The English Agent

by Phillip DePoy

  “No,” Marlowe objected. “The cure is mostly the same: boil bark from a mulberry tree or some such in vinegar, then make the victim eat butter. He will vomit out the poison thereafter. That’s not so much a cure—or a salvation—as it is a recantation, the way some sinners confess their indiscretions.”

  Lopez sighed. “You are too intelligent, and too Catholic. Both will prove to be obstacles for you in this world. Rid yourself of them if you can.”

  “I have rid myself of Catholicism by law,” Marlowe answered, “but my brain will not seem to obey any equally urgent censure.”

  “Then you must learn poison to protect yourself,” Lopez insisted. “Either way: these are lessons you will need. Now tell me, what is the most essential ingredient in the poison I have just mentioned?”

  “Simple,” Marlowe answered. “Rosewater.”

  “Why do you say that? Rosewater has no lethal properties.”

  “Its smell hides the lethal properties,” Marlowe answered. “Treachery is the easiest thing in the world. It’s keeping the poison hidden that’s the trick.”

  Lopez leaned back in his chair. “There, do you see? You have a remarkable brain. It will cause you trouble all your life.”

  “Yours is the voice of experience in this matter, I presume.”

  Lopez smiled, a rare phenomenon.

  “I can only hope that my own son, whom I may never see again,” Lopez said softly, “has a mind like yours.”

  It was the moment Marlowe realized that he loved Lopez as much as he loved his own father.

  “At any rate,” Lopez said sternly, returning to his usual stern demeanor, “tomorrow night I will teach you how to detect a poison in food without having to taste it. For now: off to bed.”

  * * *

  Marlowe stared down at his spoonful of goose blood pudding and felt a sudden churning in his stomach. He knew it was not caused by a lethal ingredient in his food, but rather by the poison of doubt.

  Had Drake poisoned Queen Mary? Had Paulet instructed him to do so? It would be an excellent gambit: Paulet was gone; Marlowe had access to the royal cousin. Paulet’s fanatical hatred of Mary would find its fruition in her murder, and Marlowe would be to blame.

  He set down his spoon, rose from the table, and flew to his quarters to fetch the keys to Mary’s rooms. Careful to avoid alerting guards or servants, he stole down the cold black hallway to the iron gate. First one key and then another failed to open it. Marlowe had a sudden fear that Paulet had deliberately given him the wrong keys until he realized that his own eagerness was to blame. He tried the first key again, only slowly, and the lock clicked at once.

  A few moments later the final stone wall slid aside, and there sat Mary, at her dining table, attended by two serving women.

  Marlowe stood at the door, staring.

  “Mr. Marlowe?” Mary said.

  “Your Majesty,” he answered, “I pray you will forgive my clumsy entrance, unannounced, but I fear for your safety.”

  Mary stared at Marlowe for a moment, and then glanced sideways at the servants. They nodded and vanished.

  “Approach,” she told him.

  Marlowe strode toward her, not bothering to close the barriers behind him.

  “Have you finished your breakfast?” he asked as he drew near.

  “No.” Her face betrayed indignance.

  “Good,” he said quickly, “I fear you have been poisoned.”

  Her eyes widened. “Indeed?”

  “May I examine your goose blood pudding?”

  “Paulet would never dare assassinate me.”

  “He might,” Marlowe said, “if he had me to blame for it. He is gone, and I am charged with your keep.”

  “Ah.” Mary sat back and glanced at her bowl. “In truth, breathing is a bit difficult, but that may simply be indigestion. I do not care for this pudding, and the cook knows it.”

  Marlowe took the bowl and smelled it. The scent of rosewater was strong. He stuck his finger into the center of the mush and tasted it. He recognized the faint trace of oleander and hellebore. Grateful for the lessons learned from Lopez, he knew the poison at once.

  He drew from his pocket a sturdy tin vial he’d guarded more as a keepsake than a tool. He wiped the spoon clean and poured it full from the vial.

  “You must drink this at once,” he said to Mary, “and then you may wish to excuse yourself. The effect is nearly immediate, and quite unpleasant, but it will save your life. I must tell you that this is a gift from a woman named Leonora Beak. It is she who saves your life. Quickly, now.”

