by Neal Roberts
“God bless us all!” they intone.
“And — ” he says. They were about to drink, but stop suddenly, and hang on his words. For reasons that are only beginning to seep into his consciousness, he adds: “God save the Queen.”
“God save the Queen!” they echo jauntily.
Although it seems at first that they all laugh and drink heartily, Noah realizes over the general tumult that Marie is studying his face closely, and she’s not smiling. She takes one short sip, and places her cup down on the table. Forcing a smile, she says, “You children, behave yourselves a few minutes. I have something to discuss with Master Ames outside.”
The two youngest smile at each other and intone oooooh to suggest that something romantic is about to transpire between Marie and Noah. Jessica and Stephen, despite themselves, cover their mouths and laugh to see such childishness.
Once outside in the moonlight, Marie ushers him away from the house, putting some distance between them and the salon window, making sure that the children’s view is blocked. “Noah,” she says quietly. Before he can reply, she kisses him square on the mouth. He responds ardently. It seems like very heaven to him.
“Yes?” he says at last.
“I’ve seen many people toast the Queen’s health before, but never someone who evidently believes that her welfare has become his personal responsibility.”
“I — ”
She puts her fingers to his lips, and turns away before resuming. “She has always been your personal benefactress, has she not?”
His eyes open wide. No one has ever guessed that before. Or perhaps they simply never ventured it aloud. “What? How — ?”
“A woman can tell how a man feels about another woman. Do you not know that?”
“But … she’s not just a woman.”
“Yes, I know. She’s the Queen. But she’s also a woman, and we all detect your loyalty to our sex, Noah.” She adjusts his collar. “I want you to promise me something. A few things.”
“Anything.”
She snorts. “We shall see.” She begins gravely. “I perceive you are in serious trouble, or expect that you soon shall be. I want you to promise me that you shall accept help from others, specifically, from such young men of Gray’s Inn as are willing to lend a hand.”
“I shall.”
“And from Master Neville, as well.”
“Yes.”
She shifts uncomfortably. “And I want you to promise me that you will seek and accept such help as may be available to you … from Her Majesty.”
“Oh, but Marie — ” She tries to stop his mouth again, but he resists. “Marie, she has not seen me since I was a small boy. She probably has no recollection of me whatever, and would not recognize me if I were to stand before her.”
Marie shakes her head patronizingly. “Oh, dearest Noah. You have so much to learn about us.” She kisses him again. “Will you do as I have asked?”
He nods. “I shall, so long as you promise to return to me as soon as you can.”
She holds up her right hand, as though taking an oath. “I so promise,” she says. “And now that I have sworn: Have you been completely honest and forthright with me about all matters of importance, aside from client matters?”
He wishes he’d already shared with her his concern that she might be in communication with Southampton, and also told her that he’s a Jew. But she’s leaving presently for several months, and this does not seem the time.
“Certainly,” he lies.
She kisses him fondly, but he cannot shake the uneasy feeling that she’s kissing him goodbye for a much longer time than her present voyage.
Henry quickly accepts the invitation to Essex’s party, and informs Noah that an invitation to one of the earl’s parties is as compulsory as a summons to Queen’s Bench. “While I’m aware that the word ‘invitation’ connotes an opportunity that one may choose to accept or decline, the earl’s invitations are known to be rather mandatory.”
“For you, perhaps,” replies Noah. “But then, your invitation arrived at your house all nicely engraved and sealed. Your lovely wife has been invited, and, after all, you are a gentleman by birth.” He smirks. “My invitation was extended by appending my name to a scribbled list of eight barristers. So long as one stays out of court, I expect we barristers are persons of no particular importance.”
Henry strokes his beard contemplatively. “Have you ever been invited by the earl before now?”
“No.”
“Then, is it not safe to say your absence would be noted?”
Noah snorts. “By whom?”
“Well, there’s the earl.” When Noah shows no reaction, Henry adds, “And then, of course, there’s your lovely daughter.”
