Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  ‘Good,’ Master Secretary said at last.

  ‘Good?’ Gifford blurted. ‘You . . . you approve of our strategy, sir?’

  ‘It was bold and inventive,’ came the reply. ‘If somewhat precipitate . . . but, then, that was always your way.’ He threw Marbeck a wry look. ‘The situation obliged you to act swiftly. And, as you say, you opened up a way to our new friend Silvan.’

  ‘Only to close it again,’ Marbeck said, concealing his relief. ‘I was sluggish in pursuit of the courier . . . now that I fear I’ve shown my true hand, they’ll drop me like a stone.’

  ‘Well, what’s done is done.’ Cecil was seated behind his table, propped on cushions. He thought for a moment, then looked up. ‘We might even build upon it,’ he said.

  Though startled by the turn of events, Gifford recovered quickly. ‘Indeed, sir,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps if you were to draw up a new list of intelligencers currently about London, we may question them and—’

  Cecil cut him off sharply. ‘That would take too long. Besides, this talk of a woman running messages throws everything into question. I have no female agents – that’s a French practice.’

  ‘Perhaps a Spanish one, too?’ Marbeck ventured.

  Master Secretary was frowning. ‘If it was anyone else but Rose, I’d have been sceptical,’ he said. ‘But he has the eyes of a goshawk. I trust the man’s judgement – as I do yours, Marbeck. Though it’s a leap of imagination, to assume the person who was alongside Silvan when he had you at his mercy was the same woman – let alone that she is Mulberry.’

  ‘Yet I believe it’s so, sir,’ Marbeck replied. ‘I think a new circle has been formed – a regrouping, after Gomez was taken. They got rid of Ottone too, to clear the way . . .’ He broke off, as a look of irritation appeared on Cecil’s face.

  ‘That was a loss I could have done without,’ he murmured. ‘Coming on top of the capture of Moore – who, it seems, is being racked in the Spanish Netherlands, for whatever intelligence he can give . . .’ He looked away. ‘If there were a way to put an end to his suffering, I’d like to know of it.’

  Marbeck caught Gifford’s eye. Master Secretary could be ruthless, and the true meaning of his words was not lost on either of them: to stop Moore’s mouth, he would have ordered his death in an instant.

  ‘How may I serve, sir?’ Gifford asked. ‘I would ask that—’

  ‘Enough of your flannel.’ Cecil’s voice was icy. ‘I have a notion what to do next, and there may well be a part you can play. But the plain fact is Silvan’s only here because you failed to keep a close enough watch at Dover.’

  Silence ensued. Gifford lowered his gaze, whereupon Master Secretary eyed Marbeck. ‘The false fleet bound for Ireland was a good device,’ he said. ‘Yet it will be only a short time before it’s exposed for the pack of lies that it is. If Silvan’s half the man I think he is, he’s already seeking verification – and trying to get a despatch to his master, perhaps.’

  ‘Gifford intercepted one message at Dover from Mulberry,’ Marbeck began, but the spymaster looked up sharply.

  ‘You mean the one taken off the papist student?’ He moved a few papers and picked one up. ‘But this isn’t signed by Mulberry.’

  Gifford blinked. ‘Forgive me, sir, I thought—’

  ‘Do you mean to say you haven’t examined it thoroughly?’ Cecil demanded. ‘This word isn’t Morera. It’s the name of another fruit – Membrillo. That means a quince, in case you wonder,’ he added icily.

  There was a moment as both men took in the information. ‘Then, there’s another of them?’ Gifford blurted.

  Inwardly, Marbeck cursed. ‘So Silvan’s circle is already wider than we thought,’ he said.

  Gifford swallowed audibly. ‘Well, then, we must step up the search on all ships leaving the ports,’ he stammered. ‘Strengthen the watch—’

  ‘No – that would also take too long,’ Cecil objected.

  In silence, the other two waited.

  ‘A projection,’ their master added, after a moment. ‘It’s the only way to flush them out. We must outfox the foxes.’

  ‘How so?’ Marbeck asked.

  ‘By making further use of your device while we may,’ came the reply. ‘In short, let every intelligencer about London hear of a fleet that’s been put together rapidly, much as you’ve described. We’ll even keep the name of your admiral – Van Zoren. We can come up with the names of other commanders, too – along with those of some of our vessels currently under repair, or decommissioned.’

