The Reckoning

by M. J. Trow

  ‘No, Madam,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t. But whoever it was stole your husband’s costume as soon as you’d gone. What time was that, by the way?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’d like to say that in Thomas’s arms I lost all track of time, transported as I was to heights of ecstasy … except that would be a lie. It was before cock-crow, certainly.’

  ‘Your chamber door was not locked?’

  ‘No,’ she said, demurely. ‘My chamber door is never locked. Remember that, Kit, if you like.’

  He smiled, bowed and left. As he was closing the door, he heard her speak, but was not sure whether it was for his ears or not, so he simply paused a moment and carried on his way.

  ‘I do love Thomas,’ Audrey Walsingham said to the empty air. ‘I do love him.’

  And Marlowe knew it to be true.

  ‘How was she, Ned?’ Marlowe had found a loaf of bread from somewhere and was munching it.

  ‘How was who?’ the actor asked, reaching across and tearing at the crust.

  ‘The lady of the house.’

  Alleyn shrugged. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘Ned, Ned,’ Marlowe put an arm around the man’s shoulder. ‘It’s me, Kit. You’re not usually so reticent about your conquests.’

  Alleyn looked from left to right, checking that even in the Great Hall, the walls didn’t have ears.

  ‘Well, between you and me,’ he murmured, ‘conquest doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The lady of the house was panting for it. I had been softening up that serving girl and it was all going nicely, when suddenly, Mistress Audrey was by my side and … well, being friendly. I was a bit shocked, if I’m honest with you.’ Alleyn arranged his features into those of a man more sinned against than sinning. It wasn’t hugely successful; he could have done with some make-up around the eyes. ‘Anyway, why do you want to know? Interested yourself?’

  ‘No,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Alleyn sneered. ‘Well, I felt a bit guilty, of course, what with her being our hostess, so to speak.’

  ‘Did you?’ If he did, it would be for the first time.

  ‘No, not really. And she goes like a mare on heat, Kit. I could barely keep up. I was glad that scream came later just before I had to perform with the girl. I think I may have made a bit of a fool of myself there, if I had been called upon to step forward, so to speak.’ Alleyn’s voice died away. Even he, wrapped in an ego as big as the great outdoors, could see that being glad that there was a murder just so that his lack of priapic splendour would not be noticed, was a little in bad taste.

  ‘What time was her … approach?’ Never had so many euphemisms been used in so short a time.

  ‘God, I don’t know. I never time myself in such matters.’

  ‘Quite. Quite.’

  ‘But as best I recall, we slipped away into some kind of kitchen area – it was damned cold, I can tell you that. Smelled of cheese.’

  ‘The dairy?’

  ‘Is that what it’s called? I have no idea. Mistress Alleyn sees to all that side of things. Anyway, we went in there, she had her dress over her head in seconds and was on me like a cobra. Then afterwards, she was back in her dress and out the door before I could recover my …’ Alleyn paused, stuck for the right word.

  ‘Wits?’ Marlowe asked, flatly.

  ‘Breath, I was going to say. Breath. I didn’t know women could do that. Not that it’s any of my business when it’s all over, of course. I don’t really notice. But I do remember being surprised; I would have thought a woman like Audrey would have maids and the whole process would take hours.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then what what?’

  ‘What did you do after she had dressed and left?’

  ‘Well, I recovered my …’

  ‘Wits.’

  ‘Breath and went back out to join the party. Someone suggested Hide and Seek and Will and I and …’

  This time, Marlowe didn’t fill in the gap.

  ‘Will and I went out to the stables. Tom Sledd was there, drunk as a pig and before anything could happen, there was a scream.’

  ‘At least that rules both you and, I suppose, Mistress Walsingham out as murderers … Unless, of course, you’re lying through your teeth. Again.’

  Marlowe and Faunt sat opposite each other in the brown parlour, Padraig curled up around Marlowe’s feet, assuming him to be the more acceptable face of espionage. That was fine by Faunt; he’d never met a dog he hadn’t instinctively wanted to kick.

  ‘So, Nicholas,’ the playwright was lighting his pipe, ‘where are we?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d tell me,’ Faunt said, sipping his Rhenish, thoughtfully provided by Thomas Walsingham.

  ‘All right.’ Marlowe cleared his throat and focussed. ‘Roger Dalston, copyist, ex-clerk of Lincoln’s Inn, is found dead in the boot room shortly before dawn today. He has clearly been murdered, neck broken, skull smashed.’

