Marlowe grabbed the taller man’s esophagus.
“Why have you stabbed this man?” Marlowe demanded.
“I never,” the man rasped, eyes wide.
Marlowe leaned in close to the man’s ear.
“Then tell me this,” Marlowe whispered so that only the man could hear, “why did you kill my father?”
The man shook his head, gasping for breath.
“I want to know why you’re here,” Marlowe went on. “I’ll skin your flesh from your face if I don’t get an answer. And your friend, here, is in no condition to help you. Do you understand me?”
The man did his best to nod. The shorter man in grey had sunk to his knees and was trying to pull the knife from the blood at his drooping lace collar.
“Are you certain?” Marlowe went on, pressing deeper into the man’s gullet.
The man’s eyes began to roll back into his head.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Marlowe’s hand darted for a second, and pulled his knife free from the otter’s shoulder. Blood gushed onto the boots of the man in green.
Marlowe released that man’s esophagus, and shot his gaze to the man on the floor. “Pinch?” Marlowe called without looking up. “Would you give me a hand with these two? They’ve had a quarrel and I think they should leave. See? One’s stabbed the other.”
“None of that in my place!” Pinch roared, rounding the bar.
Marlowe wiped his knife on the green jacket, and returned the blade to his boot. He grabbed the short man by the hair and started dragging him toward the door.
Pinch lurched forward and took the taller man under the armpits.
All four were out in the street in the blink of an eye.
“Thank you, Pinch,” Marlowe said pleasantly, “I’ll handle it from here out.”
Pinch nodded silently and vanished.
The little man was about to pass out and the one in green was still coughing, holding his throat.
Marlowe took away their blades, tossed the weapons down the street, clattering on the stones. Then he withdrew his own dagger again and addressed the man in green.
“I’ll cut your friend’s throat in a minute,” Marlowe told him calmly, “and then I’ll start to carve you up. Or I can stop his wound from bleeding and you can talk to me. I can tell you, though, that I’m not in a receptive mood, and I’d really rather just kill you.”
“Let’s talk,” the man croaked.
Marlowe hesitated for a moment, then leaned over, ripped a bit of grey cloth from the otter’s shirt, and wrapped it around the bleeding wound.
“That should hold for a while.” Marlowe then placed the point of his dagger at the green man’s gullet. “Now. You bought a drink for a man in there earlier today, this afternoon.”
The man nodded. “Your father, Mr. Marlowe.”
Marlowe hesitated. “You know who I am?”
“You’re Christopher Marlowe,” the man said. “You’re actually the man we wanted to get at, you see. And we never meant to kill your old dad, we—this idiot here used too much of the powder.”
He kicked the otter. The otter was too weak to respond.
“Explain that to me,” Marlowe snapped. “What do you mean you wanted to get at me?”
“The plan was,” the man went on, attempting to sound conversational, “to make your dad sick. He’d pass out here at the old Parrot. You’d be called. We’d—well, truth be told, we’d do you.”
“Kill me?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?” Marlowe asked, a bit of the energy drained from his voice.
“Two gold crowns!” the man answered. “Each!”
“No,” Marlowe pressed the point of his dagger into the man’s Adam’s apple, “I mean why did someone want you to kill me?”
“Oh, right,” the man nodded. “No idea.”
“Who hired you?”
“Don’t know,” the man said.
The point of Marlowe’s dagger drew blood.
“Don’t know his name!” the man said desperately. “That’s I meant to say.”
“Is he in the pub now?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
“Look like?” the man asked. “He was dark. Wore a red cape. Had an accent. Said he was a doctor.”
Marlowe nearly dropped his blade.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
The man in green began to bleed a little, and the otter passed out in the street.
Racing back home, Marlowe tried to calm himself. If Lopez had actually been the architect of these strange events, there was no telling what he might find in his house.
He did not expect to discover his mother sitting all alone at the barren kitchen table, sobbing.
“Mother?” Marlowe asked as he stood in the door way. “Where is my father—where is my father’s body?”