  Seeing Master Secretary rather animated – a rare event – Gifford spoke up. ‘I have a few Dutch names I could add,’ he said with relief. ‘Sea captains who truly exist.’

  ‘Yet surely the matter will not stand there?’ Marbeck raised an eyebrow at Cecil. ‘Do you mean to make it known that this flotilla is to anticipate the Spanish fleet bound for Ireland? In which case, we’ve shown that we already know its purpose.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s a risky strategy, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Cecil allowed. ‘But the Spaniards wouldn’t be surprised that we’ve already guessed what the new fleet’s for. Their intelligencers are not idle, and they assume ours aren’t either. Besides, I’m counting on a swift response from Mulberry. He – or she – will be eager to cast doubt my way. While every loyal agent will make haste to apprise me of this new intelligence, I think Mulberry’s despatch will read somewhat differently.’

  The other two saw it now. All Master Secretary would have to do, once word of the bogus fleet had been leaked, was to sift the reports that came to him. Any one that sat oddly with the rest would almost certainly be from the traitor.

  ‘I wish I’d thought of such,’ Marbeck said.

  Cecil merely frowned at him. ‘You may wish all you like, Marbeck,’ he snapped. ‘For your part, this is your chance to make amends for your recent laxity. The same goes for you, Gifford,’ he added. ‘When the time comes, I’ll call on you both to apprehend Mulberry – alive. Following that, you may find yourselves alongside Sangers at the Marshalsea, when he draws every grain of truth from the traitor – and, if she is indeed a woman, I pity her already.’

  Two days then passed. And by the end of the second, the tempers of both Marbeck and Gifford were close to breaking point.

  ‘It could all come to nothing,’ Gifford muttered. It was evening, and his tone was murderous. ‘Like your feeble attempt to trail the false bowman. Once he – or she – sensed you were in pursuit, our whole strategy was doomed.’

  Marbeck refused to answer.

  ‘And you didn’t even get close enough to see if it was a woman in man’s attire,’ Gifford scoffed. ‘Whoever she is, she had the better of you from the outset!’

  Still Marbeck declined to rise to the bait. He had more faith in Cecil’s plan than Gifford did. And having expected the worst, he now had some hope of success. ‘Silvan’s people may have won a throw,’ he said finally. ‘But the game still runs.’

  With a grunt, the other turned away and picked up a bottle of ale. They were back in their chamber at the White Bear, where they could be reached quickly. The projection had been put in hand – with some speed, it seemed – but neither Marbeck nor Gifford would know what followed until Prout came to find them.

  ‘There are whores a-plenty but a stone’s throw from here,’ Gifford said, raising an earlier suggestion. ‘What say I find a couple and bring them up here, to pass the time?’

  Marbeck’s response, however, was flat. ‘Do what you will,’ he said. ‘But do it elsewhere. I’ll be glad to have the chamber to myself.’

  As he had already done a dozen times, he was thinking over Gifford’s words: had the archer indeed been a woman in disguise – the same one who had carried the message to Rose at the Duck and Drake? He only wished he had got closer.

  ‘By the Christ, this whole business is a rat’s nest,’ Gifford said, almost to himself. ‘Why don’t they just round up every papist in London? We need to shake a few trees, see what falls out.’<
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  ‘Cherries?’ Marbeck said. ‘Quinces, perhaps?’

  ‘I take back what I once said,’ the other muttered. ‘Your true bent is not for serious play-acting, but for comedy.’

  But even he fell silent, bored with his own banter. Dusk came, and both men prepared for yet another night of waiting. Neither had much appetite, and since the food at the White Bear left much to be desired, they didn’t bother to order a supper. Each lay on his bed, in private rumination. They lit no candle, allowing the room to grow dark, and finally both drifted into slumber. For Marbeck, it was a sleep shot through with vivid dreams, culminating in a vision of Lady Celia Scroop, stark naked. He was reaching out for her, when she spoke in a voice that wasn’t her own . . .

  ‘Marbeck! Wake up, damn you!’

  He awoke with a start, to find someone shaking him by the shoulder.

  ‘There’s movement at last,’ Gifford said, bending over him. ‘Prout’s waiting outside – get ready.’

  Marbeck roused himself hurriedly. Gifford had lit a candle; by its flame, he saw him buckling on his scabbard.

  ‘What news is there?’ Marbeck asked as he dressed.

