Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  ‘Well, there we’re in agreement.’ Master Secretary paused – then, for once, showed his irritation. ‘I curse the day the Queen ever committed troops to that land,’ he said, with sudden vehemence. ‘It will bankrupt our nation – indeed, it’s halfway to doing so already!’

  He fell silent, whereupon Marbeck seized the opportunity.

  ‘Sir . . . I pray you, let me go with Prout tonight. I need to see Ottone: to look him in the eye once more and know the truth.’

  There was a moment while Master Secretary appeared to consider. But when he spoke, he was on a different track. ‘This Juan Roble . . . do you think he exists?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Marbeck answered, taken aback. ‘The Spanish have always had spies in Paris. Though who the man really is, I cannot say.’

  ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s been getting intelligence from us, as well as laying false trails,’ the spymaster mused. He was thoughtful, then suddenly he grew brisk. ‘Very well – go with Prout tonight,’ he went on. ‘Gaze at Ottone all you wish. But forbear to lay a hand on him: it’s Prout’s commission, and you’ll follow his lead. No swordplay – you understand?’

  Marbeck let out a breath and nodded.

  After that, the night couldn’t come quickly enough.

  Back in his room at the Dolphin, he paced about, racked with impatience. All day he had striven to keep himself occupied: seeing to Cobb, getting rid of the travel-stained clothes he had purchased in France, garbing himself in his preferred black. The sword would have to serve for the present, since he had no money for a new one. He had been so eager to leave Cecil that morning that he had forgotten to ask for a payment. Fortunately, his credit at the inn held firm.

  By the time dusk fell, having taken a quick supper and a mug of sack, he could wait no longer. He left the Dolphin and walked through rain-washed streets, into the city by Bishopsgate. Curfew had sounded, and the gates would soon be shut. His orders were to await Nicholas Prout in Fenchurch Street by the Clothworkers’ Hall, from where they would proceed to Ottone’s house in nearby Mark Lane. But as he reached the crossing with Cornhill, he saw a body of men coming towards him and stopped.

  ‘There’s been a turnabout,’ Prout said, as if he had seen Marbeck only that day instead of weeks ago. ‘Our man’s not at home, and his wife doesn’t know where he is. She looks like a worried woman.’

  ‘Then, we go to the fencing hall?’

  Marbeck eyed the messenger, before glancing at the men who accompanied him. Both were seasoned soldiers, well armed, faces hard as flint. He faced Prout again.

  ‘We do,’ Prout said. Returning Marbeck’s gaze, he added: ‘It’s my warrant, and you’re a bystander. Is that plain?’

  ‘It is,’ Marbeck nodded. ‘See – I’m not even wearing a sword.’

  Prout didn’t bother to look. He gave the order, and they trooped back the way they had come with Marbeck in the rear. They passed the Cross Keys Inn and stopped outside Ottone’s fencing hall. It was in darkness, and the door was locked.

  Marbeck stood on the edge of the group, fighting dismay. The man had bolted: suddenly, he felt certain of it. In the weeks since he had questioned him, he had been making plans, sending in a report to Cecil merely to give the impression that all was normal. He was Mulberry – and cleverer than either of them had imagined.

  ‘Is there a back entrance?’ Prout asked one of his men.

  The soldier shook his head. ‘There was a yard once, but Ottone built over it when he extended the place.’

  ‘Very well – force an entry.’

  It was easy enough. After a few kicks, the lock gave way. The door crashed inwards and the Queen’s servants piled in, boots thudding on the bare floorboards. With little hope, Marbeck followed. One of the men had a lantern, which he lit at once. The four of them stood in the middle of the wide room and looked about, but it was clear the place was empty.

  ‘He’s flown,’ Prout said, in his most phlegmatic voice.

  The other two began poking in corners, but there was nothing to see: only rows of swords hanging up. His spirits sinking, Marbeck moved to the wall – to the spot, he realized, where he had once made ready for a fencing bout with Ottone.

  ‘What’s through there?’ Prout was pointing.

  Without interest, Marbeck followed his arm towards a doorway at the end of the room. He shrugged . . . then stiffened: he had smelled the iron tang of blood. He started for the opening. The man with the lantern was already walking towards it.

  ‘You’ve been here, haven’t you?’ Prout was saying. ‘Are there more rooms, or—’

  He was cut off by a shout. The soldier was holding the lantern up, peering inside. In alarm he stepped back, just as Marbeck came up. Together they stared down at the grisly sight.

  It was a tiny back room, containing only a low bed. On the bed lay Giacomo Ottone, his body rigid and soaked with blood. The man was as Marbeck remembered him, clad in breeches and shirt. There was no mail glove on his hand – but there was a knife in it, his fingers clenched about its handle. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

  And his eyes, which were open, seemed to stare directly at Marbeck.

  TWELVE

  Ottone had taken his own life; at least that was Prout’s first thought. But Marbeck knew that he hadn’t.

  ‘It looks utterly wrong,’ he insisted. ‘No one could have made a cut like that – not even a skilled rapier-and-dagger man like Ottone. It was done from behind – by the same person, I expect, who laid him on the bed and placed the knife in his hand. It’s murder.’ He thought for a moment. ‘By the hand of someone he knew, I’d say – the killer locked the door when he left.’

