A Prisoner in Malta (30 page)

“I've cured lampas and fives,” he answered instantly. “I bred Barbs to good end.”

“So!” Geordie seemed pleased. “You know the Arab horses, then.”

“A bit,” Marlowe answered.

“Then come have a look at this beauty,” Geordie told him.

Marlowe spent the rest of the morning with Geordie, inspecting horses, tending to a mare going to foal, and, in general, forgetting his troubles, if only for a few hours. As midday approached, Tin reappeared.

“I've made arrangements for you to work at the kitchen garden for the second cook's girl,” she told Marlowe. “I'll take you to the station beside the kitchen door. You're meant to fetch whatever the girl tells you to, that's the job.”

Marlowe shook off the haze of common contentment and got to his feet.

“I've been working certain words in my mind this morning,” he told Tin, wiping his hands on his thighs. “It's another verse to a poem I've begun. Do you want to hear it, the verse?”

“No.”

“I'll tell you anyway.”

They walked out of the barn and into the yellow light. Marlowe blinked. Tin led him at quite a pace out of the stable yard and around the side of that portion of the house.

“It goes,” he said to her, “‘A belt of straw and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me, and be my love.'”

Tin slowed, but only slightly.

“Some girl might find that fetching,” she snorted, “but not Frances.”

“And not you.”

“Me?” She nearly spit. “I've spent most of my young years trying to escape a belt of straw and the odd amorous ruffian.”

“The simple joys,” Marlowe remarked, “they're not for you.”

“God, no. Give me better conversation than I can find in a stable, and new music, and great theatre, and something more interesting than oats and peas to eat.”

“London.”

That stopped her.

“What?”

“You want London.”

Tin looked down.

“I do,” she whispered, a bit too fiercely for Marlowe's comfort.

“Well,” he said sympathetically, “take me to the kitchen garden, and when our work here is done, who knows but you may accompany Frances and me back to that city, there to see for yourself that you've abandoned a paradise here for the dun jakes and piss streets of Hell.”

Tin rolled her head, and without another word took Marlowe to a place close to the kitchen door where he was to wait for the girl to give him instructions.

 

TWENTY-FIVE

The kitchen garden was only four acres, but the variety there was surprising. Rosemary had survived the winter and was green and fragrant. Lettuces and radishes were abundant. Young onions had appeared. Early flowers that might flavor a cake or brighten a plate were everywhere.

The back of the house, the kitchen entrance, was equally beautiful. Ivy and climbing roses covered the gray stone walls, three stories high. On the second story there were stained glass windows and on the third, flower boxes filled with pansies.

Marlowe only had to wait several minutes before the girl appeared. She was twelve years old or so, riotously freckled, hair flame red. She blushed when she saw Marlowe, and looked down at her hands. She carried a small piece of paper, which Marlowe presumed to be a list of the items he was to fetch.

The girl inched her way to Marlowe, never once looking up, and held out the list as if it were poison.

“Thank you, miss,” he said, taking the paper.

The girl sipped a breath, almost a hiccup, and looked as if she might run away.

“I'm to wait,” she managed to squeak.

Marlowe unfolded the page and read it.

“Join me peeling onions,” it said. “The girl will show you which door.”

A note from Frances that meant she had peeled back more layers, found new information, or so Marlowe assumed.

“You're to show me a door?” he said to the girl.

She nodded once and turned immediately.

Marlowe followed her past the kitchen door and into the shadows until the girl came to a dead halt. She pointed toward a small red door that looked as if it might lead to a cellar or root storage. Then, without another word or glance, she bolted and was gone.

Marlowe headed for the door. As it creaked open, he stood aside and waited. After a moment he heard a faint whisper.

“Are you coming in or not?” it said.

“Possibly,” Marlowe whispered back.

“It's Frances, idiot,” she called softly. “Come in and close the door.”

Without another word, he moved into the cellar. There was light from a taper somewhere in the cavernous room, but until his eyes adjusted to its scant illumination, he thought to stay by the door.

