A Prisoner in Malta (15 page)

“It's a fine room,” an ancient female voice called out, “if you don't look at the shape it's in at the moment.”

Marlowe stepped from behind the door, knife in hand. The woman was Nell Whatley, the owner of the Pickerel Inn and, therefore, also the owner of the room. The bar below was a bit on the rough side, but Nell was well known for keeping things in hand. She was as short as she was wide, covered in a stained green apron, and she carried a well-used wooden bat in her right hand.

“The only thing there is to see here,” he said pointedly, “is disaster. What happened?”

“What happened?” She shrugged. “You know college boys. Bit of fun is all.”

“No.” Marlowe deliberately stared her down, daring her to recognize him. “There was a dead body found in this room. It's the gossip of the town.”

“Ah.” Her shoulders sagged, but only a little. “Well, yes, as it happens, the boy who lived here, a new student from the countryside and a bit of a wild one, killed another student and tried to hide the body in that mattress.”

“That seems unlikely,” Marlowe said. “You can't hide a body in a mattress that thin.”

“I thought so too when I opened up the door,” she agreed, “but that's what the law says, and I never disagrees with the law. Especially when they're wrong. You calls it out when they're wrong and it only makes for trouble.”

“So you were here when the constabulary found the body.”

“I had to open the door for them, didn't I?” She took a good look around. “God, they made a mess, worse than what was here to begin with.”

“And you've left it as it was? Were you asked to do that?”

“Well.” She shrugged. “What was the point? I mean, if someone was to take the room, of course, I'd have it cleaned.”

“Here's my offer, then,” Marlowe said coldly. “Cut your rate in half, I'll clean up the room myself, pay for at least a month in advance, and keep mostly to myself about it.”

“Half?” She coughed. “I don't think so.”

“All right.” Marlowe put away his knife and headed for the door. “I'll just go downstairs, have an ale, and begin describing the look of this room, and the smell, to everyone there. In a very loud voice. I speak loudly when I've had ale.”

“Half it is,” Nell said quickly, holding out her hand.

Marlowe moved just as swiftly, placing the exact amount in her hand, and ushering her, unceremoniously, backward out the door.

“What made the law come to you in the first place?” he asked as she stepped out into the hall. “Did someone put them up to it?”

“Doubtless,” she agreed. “But everyone in the place was complaining about the stench, weren't they? Thought it was something dead in the Cam at first, but the smell was inside, not outside. So.”

“The smell made people complain, you're saying?”

She nodded.

“What sort of people? Other students who live here?”

“Not just them,” she told him. “It was customers down in the bar as well.”

“Any customer in particular?” Marlowe asked, his hand on the door. “I mean a regular or a stranger?”

“Let me think.” She held out her hand.

Marlowe sighed and placed a coin in the outstretched palm.

“Now you mention it,” she said, not looking at him, “it was a rude tough that's been in several times before and since what complained at first.”

“Before anyone else noticed the smell.”

“Well”—she turned to leave—“before I noticed it, anyway.”

“When I come downstairs later,” Marlowe called, “you'll point that man out to me, if he's there.”

“If he's there,” she answered, taking the stairs, “and if my memory don't fail me, you see what I mean.”

“You'll make full price on this room yet,” Marlowe said.

“And you'll ask one too many questions after a while,” she told Marlowe, not looking back. “That room may have another tenant all too soon.”

Ignoring her, Marlowe turned and surveyed the room again with a more objective eye. It was clear that only an idiot could believe the so-called evidence. No one would murder a man in his own room and then try to stuff the dead body into his mattress. And yet the indictment, shown to him by Frances, was clear:

Christopher Marley indicted for manslaughter in that he did, on or about March the twenty-fifth kill and murder one Walter Pygott, son of John Pygott, Esq., the proof upon investigation being the discovery of a body identified as Walter Pygott in the room of this Christopher Marley found above the Pickerel Inn. Said Marley having fled and no other evidence being presented, the indictment stands.