“I couldn’t bear to have him just lying here like that,” she managed to say. “So when Dr. Lopez suggested moving him to the church, I breathed a sigh of relief, I can tell you.”
“Lopez suggested?” Marlowe’s heart was pounding. “You saw the body moved?”
“No, I couldn’t watch that,” she sniffed. “The good doctor took charge. Thank God for that man.”
“Yes,” Marlowe mumbled. “What church?”
“Sorry, dear?” His mother looked up.
“Where exactly was the body taken?”
“Oh.” She sighed. “He’s in St. George’s, of course, where you were baptized.”
Without another word, Marlowe was off. Lopez might have lied to his mother, Marlowe knew that, and there was certainly no telling what strange plans were at work. But at least the church of St. George the Martyr was just around the corner from the Marlowe home, a very short dash.
Bursting in through the front door, Marlowe’s eyes searched the candle-lit sanctuary. Nothing moved. There was no sound; no sign of his father, or Lopez. High columns ascended into darkness, the stained glass window was lifeless. Candles flickered here and there, but did little to illuminate. In a few hours someone would come and ring the four a.m. bell, but at that moment the place seemed empty.
Then, a whispered footstep close to a side door broke the silence.
Marlowe stuck to the shadows, working his way around the outer walls, dagger in his hand. There it was again: the shuffling footfalls of another human being, someone close to the altar.
Marlowe bent low, crept soundlessly, and rounded a column just in time to catch sight of a fleeting figure wrapped in a floor-length cloak. It had moved to the other side of the altar and was crouched, waiting.
Marlowe drew in a silent breath, steadied himself, and then dropped slowly to his knees. Crawling between the front two pews, he made his way carefully to the center aisle. As far as he could tell, the figure was still hiding just beyond the altar.
It wasn’t like Lopez to hide and wait. He had taught Marlowe to be bold. In fact, Lopez had taught him nearly everything he knew about fighting with dagger and rapier. So what was Lopez doing?
If he doesn’t know I’m here, I might surprise him.
With no further thought, Marlowe leapt from between the pews out into the center aisle, roaring like a wild beast.
The figure hidden in the shadows jumped wildly and clattered backward, letting out a high-pitched shriek.
In the next second, Marlowe was there, dagger in hand. Dressed all in black he was nearly impossible to see in the sputtering light from the altar candles.
Then up from the stones the figure flew at Marlowe, landing on top of him, knocking him backward. The two bodies thumped on the hard floor, and Marlowe was momentarily immobilized.
The figure above him threw back the shoulders of the cape and raised a silver dagger high in the air. Marlowe rallied when he saw the blade plunging toward his face, and rolled hard to his left. The figure lost balance, and toppled.
Marlowe got to his feet, gasping for breath. His opponent rolled twice
and was standing, snarling.
Suddenly Marlowe realized that his opponent’s cape was not scarlet. It was ginger-colored. In the next second the hood was thrown back and the identity of his attacker revealed.
“Jenny!” Marlowe shouted.
She responded by flying forward, blade first.
Marlowe jumped sideways, kicked out, and hobbled the girl. She fell, skidding on the floor, but she was up again in the next second.
“What are you doing?” Marlowe demanded.
“Finishing the job those two idiots couldn’t,” she panted. “I was certain they’d kill you in the street. You seem to be better trained than we thought.”
She tossed her cloak behind her back and somehow gained a pistol from a belt at her waist. Dagger in one hand, pistol in the other, she planted her feet.
“This is a Catholic country!” she snarled. “Your father used to tell us he was helping the cause, but we know now that he was lying!”
There was such rage in her voice, Marlowe feared she had lost her mind.
“I—I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Jen,” Marlowe said, hoping for a reasonable tone of voice. “Why would you want to get rid of me?”
“Shut it,” she demanded. “Your father told you everything!”
“Honestly, sweet,” Marlowe implored, “he told me nothing before he died. I truly don’t know what this is about.”
