“Ah,” Bartholomew said suddenly. “You think that because of his Catholic leanings, Carier might be a part of Throckmorton’s plot, along with John Pygott.”
“So you know about the plot.”
The professor nodded, but would not say more.
“It’s possible that Carier was Walter Pygott’s contact, but something went wrong, and Carier killed Pygott. Before Carier could explain what had happened, someone, John Pygott for example, hired thugs to kill Carier.”
“We may have underestimated Pygott’s father,” Bartholomew said. “He is wealthy, ignorant, and vindictive, a trio of the worst qualities in our lower nobility. But you must know that he has spared no expense in trying to capture his son’s murderer and he thinks that murderer is you. It would be in keeping with his mindless rage that he might hire assassins to kill you.”
“Kill me?” Marlowe shook his head. “John Pygott thought the murderer would return to the place where his son Walter was killed?”
Bartholomew leaned back. “Certain murderers revisit the sight of their evil to see if the body has been discovered, or to make certain no evidence of their crime was left behind.”
“But it’s been a month or more since the boy was killed!”
Bartholomew nodded. “True.”
Suddenly Marlowe stiffened.
“Unless,” he mumbled.
“What’s that?” the old man asked.
Marlowe saw Nell the landlady in his mind, gossiping at the Pickerel about the odd new lodger in the murder room.
“It may be that word has gone around town: the killer’s returned to Cambridge,” Marlowe began slowly.
“I saw through your disguise immediately,” the professor agreed. “Others might have.”
“And there are a number of other people who know for certain that Marlowe is here. Any one of them might have betrayed me.”
Bartholomew smiled. “Stop saying the name Marlowe, that’s my advice. Although I might also avoid the name of Greene. He is in London. Most people of his acquaintance would realize that.”
“This all adds up to folly. I was mad to come back to Cambridge.”
“Truly,” the old man confirmed, “but who else would solve Pygott’s murder and prove your innocence?”
“No one.”
“Has your time here merited anything of use?”
Marlowe smiled, deciding not to tell Bartholomew everything.
“For one thing,” he answered carefully, “I know that Basque rebels are gathering in England.”
“And that relates to the murder?” the old man asked.
“Not as far as I can tell,” Marlowe admitted, “but it helps to eliminate several suspects. Including, incidentally, Ingram Frizer.”
“You mentioned his name in this office when Frances was here,” he answered. “You said he was the murderer.”
“He’s not.”
“Ah.” Bartholomew’s brow furrowed. “Frances has told you something that made you to reconsider.”
“Yes.”
“Now you suspect Carier,” the professor mused.
“Has he gone, do you know? He wasn’t in the church.”
“He wasn’t in class either, which is unusual.” Bartholomew pursed his lips. “He may have gone to Kent. That’s where he was born. His father is Anthony Carier, a minister of the Church of England, though now a Puritan. Benjamin Carier came to us in February of last year. About your age, I believe.”
“The father is Anglican and a Puritan, but the son’s sympathies are Catholic?”
“Which is perhaps why he’s gone home. He may have been summoned by an unhappy father.”
Marlowe’s mind was racing. Here was the conceivable scene unfolding in his imagination: Carier was the agent in Cambridge to whom the Rheims-Douai Bible was to be delivered. Pygott arrived with it, stowed it at St. Benet’s for safekeeping, and it was Carier, not Frizer, who had actually encouraged Pygott to retrieve it. Then Carier killed Pygott to ensure that Pygott would not betray the plan—which he might readily have done, owing to the pea which God had given Pygott instead of a brain. But something happened. Perhaps Father Edmund stumbled on the murder scene at an inopportune moment, and Carier had been forced to flee.
But if Carier was the agent, why would he have left without taking the Bible? Was it that he had, indeed, been seen by Father Edmund, run away, and, somehow gotten a message to his coconspirators, Frizer or Zigor—told them to clean up the mess, fetch the Bible, and frame Marlowe?