“You're waiting until you can see,” Frances said softly.

“Partly,” he admitted. “But several recent events encourage me to stand close to the nearest egress.”

“Ah, I understand,” she said sympathetically. “All present fears are less than horrible imaginings.”

“Just so.”

His eyes began to see the room. It was a wine cellar. All around him were two hundred or more barrels in a room perhaps thirty by sixty feet. It was quite an impressive volume of wine in an otherwise drab room of nondescript brick walls, dusty floors, and a low, cobwebbed ceiling.

“Still,” Frances insisted, “you'll have to come over here. I don't want us shouting things that would best be uttered in hushed tones.”

“Agreed,” he answered tentatively. “Are you alone?”

“You had difficulties in Cambridge,” she suggested, “that make you less inclined toward rash behavior. Good. I am, in fact, alone.”

Marlowe sighed and rounded the stack of barrels that had separated him from Frances. He saw her sitting at a small table. She was wearing a deep purple cloak, the hood pulled back only slightly; her hair was ornately tied with ribbons. The taper, an open bottle, and two cups took up most of the table's surface. There was only one other chair at the table.

“I fear that my eyes have been pierced,” he told her, “searching out the secret treasons of this world.”

“I take it that you have discovered the identity of Pygott's murderer,” she responded, “else you would not have risked coming here to Coughton.”

“Alas, I have not,” he told her. “I have come here because the risk at Cambridge was greater than anywhere else in England. Sir John Pygott may have hired a glut of Arab assassins to kill me.”

“Arab assassins?” She sat back. “How—colorful.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I would never write that into a play. No one would believe it.”

Marlowe spent a few brief moments sharing the events of his encounter with the assassins at St. Benet's, Boyle's heroism, and a description of the killers.

“So you've come because you think it might be safer than Cambridge,” she concluded, “and I have been planning how to leave here because it is no longer safe for me.”

“Have they found you out?” he asked.

“Not yet. But Bess, my excuse for coming here at all, is nowhere to be found.” She leaned forward again and took up the wine bottle, pouring both cups. “Please, have a seat.”

Marlowe sat, took a cup from her hand, careful to avoid touching her fingers, and drank half the wine at once.

“I must leave for London as soon as possible,” she said, sipping a bit of wine in what appeared to be an attempt to seem calmer than she actually was. “Look.”

She took several papers from a hidden fold in her cloak and set them on the table in front of Marlowe.

He looked into her eyes. In them he saw a world of opposites: fear and resolve, passion and control, tension and grace.

“The first is a letter to Throckmorton from Mendoza in Mendoza's own hand unequivocally verifying what we suspected. The second, written by Throckmorton, is a detailed explication of their plan, most especially William Allen's part in fomenting revolt in London, as we suspected. Allen is shortly to be made a Catholic Cardinal, a reward for his part in this treachery. There are details: dates, times, places. And finally there is a document which I know must be important, which I believe may contain the particulars of our Queen's assassination, but I cannot decipher its coded words. I found them all in Throckmorton's hidden letter box.”

Marlowe's eyes widened. “You've been busy.”

“Yes, and I was hoping I might say the same to you.”

“Well, let me see.” He finished his cup of wine. “I've discovered that Pygott had allies at St. Benet's, and I saw the exact spot where he was murdered, which was most certainly not my room at the Pickerel. He was killed in the churchyard by the roses.”

“We already knew that,” she said uncertainly, “from the man, Zigor.”

“We suspected,” Marlowe corrected. “Now I have spoken with a priest who witnessed the murder, and it was indeed outside the chapel, but the entire truth is still elusive. Firstly, despite your assurances, I do not believe Ingram Frizer can be trusted. Additionally, I have reason to doubt Zigor and his lot altogether as I have uncovered an enclave of Basque separatists scheming in Cambridge. But you are in danger. I was an idiot to come here. We must leave for London immediately.”

