Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  ‘I don’t need your help,’ Marbeck told him.

  The landlord regarded him, a glint of anger in his eye. But after a moment he backed off, allowing Marbeck to make his way to the door. The strains of the lute followed him.

  Outside, he stepped into cold, rain-washed air. There had been another shower, he decided. He turned away from the door of the French Lily and started to walk. He was unsure where he was going, but it didn’t seem to matter. He would find somewhere . . . there were acquaintances he might call upon. He reached a corner and realized he was at Hart Street, by St Olave’s.

  ‘Why, that’s Prout’s church,’ he muttered to himself. Then he stopped, shaking his head. Of course it wasn’t; that was St Andrew’s Undershaft . . . Then he stiffened. There were footsteps, coming up fast. Alert at once, he turned, reaching for his sword, and found only thin air. See – I’m not wearing one, he’d said . . .

  Then something hit him, very hard. There came a rushing in his ears, and wet cobblestones tilted up to meet him. And after that, all was dark.

  THIRTEEN

  He woke up seconds later, or so it seemed; then he realized it was considerably longer. He wasn’t on the corner of Hart Street . . . he wasn’t in any street. He was in a dark room, stuffy and seemingly windowless, sitting on the floor with his back to a wall. And there was someone else present. He gave an involuntary start, whereupon a voice addressed him.

  ‘You’re awake at last, sir. Would you like some water?’

  His head ached. He lifted a hand, felt a painful lump on the back of his skull.

  ‘I regret the means by which you were detained,’ the voice said. It was male, and bore an accent Marbeck couldn’t place. ‘It was a matter of expediency.’

  He peered about, but could see nothing. Then he caught a whiff of sulphur and stiffened.

  ‘You smell the match,’ the voice continued. ‘There is a loaded pistol, primed and aimed at your head.’

  His mouth was dry. He swallowed and took a few breaths, tried to collect himself. Only now were things coming into focus.

  ‘There is a can of water to your left.’

  The man spoke calmly, with an air of authority. Marbeck groped, found the mug. He took it up, sniffed and hesitated.

  ‘It’s merely flavoured with a little rose-water,’ the voice informed him. ‘But leave it, if you wish.’

  Against his better judgement, Marbeck drank. He needed to gather his wits, and to restore his strength. How long had he been unconscious? He took just enough to slake his thirst, then spoke into the gloom.

  ‘Your accent . . . French, or Spanish? Who are you? The one who’s replaced Gomez?’

  A silence followed, and all at once Marbeck sensed the presence of another person. He tilted his head, trying to see.

  ‘My name is Silvan,’ the man said. ‘And yours is Marbeck.’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ Marbeck said automatically. ‘It’s John—’

  ‘Please don’t take me for a fool, sir,’ the other broke in. ‘I know who you are and what you do.’

  There was a stir, some yards away; whoever was there had shifted slightly. The two were seated, a few feet apart. Marbeck saw a crack of light; there was a door between them. He thought he could smell the river; were they near the quays?

  ‘If you know so much,’ he said, ‘what is it you want of me?’

  But a suspicion was forming. This was no interrogation: instead, he suspected that a bargain was about to be offered. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to turn him. He wondered how long they had planned for this opportunity.

  ‘I gather you’re woefully short of money, sir.’ Silvan, whoever he was, became affable again. ‘That must be a sore trial, for a man of taste and breeding like you.’

  ‘I get by,’ Marbeck said, in a similar tone. ‘I’m not without resources, or friends.’

  ‘So I have heard,’ came the reply. ‘But ladies of fashion seldom grant largesse along with their favours, do they?’ A pause, then: ‘It must grow tedious, badgering Sir Robert Cecil for the sums due to you. Like a servant, in thrall to a skinflint master.’

  It was the other one who held the pistol, Marbeck guessed. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom, but he could see only vague shapes. He said: ‘Your pardon, but might we postpone this discussion for another time? I’m sore and would like to take some air.’

  ‘Don’t be tiresome, Marbeck.’ Silvan’s voice grew sharp. ‘I’m empowered to make you a most attractive offer. Besides, what good will you be to your masters, once your identity becomes known?’

  ‘Who’s your master? Marbeck enquired. ‘Juan Roble?’