The reason for such chicanery was unclear, but the scenario seemed at least minimally plausible. There was no trusting Frizer, or Zigor. They were both complicated puzzles.
If Edmund had seen the murder, why had he not come forth? Possibly Edmund had not seen the actual deed. Carier had heard him coming, and hidden. The priest had seen the dead body and sounded an alarm. Others had come running. That’s what forced Carier to abandon his task.
He contacted Frizer and Zigor immediately. They came to the churchyard and stole the body away.
But if all that were true, why didn’t Edmund come forward?
Marlowe stood.
“There may be a man at St. Benet’s, a priest, who witnessed the murder,” he said. “I have to question that man.”
“Which one?” Bartholomew asked. “I know them all.”
“Father Edmund.”
Bartholomew’s lip curled.
“You do not care for him,” Marlowe observed.
“He is not a priest by any definition I would use,” the old man grumbled.
“Why do you say that?”
“Fornication!” Bartholomew blasted back. “Half the serving girls in Cambridge know him.”
Marlowe tried to hide a grin. “Then half the churchmen in Christendom are not priests.”
“Pah!” Bartholomew exploded. “Revolting.”
“Still, I must speak with him.”
“Better to disguise yourself as a maid,” Bartholomew growled. “You’d have his attention then.”
“I think not,” Marlowe answered lightly, “at least not today.”
The old man lowered his voice. “You must not stay in Cambridge. Pygott’s father has scattered money all about the town. He has eyes and ears everywhere.”
Marlowe cocked his head. “I thought the old man didn’t care for his son.”
“He did not,” Bartholomew said. “He has other reasons for wanting you dead. I assume they have to do with his part in the Throckmorton plot.”
“I have to question this priest,” Marlowe answered the professor softly, “but after that, perhaps you’re right. It’s time for me to leave Cambridge.”
“Where will you go?” Bartholomew asked.
“No idea,” Marlowe answered.
But that was a lie. He was bound the next morning for Coughton Court.
“Will you tell me what’s in that missive from Walsingham?” Marlowe asked, glancing toward the golden cylinder.
Bartholomew smiled.
“That’s a good trick,” the professor said, “asking your question in that manner. I never said that object was from Sir Francis.”
“Is it?”
“What will you ask Father Edmund?” Bartholomew asked.
“I see.” Marlowe nodded, offering Bartholomew a knowing glance.
Bartholomew sat back, slumped a little in his chair.
“I have no idea what you imagine that you see, young man,” he said, “but you must always accept the possibility that half of what you think is wrong.”
“And with that,” Marlowe said, turning away, “I take myself to church.”
* * *
Once outside, Marlowe cleared his mind. There were so many unanswered questions that a man might be driven mad. Best to ignore the larger picture, perhaps, in favor of the more specific issues at hand.
First, speak with Father Edmund. Second, find out more about Carier. Third, get out of Cambridge for a while. Coughton Court was only a two-day ride.
He walked deli
berately across the lawn toward the tower of St. Benet’s. No students were about, and the yard was eerily quiet. A single bell was tolling, an invitation to pray for the dead.
As he came into the garden Marlowe could see the bodies piled onto a wooden death cart. They had been taken out through the side door, past the roses.
Marlowe stood at a distance for a moment, watching the last of the corpses heaped unceremoniously onto the cart. When the cart pulled away, he moved quickly. The rector was nowhere to be seen, but two priests stood close to the doorway, talking softly.
They looked up when Marlowe approached.
“I must speak with Father Edmund,” he said quickly, “about a matter of grave urgency. I know who murdered those men.”
They looked at each other, and then one went inside without another word. When he was gone, the remaining priest spoke.
“I am Father Edmund,” he said. “What do you know about this horrid business?”
Marlowe took in a quick breath and stepped up to the priest’s side.
“I know who killed those men,” he repeated.
Edmund looked into Marlowe’s eyes.
“And I also know about you,” Marlowe continued.
Edmund’s eyes widened. “Are you one of them?”
