‘Do you call that a ha-ha?’ she bellowed. ‘It’s a wonder my dear brother-in-law isn’t a laughing stock the length and breadth of the county. But there again, perhaps he is. Dig it wider. Deeper.’ There was a pause. ‘And five feet further from the house.’ In the silence that followed, the men could hear, above the petrified beating of their own hearts, the whistling of the breath in her nostrils. ‘Well?’ she yelled. ‘Get a spade, man. Don’t just stand there!’ It was all Dee and Manwood, married men of some standing and used to jumping to it, could do to stay hidden.
‘Is Francis making all these changes?’ Dee asked.
‘I hardly think so,’ Manwood said. ‘But, as you implied just now, she is the sister-in-law from Hell and the poor chap does seem to have taken to the bottle. But this chap she’s marrying – Steane, is it? Blind, is he? Deaf? Desperate?’
Dee shrugged. ‘This is no more my neck of the woods than it is yours, Roger. I only came because of Marlowe.’
‘Yes.’ Manwood became serious. ‘You and I both. That’s what I want to talk to you about. What
are
you doing, man?’
Dee had been occupied for the last few minutes stuffing dried herbs into a clay bowl with a stem attached. He now thoroughly alarmed the Justice of the Peace by striking a flint to a tinder and setting fire to the herbs.
‘Do you drink smoke?’ Dee asked him.
‘Do I what?’
Dee inhaled fiercely at the narrow end of the stem and proceeded to blow smoke rings to the bright-green leaves overhead.
‘Good God!’ Manwood looked horrified.
There was a distant cry of, ‘Look lively, you, man, there. That tree appears to be on fire. It will ruin the outlook if it burns down. See to it.’
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Manwood whispered, and Dee lowered his pipe. Running footsteps over the grass alerted them to the approach of a gardener who appeared around the tree, carrying a skin of water. The two men shushed him frantically and he retraced his steps, eyes wide. They gave him a minute to get away and strained their ears for more shrieks, but all seemed quiet for the moment.
Dee raised the burning herbs to his mouth again, and puffed, looking at Manwood over that hook of a nose. ‘This is all the rage in London. Canterbury isn’t exactly a distant star, Roger. I can’t believe the craze hasn’t caught on there.’
‘Craze indeed.’ Manwood was still staring at the contraption in Dee’s hand. ‘What’s it for?’
‘It calms the intellect,’ Dee said. ‘Sharpens the wits and focuses the mind. This is the tobacco plant – from Virginia in the New World. John Hawkins brought it back, ooh, twenty years ago now. I have Penn’s and Lobel’s herbal at home, but their drawings leave a lot to be desired, I’m afraid.’ He puffed slowly, savouring the smoke. ‘Francis Drake thinks it might be a curative.’
‘What for?’ Manwood asked.
‘Oh, toothache. Worms, lockjaw, migraine. Umm . . . the plague, of course, cancer, labour pains. And bad breath.’
‘All those?’ Manwood was staggered.
‘None of them, dear boy.’ Dee shook his head. ‘That’s just what Francis Drake thinks. And off the deck of a ship, the man’s an idiot. Care to try?’
Tentatively, Manwood took the pipe and put it to his mouth. ‘What do I do now,’ he asked, a trifle indistinctly.
‘Breathe in, man,’ Dee said. ‘Deep as you can.’
Manwood did so and immediately wished he hadn’t, coughing, spluttering and sneezing all at the same time.
‘Stop that sneezing!’ came a distant screech. ‘I will not have my wedding day marred by illness of any kind. Find the source of the pestilence and have it removed.’ There were no running feet this time and the men relaxed against the warm bark of the oak.
‘God’s breath,’ Manwood finally managed to wheeze.
Dee chuckled. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s God’s or the Devil’s,’ he said. ‘It’s an acquired taste, perhaps.’
‘Acquired is the right word,’ gasped Manwood, passing the pipe back. ‘And I have no intention of acquiring it.’ He wiped his mouth and eyes, trying to focus again in the hot July morning sun.
‘Your loss,’ Dee said with a shrug. ‘Now, to cases, Marlowe. You knew this Whitingside well, of course.’
‘He was my ward,’ Manwood said. ‘But I’d be lying if I said he was like a son to me.’
Dee knew that. Roger Manwood was one of those people who made the bringing up of wards a business proposition. That was why they had a court for such things in London.
