by Ann Swinfen
‘Aye, but it is worth the try.’
I stood up. ‘Thank you, Nick. It is good to be working with you again, even if we have no Sir Francis to lead us. You can reach me at my same lodgings in Southwark.’
He stood as well and gave me an odd look.
‘Are you free of your duties at St Thomas’s today, Kit? I would have thought that your patients would need you.’
I found myself flushing. It should not embarrass me to admit what was not my fault, but it did.
‘When I returned from Muscovy, I learned my post at the hospital had been given to another, the man who took my place while I was away.’
‘That’s hard,’ he said, ‘and not what you were promised. So have you no work?’
‘I have taken over a few of Dr Nuñez’s private patients, but it does not provide me with a living. In order to pay my rent and buy food, I have been working for Master Burbage as a copyist, ever since Master Wandesford died. That is how I came to be entangled in all this matter of the stolen plays.’
He shook his head. ‘One of Sir Francis’s best code-breakers and forgers, come to this! Are you quite sure you do not want to join Thomas Phelippes?’
‘I should not mind joining Phelippes, were he not answerable to the Earl of Essex, though how long that may last, I am not sure. Essex takes up one thing after another to enhance his fame, but commanding an intelligence service is surely too quiet and slow for a man of his tastes. Hardly spectacular enough.’
‘Aye, you probably have the right of it. Is not Lord Burghley taking up intelligence work again, with his son? He began it all, years gone by. In fact, I had an approach from Sir Robert Cecil myself, but I said I had retired from such work.’
‘Poley is working for the Cecils,’ I said.
‘Is he indeed?’ Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘I am surprised they trust him. I have always suspected he took money from our enemies. Sir Francis could never prove he was a double agent, but he thought him dangerous and unreliable. I often wonder whether it was Poley who stole our files.’
‘And I too.’ I shook Nick’s hand. ‘It has been good to see you again. And I am glad that the poultry business has not altogether blunted your taste for intelligence work.’
He laughed. ‘Not altogether. As soon as my men learn anything, I will send you word.’
As I walked away down Bucklersbury, I was feeling more cheerful than I had been since this whole matter had started with the death of poor Wandesford. One matter Nick and I had not discussed was how his men were to be paid. In the past, Walsingham’s budget had covered such things. Perhaps Nick would pay them in eggs or capons.
For the next few days, I did not see the players, for there was an outbreak of chest colds amongst the children who lived in Goldsmiths Row. It was too early for the usual winter chest infections, since we were only just coming to the end of summer, However, these families all knew one another, so once one child was affected it spread through the rest like fire through dry tinder. It was not serious, but unpleasant, depriving the children of rest and leaving them feeling weak and sorry for themselves. I was busy dispensing soothing syrups and chest rubs of warming herbs. For some reason it did not affect their parents, for which I was heartily thankful. It meant that Mistress Dolesby was not able to place herself at the centre of attention and concern.
On the morning of the fourth day after I had called on Nick Berden, I received a note from him, short and to the point, as always.
The players will be performing a new play tomorrow, Thursday, The Lamentable Overthrow and Death of Edward II. I would judge it to be your Marlowe’s play. They show little imagination in their choice of titles. No word yet of the man we seek.
NB
Hardly ‘my’ Marlowe, I thought, but this was vital news. None of my patients required my services today, the children all being over the worse, so Rikki and I set off at once for the Theatre. Master Burbage was there, and also Guy, putting Davy through his paces in some new acrobatic tricks they were perfecting. I had thumped on Simon’s door as I passed, but heard only a grunt in answer.
I had not yet told the players of my visit to Nick, not wanting to raise their hopes unnecessarily, but I now explained to Burbage and Guy that Nick was having enquiries made, and I showed them his note.
‘It must be Marlowe’s play,’ Burbage said, his eyes lighting up. ‘This is excellent. The coroner will surely now accept that everything points to this group of thieving rascals being behind everything that has happened.’
‘We still have no proof that they killed Stoker,’ I said. ‘We must decide how best to proceed.’
