. “Why don’t you go away?”

  Dodd reached for patience. “Ah wis askin ye…”

  “About codes. Why should I care? I only worked for Heneage because he has been known to pay well for it and I don’t want to go on working for him which is why I’m here, as well as the fact that this is the first time I’ve had the peace and quiet to write my play since I drank the money the Burbages paid me for it…”

  Dodd sighed. Why did Marlowe always have to be difficult? The man was as spiky and arrogant as if he had his own tower and a large family.

  “Is this your play?” Dodd asked idly, putting a finger on the pile of paper in front of Marlowe.

  “Yes it is and you can leave it alone…”

  Dodd picked up the pile of papers and wandered over to the fire with it. He crumpled up the first page and fed it into the flames, which made Marlowe jump from his stool with a yelp of horror.

  “What the hell…?”

  “Ah wanted yer attention, Mr. Marlowe,” said Dodd, judiciously feeding the next page into the flames. “Have I got it?”

  “You can’t burn my play…I…”

  “Ah can,” said Dodd, puzzled at this irrationality, “And Ah am.” Another curled into red and yellow and fell to ash.

  “I’ll kill you.”

  “Nay, I dinna think so,” said Dodd, smiling with genuine enjoyment at the humour of this idea. “Besides, there’s nae need. All I wantae know is how ye work out a code.”

  “What code?” Marlowe was staring at the pile of papers in Dodd’s hand, particularly the fourth page which he already had near the fire. He knew enough not to dump the whole lot onto the flames at once because that would put them out. In any case, this method worked better.

  “A code made of numbers. Ah ken that Carey worked it out and I wantae know what he found but I’ve nae experience of spying.” Dodd shook his head. “It’s verra annoying.”

  Marlowe was actually trembling, although whether it was with fear or anger only time would tell. “And how the hell do you think I would know? Is it one of Heneage’s codes?”

  “Ah dinna ken, one paper wis in his office when we searched it, the other was…ah…in another place.” Dodd stopped himself just in time. He didn’t think Marlowe ought to learn anything he didn’t already know about Richard Tregian and the mysterious Father Jackson.

  “And do you know what kind of code it is?”

  “Sir Robert said it might be one that used a pattern to change letters to numbers or that changed them at hazard and he’d need a codebook. There’s been nae codebook found so he must have worked it out but I dinna ken what pattern it could have been and I havenae the time to puzzle ma heid over it.” Dodd grunted with sour humour. “Nor the talent forebye. Ah’m no’ a clerk, me.”

  Marlowe’s eyes were narrowed. “There are other kinds of code. I doubt Carey could puzzle out either kind of numerical cypher by himself either. If he managed to work it out that means it must be tolerably obvious and simple because the man isn’t nearly as clever as he thinks he is.”

  “Nor are ye, Mr. Marlowe,” said Dodd pointedly, moving the pile of paper in his hands.

  Marlowe paused and then added grudgingly, “There’s a simpler kind of code which is where you use a very common well-known book as the key and refer to particular words by page number, line, and word number in a sentence. Then all you need to do is tell your correspondents which book it is and they can do the rest. The system has the benefit that you can use different codings for common words like “and” and “but” which makes it harder to crack. You also don’t have a written key lying around which always looks suspicious. In some ways it’s very secure, but simple to work out if you can guess the book being used.”

  Dodd thought about this. That made sense. “How d’ye find out what book it was?”

  “Usually there’s a symbol or name in another code which sets it out.”

  “Could that be an upside down A?”

  Marlowe shrugged. “Could be, yes. You have to use that, then get the correct book, decod
e some of what’s written, and see if it makes any sense at all. Generally you use a book that has been commonly printed but isn’t obvious. For instance, nobody uses the Bible because it’s too obvious. Why don’t you ask Carey when he comes home from his hawking?”

  Dodd wasn’t about to answer that question. “Ah wantae surprise him.”

  “I’m sure you will. Now can I have my play back?”

  Dodd showed his teeth. He would probably never get a better opportunity to find out what Marlowe had been up to. “Not sae fast, Mr. Marlowe.” It was interesting to watch him: he folded his arms, his eyes half-closed and he leaned back slightly.

  “If this is to be an inquisition, Sergeant, would you object if I got myself a cup of aqua vitae to wet my whistle?”