  Mary stared at the spoon, then at Marlowe.

  “How can I be certain of what is in that spoon?” she asked. “A clever man might invent a poisoned bowl as inducement to willingly taste his own venom. And you, Christopher Marlowe, are a very clever man indeed, as I have learned.”

  Ignoring the fact that Mary had somehow learned, perhaps, too much about him, Marlowe leaned closer to her.

  “Bide awhile, then,” he suggested. “You will soon begin to perspire, and to feel pains in your joints. Breathing will become much more difficult. Alas, by the time you realize that I am true in my effort to save you, it may be too late. The poison takes a day to kill, but past a certain point it is no longer in your stomach, but in your blood.”

  “I do not care for the manner in which you speak of the royal personage,” Mary snapped.

  “There will be no royal personage if you don’t heed my advice within the next few moments!”

  Mary shook her head. “I think not. Why would my jailor, and Walsingham’s man to boot, want to save my life?”

  Marlowe stiffened, and saw an opportunity.

  “I am Walsingham’s man in service to you, Your Majesty,” he whispered. “If you have learned anything about me and my family, you have discovered that we are Catholic, and secretly working in your cause.”

  Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed.”

  “I met, by night, with Babington in Delft, very recently. I am aware of your plans, and I have already been of some service to you. A certain manuscript, written in perfect code, has been delivered to John Dee.”

  Marlowe stared directly into Mary’s eyes, giving support to his lie.

  “I do not know of any such manuscript,” Mary demurred.

  “It comes from Rudolf, Philip’s nephew,” Marlowe answered, “and I think you do know of it.”

  Quite suddenly Mary twitched forward, and her face contorted.

  “Ah,” said Marlowe grimly, “the first torment of the poison.”

  Mary nodded.

  Marlowe offered the spoonful of purgative once more.

  “You may wish to be in your—in a more private chamber, Your Majesty,” Marlowe warned.

  Mary made it to her feet and took the vial from Marlowe’s hand, careful not to spill the viscous liquid.

  “You are not excused,” she muttered as she exited the room, not looking back.

  An instant later the servants appeared and cleared the dining table.

  * * *

  Two hours later Mary emerged from some other room. Her face was pale. She had changed her dress, and wrapped herself in a thick cloak.

  “The cure may be worse than the poison,” she said hoarsely.

  “I thought just that the last time I saw it at work,” Marlowe agreed.

  “You have saved my life,” Mary said emotionlessly, collapsing onto a cushioned seat.

  “I’m glad you believed me,” Marlowe rejoined.

  “I did not believe you,” she said. “I fed the pudding to one of the servants. When she sickened quickly, I believed the evidence. I’m afraid we’ve drained your vial dry.”

  She held the empty vessel out.

  Marlowe was momentarily at a loss for words.

  “Who is Leonora Beak?” the Queen of Scots asked. “You said her name.”

  “I said that this vial was hers,” Marlowe answered, taking it from the royal hand. “She was a fierce companion, and an adept i
n the art of poisons.”

  “You must thank her for me,” Mary said, closing her eyes and leaning back.

  “She is dead.”

  “Well, then. To business: I know you are Catholic, and that you were in Delft. What do you imagine you might do for me now?”

  Marlowe pocketed Leonora’s vial.

  “I can smuggle messages out of this prison,” Marlowe told her. “And get messages to you from the outside.”

  She shook her head. “Been tried. Only succeeded once, and was discovered by Paulet. That is why I am no longer permitted visitors.”

  “I have a plan.”

  “And what, pray, is your plan, Mr. Marlowe?” she sighed wearily.

  “I plan to drink ale.”

  Mary glared. “I fear my purge has adversely affected my hearing.”

  “I could not help but notice,” Marlowe continued, “a preponderance of empty casks on the banks of the moat just before I crossed the bridge into this manor house.”

  “I find that ale warms me,” Mary responded, “and the water here is foul.”

  “Yes. As you have discovered, any person might be searched as they leave this house, but few would think to break open an empty cask of ale.”

  “Insert my missives into one of them.” Mary smiled.

