The Intelligencer

by Leslie Silbert

  “Last night. A couple of hours before we snuck into Greenwich Park.”

  “Cut it kind of close, huh?”

  “I got lucky. Max wasn’t even going to try to finish the research yesterday. Tracking down the descendants of four Elizabethans, researching them, and attempting to link one of them to the case? We thought it would take days. Even weeks, because so many of the necessary records wouldn’t be online. But he had a free hour and decided to get started with the one aristocrat, a man named Robert Cecil. You know, because the guy’s family tree would be all over the Internet. He traced the direct line but didn’t find anyone with serious financial trouble or a connection to the Cat—the thief the mystery villain hired. When Max started looking into the offshoots, though—Cecil’s indirect descendants—he eventually found Cidro.”

  “And that was it? You knew?”

  “As soon as Max looked into his finances—the SFO investigation, the fact that Cidro was selling assets and moving the proceeds offshore…”

  “So where didyou come in?” Adriana asked, as she shook salt on one of the omelettes their waiter had just delivered. “Why’d he hire you?”

  “To find the chest, he needed someone to decipher the manuscript he pretended to have found in the City.”

  “Pretended?”

  “He sold his office a while ago, but that’s where he said he found it last week. The manuscript really was found in that area, in Leadenhall Market, so it was probably the safest lie. Cidro bet, correctly, that with crime scenes to investigate and hundreds of reports to decipher, I wouldn’t take the time to do something that wasn’t advancing the case—like check out the phony discovery site.”

  “So who did find it?”

  “A history tutor of his from Christ Church,” Kate said. “A man named Andrew Rutherford.”

  After Max had told her what he’d learned about Medina the previous evening, Kate had assumed that to be the case, but she’d called Oxford’s Inspector Hugh Synclair to be sure. Rutherford’s will, she imagined, would make reference to the manuscript, if he’d found it himself. She’d been right. The will described how Rutherford had come across it a month earlier and asked his colleagues to forgive him for not making it public immediately. It was wrong, he knew, but he found the prospect of deciphering such a thing in the few months he had left irresistible.

  It was a student, he said, who’d inspired the find. Fifteen years before, one of his tutees had told him about a mysterious letter that Christopher Marlowe had written just before his death that had ended up in the hands of Thomas Phelippes. The student had said that a major disaster could befall his family if that letter ever surfaced.

  Kate knew that the unnamed student in Rutherford’s will was Cidro Medina, and that the story about his family was just a shameless ploy to manipulate Rutherford into alerting him whenever new Elizabethan documents came to light.

  Though it wasn’t his official specialty, Rutherford had a pet obsession with Elizabethan espionage and was highly intrigued by his student’s revelation. He’d been searching for the Marlowe letter ever since. He’d combed archives all over Britain for more than a dozen years and had kept abreast of all construction work done in and around Leadenhall Market. He knew Thomas Phelippes was in love with the tools of espionage, especially ciphers and secret compartments, and thought it a vague possibility that Phelippes might have hidden something in his home, which could then have been lost when the building was destroyed by the Great Fire. The previous month, a construction crew had begun doing structural reinforcement of one of the historic buildings in the area, and they chanced upon Phelippes’s pewter box. As Rutherford had become friendly with the crew’s foreman over the years, the man gave him the box as soon as it was unearthed.

  “Rutherford invited Cidro for dinner last week,” Kate told Adriana. “Which must be when Cidro learned about the manuscript. Later that evening, he went to Rutherford’s office and killed him for it.”

  “Why not just steal it?”

  “Because his tutor hadn’t told anyone else about his discovery. He was keeping it quiet until he finished the book he was writing on it. Cidro had to kill him to keep the theft a secret.”

  “A murderer…it’s hard to imagine. He was so charming.”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  Kate unzipped her shoulder bag’s outermost pocket and held it so that Adriana could see Simon Trevor-Jones’s pick gun. “When we’re done here,” she said, “I’m going to take you to his house and show you how to use one of these.”

  Kate led Adriana up to Medina’s study. She pried up the floorboards covering his safe and began turning the dial.