Noah is shocked. “I beg your pardon? Has — has Jessica been invited?”
“I saw the list. Unless there’s another ‘Jessica, Lady Burlington,’ she has.”
“Do you suppose he’s invited her deliberately,” asks Noah, “to twist my arm?”
Henry shakes his head emphatically. “That’s unlikely. I doubt the earl deems it possible you’d decline. No one else in your position would. Also, he probably doesn’t realize that the two of you are related.”
“Unless someone has told him,” says Noah.
“If someone has, it certainly wasn’t I.”
“I suppose now I have no choice but to go.” Noah sighs. “Too bad. I was preparing to send my regrets on grounds of an ailing relative who has requested my presence during his final hours.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Who is it?”
“I’m unsure which one I’d have chosen but, if pressed, I was prepared to come up with one.” He mutters under his breath. “Too many relatives anyhow.”
Arthur and Jonathan jog past the Deptford docks on a sunny mid-morning in late May.
“Who told you there was a murder out here?” asks Arthur.
Jonathan looks at him askance. “Too busy for a little frolic?”
“No. It’s just that I have a lot of gear to pack before Essex’s party tonight.”
“Moving in with the earl?”
“Be serious. I’m accompanying Master Henry to Windsor afterwards.”
“Oh, that’s right!” says Jonathan, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Sorry, I’d forgot. Well, can’t be helped now. Let’s learn what we’ve come to learn.” He recalls Arthur’s pending question. “You wanted to know who told me about the murder. I was up and out at dawn, and heard an alarum at Lincoln’s Inn, so I ran down there. Some residents were scrambling to their horses. As they rode past, I asked where they were heading, and one shouted: ‘Someone’s been stabbed through the eye at Eleanor Bull’s.’”
“Who’s Eleanor Bull?”
“She owns an inn near here.” He shields his eyes from the morning sun, and points straight ahead. “In fact, it’s right … there.”
“How d’you know that?”
Jonathan smirks to think how astounded Arthur would be to learn of the tawdry places he frequented before taking up the law. “Master Graves introduced me to Goodwife Bull some years ago. Anyway, it seemed an unlikely coincidence that someone would be stabbed through the eye so soon after Stephen Rodriguez. I need to know whether there’s any connection.”
“But why did you decide we should not wear our barristers’ robes?”
“Shhhhh!” Jonathan tugs Arthur behind a thick hedge and struggles to peek through it at the inn. He soon discovers that the hedge consists solely of thorn bushes. Sucking the blood from his finger, he turns to Arthur, who apparently still expects an answer to his inane question. “Because I don’t want anyone to know we’re barristers,” he says impatiently. “In fact, it would be best if no one recognizes us at all.” It’s not a full answer, he knows, but it’s as much as time allows.
Several robed barristers emerge from the inn’s front door, gravely led by an unfamiliar, dour-looking barrister of some years. Jonathan turns to Arthur. “The older one in front.
Do you know who he is?”
Arthur peers through the hedge, careful not to prick himself as Jonathan did. “I forget his name, but he’s Queen’s coroner.”
“Recognize any of the others?”
“No.”
Jonathan plops down onto the ground. “Let’s wait here ’til they’re good and gone.”
Once the Lincoln’s Inn contingent has departed, he rises. “Wait here.” He ambles nonchalantly to the front of the inn, and steals a peek through the open doorway. Squinting, he can make out Gelly Meyrick standing in the taproom, looking down at the corpse of a small man lying on the floor. As Meyrick has only recently been humiliated in court by Noah and Jonathan, he’s sure to recognize Jonathan, should he catch sight of him. Meyrick exchanges a few final words with the tapster, and walks purposefully toward the doorway through which Jonathan now peers.
Jonathan’s heart rises into his mouth. He races back to the hedge and leaps over it, landing directly on Arthur, leaving them in a tangled heap, each with his share of scrapes, bruises, and torn clothing. “Sorry,” says Jonathan perfunctorily, and peers back through the hedge. Meyrick emerges, mounts his horse, and trots off toward London.
