Marbeck and the Double Dealer (15 page)

He stopped, staring down at the cobbles. Ottone wasn't Mulberry. Someone else was – most likely the one who had silenced him. Ottone was only a frightened man, who may have despised himself for what he had been made to do. Perhaps he had even been approached in London, and refused to cooperate further. Whatever the facts, not only had he outlived his purpose, but he posed a threat. Mulberry could have been instructed by his spymaster to remove that threat.

So, the search must continue. Standing in the dark street with the smell of the river in his nostrils, Marbeck cursed silently. Ahead, he saw further toil, of a kind not to his liking: yet another audience with Sir Robert Cecil, perhaps more suspects to be questioned, their every word examined . . .

He sighed. He wanted to go back to the Dolphin, but the city gates would be shut. Then he thought of the street he had left: in Mark Lane was a tavern called the French Lily, kept by a real Frenchman. He knew Charbon slightly – it would serve. He turned about and retraced his steps.

The landlord greeted him cordially but warily. Charbon was a suspicious man by nature, as befitted one who claimed to have survived the bloodbath of Saint Bartholomew's Day. He gestured Marbeck to a table and asked him his pleasure. The French Lily was busy, the air filled with laughter and chatter, together with the strains of a lute. Since his credit would not serve here, and having little money at his disposal, Marbeck ordered the cheapest ale. But no sooner had he taken a stool than a figure appeared and sat down beside him.

‘John Sands . . . you've been a stranger of late, haven't you?'

‘Grogan.' Marbeck sighed. ‘No offence intended, but may I make a request? Take yourself somewhere else – I'm in no humour for playhouse gossip.'

But his reply was a broad smile. Augustine Grogan, once of the Lord Admiral's Company, was always difficult to get rid of.

‘Very well – what sort of gossip would you prefer?' the player countered. ‘The Earl of Essex is always a rich source . . . or how about Lady Willingdon and her steward?'

With a sigh, Marbeck found his purse and shook it. ‘Let me buy you some ale,' he said, as coins fell on to the table. ‘Or better still, slip over to Bankside and find someone to tug your yard.'

‘You are tetchy, sir!' Grogan raised his eyebrows in mock dismay. ‘What's the cause of your ill humour? Come, tell me all – I'm everyone's confidant.'

‘Here's two pennies,' Marbeck said. ‘Take them and go, while the offer stands.'

As if in alarm, the player drew back. ‘I believe you're in earnest,' he said. ‘Indeed, I think I see a troubled man.' He put on a look of concern. ‘A matter of the heart, perhaps?'

But the drawer arrived then and placed Marbeck's mug in front of him. He lifted it – and a vision swam before him: Ottone's blood-soaked body, his dead eyes. He drank, and carried on drinking until he had drained the cannikin. He set it down, to find Grogan still watching him.

‘The offer's withdrawn,' Marbeck said. Then, as he was about to scoop up his money, a thought occurred. ‘But see now . . . perhaps we might exchange a little news,' he added. ‘How is your swordplay these days?'

‘Verbal or literal?' The player grinned at him. ‘Not that it makes a great deal of difference. I was said to be the Admiral's Men's best fencer.'

‘So I heard,' Marbeck lied. ‘Where do you practise? Didn't you use Kemp's old hall? Or, now I think on it, perhaps it was Ottone's, in Gracious Street.'

‘I used to fence there.' Suddenly, Grogan wagged a finger. ‘I wonder where you lead with this, Sands?' He put on a knowing look. ‘You're a man who pokes about. It'll get you into trouble one day – you may take my word upon it.

‘I thank you for that,' Marbeck said, and waited.

‘But since you ask –' the player shrugged – ‘I still use Ottone's sometimes. He's the best for the Italian school – when he's here. He's often absent . . .' Suddenly, the man leaned forward. ‘But if you want to hear matter of a more serious nature – about him, and the sort of men he favours – it will cost you more than a can of ale.'

He leered . . . and gazing into the man's face, Marbeck was suddenly ashamed. Ottone was dead, and he knew why. Yet here he was, digging for scraps of intelligence from force of habit. He snatched up his mug and found it empty. A curse on his lips, he faced Grogan.