  “You know the combination?”

  “We installed this,” Kate said, as she lifted the safe door. She reached in for Phelippes’s box and tucked it into her bag.

  “You know, I could get used to this,” Adriana said.

  “Letting yourself into places you’re not supposed to be?”

  “Mmm-hmm. I’ve done my share of illegal things but never this. Which reminds me. That famous thief everyone’s been talking about, the Cat, he and Cidro were friends, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why did Cidro hire him to break in here? His own home?”

  “It was part of his plan to create the illusion of a fake villain out there so I’d decipher the manuscript quickly and quietly, thinking I was protecting him by finding some dangerous mastermind.”

  “But…the Cat died. If that was Cidro’s intention, how did he convince his friend to walk into a death trap?”

  Kate gestured to the walls around them. “Nothing personal, see? No photos of friends or family. No quirky stuff. It’s a short-term rental. I bet the Cat had no idea it was Cidro who’d just moved in here. And I’m sure Cidro didn’t tell him there was a security guard on the premises.”

  “Think he knew his friend would commit suicide when cornered?”

  “No. That was a surprise to him, actually. Last night, I called the security guard who was here that evening. It was a young guy, new to the job. Not one of ours. He told me that Cidro said he’d been getting death threats, and that armed intruders could show up at any moment. Cidro needed to make him jumpy enough to shoot, because if the thief had survived, he would have learned he’d been set up and Cidro’s game would have been over.”

  “So risky,” Adriana said. “I mean, the guard would have wanted to protect himself but not kill the intruder, right?”

  “Yeah. But the whole plan was risky. Seems to be Cidro’s thing—huge risks for huge payoffs.”

  “I’m glad you never got involved with him.”

  Kate was silent.

  Glancing over, Adriana read the chagrin on her face. “Oh my God. What happened?”

  Kate looked at her watch. “Oh, look at that,” she teased. “I’ve got to meet someone at two. Time for me to go.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Adriana declared sternly.

  Kate shrugged with mock helplessness as they headed for the stairwell.

  “Where is this so-called meeting?”

  “New Scotland Yard. The policeman I’ve been working with—we’re taking the manuscript and the chest to the British Museum.”

  “You’ve got plenty of time. It’s just south of St. James’s Park, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll walk you over,” Adriana said, opening Medina’s front door.

  “Company? Can’t say no to that.” Kate locked the door, and they set off for the park.

  “Well?”

  “It was nothing, really,” Kate said. “I wasn’t falling for him or anything, but I did think he was sincere, that his interest in the manuscript was exactly what he said, idle curiosity. And I, you know…had some fun with the flirting.”

  “You had no reason to suspect him, though. Hasn’t he been using your company for a while?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which means they did a preliminary background check on him, and you wer
e led to believe he was everything he said he was?”

  “Mmm-hmm. It’s just humiliating to have your tricks turned on you. I had no idea he was coming on strong for the sole purpose of clouding my judgment. I’ve done that to people as part of my work for years, but I missed it when it was done to me.”

  “Maybe he seemed sincere because hewas sincere. I bet he liked you, but just—”

  “Ana, he tried to shoot me.”

  “Holy shit! How did you…”

  “I’d taken his bullets out,” Kate said with a smile. “Our plan last night was to go to a club and duck out the back, in case someone was following us. I imagined he’d be armed somehow but wouldn’t carry a gun into the club for fear I’d notice. When he ordered drinks, I pretended to go to the restroom but ran out to his car. I found the gun beneath his seat.”

  “Wouldn’t it have made more sense for him to go into the park ahead of you? Or send someone?”

  “Without realizing, I made that impossible. He tried to get the exact location out of me—so casually I didn’t even notice—but the language in Marlowe’s letter was vague, and I didn’t feel like explaining it at the time.”

  “Even if he’d managed to slip away last night, he’d have had your boss after him for the rest of his life if he’d shot you. Why not just knock you out?”

  “Either he didn’t have time to get his hands on the right tranquilizing equipment—it was almost six when we separated yesterday, and he had only a few hours to recalibrate his plan—or he just didn’t care either way.”

