A Prisoner in Malta (22 page)

Zigor paused, as if it were the end of his story.

“But you didn't leave the body there,” Marlowe prompted.

“No,” Zigor admitted. “Since we are not able to corrupt you
or
kill you, we cause you trouble. We take the body in your room.”

“But the landlady saw you.”

“Yes. We give her money.”

“And whose idea was it to hide the Bible in the room?” Marlowe asked.

“Oh.” Zigor looked into Marlowe's eyes. “You know this?”

“Whose idea?”

“Frizer. We don't want to get caught with illegal book. I don't like it, but he says leave the Bible for a while, let things cool off. He also has another piece of paper in his dirty shirt—a letter from a friend, he says. That goes under the floor beside the Bible.”

In conclusion, Marlowe thought, Zigor did not kill Pygott either. If Zigor was to be believed.

A fishing boat drew up to the dock near the place where the three men were standing. They stepped a bit farther into the shadows.

“I don't believe most of what you've just told me,” Marlowe whispered, “because it sounds sane and plausible, and nothing about this entire affair has been half so coherent. Ergo, I must assume that you are applying spy tactics of some sort for a reason as yet undisclosed.”

“You don't believe him?” Argi asked indignantly.

“I mean no personal offense,” Marlowe answered politely. “I don't believe you either. I think that you and de Ferro killed Lopez, and eventually you will have to answer for that.”

“Why don't you do something about it now?” Argi asked.

It was as much a threat as a question.

“Because I could be wrong,” Marlowe admitted. “I was half convinced that the prisoner in Malta, the person Lopez and I were sent to rescue, did not exist.”

“But he did.”

“He did,” Marlowe confirmed.

“Then,” Argi began hesitantly, “what now?”

“Now I try to put my thoughts about Lopez out of my head for the moment. Why don't you tell me what in the name of hell you're doing in Cambridge
now,
because I sense it has nothing to do with my business here.”

“Ah, you are correct.” Argi looked away. “But I cannot tell you more. I am working, still working, for Captain de Ferro. And you know who is his master.”

Marlowe was again seized by the icy notion that everyone in England worked for Walsingham.

“If I set that, too, aside for the moment,” Marlowe insisted, “will you tell me what you meant about Lopez a moment ago, in the camp?”

“Dr. Lopez was not the man you thought he was,” Argi explained. “His entire life was a secret, a lie.”

“No,” Marlowe began.

“Then believe this,” Argi interrupted. “We were overtaken on the beach not long after you left us. The men who attacked us were not with Captain de Ferro, they were something I have never seen before: men in uniform with a cloth on the head.”

Marlowe shook his head.

“If you're going to lie,” he said calmly, “you have to do it with more conviction. You have to make me believe it. Have you ever been to London?”

“What?”

“In London,” Marlowe went on, “there is an actor named Richard Tarlton, an original member of the Queen's Men, an extraordinary actor and clown. His talent for impromptu street poems on any subject is nothing short of miraculous. I
know
he's an actor and yet I believe him more than I believe you.”

Argi shook his head, as if saddened by Marlowe's lack of belief.

“So,” he said, shrugging, “what then shall we do?”

“Now?” Marlowe heaved a very heavy sigh. “I would like to ask for your help.”

Argi tilted his head sideways and stared at Marlowe. His face betrayed the very firm conviction that Marlowe had lost his mind.

“Even though you think I killed your friend Lopez?” he asked.

“If you and Zigor are telling me the truth, you see,” Marlowe reasoned, “you won't mind helping me discover who actually did kill Pygott—if it wasn't Zigor, I mean.”

“It's a test?” Argi suggested.

Zigor nodded. “Makes sense. And it's not interfere with our—with the other work.”

“Exactly,” Marlowe agreed. “There is no larger political affiliation involved. I just want to find Pygott's murderer. And who better than you to help me?”

“Of course.” Zigor nodded.

“Right, then.” Marlowe clapped his hands together softly, once. “Let's begin by going to the garden where you say you found Pygott's body.”