  ‘Who found him?’ Faunt was helping to retrace the man’s steps.

  ‘Dorcas, a maid of all work.’

  ‘Who was doing all her work in said boot room.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What did she do?’ Faunt asked the question rhetorically; many people in Scadbury still had the sound ringing in their ears.

  ‘Which brought the whole house running,’

  ‘Yes. Many were playing hide and seek. Some were asleep, either in their beds, someone else’s or simply slumped in a corner somewhere,’ Marlowe said. ‘There were people all over the place – guests, servants …’

  ‘The Lord Chamberlain’s Men,’ Faunt threw in.

  ‘Especially the Lord Chamberlain’s Men,’ Marlowe nodded. ‘You and I have talked to them all now. We can pinpoint where they were and who can vouch for whom. Somehow, I can’t see anyone from Scadbury or the neighbourhood being involved in this. Dalston was a Londoner and nobody knew him.’

  ‘Was the brother forthcoming?’ Faunt asked.

  ‘A simple soul,’ Marlowe said. ‘He broke down when he saw Roger’s body but after that opened up quite a bit. I get the impression that the deceased wasn’t nearly as dim as Peter. He was clever, ambitious, an over-reacher, perhaps.’

  Faunt looked at Marlowe over his cup. ‘The most dangerous type,’ he murmured.

  Marlowe ignored him. ‘He seemed very interested in Edward the Second,’ he said.

  ‘The king or the play?’

  ‘Perhaps both. He was asking the boys about the play; all the Lord Chamberlain’s men.’

  Faunt snorted. ‘And how did that go?’ he asked.

  ‘I should imagine that Skeres and Frizer will have built their parts up. I know Alleyn and Shaxsper aren’t happy with it.’

  ‘Not as other courtiers, eh?’ Faunt raised an eyebrow.

  ‘They were different time, Nicholas,’ Marlowe said, defending his take on things.

  ‘The law’s no different,’ Faunt said. ‘I had occasion to report a sodomite only last year. They hanged him.’

  ‘They’ll hang us all given half a chance,’ Marlowe said.

  Faunt chuckled darkly. ‘Careful, Kit,’ he said. ‘That kind of defeatist talk sounds almost treasonable.’

  ‘Of course,’ Marlowe was watching the smoke curl upwards from his pipe, eddying in the updraught of the chimney, ‘there may be more to it.’

  ‘In what way?’ Faunt asked.

  ‘What if … and this is only a guess at this stage … what if Roger Dalston isn’t the only victim? What if John Foxe died by the same hand?’

  ‘And Moll,’ Faunt reminded the playwright.

  ‘Moll died because she could identify Foxe’s killer. She was an afterthought. Grieves me to say it though it does, she was just an example of a killer’s tidying up. Foxe was about to star in a play by Kit Marlowe. Dalston was copying out the same play.’

  ‘But so was brother Peter,’ Faunt pointed out, ‘and as of
this hour he still seems to have breath in his body. And anyway, when Foxe met his maker, did he know he was to play in Edward the Second? Wasn’t it still all about the Spanish Tragedy back then?’

  ‘Er … not exactly,’ Marlowe said. ‘I told him. Asked if he could keep a secret at the auditions. I thought it only fair.’

  ‘They don’t kill people for acting,’ Faunt said. ‘Although perhaps they should and perhaps it’s only a matter of time. No, if the two are linked, it must be something else.’

  Marlowe let a moment pass, sucking the pipeclay thoughtfully. ‘How are you progressing with Thomas Walsingham?’ he asked.

  Faunt looked at him. ‘Now, Kit,’ he said, ‘you know I cannot divulge. Affairs of state and all that.’

  Marlowe sighed. ‘So,’ he said, ‘back to Dalston. Alleyn, Shaxsper, Sledd, Frizer, Skeres, Finch, Dalston, you, me, Johannes Factotum, all have alibis.’

  ‘Watertight?’ Faunt asked.

  ‘Probably not,’ Marlowe said. ‘Least of all the object of your current obsession – the Walsinghams. He was fast asleep, or so his wife would have us believe.’

  ‘Upright member of society,’ Faunt nodded solemnly. ‘Land owner. Benefactor. All round good egg.’

  ‘Suspected by Nicholas Faunt,’ Marlowe reminded him, ‘projectioner of Whitehall.’

  ‘She; Audrey.’ Faunt changed direction.