“Agreed,” she told him. “Your brain seems a muddle.”

“More that the events of the past several weeks are a muddle, and my brain is swimming through them, trying to make any kind of sense.”

“And have you had success in that regard?” But the sound of her voice had changed suddenly. She seemed almost to be interrogating him.

“Ah, well,” he answered, ordering his mind to focus on anything but the blush in her cheek. “I have found several small pieces of evidence. I spoke with this man, the priest I mentioned, who saw the murder. Alas, I was interrupted in my questioning of him. Oh, and I fear that I no longer trust Professor Bartholomew. Neither should you.”

“Very curious,” Frances began.

“I have not yet told you my most significant conclusion,” Marlowe interrupted, realizing that his logic had been jumbled. “I
do
know the identity of Pygott's murderer.”

“Well.” Frances sat up.

“Benjamin Carier. He is a known Catholic sympathizer, though his father is a Puritan parson, or so it has been said. If I can but match the priest who witnessed the murder with this Benjamin Carier, I'll have solved the crime.”

Frances took a brief moment to assess the information Marlowe had offered, primly finishing her wine.

“What makes you suspect Carier, other than his possible sympathies?” she asked.

“Carier disappeared from school very shortly after I arrived there. It is presumed by some that he's returned to his home in Kent. I know that is not the case.”

“Oh?”

“He went to London,” Marlowe said slowly, as if revealing a winning hand of cards, “with Ingram Frizer.”

Involuntarily, Frances covered her mouth with her hand.

“The man who murdered Pygott went to London with Frizer?” she whispered.

“So I was told,” he answered.

“Then why have you come here?” She hesitated. “Why haven't you pursued the killer to London?”

It was a fair question, and Marlowe had several answers. The truest was that he found it impossible to stay away from Frances. He eschewed that explanation in favor of the more practical reasons.

“You and I must go to London together.”

“Yes, I see,” she mused, putting the pieces together quickly. “Alone each of us might encounter difficulties or delays.”

“Yes,” Marlowe said hastily, “for instance, you might assure stray London constabulary that I am to be remanded to Lord Walsingham instead of to the Tower.”

“In that I am his daughter.”

Marlowe smiled. “And what army could stand against the two of us combined?”

“Right, then,” she said, patting the tabletop impatiently. “I must arrange for a plausible reason to leave Coughton and return to London. But you must hide. You can't be seen in the house.”

He smiled. “I'm quite comfortable in the stables.”

“The stables?” She thought for a moment. “Ah. Tin.”

“Yes. She recognized me at once, in spite of the fact that I looked so different when last we met. She told her father who I was. He has allowed me to stay in his kingdom on the other side of the fence.”

Frances looked down. “Tin is a remarkable person.”

“But I want to show you,” Marlowe said, “the scant items of evidence I have procured. I believe that you may have insights which I do not.”

Marlowe reached into the slim pocket of his boot and produced the red ribbon, pieces of thread, and the brass button he had hidden there. He set them on the table.

“I believe that the ribbon is from Pygott's codpiece,” Marlowe began, “and the threads and button are from the murderer's doublet or cloak. The ribbon was found in the yard at St. Benet's, pressed into the ground, as was this button. I believe that if I can find Carier in London I will be able to match this button to his clothing. You can see that the design of the button is quite distinctive.”

“Let me think,” she said softly, staring at the miniscule items on the table.

Marlowe picked up the third letter that Frances had set in front of him and took a moment to examine it. His eyes widened; he glanced up at Frances. She was staring at the button.

“These scant toys are not enough evidence for a legal proceeding,” she demurred.

“No,” Marlowe agreed, holding out the coded paper, “but combined with what is on this document, and what we know from Cambridge, we shall expose Carier and he will be forced to confess.”

“To Pygott's murder?” Frances asked.

“Yes,” Marlowe answered confidently, “and to his part in the attempted murder of our Queen.”