‘I've changed my mind,' he muttered. ‘Save your words for someone who cares. But first call the drawer back, will you?'

‘Ah . . .' The player relaxed. ‘It's a quart-sized difficulty you face, rather than a pint-sized one, is it? I know the signs.' Eagerly, he grabbed a coin from Marbeck. ‘Well, if you mean to get yourself soused, sirrah, I'm game for it.'

‘I don't,' Marbeck said.

But he did. In a short time he had downed several mugs of ale and two of watered brandy, until his last halfpenny was gone. It was not his habit, and for a man like him it could be dangerous, but he felt reckless. In the last month, he realized, he had travelled in a great, flattened loop: down one side of the English Channel, across to France and back up the other side – and what had he to show for it? He was no nearer to finding Mulberry. But one intelligencer was dead, while over in France a Spanish spymaster mocked his efforts. In frustration, he brought his fist down upon the table-top.

‘Fools,' he muttered. ‘The whole pack of us!'

Nobody answered him. He swung his gaze round and found himself alone. For how long, he had no idea. He squinted through the smoke, now an almost impenetrable cloud, and saw no sign of Augustine Grogan. Instead, another shape was moving towards him. Blearily, he looked up.

‘Master Sands, I think you 'ad enough now.' Charbon looked down at him, wearing a look of disapproval.

‘You mean my money's gone, and I'm no longer welcome,' Marbeck grunted. He took up his mug, tilted it, then let it fall. ‘Very well, Monsieur
Charbon,' he went on, easing into French. ‘It would seem there's no other course than for me to forgo your company and take myself off,
n'est-ce pas
?'

‘It seems best – sir.' Deliberately, Charbon spoke English. Marbeck got to his feet and swayed slightly. But when the landlord went to take his arm, he was pushed away.

‘I don't need your help,' Marbeck told him.

The landlord regarded him, a glint of anger in his eye. But after a moment he backed off, allowing Marbeck to make his way to the door. The strains of the lute followed him.

Outside, he stepped into cold, rain-washed air. There had been another shower, he decided. He turned away from the door of the French Lily and started to walk. He was unsure where he was going, but it didn't seem to matter. He would find somewhere . . . there were acquaintances he might call upon. He reached a corner and realized he was at Hart Street, by St Olave's.

‘Why, that's Prout's church,' he muttered to himself. Then he stopped, shaking his head. Of course it wasn't; that was St Andrew's Undershaft . . . Then he stiffened. There were footsteps, coming up fast. Alert at once, he turned, reaching for his sword, and found only thin air.
See – I'm not wearing one
, he'd said . . .

Then something hit him, very hard. There came a rushing in his ears, and wet cobblestones tilted up to meet him. And after that, all was dark.

H
e woke up seconds later, or so it seemed; then he realized it was considerably longer. He wasn't on the corner of Hart Street . . . he wasn't in any street. He was in a dark room, stuffy and seemingly windowless, sitting on the floor with his back to a wall. And there was someone else present. He gave an involuntary start, whereupon a voice addressed him.

‘You're awake at last, sir. Would you like some water?'

His head ached. He lifted a hand, felt a painful lump on the back of his skull.

‘I regret the means by which you were detained,' the voice said. It was male, and bore an accent Marbeck couldn't place. ‘It was a matter of expediency.'

He peered about, but could see nothing. Then he caught a whiff of sulphur and stiffened.

‘You smell the match,' the voice continued. ‘There is a loaded pistol, primed and aimed at your head.'

His mouth was dry. He swallowed and took a few breaths, tried to collect himself. Only now were things coming into focus.

‘There is a can of water to your left.'

The man spoke calmly, with an air of authority. Marbeck groped, found the mug. He took it up, sniffed and hesitated.

‘It's merely flavoured with a little rose-water,' the voice informed him. ‘But leave it, if you wish.'

Against his better judgement, Marbeck drank. He needed to gather his wits, and to restore his strength. How long had he been unconscious? He took just enough to slake his thirst, then spoke into the gloom.

‘Your accent . . . French, or Spanish? Who are you? The one who's replaced Gomez?'

A silence followed, and all at once Marbeck sensed the presence of another person. He tilted his head, trying to see.

‘My name is Silvan,' the man said. ‘And yours is Marbeck.'