Jen seemed to lose a small portion of her madness. The pistol stayed trained on Marlowe’s midsection, but the dagger hand dropped to her side.
“You’re leaving, Kit,” she said, softer. “You’re the greater threat, you see. Your father, he was in the way, but he would never have left Canterbury. You’re about to go off into the bigger world. College. London. You’ll do real damage to the cause. I’m sorry. Sweet. We can’t let you do that. We can’t let you leave.”
She cocked the pistol.
Without thinking, Marlowe flipped his knife with direct precision. It hit the barrel of the gun perfectly. The gun went off, but the ball went sideways, dusting a bit of stone from the nearest column.
Marlowe’s rapier was in his hand.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Jen,” he told her genuinely.
She nodded, looking down.
He took a step closer.
She sighed, or sobbed.
“Jenny,” he murmured.
Jenny nodded.
Then, giving no warning, she screamed and slashed. Marlowe had forgotten about the blade in her other hand. It cut Marlowe’s hand deeply, and he dropped the rapier.
She whirled, turned, and lunged again, aiming to strike him in the heart.
Marlowe dropped down just in time, and her blade plunged into the pew nearest Marlowe’s leg.
Marlowe kicked Jenny’s right ankle and she fell forward, her head glancing against another pew. Marlowe grabbed her arm, twisted it, and took the dagger away from her as they both plummeted to the floor of the church once more.
Marlowe sat astride her as Jenny blinked, trying to recover from the blow to her head.
“I have no idea why you’re doing this, Jenny,” Marlowe gasped, trying to get his breath, “but I can tell you that this is not the circumstance I imagined when I dreamt of being on top of you.”
“Well.” She smiled, and seemed to relax. “Get off me and perhaps we can discuss this in a more civil manner.”
“Good,” Marlowe said, still trying to catch his breath.
He backed away a little, secure in the fact that he had her knife in his hand.
She sat up.
“So, my sweet,” she began, “I shall tell you—”
From behind Marlowe, someone plunged a rapier into her heart. She didn’t have time to scream. She didn’t even close her eyes. She could only fall backward, dead.
Marlowe jumped up, spinning around, dagger at the ready.
Lopez stood, bloody rapier in hand, and behind him: Marlowe’s father.
“What in—in Christ’s name have you done?” Marlowe stammered.
“Look at her left hand, son,” Marlowe’s father said softly.
He did. Jenny held another pistol, cocked and ready to fire.
“She would have shot you,” Lopez said, returning his rapier to its sheath.
Marlowe could only stare.
“Jenny is, or was, the head of Catholic Intelligence in this part of England,” Marlowe’s father said. “Or at least that’s our theory now.”
“We didn’t suspect until tonight,” Lopez added. “You got her to admit her affiliation. We’ve been trying to find that out for some time now.”
“She was most likely the one who approached me several years ago,” his father said, “though she was in disguise. She was dressed as a man, but I knew something was amiss.”
“You did tell me you thought it might have been a woman,” Lopez agreed, conversationally. “You were right.”
“Approached you about what?” Marlowe asked, hopelessly lost.
“As I’ve said, owing to our family’s previous Catholic allegiances,” his father began, “this person wanted me to—how shall I say it?”
“Betray your country,” Lopez said simply. “She wanted you to spy on your Queen.”
“Well, yes,” the father admitted. “But I became something of a—what did you call it?”
“A double agent,” Lopez said indulgently.
“Yes, a double agent.” Marlowe’s father sighed. “As you’ve just heard her admit, however, you were the greater threat, at least in her mind. She apparently discovered my true nature, and believed that you were spying with me, so you had to be killed. I was a decoy. You were the target.”
“But,” Marlowe began, “the—the man in green, one of the men who poisoned your cup, or so I was persuaded to believe—that man told me that Dr. Lopez had hired him.”
“Ah.” Lopez smiled. “Brilliant.”
“Yes,” Marlowe’s father agreed. “And savage.”