“Now?” Argi balked. “I can't see my own hand.”

“Good point,” Marlowe conceded. “Meet me there at dawn.”

“Yes,” Zigor said readily.

“And if you don't,” Marlowe retorted softly, “I shall know what to do.”

 

NINETEEN

It was nearing daylight in the churchyard. Marlowe had hidden himself in the chilly shadows of a doorway, waiting. He had rid himself of the itching beard, and wore a black cape with a cowl to cover his head and face. He still hadn't slept, and his nerves were jangled beyond all reason.

Just as he was about to concede that the other two were not coming, there they were, rapiers drawn, side by side, striding into the little garden.

They looked about, scowling. Argi said something in the Basque tongue, and Zigor laughed once.

Marlowe drew his dagger silently and prepared to throw it. Zigor was the more serious threat, he thought. Argi was a marksman, not so adept at swordplay.

Then, for no reason Marlowe could discern, Zigor fell to his knees, his face close to the ground.

“Hah!” he said softly.

His hand shot forward and grabbed something. He sprang to his feet and showed Argi what he'd found: a small bright red tie.

“What's that?” Marlowe announced loudly, stepping from the shadows ready to throw his knife.

Both men whirled to face him. When they saw who he was, Zigor smiled. It was an oddly friendly expression, Marlowe realized.

“It's a piece of cloth!” Argi said.

“Come see,” Zigor added enthusiastically.

Curiosity overcame caution, and Marlowe stepped rather quickly, squinting at the small object that Zigor held between his thumb and first finger.

“Christ in Canaan,” Marlowe whispered, “do you know what that is?”

“It's a piece of cloth!” Argi said again.

Marlowe took it and examined it carefully.

“I believe this ribbon is a tie from Pygott's codpiece,” he said slowly.

“What?” Argi stared at it. “How do you know that?”

“We had a bit of a tussle, Pygott and I,” Marlowe began.

“You fight!” Zigor suddenly realized. “I know this. He was on top of you, and you nearly cut off his barnacles! I saw. Ingram too.”

Marlowe casually dropped the red tie into a small pocket in his right boot.

“It was a very garish codpiece,” Marlowe went on. “It looked ridiculous and appeared to be half-empty.”

The other two laughed.

“I'm certain that red tie was on his costume,” Marlowe went on, “which means that he passed this way.”

“At least,” Argi agreed. “It could also mean—”

But Marlowe was already on his knees examining the grass. There he found a dull brass button, pressed almost flat into the ground, which he picked up and slipped into his boot before the other two saw it.

No sense in showing them everything, he reasoned to himself. The button might be as significant a clue as the codpiece tie—if he could discover whence it came.

“You say it's been several weeks since you found the body here?” he asked, staring at the ground.

“Yes,” Zigor answered. “More.”

“The same day you saw me fight with Pygott.”

“Still—weeks ago.”

“If I believe you, there is knowledge to be gleaned from this scene,” Marlowe said, almost to himself. “For one thing, we have his tie that may be from Pygott's costume. But also look here: the grass is different in this patch than anywhere else around it.”

Argi leaned over to examine the grass.

“I don't see it,” he said after a moment.

“No,” Zigor told him, “look. This grass is grow more.”

“The difference is not readily discernable,” Marlowe continued, “but you will see that many of these blades, just here, are growing differently.”

“Maybe,” Argi said, turning his face sideways. “But what would make them do it?”

“If they'd been fed by blood,” Marlowe concluded.

“Yes, now you believe me!” Zigor snapped. “We find the body right here! Pygott's blood!”

Marlowe looked up at him.

“I'll agree that your story has a syllable of veracity,” he allowed, “but this doesn't mean that you didn't kill him. You could have done it, and left him for someone else to find.”

“No,” Zigor insisted. “Why I would do it?”

“For the Bible.”

“No.” Zigor lowered his voice. “It's only Catholic Bible, Ingram says. Not important, just enough to get your father in trouble.”

Marlowe realized then that Zigor had no idea what was in the Rheims-Douai Bible. And since the Bible had been on Pygott's body, Pygott had gone into the church to get it, after which someone had met him and killed him, but not for the Bible.