“What was that all about?” asks Arthur, brushing himself off indignantly. He vainly attempts to match up two pieces of shirttail that came unseamed during the collision, and smooths back his tousled hair.
“That was Meyrick,” replies Jonathan, slowly catching his breath and pointing toward the departing horseman. “Glad he didn’t spot us.” Before his heart has even resumed its normal pace, he emerges from behind the hedge, leading Arthur by the elbow.
“Wait,” Arthur protests. “What else is there to learn? If we go inside, we’re sure to be seen.”
Jonathan is losing patience. “Look, Arthur. I … we … came out here to investigate whether the perpetrator could be the same man who killed my client’s husband. If you think I’m just going to skulk away — ”
“Who said anything about skulking away? But why appear in the guise of a pair of homeless ruffians? Let’s put on our robes and come back here, dressed as proper barristers.”
Jonathan turns to him indignantly. “Look, Arthur. As Master Ames pointed out, this case is a bit of rough trade. Now, I’m going in there to talk to that tapster, and things might get … exciting. If you choose not to come, I’ll understand.”
Arthur sniffs, as though a bit insulted. “I’m coming with you, Jonathan. But let’s not make a habit of sinking to their level.”
Jonathan grins. “That’s a bit of Oxford starch right there.” He hugs Arthur roughly, and they proceed to the front door, donning their war faces before entering.
Jonathan walks straight to the corpse as though he belongs there and begins examining the scene, careful not to touch the body. The corpse lies face up. There’s no mistaking it. It’s the playwright Christopher Marlowe, who seems to have fallen down dead, leaving little or no sign of struggle. There’s no blood to be seen, but for a small pool around a punctured eyeball. There’s also no broken crockery or overturned furniture, although the scene might have been cleaned up.
The tapster, a slight fellow, is putting clean glasses away when he turns and sees Jonathan. “’Ey! Who are you now?” He spots Arthur. “And you, too? What are you, another pair of investigators? Already been three or four through here this mornin’. I got some o’ me own work ta do, y’know.” Jonathan tosses him a coin, which he deftly catches.
“Well,” says the tapster with a smile, “you’re the kind of investigators they should’ve sent all along. Aren’t ye?”
“What can you tell us about the man who did this?” asks Jonathan.
“Well,” says the tapster. “There was three of ’em. The drunkard, um, Poley. And the one with the scarred face. Skeres, I think. The third one, what actually killed the poor bugger lyin’ there? That was Frizer. Yeah, Ingram Frizer.”
“Did you see the fight?” asks Jonathan.
“Can’t say’s I did. I was in the storeroom fetchin’ more ale for those fellas. Sure could put it away, too.”
“And they kept paying?”
“Aye. And I needed to know nought else.”
“Did you hear them talking about anything before the fight broke out?”
“Well, I put together that the poor bugger lyin’ there was arrested a couple weeks ago, and then released. The other three was botherin’ ’im fer sumpthin’. Couldn’t rightly ’ear what it was.”
“Money? Papers?”
The tapster shrugs. “Dunno.”
“And what was this ‘poor bugger’s’ response to hectoring by the other three?”
The tapster sneers. “I think ye got yer money’s worth. Now, if you two’ll leave me here to do my job — ”
Jonathan frowns and shakes his head. “You haven’t earned that yet,” he says to the tapster, indicating the coin. “That’s sixpence.”
The tapster draws himself up. “Well, look, now, young man. I’ve told ye what little I know. Missus Bull don’t want no trouble.”
Jonathan strides up to the tapster, grabs him by the collar with one hand, and picks him off his feet, pressing him against the wall. “I don’t believe you’ve told me all you know, Goodman Tapster. If Missus Bull ‘don’t want no trouble,’ you’ll tell me what Master Marlowe said to the others in reply to their hectoring.”