Marlowe moved about the room slowly, examining the mattress, the overturned desk, and the papers on the floor. It was lucky that the old woman hadn't cleaned. The first thing that struck him was that there was not enough blood in the mattress. If the body had been stabbed on the bed, or in the room, for that matter, there would have been much more blood. Next he noticed spilt ink that covered a portion of the floor in one corner. Someone had stepped in that ink and left a bootprint. The heel and sole of that print were very distinctive: the heel tapered backward, and was smaller than most English heels. The sole came to a sharper point than most English boots. The print had been made by Spanish footwear. A closer examination of the floor revealed that the print had been stamped several times in ink about the room. It was small and the strides were short. The man who wore those boots was barely five feet tall. Marlowe silently thanked God that his father was a boot-maker. The prints could have been produced by the Spaniard in the group of men who attacked the coach on the way to London. Marlowe realized the wisdom of Lopez's opinion: those men should have been killed.

After searching about on the floor around the desk, he found a piece of paper that had been imprinted with a nearly complete Spanish bootprint. The ink had dried. He carefully folded the page and tucked it into his robe.

Thus encouraged, he scoured the room for more clues. No other footprints were proffered, but he found a torn bit of cloth on one of the bedposts. The cloth was clearly not from Pygott's foppish haberdashery; it was a ruder fabric. He pocketed the rag.

The wool stuffing inside the foul mattress was clotted with blood and smelled like decaying rats. Marlowe donned his gloves, held his breath, and combed through the wool. He was rewarded with a farthing and a sixpence, both dirty. It was impossible to say, of course, that they'd belonged to Pygott, but Marlowe reasoned that they wouldn't have gotten into his mattress any other way. And there was a satisfying bit of irony in imagining that he would buy several pints of ale with dead Pygott's sixpence.

It occurred to Marlowe then to examine the door. It had never been broken, not battered, not forced in any way. That said to him that Nell Whatley may have known more about the murder than she let on, because she had unlocked the door for the murderers as well as the law. It was possible, of course, that they had stolen the key. But Marlowe had seen her take the key from a chain around her neck, a chain that hung low and sank into her bosom. It was more likely that she'd been paid, or coerced.

Marlowe spent the next hour crawling around on his hands and knees, sneezing, then breathing through his mouth so as not to smell the room. He discovered several other threads of cloth, a silver earring, and most significantly: a smudge of blood on the outside of the door, and another in the hall. Pygott had been killed elsewhere and then carried into the room. That explained the relative lack of blood in the mattress. The body had been loaded into it and left as clumsy, heavy-handed, ridiculous evidence of Marlowe's guilt. It might have been laughable under other circumstances.

After that Marlowe began to straighten up the room. He set the furniture aright, repaired the bed, and collected his papers, most of which had been destroyed beyond use. He stacked the books in one corner, checked the chamber pot, found it and the washbasin empty, and then sat down at the desk to consider what to do about the mattress.

Clearly he couldn't sleep on it; even the idea of keeping it in the room any longer was out of the question. He was, however, loath to destroy it away. It might be found to contain other clues upon further examination.

Another five minutes' consideration gave him a decision: take the mattress out of the room, down the stairs, and into the alleyway behind the Pickerel. There it could hang on a line and air out with impunity: no one who came within three feet of it would ever consider stealing it.

That settled, he wrestled the offending lump outside, largely unheeded, and threw it over a line by the back wall of the public house. The alley was barely three feet wide, cluttered with refuse and bird droppings. An empty barrel collected moss and mold. It appeared to be seldom used. Still, Marlowe moved the mattress so that it would not entirely block the way. Then, adjusting his robe, checking his beard, and securing his cap, he strode back through the door and into the bar.

The Pickerel was said to have been a brothel as well as an inn, partially owing to its riverside location, but inn or whorehouse, it was all the same to Marlowe. The place was cozy, the ceiling was low, the light was dim, and the ale was flavored with rosemary, Marlowe's favorite.