  Prout glowered at him. They were standing in Gracious Street, outside the fencing hall. On his orders, the soldiers had remained inside, but for the moment the messenger seemed at a loss. He looked more shaken than Marbeck had ever seen him. Then it struck him: Prout simply looked old. Finally, he said: ‘I’ll make my report. But now we’ll get rid of the body and clear up, before the constables of Bridge Ward get to hear about it. Whether suicide or murder, there’d be an inquest, and we don’t want that.’ He shrugged. ‘Ottone will just have to disappear.’

  ‘I’d like to ask something of you, Prout,’ Marbeck said.

  The other gave him a bleak look.

  ‘Someone should tell Ottone’s wife. Will you let me do it? Master Secretary would agree, I’m certain.’

  He expected resistance, but instead the messenger seemed relieved. ‘Go to her, then,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Margaret – English, not Italian. But have a story ready. She won’t be able to claim the body, or even see it . . .’ He broke off, finding his own words distasteful. He was a devout man. With a nod, Marbeck left him.

  He walked along Fenchurch Street to Allhallows, then turned into Mark Lane, with the Tower looming over the rooftops. It was not yet late, and people were about. Having been directed to the house of the fencing master, he knocked. Soon the door was flung open, and an anxious face appeared.

  ‘Mistress Ottone?’ Marbeck bent his head; she was small and barely reached his shoulder. ‘I’m John Sands, a friend of your husband. I have some news. Might I come in?’

  At once Margaret Ottone’s hand went to her mouth. ‘What’s become of him?’ she demanded. ‘There was another here, asking questions. Tell me, quickly.’

  ‘I will,’ Marbeck said. ‘But indoors, if you please.’

  She hesitated, then turned about. He followed her inside, closing the door. He was in a comfortable, well-appointed room. On the wall was a crucifix, and beside it a splendid sword: silver-hilted and chased with gold. A prize, perhaps; too good for use in the fencing hall.

  ‘He’s left me, hasn’t he?’ she said at once, her face taut. ‘I knew he would; indeed, it’s as if he had done so already!’

  She stood facing him, hands clasped. She wore a black gown with a high neck, her hair pinned up and covered. She was younger than Marbeck had expected – a good deal younger t
han her husband. He regarded her calmly; just now, feelings were a hindrance that must be set aside.

  ‘Left you?’ he echoed. ‘Why do you say—’

  ‘You know what I speak of, sir!’ Suddenly, she was angry. ‘He’s with someone, is he not? You need not spare my feelings, for I know my husband better than you do – friend or no. If he has gone with a man – or a pretty youth, more likely – then tell me so!’

  Surprised, Marbeck hesitated. A moment ago he had been concocting a tale to account for Ottone’s disappearance; now it looked as if the man’s widow was about to save him the trouble.

  ‘He’s gone, mistress,’ he said finally. ‘I fear he will not return.’

  She stared, then slowly her face crumpled. ‘He always meant to abandon me,’ she said. ‘And lately – since he came back from Scotland – he was resolved to carry it out. He denied it, but I knew he lied. What wife wouldn’t know the truth when her husband shuns her – forbears even to touch her?’

  There was a stool nearby. She sat down and began to weep, her shoulders heaving. Marbeck could only watch her.

  ‘Do you face difficulties?’ he asked presently. ‘I mean, with regard to money?’

  She looked up sharply. ‘Master Sands . . . is that your name?’ Plucking a kerchief from her sleeve, she pressed it to her face. ‘Pray, forgive me – you at least came to tell me. Others of his acquaintance would not have troubled themselves.’ Her chest rose, but she was reining in her emotions. ‘If you mean has my husband left debts,’ she went on, ‘you may rest assured he has not. He was – is – a man of substance. A master swordsman and a good tutor.’

  ‘Indeed, that’s true.’

  Suddenly, there was nothing more to say. This unfortunate woman knew less about her husband’s life than she could imagine, Marbeck thought briefly. But it was ever thus, with men of their profession.

  ‘Is there someone you can turn to?’ he asked.

  ‘My brother . . .’ She faltered. ‘I would have named my father too, but I will not. He’ll shed no tears . . . he will be glad. He never wished us to marry. Nor did he trust Giacomo.’ She looked away. ‘Perhaps I should have listened to him.’

  She lapsed into silence; it was time to leave. A moment ago Marbeck’s intention had been to press her further, but for now he had learned enough. After expressing his regrets he went out, leaving her alone in the room with the silver-hilted sword.

  To gather his thoughts, he walked – across Tower Street to Thames Street, then along the river. As he drew near to Billingsgate, it was all becoming clear; by the time he reached Dowgate, he was certain. Everything fitted. Ottone’s sexual tastes, which his widow had just revealed – and which Marbeck cursed himself for not suspecting earlier – had been his downfall. Such tastes made him vulnerable: in fact, they had laid him open to blackmail. And the man’s recent excursion, he saw – not to Scotland, as he’d told his wife, but to France – had resulted in his being forced to act against his will: in effect, to turn traitor.

  Even as he pieced it together, Marbeck pitied him. Ottone, he guessed, had had no choice. He could imagine how it had been arranged: a fair young man in a Paris auberge . . . a jug of wine, the offer to go somewhere private – then the trap would be sprung. All he needed to do, he would have been told, was carry a certain report to the English agent. But refuse to cooperate, and word of his dalliance with this pédéraste would be spread – not merely to his wife, but all over London. In England, where such congress was a crime punishable by death, his reputation would be ruined – Ottone would have been ruined. Hence his nervousness when Marbeck had questioned him. And hence his suicide – or so it had been made to appear. But he had not taken his own life, which meant . . .

  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 intellig
ence 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.