  A brief pause, then: ‘Who is that?’

  ‘You spoke of identities becoming known. I thought I’d mention another whose name is no longer secret. I wonder how long he’ll last, before de Velasquez recalls him from Paris?’

  But his attempt to rattle his opponent failed. ‘It’s good to see your wits aren’t dulled, Marbeck,’ he replied. ‘Raillery, however, will avail you nothing. Come – you know what I ask of you. In return – depending on how reliable is the intelligence you give us – you’ll receive generous payment. In crowns or ducats, it matters not—’

  ‘Rixdollars?’ Marbeck broke in. ‘Why not livres or Dutch florins – or escudos?’

  ‘Whatever you prefer.’

  ‘You sound somewhat desperate,’ Marbeck said.

  A moment passed. He could still see nothing, but the pistol, he sensed, remained pointing his way. Then Silvan’s next words brought a shock.

  ‘How is your good friend Giles Moore?’

  He kept silent.

  ‘But, of course, how would you know?’ Silvan went on, with a note of mockery. ‘You haven’t seen him since Antwerp. You were a little careless there, weren’t you?’

  So that was it. Under torture, Moore had given way – what man would not? The only question was how much had he told? With his head throbbing, Marbeck went on the offensive.

  ‘Though it pains me to disappoint you, Silvan, Moore is yesterday’s man,’ he said. ‘We’ve adjusted our plans . . . and, as you know, intelligence squeezed out by force may well be false in any case.’

  ‘Indeed? Then I ask your pardon,’ the other answered smoothly. ‘You’re not the Marbeck who is second son to Sir Julius Marbeck, of Bindels Manor in the North Country. You have no brother, and no sister . . . I speak of the fair Justina. You miss her, do you not? The only one you truly care about. I wonder whose bed she shares while we converse?’

  ‘We’re not conversing,’ Marbeck retorted. ‘You’re spewing idle chat; I’m merely waiting until you’ve done. If you were going to despatch me, you’d have done so already. So why not blindfold me, or whatever it is you had in mind, and set me on the streets? You know I’m not going to play.’

  ‘But you haven’t heard my offer yet,’ Silvan said coolly. ‘I speak of a most generous pension – say, one hundred escudos a month? A number of your fellow countrymen already enjoy such sums, I believe. Or do you set your sights higher? What think you of an estate on the balmy shore of the Mediterranean? Men can live like kings in Barbary – have you not heard?’

  Marbeck swallowed; his mouth was very dry again. He fumbled for the cannikin and took a drink. ‘I’ve heard enough about the Barbary Coast,’ he said finally. ‘The haunt of pirates and renegades, men who can never return home. It wouldn’t suit me.’

  ‘Then, where would suit you? Where in all Europe would you like to live? You and your lady, I should add. And your servants, of course.’

  Silvan was smiling: Marbeck heard it in his voice. The man truly believed he could bribe him. What exactly had Moore told them, he wondered. But somehow he knew now that this was Juan Roble’s man. Intelligence, drawn from Moore by torture, had been carried here from the Spanish Netherlands, via France. He frowned, and was glad they couldn’t see his expression.

  ‘I thank you, but I prefer England,’ he murmured. ‘We’re the true power in Europe, aft
er all. Even your new king, young and innocent as he is, is beginning to recognize that.’

  ‘My king?’ Silvan feigned surprise. ‘I have neither king nor queen, sir. I’m a man for whom loyalties – and boundaries, too – have no meaning. Somewhat like you, I think.’

  He sounded calm, but Marbeck’s ear was attuned now. He had irked the man – and at once he strove to use it. ‘You and I aren’t alike at all,’ he snapped. ‘You think you can buy me as you buy an apple off a stall – or should I say una manzana? Just as your masters bought Morera – that’s Mulberry, in my language. I fear his days are coming to an end, too.’ He forced a snort of laughter. ‘But, of course, you know that, or you wouldn’t be trying to tempt me. I fear you’ve had a wasted evening.’

  There was no answer, but Marbeck sensed a stirring. His breathing was somewhat laboured now, he realized. He put a hand to his chest and found his pulse racing. At the same time, a slight dizziness came over him. He cursed silently. The drink: it wasn’t rose-water he had tasted.