The pub was crowded and loud early in the afternoon, filled with every imaginable sort of person. A riot of color seized the eye with exactly the same violence that noise ravaged the ear.

The fireplace was in the wall opposite the door. A pot of stew churned lazily, as well as a joint of beef, unattended. The fire was low, the coals orange like sunset's horizon, a color that said, “Welcome in.”

At the bar, an oaken barricade against the onslaught of students and laborers, stood the woman of the house. Standing beside her was the famous husband, Pinch, who had fought in many Spanish campaigns. The popularity of the Pickerel was based, at least in part, on Pinch's reputation as a great liar. The rumor was that Pinch had acquired such a name by stealing, but Nell swore his name was to be attributed to the gesture that first brought them together. Pinch was a vague, towering skeleton, nearly six feet tall. Standing next to his wife, it was impossible to understand how they had managed to have children, but they had. The three young serving maids at the Pickerel were their handsome daughters. They weaved through the glut of men with the grace of dancers. They set a cup here, got a plate there, cheerfully enduring the occasional rude suggestion, lewd gaze, or unholy proposition.

Marlowe nudged his way up to the bar and placed himself immediately in front of Nell. She glared at him, but did not speak.

He smiled. “I've cleaned the room a bit,” he said, pitching his voice so that only she could hear. “I found some interesting items.”

Nell's face hardened. “How's that?”

“I say I've found things in the room,” he said, his voice filled with menace, “things that tell me you have not been completely honest with the authorities.”

“I've worked it out, you know,” she said, leaning close to his face. “You haven't fooled me with your disguise and your fancy talk.”

“What?” he asked, drawing back from her.

“You ain't never a college student.” She laughed. “You're a spy.”

Marlowe straightened up. “No—” he began.

“Listen here,” she whispered back violently. “I goes to the theatre at least once a month; stands right up front. I ken an actor's beard when I sees one. I'm not just anybody.”

“I don't take you for just anyone,” Marlowe countered viciously. “I take you for an aide to murder.”

Nell twitched and the look in her eyes changed significantly. Suspicion had been replaced by fear.

“I understand it now,” she muttered, head down. “You are in the employ of Mr. John Pygott. But you ain't like the others.”

That was unexpected.

Marlowe leaned forward.

“What others?” he demanded through clenched teeth, obviously threatening her.

Without warning a bony hand clutched Marlowe's throat and began to lift him off the floor. Pinch was seeking to intervene on his wife's behalf.

Marlowe's dagger was in his hand immediately and it sliced a small bit of skin from Pinch's forearm, just enough to make Pinch gasp and loosen his grip.

“Husband!” Nell shrieked.

For an instant the noise of the place abated, and several eyes turned toward the commotion, but everyone in the Pickerel knew better than to intrude on petty squabbles, especially if they involved a blade.

“I mean your dame no harm, Pinch,” Marlowe insisted, “and I am not in the employ of John Pygott. But I know this: someone brought his son's body here. And Nell, you helped them load it into that room upstairs. I assume they paid you well to do it, and to keep silent, but I believe I have proof, as I was saying, that it happened. I found things in the room just now. Shall I speak with the bailiffs about it?”

It was a good bluff because it frightened Nell.

“Wait,” Nell said immediately. “There's more to it.”

“Yes, I thought so.” Marlowe nodded. “I will not submit you to the authorities if you will simply tell me who these other men are.”

Pinch held the wound on his arm, and nodded gravely. Nell's eyes betrayed uncertainty, but a glance or two at Marlowe's dagger seemed to urge her to reply.

“I don't know who they are, not by name,” she said, and it sounded true, “but they comes in here almost every evening now, like they're looking for something or waiting for someone. Take a table. Just you wait. One or the other will pop in soon enough.”

“There were only two?”

“Aye.”

“Was one, by any chance, a Spaniard?”

“Could be,” she mused. “He was a bit dark-faced, and he ain't say nary a word. The other's rough. Rude.”

“Makes advances,” Pinch tossed in solemnly. “At the girls. I don't like it.”