  ‘Ah, the dark lady,’ Marlowe smiled.

  ‘Of course,’ Faunt said. ‘There is one person we haven’t considered. One person whose whereabouts are still a mystery on the night in question.

  ‘Who?’ Marlowe was all ears.

  ‘The Reverend Baines.’

  ‘Gone mad from what we saw at the lych-gate.’

  ‘True,’ Faunt nodded, ‘but is that merely Nor’ by Nor’west?’

  ‘Point taken. It’s late, Nicholas,’ Marlowe said, knocking out his pipe and standing up. ‘I’ll take my leave.’

  ‘Good night, Kit,’ Faunt said. ‘Oh, and by the way, Merry Christmas, Kit Marlowe.’

  ‘And to you, Nicholas Faunt.’

  NINE

  The palace of Whitehall lay under a thick carpet of snow. Even the buskins of the Queen’s guard were silent as they patrolled the parapets, the glow of their fires making magical lights on the crystals that sparkled like silver.

  If there was poetry on such a night, sharpened by frost and lit by the moon, it was lost on the four men who sat huddled in the upstairs chambers of Lord Burghley. He had left his long-suffering mule at the gate now that the meadows of Westminster merged with the white cloak of the Strand and had hurried indoors to his fire and his Rhenish. His second son stood beside him until the others arrived and then he too sat down. The Queen’s imp didn’t need to be reminded how all men – and most women – loomed over him. In a chair, the world seemed more equitable; furniture was a great leveller.

  Howard of Effingham had arrived next, his admiral’s cloak soaked because he had ridden from Deptford through the night and it was still snowing along the river. He gratefully accepted Burghley’s mulled wine and cradled the cup in his hands until the feeling returned to his fingers, his boots steaming in the heat of the fire.

  Last to arrive was Henry Carey. The first Baron Hunsdon was the reason they were all there and the others didn’t appreciate being kept waiting by him. Greetings were exchanged, hands shaken and the business of the inner circle of Her Majesty’s Privy Council began.

  ‘Right, gentlemen. What have we?’ Burghley opened the proceedings.

  ‘Essex wants to join us,’ Hunsdon scowled.

  Burghley shot a glance at his son. ‘I’m sure he does,’ he said.

  ‘The Queen’ll never allow it,’ Howard said, leaning over to the table set before the fire and refilling his cup.

  ‘Her Majesty blows with the wind, Charles,’ Burghley said. ‘And Essex is a smooth operator.’

  ‘Never trust a man,’ Hunsdon growled, ‘whose beard is a different colour from his hair.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Burghley said, ‘but the Queen’s growing fond of him again after that debacle in Rouen. I suppose we’ll have to let him in.’

  ‘Perhaps he can hold the horses,’ Effingham smirked and the others laughed.

  ‘Robert,’ Burghley turned to his son, ‘what news of Ireland?’

  ‘Tyrconnell’s plotting with the Spaniards,’ the spymaster said.

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ Hunsdon muttered.

  ‘I have a man on it,’ Cecil said. That was good enough for the others. The Queen’s imp knew his business.

  ‘This fellow Penry …’ Hunsdon brought it up; someone had to and it might as well be him.

  ‘Who?’ Effingham asked. ‘Have I missed something?’

  ‘Puritan,’ Burghley said. ‘One of the elect. He’s been publishing religious rubbish for months now.’

  ‘We’ll have to close him down,’ Cecil suggested.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Burghley nodded. ‘But we have to tread warily there, for obvious reasons. Hunsdon, where are we on the Scadbury business?’

  Hunsdon shifted in his sear. He reached to his left and pulled up a letter satchel stuffed with papers. ‘I take it you all have this?’ he said. ‘Marlowe’s play?’

  There were mutters all round.

  ‘Filth,’ snorted Effingham. ‘Pure filth. What’s Tilney doing? Is he Master of the Revels or isn’t he?’

  ‘Tilney hasn’t seen it,’ Hunsdon said. ‘No one has but us. Marlowe intends to put it on at Scadbury in … where are we now? I always lose track at Christmas. A week.’

  ‘What’s Walsingham’s take on it all?’ Effingham asked. ‘A eulogy to sodomy under his own roof? It’s outrageous!’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Charles,’ Burghley said. ‘The bigger picture, so to speak. The play is about an attack on the royal person. I don’t need to tell you what could happen if members of the public see this.’