Still, Zigor and Argi were not to be believed.

Marlowe stood. “So let me see what you would have me believe. Pygott was visiting Coughton when Throckmorton gave him certain information. He delivered it here, to someone in the church. Then he came back to retrieve it, and when he did, someone was waiting here to kill him, but
not
for the information. For some other reason.”

“Yes,” Zigor said.

Marlowe nodded. “So let me ask you this question: why, if Pygott delivered his information to someone in this church, why was it necessary for anyone—me
or
Pygott—to go in there and steal it back?”

Zigor nodded. “This I wonder myself. It is Frizer's idea, is all I know. And my job is to help him, so.”

Frizer was a double agent. Pygott had delivered the information into the hands of Catholic conspirators. Frizer wanted the information back in order to give it to Walsingham. That much seemed possible.

And if Pygott had not been killed for the Bible, for the secret information, Marlowe was forced to return to the idea that any one of dozens of Pygott's classmates might have killed him. He was certainly a boy who wanted killing.

“Why are you two here, again?” Marlowe asked, mostly to check the consistency of their story.

“As I say, I am here to work for the Spanish.” Zigor shrugged. “Or they kill me.”

Argi folded his arms. “And I was sent here by Captain de Ferro.”

“But you want me to think that you're really working for London.” Marlowe's eyes darted to Zigor.

“Yes,” Argi insisted.

“No.” Marlowe lips thinned. “You and your cousin are not working at odds. One of you is lying. Or both.”

“No one can tell me I lie.” Zigor smiled. “How many men I have kill? Do you know?”

“I do not.” Marlowe returned the smile. “But before you add my name to that list, let me tell you what I think. I think that you two are working for another cause altogether. Neither of you is concerned with the battle between England and Spain, Catholic and Protestant. I believe that you have another war on your hands.”

Zigor and Argi exchanged glances.

“You reject the French King Henry of Navarre, and all Spanish authority. Or really, any outside rule of your homeland. You are Basque patriots. You believe that the land in the western Pyrenees belongs to you alone. I agree. Therefore we have no quarrel, as long as your efforts toward your cause do not hamper my endeavor to solve this murder.”

Argi shook his head.

“You really are good at speeches,” he said. “You
should
write a play.”

“I'll consider it. Do we have an accord?”

Zigor took a tiny step toward Marlowe. Marlowe's hand instinctively flew to his dagger.

“No,” Zigor said, glancing toward Marlowe's scabbard, “I only want to say: I am not truly work for Spain, you must know this.”

Marlowe looked deeply into the man's eyes for the first time.

“I know that if I had an Inquisitor's hot poker close to my face,” Marlowe answered, “I might agree to almost anything.”

“Face?” Zigor laughed. “This I can do. But where they take this hot poker? I kill my mother to make it stop.”

“Then do we have an agreement?” Marlowe pressed.

“You want us to help you?” Argi asked. “Help to find who murdered Pygott?”

Marlowe turned a kindly eye toward Argi. “Are you going to tell me any more about Lopez?”

“Other than what I have said?” He shook his head. “I cannot. But I will still offer to help you.”

“Right, then.” Marlowe sighed. “I'll be in touch if I need you.”

He turned and headed away.

“Where are you going?” Argi called out.

Marlowe stopped, turned around, and lowered his voice. “I have to put on that damned beard again, and go back to college.”

 

TWENTY

Several hours later Marlowe sat in Professor Bartholomew's class encased once more in his lumpy brown cassock and transformed by the itchy beard.

Bartholomew was wheezing on about Aristotle, dressed in the typical black academic robes. He was standing behind a tall table strewn with papers and books. There was a small inkwell built into the table, from which a short quill extended.

“I find that students these days,” he said disdainfully, “often mistake Aristotle's first principle. When the master uses the word
plot
he does not mean to say
story,
but rather he refers to an arrangement of the moments of action, the way these moments are presented to an audience. He is discussing structure, you see. Structure.”