  A rare smile lit Dodd’s face. “Well now,” he said, “On the one hand I would object, for a cup of aqua vitae’s a fine thing to throw in a man’s face when ye’re about tae try and stab him and I’ll thank ye to take yer hand fra yer eating knife, Mr. Marlowe.”

  Marlowe scowled and uncrossed his arms.

  “There again,” Dodd continued thoughtfully, “On the ither hand, Ah wouldnae object for I’m in a bad enough temper that Ah’d be fair grateful to ye if ye gave me the excuse to give ye the beatin’ of yer life.”

  Marlowe looked sour. “What is it you want to know, Sergeant?”

  “Ah wantae know what the hell ye’ve been up tae these past few weeks, Mr. Marlowe,” said Dodd, “I know Sir Robert thinks he’s got it worked out but fer me, it’s a’ a mystery.”

  Marlowe said nothing. To encourage him, Dodd put another sheet, taken at random from the middle of the pile, into the fire. The poet winced.

  “I’ll tell you what I can,” he said sulkily, “If I know myself.”

  “All I wantae know whit were ye thinkin’ of, setting a pack of roaring boys on us the ither night? Eh? And then bringin’ in Topcliffe tae ambush us all? Ah take that as unfriendly, Mr. Marlowe, I surely do.”

  Marlowe was squinting slightly and Dodd realised he was talking too northern again. But before Dodd could try and repeat it more southern, Marlowe began to speak.

  “Heneage was furious when you raided his house. He got the word from the clerk of the lists when he went to see how another case of his was progressing and instead of going to his house in Chelsea, he called upon me instead. He blamed me for…for arresting you instead of Sir Robert and for destroying his fine plan against my lord Hunsdon. He reckoned the whole mess was my fault and threatened me with a treason trial and Topcliffe, everything.”

  “Speakin’ of which, why did ye arrange for me to be arrested?”

  Marlowe shrugged. “It’s not important, I made a mistake. I thought Carey and you would have changed clothes when I sent the men in to take you.”

  “Did ye tell Heneage this?”

  “I did. He didn’t believe me. He said I was working with Carey and accused me of betraying him.”

  “Ay?”

  “He offered me the chance to redeem myself if both of you ended up either in the Fleet or dead. I warned him that if he killed Sir Robert, Lord Hunsdon would cease to be a Knight of the Carpet and become again what he was when he defeated Dacre in the Rebellion of the Northern Earls. And that his lady would be even more dangerous. We had an argument about it. At last he said I had to work with Topcliffe, who was with him, as it happened.”

  “Ay?”

  “So Topcliffe and I laid a plan. I hired some roaring boys in Smithfield that I had used before, to lie in wait for you in Fleet Street that night in case you didn’t come to the Mermaid. I told them you were not to be killed and if they were asked who had paid them, to make a show of resisting and then give my name. I thought that might bring Sir Robert into the Mermaid where Topcliffe could take him.”

  Dodd grunted. So he hadn’t needed to get his sleeves wet half-drowning the man, he could have just asked him. That was annoying.

  “Meanwhile Topcliffe went to gather his men and waited with them at another boozing ken near the Mermaid. I sent for him as soon as you arrived but he wasn’t there—he had been called to the Tower on another matter. You had left by the time he came back and he was threatening me with the rack though it was all his fault. So when the boy told me there was a gentleman in the back yard asking questions, I near as damn it praised the Lord for it. Topcliffe sent for all his men and we took Carey easily enough, playing drunk, but you weren’t with him and that worried us. We were right. Once Topcliffe had gone chasing after you into the night, Carey said something to me which…well, which made me reconsider. I wanted sanctuary, that was all. So…I helped him by knocking out one of the guards Topcliffe left behind and Carey dealt with the other one. Then you turned up and you know the rest.”

  Dodd nodded. Most of this fitted quite well. He would have to think it through very carefully before he trusted it, but just for the moment he would accept it.

  Marlowe had crossed his arms again. “So, Sergeant? Are you satisfied?”

  “Mebbe,” Dodd allowed. “It isnae an obvious lie.”

  Marlowe gritted his teeth, obviously working hard to be civil. “Will you give me my play back now?”

  Dodd put his head on one side, assessing Marlowe’s temper. He remembered that the man had actually been arraigned for murder once, but got away with it on grounds of self-defence and probably Walsingham’s pull and good lordship on behalf of his pursuivant.