‘First, we will inform Sir Rowland,’ Master Burbage said. ’I shall go myself, at once. Although before I leave I shall write a message to Philip Henslowe, and Davy can take it to the Rose. Do you suppose Marlowe could provide the coroner with at least some of the lines from his play? We need to convince him that it is indeed Marlowe’s play these fellows have in their hands.’
‘Marlowe says it was the sole copy that was stolen,’ Guy said, ‘but perhaps he may have some rough papers, or can remember some of the lines he composed well enough to write out a passage for the coroner.’
I could see that they were all afire to catch the thieves who had stolen their plays, but I was worried that if the men were arrested and driven out of London, we should never know who was attempting to use the playhouse to incite rebellion. When Burbage went into his office to write his note to Henslowe, I followed him.
‘Master Burbage,’ I said, ‘there is more at stake here than the stolen plays.’
‘Aye, I am well aware of it,’ he said. ‘Two men have been murdered. Two men employed by me. I am not likely to forget it.’
‘Do you truly believe that murder would have been done, merely to steal plays? I know they are of great value to whichever company owns them, but – worth two lives?’
‘What are you saying, Kit?’
Before I could answer, we were joined by Will, who must have been told the latest news by Guy, for he had the light of battle in his eye.
Before he could speak, I answered Burbage. ‘I am saying that we should not lose sight of what really lies behind these thefts. It is not simple financial gain. This group of players at the Blue Boar have not set themselves up as a permanent company. They must know that, sooner or later, the Master of the Revels will hear about them and close them down, so they probably intend to disappear before that happens. They are not even performing every day, as any legitimate company would do, while the weather holds. Cuthbert calculated how much they earned the day we were there, but unless they perform every day, they will starve. Someone is paying them.’
‘Who?’ Will said.
‘I discussed it with Nick Berden. He was one of Sir Francis’s most experienced and skilful men. We think this . . . let us call it a conspiracy . . . this conspiracy originates here in England. It has not originated abroad. It has none of the marks of a Spanish Catholic conspiracy. We think some great man – or perhaps more than one man – intends to stir up treason against the Queen. Someone like the late Duke of Norfolk. He was home bred, and bred a home grown rebellion, with the intention of marrying the Scots queen and seizing power for himself.’
‘And lost his head for it,’ Will said.
‘He did. Who might be trying now to stir up the trouble-making youth of London? We do not know. But we need to proceed cautiously, so that these players may be questioned and their employer unmasked before real danger erupts in London.’
‘What you say makes good sense, Kit,’ Master Burbage said. ‘I think you should come with me to see Sir Rowland. If we can, we will persuade him to come with us to the performance at the Blue Boar tomorrow. If he is convinced of the danger, then he has the power, either as the coroner or as the Lord Mayor, to have the men held for questioning. The Master of the Revels would simply have them driven out of town.’
‘That is what I fear,’ I said. ‘If that happened, then we should lose all ch
ance of tracing the instigator. I will gladly come with you to see Sir Rowland.’
‘I shall come as well,’ Will said grimly. ‘I do not care for having my work distorted and travestied to serve the purposes of evil men.’
‘Very well,’ Burbage said. ‘Let us take our case to Sir Rowland.’
Chapter Twelve
To my surprise, we were able to see Sir Rowland at once, despite his secretary’s attempts to prevent us. Our arrival at his office coincided with that of Sir Rowland himself, so he brushed his secretary aside and ushered us in ahead of him. I noticed Will darting glances about, taking note of everything. I believed he did this all the time, storing away impressions of people and places to serve as the raw warp and weft from which he wove his plays. One of these days, I was sure he would use those lazy parish constables, a perfect type for Guy to make mock of.
Will and I hung a little back, before anyone had even taken a seat, leaving Master Burbage to explain why we were here. He was accustomed to dealing with London merchants and knew better than to waste any precious minutes. As he paused, Sir Rowland waved us to chairs.
‘Nicholas Berden, eh? I recall that he was one of Sir Francis’s best men. Certainly one of the best for ferreting out information in London.’