‘But he lived in my house for . . . ooh, let’s see . . .’ He let his head rest back against the tree trunk. ‘It must have been four years. He was one of several wards at the time. I’ve given it all up now of course. At my age I’m getting tired of young people. They’re too damned earnest and holier-than-you for my liking.’ He glanced sideways at his old friend; almost
everyone
was holier than John Dee. ‘I’ve just got the one now, Joyce. A couple of London merchants have expressed an interest, but I’m holding out for Lord Scrope; he’s in the market for wifey number three, you know, turning heads at Court, that sort of thing. Such a vain bastard.’
‘Whitingside,’ Dee reminded him. How this man was able to focus on the job in hand on the Bench was beyond him. Scourge of the night prowlers indeed!
‘I know what you’re after, John,’ Manwood said, sitting upright again. ‘You want a nice little motive on a pewter platter, all parcelled up with ribbon. Well, I’m afraid the sordid world of murder doesn’t work like that. Oh, you’ve got the easy job. Anybody can tell
how
a man was killed . . . well, almost anybody. No, the problem is why. The Ralph Whitingside I knew was typical minor gentry. Same class as you and me. He was a bit wild, you know. He and young Marlowe sowed a few wild oats, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘But Marlowe’s younger, surely?’ Dee checked.
‘By two years, yes. Whitingside saved him from drowning once.’
‘So Marlowe feels he owes his soul something.’ Dee was gazing into the middle distance, beyond the warm stone that was Madingley with its green cupolas and the stable wing beyond, trying to establish events in his mind.
Manwood always became uneasy when John Dee started talking about souls. If the Queen died tomorrow, the Privy Council might have the magus burnt. The scourge of the night prowlers liked to keep a back door open in this relationship, just in case. He didn’t press the point further. ‘There was talk of a girl,’ the Justice suddenly remembered. ‘Some bad feeling between Whitingside and Marlowe. What
was
her name?’
‘Marlowe and a girl?’ Dee frowned.
Manwood raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘And of course you knew the other one – Broderick – didn’t you?’
‘I did. Nice enough lad, I suppose, but there was always something . . . bovine about him. He didn’t sparkle like the other King’s School lads.’
‘Marlowe most of all.’ Dee puffed his pipe.
‘Ah,’ Manwood chuckled. ‘There’s no one like Kit Marlowe. Mark my words, John, that man has greatness in him.’
‘Or a short end,’ Dee said.
‘You spoke to this local Constable, didn’t you?’ Manwood asked. ‘About Bromerick, I mean?’
‘I did,’ Dee confirmed.
‘Any good?’ Manwood asked.
‘For a provincial Constable, very,’ Dee said. ‘But he’s got his hands full with some woman found in the river.’
‘Any connection?’ Manwood wanted to know.
Dee puffed deep on the pipe, much to his friend’s disgust. ‘I can’t see how. Constable Fludd has found her relatives – they came from Royston, I believe. There’s no evidence she knew Whitingside or Bromerick or any of them. It is, as the Papists used to have it in connection with the Eucharist, a mystery.’
Manwood leaned forward. ‘I told Marlowe he was on his own,’ he said.
‘So did I,’ agreed Dee.
‘And yet, here we are, on a summer’s day, nonny-nonny, trolly-lolly, fretting about him.’
‘Oh, I’m not fretting about Marlowe,’ Dee said, blowing smoke again. ‘But I’m a man who likes answers to riddles, Roger. I can’t let things go.’
‘Riddles, eh?’ Suddenly Francis Hynde was there, still clutching his bottle, joining them where they lolled in the sun in his best hiding place. ‘I love a good riddle.’ He smiled beatifically at them. ‘I have a good one. Wait a minute . . . it’s about . . . no, it’s gone.’ He tipped the bottle up, a proof of hope over experience as it had been empty for some time. He frowned at the men, seeming to register them for the first time. ‘You shouldn’t be here, you know,’ he announced. ‘It’s very dangerous. This tree’s on fire.’ And with that, he passed out neatly across their legs and began to snore.
Dee glanced down at his host, then pointed to the edge of the Physick Garden where dear Ursie was still marshalling her troops. ‘And talking of riddles,’ he said, ‘what are the odds of foxgloves growing at Madingley, when they shouldn’t be here at all?’
ELEVEN
No one went out that night. At least, not the Parker scholars. A couple of sizars from ‘F’ staircase had sneaked out behind the night soil men and Marlowe had watched them go, holding their noses at the same time as keeping their eyes open for the prowling Proctors. He had tutted and shaken his head. Each generation had to learn their own lesson; it was no use telling them. Not only would Lomas and Darryl be waiting for their return, the smell of them would make the hunting easy.
