A Prisoner in Malta (18 page)

“And I suppose you'd be Marlowe, then,” he said, not moving. “I should have recognized you when you followed me.”

“Agreed,” said Marlowe, keeping his knife at Frizer's throat. “You should always recognize men you've tried to kill.”

“Out on the highway?” Frizer shrugged. “I doubt I would have killed you. But I was in a bit of a spot. You have to appreciate that. I had to go along with what was transpiring, didn't I? How would I have explained myself otherwise?”

“You're lucky Lopez didn't kill you.” Marlowe at last withdrew his blade. “He wanted to. I prevented him, and later regretted it.”

“Marlowe,” Frances admonished, “put up your dagger. Frizer has news for us.”

With a great show of reluctance, Marlowe relinquished his hold on Frizer and returned his knife to its sheath.

The baker moved quickly, first to look into the front room, and then to the side door. When he was certain no one was listening, he came to stand beside Frizer.

“Right, then.” Frizer lowered his voice and stepped closer to Marlowe and Frances. “I've had a communication with a slip called Tin. She tells me, and I believes her, that someone at court, someone close to the Queen, will, within the month, seek to poison Her Majesty in the innermost royal chambers.”

“Inner chambers,” Frances said. “That would have to be one of the ladies-in-waiting.”

“Like you,” Marlowe said before he thought better of it.

“And Elizabeth Throckmorton,” she said, “whose father is the uncle of the conspirator in charge of this plot. But she cannot be the one. She is true, and her passion for our Queen is beyond question. How did you hear this information?”

“I told you: from Tin. Tin what's in love with you. She done it for your sake.”

“I mean,” Frances said impatiently, “did you speak with her in person?”

“Well,” Frizer said, “no. I got a message. She can read and write. Did you know that?”

“Let me see the message,” Frances demanded. “I know her hand; I can tell if your message is a forgery.”

“Ah,” Frizer said, a sudden light in his eyes, “an excellent point. I don't have it on me. Shall we repair to the Pickerel?”

Marlowe shook his head. “We shall not. Your welcome at that establishment has, you may recall, vanished.”

“In the public house, yes,” he admitted, “but we could take ourselves up the alley right to your room.”

“My room? You've hidden the letter from Tin in my room?”

“I've hidden several items of importance there. Once the beadles was done with the place, I deemed it the safest cell in Cambridge what to hide certain things. And then there's the smell of the place. That alone is enough—”

“What else did you hide there?” Marlowe demanded.

“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to answer that completely, Mr. Marlowe.”

The baker folded his arms. “And I'm afraid I shall have to ask you all to leave my establishment. This kind of talk is bad for my business.”

“I can say, however,” Frizer went on, ignoring the baker, “that I have secreted away, under a certain floorboard, a newly printed version of the Rheims-Douai Bible, so-called.”

“The new Catholic Bible?” Marlowe snapped.

“Why do you have that?” Frances wanted to know.

“Out!” the baker bellowed. “I cannot have talk of illegal books in my kitchen!”

Marlowe glanced at Frances. “Maybe we should go.”

“The Pickerel it is,” Frizer agreed, and headed for the door.

 

SIXTEEN

Marlowe was relieved to find that the combined effect of removing the foul mattress and leaving the window wide open had, to a great degree, relieved his room of the stench of death.

They were an odd trio: careless Frizer, bearded Marlowe, and the hooded specter of a man who was a woman who was a spy. Even inside the room, Frances kept her hood up.

Frizer went right to work prying up a floorboard. Frances sat at the desk. Marlowe felt compelled, for reasons not completely clear to himself, to watch at the door. Within minutes Frizer had unearthed the letter from Tin and the volume he had mentioned.

“I received this letter,” Frizer said, holding them out for display, “inside a sack of barley sent from Coughton. You see, while Richard was living in luxury in the estate there, I was working in the stables, mostly mucking but also tending, and I got to be friends with the stable master, who, as it happens, is Tin's father, and a man as loyal to the Queen as you or me. As for the Bible, I reckon it incriminates Pygott as a Catholic agent.”

Frances came to him and took the letter, holding it to the light from the window. Marlowe seized the Bible.