  “Mark it with a certain sign.” Marlowe nodded. “Babington already knows the sign. As arranged, his men come to collect the casks tonight, and answer on the morrow.”

  “That quickly?” she mused.

  “They bring ale every day.” Marlowe suggested. “And time is of the essence, is it not?”

  “It might work.” Mary closed her eyes.

  Marlowe watched her face; saw the various considerations play across her features.

  “Agnes!” she bellowed suddenly.

  One of the serving girls appeared at once, presumably not the one who had been poisoned. She was smiling.

  “Pen and paper,” the Queen commanded.

  Agnes flew away.

  Within the hour several empty casks from Mary’s rooms were delivered to the kitchen for disposal, and Marlowe had taken leave of the Queen of Scots.

  He wended his way down dark corridors to the kitchen, hoping to see the casks delivered to the other side of the moat; and thinking he might observe Drake’s response to the news that the Queen was alive, and in good health.

  The kitchen was filled with the sweet smell of roasted onions, and Drake was lolling in a chair at the kitchen table when Marlowe sauntered in.

  “Ah,” he said, “Drake. Just the man I want to see.”

  Drake scrambled to his feet.

  “Sir,” he said stiffly.

  “I was wondering if there was any blood pudding left,” Marlowe began. “Couldn’t get enough of it.”

  “Your batch is all et,” Drake said, avoiding eye contact.

  Marlowe leaned in and said, confidentially, “I wonder if there’s any left from the first batch, the one you made for the Queen.”

  Drake took any a deep breath. “You don’t want any of that, sir. It’s invented for the royal palate, as it were.”

  “Yes,” said Marlowe, backing away. “I know it was.”

  And Marlowe produced his knife.

  “You thought to poison Queen Mary and blame her death on me,” Marlowe said, half-grinning, “or more correctly, you were instructed by Paulet to do it.”

  “Aye,” Drake answered calmly. “I was instructed by Sir Amias, but not to kill a queen. It was done at his behest in order that you might gain the confidence of the vile creature.”

  Drake turned a gaze upon Marlowe that was twice as intelligent as his demeanor would suggest.

  “You’re Walsingham’s man,” Marlowe guessed, still holding his dagger.

  Drake nodded. “But my instruction is to watch Sir Amias, not Queen Mary.”

  “Paulet suggested that you poison Mary’s breakfast?”

  Drake nodded again, and failed to hide the hint of a smile.

  “The idea was—what? To make me suspicious, hope that I got to her in time, and—are you insane? Any one of a hundred things might have gone wrong with this plan!”

  “Aye,” Drake admitted. “If things had not gone as planned, you would be a sacrificial lamb to Sir Amias Paulet’s ambition. He would have used the event to embarrass Walsingham, and to consolidate his own position at court. And if things had gone well, as they appear to have done, he would be credited with a brilliant ploy that enabled Walsingham’s plan for you.”

  “Oh.” Marlowe lowered his weapon. “Good plan.”

  “Sir Amias has a certain guile that might rival Walsingham’s,” Drake said, “on a good day.”

  Marlowe glanced around. There were no ale casks in evidence.

  “I was hoping for a spot of ale to go with my pudding,” Marlowe offered casually, “but as I am suddenly put off that dish, I would settle for a drop of ale.”

  Drake moved at last.

  “Just getting in a fresh supply,” he said amiably. “Sent the empties out a moment ago, the new blood should be here tomorrow.”

  Marlowe sheathed his knife.

  “Excellent,” he said, smiling.

  No point in telling Drake more than he needed to know, Walsingham’s man or not.

  * * *

  Very early the next morning, Marlowe stood yawning in the empty kitchen watching the sun rise over the eastern moat. Two men in a cart rode up and began unloading casks of ale on the far bank. Marlowe grabbed a boiled egg and headed out the kitchen door, only momentarily regretting not having put on his rapier.

  The morning air was crisp and a bit chilly for late summer. The men at the gate nodded to him as he strolled by.

  “Thought I might slip out for a fresh bit of ale for myself,” he said. “If I keep a cask in my room, I won’t have to bother anyone else about it.”

  One of the guards smiled and nodded.