Not knowing what that meant, Marlowe decided on a bold course.
“You hid a certain Bible from Coughton Court in your room,” Marlowe said sternly. “On your desk.”
Marlowe wanted to see the priest’s reaction.
“Pygott stole it back,” Edmund railed, “before I could complete my work!”
“Your work.” Marlowe spoke carefully, hoping to give the impression that he knew more than he actually did. “You were to revise the code.”
“Upon my life, I do not have it!” Edmund was nearly hysterical. “I did not want to give it to him; he took it away!”
“No,” Marlowe lied, “it was not on his body when he was discovered in that room at the Pickerel Inn.”
“But he wasn’t killed there,” Edmund insisted, his eyes wild, “he was killed right here where we stand!”
“How is that possible?” Marlowe continued in his best imitation of an Inquisitor.
“I saw the murder with my own eyes! Pygott was slain here, dropped here, bled here; died here. As God is my witness!”
Marlowe put his mouth close to the terrified man’s ear.
“Why have you not divulged that fact to the constabulary here in Cambridge?” he rasped.
“You well know why!” came the answer. “I do not care to be taken from this place on a death cart, all full of holes.”
“Did you see who killed Pygott?”
“Yes, God help me. I did.”
“Could you describe him?”
“Slight,” Edmund said, “young, golden-haired.”
“That doesn’t sound like Christopher Marlowe, the one accused of the murder.”
“I don’t know,” Father Edmund whimpered.
“Did you see the murderer’s face?”
“No. There was a headpiece that obscured all but the eyes. He wore a cape, but underneath he had a manner of dress I might recognize.”
“What manner of dress?” Marlowe’s heart quickened.
Suddenly the rector appeared in the doorway of the church.
“Father Edmund,” he declared loudly, “send that man away this minute!”
Edmund lowered his voice then, and his entire demeanor changed. He leaned close to Marlowe and whispered.
“Listen to me carefully,” he said, close to Marlowe’s ear. “For the correct number of coins, I will identify anyone you like as the murderer of Walter Pygott, regardless of dress or visage. Do you understand me?”
“Send him away!” the rector shouted, stepping into the yard.
“But this man tells me that he knows who killed the villains who invaded our sanctuary,” Edmund answered quickly, pointing to the death cart.
“Indeed?” The rector hurried their way. “Tell me.”
“I will only tell Father Edmund,” Marlowe said steadily.
“Why should that be?” the rector asked, coming closer.
“Because the death of Walter Pygott is of interest to me,” Marlowe answered, “and Father Edmund knows something about that.”
“Walter Pygott?” the rector said, his voice rising. “That unkempt bully?”
“If you’ll allow me a few more moments with Father Edmund,” Marlowe began.
“No.” The rector interrupted, taking Edmund by the arm. “Father Edmund is an excitable man, and has had enough turmoil today. Go inside, Father.”
“But,” Edmund began.
“This minute,” the rector insisted. His voice sliced the air like a fish knife.
“I hope you will remember what I told you,” Edmund said quickly, looking at Marlowe before he turned and went inside.
“Now then, young man,” the rector said to Marlowe, “you may tell me: who killed those men in my church?”
Marlowe locked eyes with the man. “I wonder why you do not ask what men like that were doing in your church in the first place. They had not come to pray.”
The rector stepped closer, his eyes burning with disdain.
“Do you imagine yourself to be a person who might speak to me in this manner?” he declared haughtily. “I will have your name, young man.”
The rector was close enough by then for Marlowe to recognize the distinct smell of brandy wine. The old man was in his cups.
Marlowe examined the man for the first time. He was short, seventy, skeletal, drunk, and uncomfortable in his own loose skin. He had a slight rash at his neck, and his nose was nearly the color of the roses in the garden.
“I have learned what I can here,” Marlowe said, dismissing the man in his mind.
He turned his back on the rector and moved steadily away.
“What have you learned?” the rector demanded. “Young man!”