  ‘Are you feeling well?’ Silvan’s voice, somewhat harsh, floated out of the dark.

  ‘Never better.’ Savagely, Marbeck dug his nails into his palm. He knew he must fight to stay awake.

  ‘I think otherwise,’ the other said. ‘But before you leave us, I’d urge you to think most carefully about what I’ve said. Will you do that?’

  Marbeck breathed steadily, furious with himself for allowing this to happen. He snapped another question.

  ‘Did you kill Ottone?’

  But no answer came, and he knew he was losing consciousness. He tried to stab his palm again, with no effect.

  ‘You begin to bluster, Marbeck . . .’ Silvan’s voice seemed to come from far away. ‘But take this offer with you. You know the windmills, in Finsbury Fields? There’s a black stone at the foot of the westernmost one. You’ll find a space beneath it, where you may leave a message. Think on my offer – it’s a golden gateway. I think you know that.’

  ‘Golden, is it?’ Marbeck echoed, but his words were slurred. The room was fading . . . He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn’t work. He stared, aware of shapes shifting in the gloom, then he sank into oblivion.

  He awoke in daylight, opened his eyes and groaned as sunlight stabbed them. As he closed them again, someone spoke.

  ‘Master Sands?’

  ‘Hibbert?’

  Blinking, he looked up into the face of his burly landlord. Street noises assailed him – hooves, a cart rattling past. He looked round: he was lying on the front step of the Dolphin.

  ‘Zachary found you,’ Hibbert said. ‘You were like a dead man. You weren’t drinking here last night, were you?’

  ‘No.’ His mouth felt furred, as if he had woken from a drunken stupor. ‘I got waylaid,’ he said, struggling to sit up. ‘It was . . . a celebration.’

  The landlord sighed and reached down to help him. Stiffly, Marbeck rose, leaning on him for support. Nausea threatened, then subsided. Finding he could stand, he straightened up.

  ‘Your pardon, Master Hibbert. I’ll go to my chamber.’

  ‘I’ll send the wench up with some water,’ the other said, after a moment. ‘Your clothes are in a poor state, sir.’

  Marbeck looked down, saw his breeches were streaked with dust – and now events flooded back: the dark room, Silvan’s voice in the blackness . . .

  ‘I thank you,’ was all he could say.

  With a nod, the landlord turned and went inside. The moment he had gone, Marbeck sat down on the step again. This was more than carelessness, he told himself: it was stupidity. He had been followed – perhaps even watched as he sat with Augustine Grogan, then plucked off the street like some country gull. Then he had been turned about, his defences probed. And worst of all, he realized, Silvan had been right: what use was he now to Cecil, if his cover was known?

  Sluggishly, he got to his feet again. The future looked grim. There was nothing for it but to write a report to Master Secretary and tell him everything. A coxcomb, Cecil had called him not long ago. He sighed. If the spymaster had been one for profanity, he would employ a stronger term this time. With a sigh, he went inside and climbed the stairs to his chamber.

  Later that morning, however, he received a visitor. He was penning his despatch when the knock came. Opening the door, he was surprised to see Joseph Gifford.

  ‘I’m in high dudgeon, Marbeck,’ his fellow intelligencer said, entering without ceremony. ‘And soon to be in disgrace, too. Would you care to get drunk and hear my tale of woe?’

  ‘I’ll hear your tale,’ Marbeck said. ‘But I’ll forgo the drink just now.’ He frowned: his friend looked tired and dispirited, which was unusual. He gestured him to a seat.

  ‘I got back from Dover last night,’ Gifford told him, sinking on to a stool. ‘I looked in, but you weren’t here. The matter is . . .’ He shook his head. ‘The nub of it is, all those weeks I spent dallying in the port appear to have been wasted. In short, I’ve allowed a papist agent to enter the country . . . right under my damned nose.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Marbeck asked.

  ‘We caught a terrified student – Magdalene man – about to get on a boat,’ Gifford told him. ‘The poor fool had turned papist and was bound for the seminary at Douai – but what matters is that he carried a despatch. It won’t reach its destination now, but the news it carried was serious.’

  ‘What was in it?’