“This handwriting is the same as in the letter that came to Lord Walsingham,” Frances said slowly. “It does indeed say that someone at court will poison Her Majesty in the royal chambers.”

“It's from Tin,” Frizer said.

“This New Testament is—unusual,” Marlowe rejoined, almost to himself. “There are great long passages in Latin. Incorrect Latin.”

“A bad copy,” Frizer surmised.

“No,” Marlowe mused. “The Rheims–Douai Bible is a Catholic device. It translates the New Testament from the Latin Vulgate into English. It was printed under the order of William Allen, the man in charge of the College of Douai at Rheim. It's all supposed to be in English. And this is very bad Latin.”

“What does it mean?” Frances squinted.

“Not certain.” Marlowe sat on the bare bed ropes. “Let me see. This section says something about Calais. Here's
Dover
. And Folkestone.”

“Stop.” Frances froze. “Those are invasion instructions. The attack is to leave from Calais and land near Dover and Folkestone. That's what I overheard at the Throckmorton estate.”

“Then is Allen the man coordinating the attack from within?” Marlowe stood.

“And his protector, the Duke of Guise,” Frances suggested, “is the one in charge of the invasion from without.”

Marlowe turned to Frizer. “You said that you got the letter in a bag of barley, but where did you get this Bible?”

“That,” Frizer answered, eyebrows raised high, “was found on the person of one Walter Pygott, which is why I say that it proves him a Catholic bastard.”

Marlowe glared at him. “So you did have something to do with Pygott's death after all.”

“I did not,” Frizer said instantly, though with a smile. “We found his body in the garden beside the church. Lovely roses there, for this time of year.”

“
We?
” Marlowe asked.

“Me and my companion, the Spaniard.”

“But you did bring the body here,” Marlowe said steadily.

“We did. The thought was to get you arrested, keep you out of the way.”

“But why?” Marlowe asked.

Frizer stiffened. “Can't say. But it was orders.”

Marlowe stared at him, but realized after a moment that Frizer wasn't to be trusted. Trying to pry the truth out of him would be a waste of time. So he chose a different tack.

“This was—when? Recently?”

“No,” Frizer answered. “Same day as our encounter with you and the doctor. Or that night, rather. The body was just lying there. Smelled of piss.”

“What can you tell me about this Spaniard?” Marlowe asked.

“He's an addled egg. Lost part of his brains, is my guess. But he's Philip's man for certain adventures.”

“He works for the King of Spain,” Frances said suspiciously, “and cavorts with you.”

“The Spaniard is a perfect assassin. He's killed more than a hundred men, and that's just in England. He allows as how big plans is afoot, but he don't say what. Not yet.”

“But you still stick with him?” Marlowe's suspicions were making him sweat.

“Orders.”

“And who has issued you those orders, I wonder,” Frances mused.

Frizer dropped his devil-may-care attitude. “Lord Walsingham, of course.”

“Right.” Marlowe thought for a moment before he sighed. “Which means, I suppose, that you did not kill Pygott. Walsingham wouldn't have me chasing after his own man. But I can still suspect the Spaniard.”

Frances nodded. “Do you know his name?” she asked Frizer.

“I do. But not because he told it to me. I had to find it out for myself, which means it may be a false name. A
nom de guerre,
as they say. He is called Aldano Zigor.”

Marlowe blinked.

Frances was the first to speak. “That is not Spanish, you understand.”

“I believe that it is a Basque name,” Marlowe agreed.

“Is it?” Frizer asked, but the lilt in his voice made it evident that he already knew what Frances had guessed. “Well, as I say, it could be a contrivance.”

“Are you certain that he's one of the Pope's men?” Marlowe demanded.

“Certain?” Frizer smiled. “What, in this life, is certain? I only go by what I've been told. By Walsingham.”

“And
he
told you,” Frances insisted, “that this man was a Catholic spy.”

“He implied it.”

Marlowe's mind was racing. He considered and discarded several far-fetched notions before he decided upon a plausible story.