‘You're mistaken,' Marbeck said automatically. ‘It's John—'

‘Please don't take me for a fool, sir,' the other broke in. ‘I know who you are and what you do.'

There was a stir, some yards away; whoever was there had shifted slightly. The two were seated, a few feet apart. Marbeck saw a crack of light; there was a door between them. He thought he could smell the river; were they near the quays?

‘If you know so much,' he said, ‘what is it you want of me?'

But a suspicion was forming. This was no interrogation: instead, he suspected that a bargain was about to be offered. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to turn him. He wondered how long they had planned for this opportunity.

‘I gather you're woefully short of money, sir.' Silvan, whoever he was, became affable again. ‘That must be a sore trial, for a man of taste and breeding like you.'

‘I get by,' Marbeck said, in a similar tone. ‘I'm not without resources, or friends.'

‘So I have heard,' came the reply. ‘But ladies of fashion seldom grant largesse along with their favours, do they?' A pause, then: ‘It must grow tedious, badgering Sir Robert Cecil for the sums due to you. Like a servant, in thrall to a skinflint master.'

It was the other one who held the pistol, Marbeck guessed. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom, but he could see only vague shapes. He said: ‘Your pardon, but might we postpone this discussion for another time? I'm sore and would like to take some air.'

‘Don't be tiresome, Marbeck.' Silvan's voice grew sharp. ‘I'm empowered to make you a most attractive offer. Besides, what good will you be to your masters, once your identity becomes known?'

‘Who's
your
master? Marbeck enquired. ‘Juan Roble?'

A brief pause, then: ‘Who is that?'

‘You spoke of identities becoming known. I thought I'd mention another whose name is no longer secret. I wonder how long he'll last, before de Velasquez recalls him from Paris?'

But his attempt to rattle his opponent failed. ‘It's good to see your wits aren't dulled, Marbeck,' he replied. ‘Raillery, however, will avail you nothing. Come – you know what I ask of you. In return – depending on how reliable is the intelligence you give us – you'll receive generous payment. In crowns or ducats, it matters not—'

‘Rixdollars?' Marbeck broke in. ‘Why not livres or Dutch florins – or escudos?'

‘Whatever you prefer.'

‘You sound somewhat desperate,' Marbeck said.

A moment passed. He could still see nothing, but the pistol, he sensed, remained pointing his way. Then Silvan's next words brought a shock.

‘How is your good friend Giles Moore?'

He kept silent.

‘But, of course, how would you know?' Silvan went on, with a note of mockery. ‘You haven't seen him since Antwerp. You were a little careless there, weren't you?'

So that was it. Under torture, Moore had given way – what man would not? The only question was how much had he told? With his head throbbing, Marbeck went on the offensive.

‘Though it pains me to disappoint you, Silvan, Moore is yesterday's man,' he said. ‘We've adjusted our plans . . . and, as you know, intelligence squeezed out by force may well be false in any case.'

‘Indeed? Then I ask your pardon,' the other answered smoothly. ‘You're not the Marbeck who is second son to Sir Julius Marbeck, of Bindels Manor in the North Country. You have no brother, and no sister . . . I speak of the fair Justina. You miss her, do you not? The only one you truly care about. I wonder whose bed she shares while we converse?'

‘We're not conversing,' Marbeck retorted. ‘You're spewing idle chat; I'm merely waiting until you've done. If you were going to despatch me, you'd have done so already. So why not blindfold me, or whatever it is you had in mind, and set me on the streets? You know I'm not going to play.'

‘But you haven't heard my offer yet,' Silvan said coolly. ‘I speak of a most generous pension – say, one hundred escudos a month? A number of your fellow countrymen already enjoy such sums, I believe. Or do you set your sights higher? What think you of an estate on the balmy shore of the Mediterranean? Men can live like kings in Barbary – have you not heard?'

Marbeck swallowed; his mouth was very dry again. He fumbled for the cannikin and took a drink. ‘I've heard enough about the Barbary Coast,' he said finally. ‘The haunt of pirates and renegades, men who can never return home. It wouldn't suit me.'

‘Then, where would suit you? Where in all Europe would you like to live? You and your lady, I should add. And your servants, of course.'