‘And you say he asked for me by name?’ he said, turning from the window where his reflection flickered for an instant, four times in the thick, uneven panes.
‘He did.’ Parker was munching an apple. ‘When we asked him why he wanted to know, he said he’d heard the name somewhere, from someone in London and he couldn’t remember who.’
‘Who do you know in London, Kit?’ Colwell asked, plucking idly at his lute.
Marlowe shrugged. ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘What did you pair of innocents abroad tell him about me?’
‘Nothing,’ Parker said, perhaps a shade too quickly.
‘Liar,’ Marlowe muttered.
‘Well . . .’ Colwell was working out his defence, long learned in the School of Logic. ‘He seemed such an honest fellow. Ex Granta man. One of us.’
‘One of us is dead, Tom,’ Marlowe said softly. Any further conversation seemed pointless after that. Colwell twanged the lute strings once, twice more, then put the thing down. They all heard a dog barking in the distance, out along the High Ward in the July darkness and the rattle of a cart creaking its way home.
Marlowe fished idly in the bag that Dr Steane had brought them, handling Ralph Whitingside’s handkerchiefs and gloves. He hadn’t really noticed the mirror before. None of the Parker scholars had one and the teaching of the churches now was that such things smacked of vanity and vanity was fast becoming a sin above all others, even though Marlowe was constantly telling the boys that the only real sin was ignorance. Marlowe found himself smiling, not at his own crooked reflection in the mirror but that Ralphie would have checked his own very carefully before slipping over the wall for a night on the town, combing the elegant moustache, curling the well-placed ringlet. What a waste it all was. Marlowe tossed the thing casually among the papers on his desk.
Suddenly, he stiffened, catching his breath despite himself.
‘Kit?’ Colwell caught the movement.
Marlowe grabbed the mirror again, angling it against the parchment. Then, he brushed it all aside – his scribbled poetry, his jottings on the Queen of Carthage, even some university lecture notes that he was supposed to be working on. And he hauled out Whitingside’s journal. He nodded to himself, smiling grimly.
‘Kit!’ Colwell shouted. ‘What the Devil . . . ?’
‘Tell me about the Dark Entry,’ Marlowe said.
‘What?’ Parker had stopped munching and waited, not noticing the trickle of juice working its way down his chin.
‘Come on, Kit,’ Colwell said. ‘You know as well as we do. This is not the time for schoolboy reminiscences.’
‘Oh, but it is, dear boy. Matt? The Dark Entry?’
Parker sat upright on his bed. He put down his apple core and wiped his chin. He was as game for riddles as the next man. ‘It’s the name we all had, all us King’s scholars, for the entry to the school from the cathedral cloisters, through Prior Sellingegate.’
Marlowe nodded. ‘What do you remember of it, Tom?’ he asked.
Colwell hadn’t moved.
‘Come on, man!’ Marlowe was shouting now. ‘You walked through those arches every day of your life for five years. Think!’
‘There were five arches,’ Colwell said, quietly, sending his mind back in time, ‘from Prior Sellingegate. It was very dark in winter. In the freezing mornings. I used to run.’
‘Why?’ Marlowe asked.
Colwell looked at him, then at Parker, then away, looking at no one, confronting his own past. ‘I didn’t like it,’ he said. ‘When you’re eight, silly things frighten you.’
‘Henry knew that,’ Marlowe said. ‘He’d tease you, wouldn’t he? Play jokes. Jump out at you in the darkest recess?’
Colwell nodded and shuddered, as though someone had walked over his grave. ‘I’d forgotten all about it,’ he said, ‘until now.’
‘What’s all this about, Kit?’ Parker wanted to know.
‘Come here,’ Marlowe said and the boys clustered round him. He held up the mirror against the page. ‘Who was working on this bit?’ he asked.
Colwell looked shamefaced. ‘I should have been,’ he muttered. ‘But . . . Henry was. This was the bit he gave to Johns who said he’d pass it on to a colleague.’
‘Well, Professor Johns should be ashamed of himself.’ Marlowe tapped his arm affectionately. ‘Matthew Parker, how is your Greek?’
‘It’s backwards!’ Parker roared as if he’d discovered the origins of the universe and the elixir of life in one rapturous moment. ‘Ralphie wrote this bit backwards.
That’s
why we couldn’t make sense of it!’
‘Backwards –’ Marlowe tilted the mirror – ‘and slightly at an angle, with the letters jumbled for extra effect.’