He looked at me, and there was a smile in his eyes. ‘So he is selling poultry, is he?’
‘And not finding it a very fulfilling life,’ I said, returning the smile. I began to hope that Sir Rowland was finally prepared to take us seriously.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘this certainly does appear to make it quite clear that this same group of players is behind the thefts of both plays, though we still cannot be sure that they also killed John Stoker.’ He fingered his beard, gazing at the ceiling. ‘You say their play of Edward II is to be given tomorrow afternoon. I might be able to free myself so that I may attend with you. Walker!’ he called, and jingled a small bell on his desk.
The secretary appeared so quickly that I suspected he had been listening outside the door.
‘Sir Rowland?’
‘Walker, I need to rearrange any meetings I have tomorrow afternoon. And I shall want a full complement of sergeants to attend me.’
‘Certainly, Sir Rowland.’ The secretary gave us an unpleasant look.
‘And they are to wear their ordinary clothes, not livery. I do not want them to draw attention to themselves.’
‘I will instruct them, Sir Rowland. Where are they to attend?’
‘At the Blue Boar inn, Queene Hythe.’
The secretary’s mouth fell open and he seemed temporarily deprived of speech.
‘Off you go then, Walker.’
When the secretary had closed the door behind him, Sir Rowland rubbed his hands together.
‘We will attend this performance, and if I am satisfied that there is sufficient reason to investigate further, I will have my sergeants arrest these players and bring them here for questioning. My own interest, of course, is in any light which may be thrown on my inquests into the deaths of your two men.’ He nodded toward Master Burbage.
‘However,’ he said, directing his gaze toward me, ‘if Dr Alvarez is right in his assumption that there is more to this than the theft of two plays, if indeed there is a political motive, an incitement to treason, then I shall hand the men over to Lord Burghley, so that he may question them as to who may be behind it.’
This was all that could be hoped for. Everything, however, depended on convincing Sir Rowland that these players were directly connected to the death of Stoker, which might not be easy. Our brief meeting soon over, we were dismissed. Will and I had hardly opened our mouths, except to explain the layout of the Blue Boar and the best points at which to place Sir Rowland’s sergeants in order to effect the arrests, if he gave them the signal. Knowing these rambling London inns, extended and enlarged over the years, I thought it likely that some of the players might escape even so.
Master Burbage and Will returned to the Theatre, Will looking more cheerful now that there was a prospect of closing down the bastardised version of his Henry play. I hoped that the performances already given at the Blue Boar would not have damaged his reputation amongst the London audiences. I turned in the opposite direction, for I felt it needful to tell Nick Berden exactly what had been decided by Sir Rowland. He might also have learned more from his men since he had sent me the note.
Nick listened carefully as I outlined Sir Rowland’s plan.
‘I do not know how many sergeants he may be able to muster,’ I said. ‘I did not ask, for fear of overstepping the mark. However, he seems to think he will be able to cover all the exits and have enough men to arrest and hold the players.’
‘I hope he may be right,’ Nick said. ‘I had a look at the place after you were here, and it is a regular coney warren. Like all these old inns, it will have a maze of cellars underground, and no doubt there will be trap doors for delivering barrels. Still, we may expect him to be able to seize most of them.’
‘If he is convinced,’ I said.
‘Aye, if he is convinced. I have learned a little about who they are – a travelling troupe from the Welsh borders, over Shropshire and Herefordshire way. They were drummed out of town at Shrewsbury, Leominster, and Hereford, suspected of theft from local houses, though nothing could be proved against them. They disappeared for a few weeks, then turned up here, where they have been spending more money than their intermittent performances would seem to warrant.’
I nodded. ‘So someone is paying them.’
‘Indeed. Someone is paying them, and generously, by all accounts. And just before you arrived, one of my men was here. Do you remember Tom Lewen, who was injured that time we were on the watch for the Italian puppeteers? You physicked him.’
‘Aye, I remember him.’ And remembered how bravely he had endured my stitching of his wound.
‘Well, Lewen has heard a rumour of who might be handing out the chinks, a Sir Thomas Oxley. Have you heard of him?’