  Kate sighed. It was time to confess. “If you can believe it, Ana, I made out with someone who had no qualms about killing me.”

  “Finally.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve known you almost ten years, and this is the first time you’ve got a bizarre sexual anecdote I can’t top.”

  NEWSCOTLANDYARD,LONDON—2:26P.M.

  “I’m shocked. Just shocked,” Lady Halifax declared as she slipped her ruby ring into her purse.

  Sergeant Davies was running late, so Kate had checked on the ring, then called Lady Halifax to let her know it was ready. With all of the necessary forms signed, they turned to leave police headquarters.

  “Seeing Simon’s gorgeous chum on the morning news jogged my memory,” Lady Halifax continued. “I’d seen them about quite a bit. Thick as thieves, they were, I’d always said to myself. And how right I’d been…though for entirely the wrong reason. Whatever the case, though, I’d never have thought one would betray the other. And so ruthlessly.”

  “I know,” Kate agreed.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you. Ella and I simply could not recall his name.”

  “Oh, not to worry.”

  “I’m not. It’s quite clear you did perfectly well without me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Next time you come to London, I’ll expect you to ring me for tennis,” Lady Halifax said as Kate helped her into a cab.

  Smiling, Kate nodded.

  “But please, dear. If you don’t mind. Some lessons?”

  38

  Are these your secrets that no man must know?

  —GUISE,in Marlowe’sThe Massacre at Paris

  LONDON—LATE AFTERNOON,MAY1593

  Phelippes knew he was being followed. For hours, he’d been walking around slowly, allowing his watcher to keep him in sight. Easily. Phelippes wanted the man relaxed.

  He’d gossiped in St. Paul’s churchyard, then had ambled down Cheapside, making several purchases along the way. He’d asked questions of every shop owner. How was the wife? The son? By the time Phelippes reached the Royal Exchange, his pursuer was shifty and stifling yawns.

  In the center of the courtyard, Phelippes paused, as if to adjust the packages he was carrying. The man behind him, he noticed, was waiting back by the front entrance. Relieved, Phelippes continued walking. His bookbinder was in the far corner, a few yards from an inconspicuous exit. Phelippes perused the wares of the adjacent jeweler. Knowing he was in full view of his pursuer, he picked up a miniature clock suspended from a chain, held it to the front of his doublet, and moved toward a mirror. As if dissatisfied, he shook his head and began examining a display of hat pins. The jeweler was helping another customer, and as soon as their backs were to him, Phelippes slipped out the back and darted left, into the closed tent of his binder.

  “I need it now,” he said, handing the man several shillings.

  “I’ve just begun the design,” the binder said. “I’ll be able to finish in a few hours.”

  “I haven’t even a minute,” Phelippes said hurriedly. His watcher, he imagined, was by this time elbowing his way through the crowd to come find him.

  “You cannot return in the morning?”

  Phelippes shook his head. “A man is coming for me now.”

  Resigned, the binder went over to his desk, lifted a piece of fabric, and handed Phelippes his pages, now bound in black leather. “He shall not hear of it from me.”

  With his manuscript sealed in its fitted pewter box, Phelippes stepped from the tent and ducked low, using the crowd as a shield as he moved to the nearby doorway. He slipped through in a crouch, then straightened and broke into a run. He was two blocks from his building.

  Another of Cecil’s men would be waiting in his chamber, Phelippes presumed, but he was not going there just yet. Instead, he picked the lock to the rooms on the ground floor. As expected, they were empty. An old woman lived inside, and she took her supper at a nearby inn at this time every day.

  Phelippes strode toward the hearth and knelt on the floor. Pulling a knife from his belt, he used the blade to pry up one of the large flat stones. Months before, he’d dug a hole beneath it. Roughly a foot square and five feet deep. He placed his pewter box at the bottom, then stood and went into the woman’s bedchamber. A large, scuffed oak bed was positioned in a corner. Phelippes lay down on the floor and maneuvered his body beneath it. Edging closer, he reached out, waved his arm about, then grasped a sack he’d placed in the corner weeks before. He hauled it to the hearth, emptied the dirt it contained into his hole, and replaced the stone.