“That’s why you came here to St. George’s, not to see your father,” Lopez went on. “You were after me.”
“Yes,” Marlowe concurred. “Why did you tell my mother that you were moving the body to this church?”
“To keep the rest of your family out of harm’s way,” Lopez answered. “I knew they could come for you. I assumed you’d follow us here, which would draw them away from your home. I just didn’t know you’d be coming here to kill me.”
“It really was a perfect strategy on their part,” Marlowe’s father mused. “If you happened to somehow kill Dr. Lopez, the Queen’s favorite physician, you’d be in prison and out of their way. In the more likely event that Lopez killed you, their problem would be even better solved.”
“But how did Jenny know I would be here, in St. George’s?” Marlowe asked.
“She didn’t,” Lopez said. “Probably followed you from the pub.”
“Obviously,” the father agreed. “She said that she knew those two men hadn’t killed you in the street. She was probably watching.”
“How is it that you’ve never told me any of this?” Marlowe asked his father, doing his best to take it all in. “Spies. Secrets.”
“Perhaps we should discuss the meaning of the word secrets,” his father suggested. “I was sworn to secrecy.”
“By the Queen,” Lopez added in attempt to help.
Beginning to piece things together, Marlowe said slowly, “Then the man in green, he was just—he was just lying to me.”
“Yes,” Lopez affirmed patiently.
“Everybody lies, son,” his father said. “That’s the spy game.”
“The spy game?” Marlowe stared down at Jenny.
“Yes, and you’re good at it,” Lopez said brightly. “I knew you would be. You brought out Jenny, gave her time to confess her role in this. You did good work tonight. I hope you’ll continue to work for—”
“No,” Marlowe insisted, wondering how he could explain to his father and Dr. Lopez that the so-called good work
he’d done that night had all been a matter of luck. “I’m not working for—I’m going to college. Next week I’m going to Cambridge!”
Lopez looked away. Marlowe’s father was silent.
“I’m telling you, Doctor, I don’t want any part of this!” Marlowe insisted softly.
“Wake up, Chris,” Lopez said, staring idly at the crucifix on the altar, “you’re already in.”
Back to TOC
The Gumshoe Actor
Krista Nave
The new office—my new office—was as devoid of ornaments and fixings as the boss that came with it. Melanie Katsaros seemed pretty dull if you didn’t know where to look. With other women, you looked to the clothes, tailored and colorful. She restricted herself to plain trousers and men’s button-down shirts. Her hair hung limply, framing an odd-looking face with exaggerated features: a wide forehead, high cheekbones, thick teeth peeking out behind soft lips, and big eyes. It was those eyes you needed to pay attention to. They made you pay attention. And it wasn’t just the way they kind of bugged out; it was the intelligence behind them. It was looks like those, not ugly, but not conventional either, that made her impossible to categorize.
She had commanded my respect the moment I met her—sitting behind this desk like I was now, the room bare except for a lamp and a rotary phone, with those eyes assessing me. It was more intimidating than any audition I had done before. I should’ve run then and there.
I chastised myself for being gullible enough to answer a newspaper ad looking for actors. I thought the worst I might have to do was a silly song-and-dance for some local business. Instead I got Melanie Katsaros, a female private detective looking for a respectable face. The idea was ridiculous but I was desperate for money, desperate enough to stay as she explained her situation. She had started her agency three years ago, but found no one would take her seriously without a male partner. After the last guy, Adam Hawk, had fallen through, she wasn’t looking for an equal. She wanted a mouthpiece. I still wasn’t completely sure this whole thing wasn’t an elaborate joke.
The woman, who was the first to grace our doorstep since I had begun this whole dog and pony show, was Melanie’s foil. Stylishly coifed and garbed, she had the smell, taste, and inviting golden color to go with her honey. It was enough to grab any man’s attention as their eyes slid past the austere Melanie. For me, it just left a pit in my stomach.
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon 2014 Anthology Page 15