  “Nay sir, Ah’ve too much respect for ye. I’ll take it wi’ me, and leave it by the door when I’m done.”

  “But…”

  Another page edged closer to the flames and Marlowe withdrew again, took his hand off his dagger hilt. Dodd tilted his head at the part of the room on the other side of the bed. “Ah want ye to stand ower behind the bed where I can see ye.”

  Marlowe went there with ill-grace.

  “Ay, now lie on the floor wi’ yer legs in the air against the wall where I can see them.”

  “What?”

  “Ye heard me, Mr. Marlowe.” Dodd screwed up some pages at random from the pile and put them in the flames where they flared and the iron salts in the ink thickly covering the paper turned the flames red. As always there was a feeling of relief to see something burn when he was angry. Marlowe made a choking sound in his throat. He lay down slowly, and put his legs up against the wall. Dodd thought of pinning him down with the clothes chest but then decided it was too much trouble.

  He put the wad of paper under his arm, grabbed a handful of tobacco out of the packet he had brought and tucked it in his own pouch, then went very quietly to the door, opened it and slid into the passage. There he left Marlowe’s precious play about boy-lovers, as he’d promised, although the play had made a good hostage and he didn’t think he’d ever get any co-operation again from Marlowe. And it wasn’t as if anybody would ever actually want to watch the thing in a playhouse. Not even London could be that full of buggers.

  Dodd walked back to Carey’s chambers—Carey had a bedroom and a parlour as well, which was twice the size of the little hut where Dodd had come to manhood after the Elliots burnt them out. Ridiculous—what would anyone want with all that echoing space? He tried to go in, but then stopped. Damn it. Lady Hunsdon had locked the door.

  A low groan came from his lips. But Carey had clearly wanted him to solve the conundrum of the man who wasn’t a priest being executed, and the man who was, dying in the Thames. Therefore…Dodd felt along the top of the doorframe and along the edge of the panelling by the tiled floor. There was a chest with a silver candlestick on it which caught Dodd’s eye, so he went and picked it up and found a key tucked up in the base. He snorted, took the key, put the candlestick down, opened Carey’s chamber door, went in and locked the door behind him.

  He sat down and stared at the papers with the upside down As at the top, looked at the books. None of them began with the letter A, nor were they about anyone whose name began with A, nor were they by men whose names began with A. Yet Carey had worked the t
hing out and as Marlowe had said, he wasn’t that clever, bloody sprig of a courtier that he was. Nor did he have magical powers, God damn him, unless you counted overweaning self-confidence and the luck of the devil.

  Dodd wandered around the room again, looked in the chest, and nodded. Carey had taken his dags with him, somehow, and his sword. He must have sent someone to meet him in Finsbury Fields with a remount and packpony.

  A thought occurred to Dodd. He carefully locked up behind him, went back to his own chamber, found the wickerwork box stuffed with hay in which was Janet Armstrong’s highly valuable new green velvet hat, and picked it up. Another thought occurred as he saw his old homespun doublet and hose hanging on a hook at the back of the door. Time to do something about them, so he took out some of the hay and stuffed the clothes and his old hemp shirt and a few other things into the box. Then he wandered down to the kitchens off the back courtyard where he had a quiet word with the undercook and appropriated a bag of sacking that had contained pot-herbs. This he shook out carefully and wrapped around the package with string, wrote a label addressing it to Mr. Alexander Dodd, the Guardroom, Carlisle Castle in his best handwriting. He thought a moment and added a note to say that he, Sergeant Dodd, would pay back the man that paid the carriage on it.

  Then with a bellyful of good brown bread, cheese, and pickled cabbage, and a quart of remarkably good ale that he had cadged as well, Dodd went out the gate of Somerset House and carried the whole surprisingly heavy thing all the way to the Belle Sauvage Inn on Ludgate. It took him half an hour to find a carter who was heading for York and knew another one that made the round as far north as Carlisle, carrying supplies for the Castle. He payed an eyewatering amount for a deposit to the carter, plus more for the man who would take it on from York, and hoped that his brother Sandy would be kind enough to stump up the money if it got to Carlisle. He could imagine the stir when the thing arrived, especially if his men were nosy enough to open it, and was quite cheered up by the thought of their mystification.