The tapster is aghast at Jonathan’s confident strength. Eyes wide, he struggles to recall. “Look, I … wait. Now I remember, he did say sumpthin’. Oh, what was it? Kept sayin’ the same thing over and over. It was a … a woman’s name. From the Old Bible. Marlowe kept sayin’: ‘Tell this person, he can’t ’ave it.’”
“A woman’s name from the Old Testament?”
“Aye, a Jew name, though I’ve heard some Christians go by it.” The tapster waits patiently while comically suspended from the wall like an awkward, low-hanging bear’s head, evidently persuaded that any attempt to right himself could send Jonathan into a dangerous fit.
Jonathan raises his free hand, but, instead of making a fist, as the tapster clearly expects, he says calmly, “This is half a crown … if you can remember that name.”
The tapster’s eyes grow wide with thought, as he now has every conceivable inducement to remember. At first, his eyes betray that he’s weighing whether to conjure up a false name, just to get the half crown and see the last of this dangerous young ruffian. But apparently he thinks better of it, no doubt lest his deceit be detected and revenge exacted. “I can’t recall, I tell ye. Wait!” he says in a flash. “It was one of them judges!”
Jonathan’s eyes flash with recognition. “Was it … Deborah?”
“Yeh, that’s it! ‘Tell Deborah he can’t ’ave it.’” The tapster’s recognition of the name is laughably ingenuous.
“‘He?’” says Jonathan. “Are you sure Marlowe said ‘he’?”
“Yeh. Didn’t make no sense to me when he said it, neither.”
Jonathan plants the tapster firmly on his feet, straightens his collar, and opens the hand holding the coin. The tapster gazes down on Jonathan’s palm with surprise, as though half expecting it to contain nothing, or worse. He accepts the half crown for his pains.
Without another word, Jonathan strides grimly out the front door, followed by a confused Arthur.
Noah has at last completed his caseload, but for a few lingering matters unlikely to be heard until Michaelmas, some time in early autumn. With ample time to dress for Essex’s party tonight, he kicks his stockinged feet up on his desk. Although he’s received no letters yet from Marie, he expects that most of her time until now has been spent at sea, a setting that offers little to write about and no practical way to post a letter until landfall.
Henry’s clothing and books are spread all around his rooms, especially in the small room that doubles as his study. He’s been packing his things to take home to Lothbury, in East London. From there, he’s to attend Essex’s party tonight, and then move off for the summer months
with Mistress Anne to Windsor, site of his ancestral home of Billingbear. To placate the Arden side of the family, he’s invited Arthur to come along with him after Essex’s party.
A note from Jessica slips under the door, and Noah opens it at once. No “dear father” today. The greeting is “daddy,” which he finds portentous, for there are only two types of occasion upon which she’ll call him that. One is when she’s feeling inordinately fond of him; the other when she’s in trouble. From the opening lines, this looks to be one of the latter.
Daddy,
I hope you will not think me a silly girl for writing to you based upon nothing more than hunches, but you have always told me to trust my fears, and to speak rather than remain silent. Aunt Elizabeth heard this morning of two widely separated cases of plague in Southwark. If the reports are to be believed, each of them occurred in a poor dwelling near an open sewer, none of which is near to us here. I told Aunt Elizabeth that she should not take such reports too seriously until she hears them from someone having direct knowledge, but she says that is often too late in such matters. She is fretting about it, and very fearful for my sake. What shall I do?
Jesse
This is most disturbing. It’s the first he’s heard of plague this year, although he’s been dreading the rumor of it for more than a month now.
And she signed the note “Jesse.” Either her character has radically changed overnight, or she’s telling him that his little girl is in trouble.
Henry lumbers in, carrying an empty clothing bag. “What’s the matter? What are you reading?” he asks.
Noah sits down hard on the edge of the bed, feeling as though he needs to do something immediately. “It’s from Jessica.” His expression evidently has Henry worried.
“Yes?”
“She says the plague has hit Southwark,” says Noah.
There’s a moment’s silence, broken by Henry, who looks out of the window toward Southwark. “I’m afraid I have no salve for your worries about the plague. Damned thing.”