I shook my head. ‘The name means nothing to me.’
‘He is a gentleman of the Earl of Essex’s household.’
Having lit this smoking barrel of political gunpowder, Nick sat back, clearly pleased by the expression on my face.
‘But how could that be?’ I said. ‘Whatever his faults, Essex is devoted to the Queen. As I have heard, he came to Court a penniless young heir to a country title, and it is the Queen who has raised him up. Though,’ I added, ‘if the tales be true of her flirtation with him, it does appear unseemly.’
I knew I sounded prim, but the Queen was old enough to be Essex’s mother, if not his granddam.
‘All of that is true,’ Nick said. ‘Certainly Essex has been dependent on Her Majesty for his rise to power, though it may be that he grows a little too high and mighty of late. It may also be that Oxley does not act with Essex’s knowledge but is a traitor within his household. One thing to consider, though – where are the Devereaux ancestral estates?’
‘Herefordshire,’ I said slowly.
‘Indeed.’
We looked at each other, then Nick smiled. ‘How Sir Francis would have loved this conundrum!’
‘Aye,’ I said, with a fond smile. ‘He would.’
I considered the implications of this extraordinary news.
‘Will you tell Sir Rowland about Oxley?’
‘At the moment it is no more than rumour. Let him question these fellows first, and if the name does not come up in their answers, then I will tell him.’
I got up to leave. ‘Will you attend the performance tomorrow?’
‘Try to keep me away!’
Early the following afternoon, all those I thought of as ‘our’ forces made their way in twos and threes to the Blue Boar. I went with Simon and Guy, although we walked part of the way with Ned and Marlowe.
‘I have written out some passages from Edward II,’ Marlowe told Guy, indicating a sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘I will hand them to Sir Rowland before the performance
, so that he may compare them with what these rogues dare to parrot upon their stage. I did not attend either of the inquests, but Ned will point him out to me.’
‘Good,’ Guy said. ‘The more evidence we can provide that links these men to the death of Stoker, the readier Sir Rowland will be to act.’
They parted from us then, for it was essential that we should not be seen arriving at the Blue Boar in a large group together, lest we alarm the rogue players too soon. Guy, Simon, and I climbed up to the first gallery as we had done before. It would provide a clear view of the stage but we were also near enough to the stairs to make a swift exit if that should prove advisable. I noticed that Sir Rowland was seated quite close to us, with others of Burbage’s and Henslowe’s men scattered through the audience. I could not identify Sir Rowland’s sergeants, but I assumed they must be there. I spotted Nick Berden down amongst the groundlings, and recognised several of his men, including Tom Lewen.
And so the second performance we attended at the Blue Boar began. I thought at first that I imagined an uneasy feeling in this makeshift playhouse, arising from my own keyed up sense that more dramatic events were about to take place off the stage than on it. Then I realised that I was not imagining it. For a start, the crowd of groundlings below us in the yard seemed different, though I did not realise at first what it was that was different about them. Then I noticed that, whereas before many of the men had girls on their arms, now there was scarcely a woman to be seen. And whereas before the crowd had been restless and noisy, now they were quiet and intent. Was it merely that the play held their attention more? I thought not, although the play was powerful – as all Marlowe’s plays were – while also being dark and unpleasant. Again, as all Marlowe’s plays were.
The man who had played Henry VI before now took the part of Edward II, portraying him as even weaker and more contemptible than Henry. The one accomplished player amongst them, he who had spoken the Prologue before, today was Mortimer, traitor and slayer of the anointed king.
I stole a sideways glance along the row of stools at Sir Rowland and saw that he was studying some papers in his hand, which must be the passages Marlowe had written out for him. Not having a copy of the original, Simon, Guy, and I could only speculate on whether we were hearing Marlowe’s words, but they had the ring of authenticity. Perhaps it was easier for the players, having the full script of this play, instead of Stoker’s unreliable memories of the Henry play, to perform it without making changes, at least if it suited their purposes in its original form. I knew the terrible story, but I did not know how Marlowe had written it.