  Marlowe ambled toward the men unloading the casks, heedless of the fact that he was not wearing his rapier. As soon as he was close he called out, “Morning!”

  Both men jumped.

  One of the men was standing on the cart. He turned toward Marlowe and sniffed. “What do you want?”

  “Ale,” Marlowe answered.

  The man on the cart looked down. “Are you a servant of the house?”

  Marlowe smiled. “I am in charge of the house, charge given me by Sir Amias, who is away for the moment. And who might you be?”

  The man turned away, suddenly trying to hide his face. Only then did Marlowe realize that the man looked familiar. Where had he seen this man?

  “I might be the man who makes this ale,” he said, face averted.

  “You might be,” Marlowe said, “but you’re not. You’ve been too busy in Delft.”

  The man lost his balance and nearly fell over, grabbing one of the barrels close by. The other man glared at Marlowe. The man on the cart turned around. There was a pistol in his hand. He hadn’t fallen, he’d gone to retrieve his gun.

  “I really wouldn’t shoot me so close to the house,” Marlowe admonished. “And if you hadn’t reacted so severely I might not have realized that you were Sir Anthony Babington. But your lack of composure has given you away.”

  Babington smiled. “Here’s your problem: I shoot you now, we load you onto the cart behind some barrels before anyone comes to see what the noise could have been. You’re dead on a cart and I’m gone home to bed.”

  “I suppose.” Marlowe shrugged. “But then how would Mary get her message from you?”

  Babington lowered his pistol slightly. “What?”

  “I am, you see, the clever person who invented the idea,” Marlowe said, as if Babington were an idiot.

  Babington only stared.

  A quick study of the barrels revealed the one with Mary’s mark. Marlowe pulled that one from the frame.

  “This barrel,” he said. “This message.”

  “I—I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Babington
sputtered.

  “You were a page boy in the Earl of Shrewsbury’s household when it was Mary’s jail. You have been her devoted servant since that time. I know this because my very Catholic father told me, and he never lies about such matters. Now get down off that cart; I have a few things to tell you and I don’t want to shout.”

  Babington, momentarily at a loss, put away his pistol.

  “I saw you in Delft,” Marlowe went on. “I know you were there. And I know that you stopped by the Bell Inn on your way back to London after that.”

  Why not lunge boldly? Babington was slow. He’d been taken off guard. He suffered from the same malady as most aristocrats: arrogant ignorance. Was he simply too stupid to realize that his mere presence on the cart was evidence of his part in the plot against Elizabeth? And if he was that witless, he might betray his role as Leonora’s murderer.

  Babington at last descended from the cart and stood before Marlowe.

  He stared Marlowe in the eye and said, “Good plan, hiding the messages in that barrel. Why are you doing this?”

  Marlowe smiled back. “To see the rightful queen on the throne of England.”

  The best lies, he recalled Lopez saying, are the ones that are also true.

  “And you intend to deliver this—this barrel to Mary,” Babington went on.

  “I do,” Marlowe affirmed.

  Babington, his eyes still locked with Marlowe’s, smiled back. “Then I suppose you’d better be off with it. I didn’t go to the Bell after I left the Netherlands, incidentally. I sailed from Monster directly to London. Why did you think I’d gone to the inn?”

  But the other man who had come with Babington could not remain silent.

  “Sir,” he objected, “is this wise, letting this person take the barrel? Kill this gob, I say, and leave all them barrels for Drake like always. He’ll see to it that Mary gets the right one.”

  Marlowe’s smile grew. He turned to the man, a stocky tough in his mid-twenties, dressed mostly in leather.

  “You’re an idiot,” Marlowe said, “and Drake is Walsingham’s man. Honestly, you’ll ruin this thing yet.”

  “I’m an idiot?” the man snarled.

  With that he drew his rapier and swiped it through the air directly at Marlowe’s head. Marlowe bent over, barely ducking under the blade. He appeared to collapse onto the ground. The tough leapt forward; Marlowe rolled. But as he did, he kicked his attacker at the knee, dislocating it. Then, in one continuous move, he got to his feet and threw his bulk against the attacker, shoulder first, knocking the man to the ground.