  ‘They’ll draw parallels,’ Cecil said, making sure that even Effingham understood. ‘They’ll make comparisons with today.’

  ‘I’ve been invited to the play,’ Hunsdon said. ‘They are my troupe, after all.’

  ‘I suggest we all go,’ Burghley said. ‘Robert, you know Marlowe best. Where is he going with this?’

  ‘He’s one of my best projectioners,’ the spymaster said. ‘Did stalwart work for Francis Walsingham too.’

  ‘And now he’s hiding with his cousin at Scadbury,’ Effingham scoffed. ‘Cowardly shit. It’ll do him no good.’

  ‘There are elements abroad,’ Cecil said, looking at each man in turn, ‘and by abroad, I mean here, in England, that are champing at the bit to overthrow the Queen.’

  There were cries of ‘No!’ and ‘Shame!’ but they all knew it was true.

  ‘John Penry is one. Essex may be another – he’ll take some watching. But there may yet be others, connected perhaps with Scadbury.’

  ‘Walsingham?’ Effingham wanted to know.

  ‘Not that simple, my lord.’ Cecil shook his head and closed his lips. The Queen’s imp was good at silences.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Hunsdon said. ‘We’ve all got copies of Marlowe’s play thanks to the miracle of my very own printing press, but I believe only I have this.’ He pulled more paper from his satchel, this time only a single sheet. ‘It’s from a man called Richard Baines.’

  It didn’t matter how often he watched it happen, Christopher Marlowe never tired of watching Tom Sledd create wonders. True, it was always preceded by a few days of head-scratching and moaning, cries of ‘Impossible!’ and ‘It can’t be done!’ and then, suddenly, it was possible and it could be done. And here he was, at Scadbury, watching the Great Hall becoming transformed into another place, a place from another time.

  Thomas Walsingham, with his customary generosity, had lent carpenters and their assistants wood from his store. Audrey had raided her linen presses and a keen eye would have been able to see where her best sheets now formed rich hangings, with
the addition of some judicious dyes. Tapestries from bedchambers were folded and stitched to make couches and beds fit for a king and his ingle. Trestles, chairs, all were called into service and soon all was ready.

  ‘Kit,’ Tom called across the Hall, wiping a sawdust begrimed hand across his forehead. ‘Do you want to come and walk the stage?’

  Marlowe stood up and walked down the aisle left down the middle of the rows of seats at the back. Space had been left at the front for the groundlings, as was the custom, but they would be sitting cross-legged in neat rows like their betters behind them; no room for roistering and vegetable throwing here. Marlowe just hoped the cast could cope with an audience who were quiet until the end of a Scene, at which point they would politely clap. He had heard Thomas Walsingham haranguing his staff on just that subject only that morning, so he knew it would be so.

  As he got nearer to the stage, the magic started to dim. Brush-strokes became visible. Gigantic, frantically applied stitches were clearly seen to be keeping rich furnishings together. The gilding became so much thin gold paint. But even so, it would do – a country audience was not a discerning one and candlelight could hide a multitude of sins.

  Marlowe hopped up onto the stage and bounced a couple of times. There was nothing worse than a squeaking stage at a dramatic moment. But this seemed firm enough.

  ‘I didn’t need to make it very high, Kit,’ Tom said, watching him. ‘So I just put some beams down and then laid planks. It will make it easier to dismantle afterwards.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you remember when we did Faustus in … ooh, when was it?’

  Marlowe smiled. ‘Long ago, Tom, when we and the world were young.’

  Sledd slapped his arm. ‘Come on, Kit, we’re neither of us thirty yet and as for the world, it’s young enough, surely. I haven’t noticed it showing its age, anyway.’

  ‘No more do we, Tom, no more do we. But don’t you find all these plays tend to run together in your mind? Just one season after another, winter, spring, summer, fall and then another winter.’

  Tom Sledd loved his family more than he could say. And then, a very close second, he loved Kit Marlowe. He didn’t like to see him introspective, particularly with what was already proving to be a difficult play to put on. He had had lines of people waiting with their pages, wanting to be sure that they wouldn’t be thrown into gaol or worse for what they would be saying on stage. Shaxsper and Alleyn could be seen at any odd moment, heads together, muttering and looking over their shoulders. All plays had a resident shade. This one’s shade was the colour of death and bore a scythe over its shoulder. Before he could say anything, while he sought the right words, Marlowe was himself again, his eyes flashing fire and his curls standing up around his head in an angelic aureole.