  ‘Well, now it seems there’s a new gamester in the city,’ Gifford replied. ‘Odd thing: the message wasn’t even in cipher. “Our brother arrived here safely a week ago”, and so on. Plus some papist expressions of faith and loyalty to the cause, and so forth. And it was signed – with a big flourish on the M. Very Spanish—’

  ‘You mean by Mulberry?’ Marbeck broke in.

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘Then, we have a link. Question the student, and find out—’

  ‘If only we could.’ Gifford sighed. ‘But the lad’s so terrified, he’s had some sort of a fit. He won’t speak – not even the threat of torture will work.’

  In exasperation, Marbeck muttered an oath. ‘Have you handed the letter to Cecil?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s here.’ Gifford tapped his chest. ‘And I’m in no hurry to do so.’ He shook his head. ‘I let my quarry slip by me, and our master’s going to want to know why.’

  ‘Then, for once, you and I appear to be in similar straits,’ Marbeck observed.

  Gifford raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you looked somewhat under the weather. Shall we exchange news?’

  They talked, without leaving Marbeck’s chamber, and the morning turned into afternoon. Information and comment flew back and forth, until the picture became clear enough – and it wasn’t encouraging. It seemed that Mulberry was still active in London, but there was a new force, too – a man who had already arrived by ship via Dover. His disguise, whatever it was, had been good enough to fool Gifford – and his name, Marbeck was now convinced, was Silvan. He felt certain that the man had replaced Gomez: a link between their spymaster overseas and Mulberry. And he now wondered if the other person in the room when Silvan questioned him had been Mulberry himself.

  ‘And you couldn’t place the man’s accent?’ Gifford asked, after pondering the matter.

  Having pondered it himself, Marbeck voiced a theory. ‘I think it was more like Italian than French,’ he said. ‘I believe he may be a Savoyard, though he’s a man who left his home long ago.’ The words came back to him: one without loyalties or boundaries . . .

  ‘What troubles me most is that we can’t know how much Moore’s told them – not just about you, but about any of us,’ Gifford said. ‘And to think this man’s here – perhaps less than a mile away . . .’ He uttered a curse. ‘One chance is all I ask – the chance to run the whoreson devil through the heart.’

  ‘If I don’t get to him first,’ Marbeck said. ‘For I’ve a notion it was Silvan who killed Ottone.’

  He had told Gif
ford of yesterday’s events; now he expanded on the matter. ‘It’s clear that Ottone let his killer in after dark, when the fencing hall was empty,’ he said. ‘Why? Because he spoke Italian to him. Perhaps he claimed some kinship, or mutual acquaintance – it matters not. He was able to put Ottone off his guard, then slit his throat.’

  ‘A skilled practitioner,’ Gifford said dryly. ‘And now he’s recruiting, is he?’ He thought for a moment. ‘I think you may be right. Ottone was weak and posed a risk. If Silvan is under Juan Roble’s orders, he was told to get rid of him.’

  ‘He might decide to remove Mulberry, too,’ Marbeck said, ‘now that he suspects we’re looking for him. If he hasn’t killed him already . . .’

  The two men fell silent, until finally Gifford looked up. ‘So, what will you do?’ he asked.

  ‘The same as you, I expect.’ Marbeck gave a shrug. ‘Admit I’ve been a fool and throw myself on Master Secretary’s mercy.’ Then, seeing the frown that came over Gifford’s face, he brightened suddenly. ‘Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’ Gifford muttered, in a suspicious tone.

  ‘What if we wait a little while?’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  Slowly, Marbeck rose from his seat. He gazed through the window. Already the afternoon was waning. He looked out over the Spital Field, then turned abruptly.

  ‘Cecil doesn’t yet know of my encounter with Silvan,’ he said. ‘Any more than he knows you let the man into the country. But I’ve been offered a means of contacting him . . .’

  Gifford frowned. ‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘Surely you’re not proposing to play a double game yourself?’

  ‘Not quite – or not for long, anyway,’ Marbeck replied, thinking fast. ‘But the fellow knew enough about me to think he could rattle me.’ He paused. ‘They got that much out of Moore, at least. He knew about my family and my circumstances.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Silvan was bold enough to name a letter-drop – as if he was certain I’d change my mind eventually.’

  ‘Overconfident, is he?’ Gifford mused. ‘You mean, if he thinks he’s hooked you, we might play him instead?’