“Suppose that Pygott was given this Bible to deliver to someone here in Cambridge,” Marlowe began slowly. “His reputation as an idiot and a bully rendered him something of a risk, however, so this man, this Aldano Zigor, was dispatched to get the Bible and kill the boy.”

“Which he did,” Frances continued, “and then he pretended to come upon the body with Frizer as a witness.”

“And then they both dragged the body to this room to incriminate me,” Marlowe went on, “because the Pope's men knew that I had been summoned to London.”

“Because they saw you and Lopez in the Queen's coach,” Frances added.

Marlowe nodded. “Kill the messenger, retrieve his communiqué, and frame your enemy, all with a single murder. You have to admit it was nicely done.”

“An admirable bit of deductive reasoning,” Frizer complimented, “but for a single, insignificant pebble in the road.”

Frances and Marlowe turned to Frizer.

“The Spaniard and I have been inseparable for nearly a year, until two nights ago. He's never left my side, nor I his—not before we found Pygott's body and brought it here. He could not possibly have killed Pygott.”

Marlowe paused a moment, trying to decide if he should believe Frizer or not. Every instinct told him not to. Then he spoke.

“And what has separated the two of you now?” he chose to ask Frizer.

“I woke up and he was gone. That's what I was doing here at the Pickerel when I got drunk, looking for him.”

“But the point is: this so-called Spaniard could not have killed Pygott,” Frances said.

“Maybe not,” Marlowe answered, “but I find the coincidence of his probable heritage to be a bit disconcerting.”

“What?” Frizer complained.

“Mr. Marlowe and I have recently encountered another Basque,” Frances answered, “a man who may well be responsible for the death of Dr. Lopez.”

“The man in red?” Frizer sputtered. “He's gone?”

“I'm afraid he is,” Frances said softly.

“Well, someone's a better man than I am. I tried to kill Lopez on three different occasions. The most recent time was in your presence, as you well know.”

“No, but you tried to kill him before that?” Marlowe's hand moved nearer to his dagger.

Frizer saw the hand move. “You've not been told?”

“Told what?” Marlowe demanded.

“Lopez,” Frizer said quietly, “was a double agent.”

Marlowe laughed a little too loudly. “You think Lopez is working for the Pope?”

“The Pope?” Frizer shot back, astonished by the question. “No. He's a double agent for the Jews.”

“Working for the Jews?” an astonished Marlowe barked. “What Jews?”

“I have it on the greatest authority,” Frizer assured him.

“I don't care if Jesus sat on top of you and shouted it into your ear,” Marlowe declared, “it's not true! You've been tricked.”

Frances took Marlowe's forearm in her gloved hand.

“Kit,” she said gently, “what does it matter now?”

Marlowe glared at Frizer. “It matters.”

“I mean,” she went on, “wouldn't we rather ask ourselves about this Bible?”

“What about it?” Marlowe snapped.

“Is it genuine or is it a ruse?”

“Why would it be a ruse?” he asked her, his ire receding.

“Well,” she suggested, “not to denigrate your education in the least, but aren't there at least a thousand people in this town alone who could spot bad Latin and translate it?”

He started to speak, then exhaled and nodded.

“You mean this message,” Frizer began, “the one he just translated, is a fake?”

Marlowe sighed once more. “Probably. A decoy. She's right, it's too obvious.”

“That's right, but more important,” she went on, “I'd like to know a little more about the Spaniard with the Basque name.”

“Yes,” Marlowe agreed, “it's too much of a coincidence.”

“Why is that?” Frizer wanted to know.

“A Basque named Argi,” Frances said softly.

“The one you think has killed Lopez,” Frizer said.

“There's likely to be some connection,” Frances went on. “How many Basque patriots does one run into in England?”

“Personally,” Marlowe said, “I'd like to know a little more about this baker with whom you seem so friendly. What's his role in all this?”

“Oh, he's nothing,” Frizer said, nodding. “I thought you was after something more immediately consequential.”

“Such as?” Marlowe asked.

“Such as, my lad, who murdered Pygott? Because it ain't me and it ain't the Spaniard. And if you don't find out who
did
do it, you're cooked. How much good would it do Walsingham, or the Queen, to have you in prison?”