  Before leaving, he checked the bottom of his left boot. Marlowe’s numbers were still hidden beneath dried mud. Good.

  He’d unravel them soon, Phelippes assured himself. He’d never failed before.

  CHISLEHURST,KENT—DUSK

  Tom Walsingham was sitting in his pear orchard. It was a beautiful day. The sky was clear, the air still warm, and birds were singing all around him.

  It made him angry. His closest friend was dead, and such beauty seemed an insult. A mockery. The world should be sad, larks included.

  When he heard hooves pounding nearby, he did not rise to greet the visitor. He did not wish to speak with anyone. Fortunately whoever it was did not linger. Within minutes, Tom heard the horse galloping away.

  “Sir,” he then heard. His page was approaching.

  “Whatever it is can wait.”

  “Sir, the man said it was urgent.”

  Reluctantly Tom took the scroll and unfurled it. His eyes shot to the bottom. The letter was signed “Gabriel.” He did not know a Gabriel. The courier must have made a mistake. He looked up, intending to hand it back to his page, but the boy was gone.

  Tom then read the single paragraph. Doing so confirmed his suspicion. It discussed a mundane, meaningless matter—one of no concern to him. “My friend,” the letter began, “I am writing to recommend an excellent type of wax I acquired from a shop in Canterbury. It is most durable. Yesterday I left it in a very warm room and it did not melt. Let us dine soon, and I will tell you more.”

  “Wax is wax. Why the devil would anyone…oh. Oh!”

  It was a coded message, Tom realized, stunned. Delighted. It played on lines from Kit’sDr. Faustus in which the chorus forecasted the magician’s tragic death by comparing him to Icarus. “His waxen wings did mount above his reach,” they would inform the audience in the opening scene, “And m
elting, heavens conspired his overthrow!”

  Poley was telling him that Marlowe, who was born in Canterbury and called an Icarus by many, did not really die. Because Poley, playing the archangel Gabriel—the purveyor of God’s secret messages to his chosen ones—had somehow fooled everyone.

  “Rob, you clever bastard. If you were here, I’d kiss you.”

  LONDON—NIGHT

  Poley awoke in a sweat.

  He had just seen Ingram Frizer stabbing Kit. My God, I failed, he thought, heart sinking. Then the nightmare faded, and the truth flooded his mind. Frizer hadnot reached out to touch Kit’s body. He had not felt its warmth and learned he’d been tricked. Instead he’d turned away, sickened by the gruesome sight.

  It was the reaction Poley had counted upon.

  Poley felt bad about Marlowe’s eye, but he did not regret having gouged it out. He knew Cecil would learn of the lodging arrangements he’d made with Nelly Bull, and it was imperative that Marlowe be declared dead that evening. He wouldn’t make it out of England alive any other way, not with Cecil’s men on such high alert. Thank God Nelly had agreed to help. Poley’s plan had hinged upon one critical element—that Marlowe’s injury appear so ghastly, so utterly deadly, that Frizer would not even think to test the body for warmth or breath. White makeup, a retractable stage knife protruding from the eye socket—even together, they would not have been enough. The possibility that theatrical devices had been used might have occurred to Frizer. And if that had happened, Marlowe would have been dealt a fatal blow, and Cecil, no doubt, would have made good on his promise and cast Poley in a torture chamber.

  The dangling eyeball had prevented all of that from happening.

  As soon as Frizer and Skeres had left, Poley and Nelly Bull had gone out to her garden to the cart he’d positioned just inside her gate. Beneath the sacks of garbage, Poley had hidden a lifeless corpse.

  Locating a newly dead body in London should have been an easy task. Dozens were succumbing to plague every day. But finding one with no telltale sores or visible injuries had been a challenge. After he’d learned of Cecil’s determination to have Marlowe killed, Poley had spent all night searching. Finally, by the following afternoon, he got word of a man—of the right age and height—who had just succumbed to falling sickness. Perfect.