For one thing, Marlowe thought as he continued away, I have learned why the Bible needed to be stolen from the church: Father Edmund was holding it ransom, hoping for more money. That’s why he chose not to come forward about Pygott’s murder. Could Father Edmund have killed Pygott?
TWENTY-FOUR
The ride to Coughton Court was pleasant enough. It didn’t rain. The fields were beginning to show signs of life: violet, cowslip, pale daffodil, here and there a cherry tree in bloom.
He’d left without telling anyone. Better that way. He could not think of a single person in Cambridge he trusted entirely. Obviously Frizer was a potential enemy, but he couldn’t feel certain of Bartholomew, nor even Boyle. Nell and Pinch would do whatever money told them to do. If Zigor and Argi were occupied with their Basque cause, as they wanted Marlowe to believe, then they were not a part of a larger picture. And if they were Spanish agents, they were to be avoided.
He had discovered one very interesting fact, however, which seemed to make no sense. For that very reason, he deemed it significant. On his way out of town he thought to stop at the baker’s for a bit of bread.
* * *
Just before he left Cambridge, Marlowe strolled into the baker’s shop. The man didn’t recognize him at first, owing to the fact that Marlowe had abandoned his beard and cassock in preparation for a long ride.
Marlowe bought two loaves of bread and made idle conversation until the baker’s face darkened.
“I’ve seen you,” he said suspiciously.
Marlowe lowered his voice. “I’ve been in before. To fight with Frizer.”
The baker’s head snapped back. “Christ, you can’t be in my shop!”
“I’m leaving,” Marlowe agreed, paying the man for the bread.
Then, just as Marlowe neared the door, he had a sudden instinct to ask a foolish question.
“Frizer’s not here, by any chance, is he?” Marlowe turned slowly.
The baker shook his head. “Gone. Left town.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Marlowe said, a
s if he’d just remembered. “London.”
“Aye,” the baker confirmed, “they left yesterday.”
Marlowe tried not to register any particular response.
“I thought they left the day before—wait, you might be right. He and—God in Heaven, what’s the man’s name, the other fellow? Jesus, why can’t I remember names?”
“Benjamin Carier.” The baker leaned forward sympathetically. “Another one of those students at the college. Why Frizer packs in with that lot I’ll never know.”
“They have their father’s money,” Marlowe said, grinning. “They buy the drink.”
The baker laughed. “That may be the reason.”
“I hope they’re back soon. You know Frizer. He owes me money.”
The baker shook his head.
“Frizer told me he’d be gone for a while,” he confided, still smiling. “And if you was the only one in Cambridge he owed money to, well, I’d be surprised. You want that money back? You might just have to go to London to fetch it.”
“London.” Marlowe nodded. “Good suggestion.”
* * *
An hour later, the sun on new fields, small brooks roiling with the last of winter’s melted snow, Marlowe longed to speak with Lopez.
He had not given himself time to grieve the loss of his friend. It was all the more keenly felt because Marlowe knew just how few people in the world were worthy of trust. He tried, and failed, dozens of times to imagine what Lopez might advise as he rode to Coughton.
As the sun set, he was delighted to find himself nearing Northampton, where he might have food and lodging. Ale, a big meal, a good night’s sleep, those were the things he needed to take him out of himself, to clear his head.
An hour later he was snug in a small, quiet public house. He’d followed the smell of food and stumbled into the place. Its low beams and flickering lamps were instantly comforting. Several men were playing cards at one table, another man sat back from his plate, his head nodding, almost asleep. The thin, sad-eyed man at the bar attended to him with a minimum of talk, and an old, slow Irish wolfhound came to Marlowe’s table, blinked, and lay down at his feet in obvious contentment.
Boiled beef and onions, three large tankards of ale, and a plateful of manchet bread sated his stomach. The fire made him drowsy. The relative quiet of the place soothed the pounding in his brain, and he suddenly realized how long it had been since he’d felt safe.
A Prisoner in Malta Page 21