  ‘I’m not certain,’ the other replied. ‘He said he’ll tell us on the way.’

  ‘On the way to where?’

  ‘I know not – will you cease questioning me?’

  No further words passed. Both men were relieved to be of use after the tedium of the past days. In a few minutes, alert and armed, they made their way out of the inn into the murky light of early dawn. There in the street stood Nicholas Prout, hatted and muffled against the chill. With him was a well-armed pursuivant, the same man who had stood beside Marbeck in the fencing hall and looked upon the body of Giacomo Ottone.

  ‘At last.’ The messenger eyed the two with his customary air of disapproval. ‘May we proceed now?’ He set off up Red Cross Street, the others following.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Marbeck asked. ‘And what’s the—’

  Prout raised a gloved hand. ‘I’ll convey my master’s orders,’ he said stolidly, ‘if you’ll hold your peace. Can you do that?’

  Reining in their impatience, Marbeck and Gifford exchanged looks. But they fell into step, allowing Prout to lead the way along the street. The soldier brought up the rear.

  ‘Very well.’ Having marshalled his facts, the messenger began to relay them. ‘I’ve no need to go over the projection, have I, that you spoke of with Master Secretary? But I’ll say one thing: I never knew such a flurry of despatches, not since the Armada – or even the Queen of Scots business. Anyhow, it’s brought a result in the end, that’s put Sir Robert in a poor humour.’ He sighed. ‘Loyalty comes cheap nowadays, is all I can say.’

  They had turned into the Barbican and were tramping westwards. Dawn had barely broken, but already people were about. ‘Will you get to the nub of it, Prout?’ Gifford said, his patience exhausted. ‘Whom do we seek?’

  ‘I am coming to it,’ Prout retorted. ‘Will you let me get there in my own time?’

  They were at the crossing with Aldersgate Street, whereupon something struck Marbeck so forcibly he almost stopped in his tracks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Prout slowed down, frowning at him.

  ‘Nothing . . . Tell us, if you please.’ Marbeck began walking again, but his thoughts whirled. They were retracing the route he had taken three days back, when he followed the bogus archer from Finsbury Fields to West Smithfield . . . A suspicion had formed, but he kept it to himself.

  ‘As I said –’ Prout drew a breath – ‘reports have come in thick and fast. Not all the ones Master Secretary wanted, but enough for him to take a decision. One stood out like a jewel in a dunghill, it seems. Tried to tell him rumours about the new Spanish fleet are all lies. According to this report, which the sender claims to come from a new source, the fleet’s not bound for Ireland, but is a new Armada. It’s supposed to come sailing into the Channel as before – and it’s only forty ships.’ He grimaced. ‘He must think Master Secretary’s a fool to swallow that. There was other stuff too, but it’s by the by . . .’

  The messenger trailed off, but Gifford would wait no longer. ‘The traitor, Prout!’ He put a hand on the other’s sleeve. ‘In God’s name, who is the subject of your warrant?’

  There was a moment in which Marbeck expected a rebuke from the messenger. Instead, the man met Gifford’s eye.

  ‘The report came from number nineteen,’ he said. ‘That’s where we’re bound – he lives by St John’s. Ex-soldier, by the name of—’

  ‘Saxby.’

  Marbeck spoke the name before him, prompting sharp looks from the others. There, in Long Lane, the little group stopped.

  ‘Saxby – the one without a leg?’ Disbelief was on Gifford’s face. ‘That’s absurd!’

  Prout glared at him. ‘Do you doubt Master Secretary’s judgement?’

  ‘Well, mayhap I do . . .’ Gifford began. But he looked at Marbeck, a frown on his face. ‘You questioned him, didn’t you?’ he went on. ‘You said you’d sounded him out . . .’

  ‘I did,’ Marbeck said, not really listening. ‘But I may have questioned the wrong Saxby.’

  The others were silent. The soldier stood aside, impatient with the delay. But Prout was frowning at Marbeck.

  ‘What say you?’ he demanded. ‘Speak now, for I’ve to serve a warrant on Thomas Saxby, then take him to the Marshalsea. Do you know some reason I shouldn’t?’

  Slowly, Marbeck shook his head. The truth, he saw, had lain just beyond his vision all along. He pictured the grim hovel where the ex-gunner lived, and the spirited woman who had stood by him. He saw Saxby’s haggard face, in the Red Bull in St John’s Street, as he told how his wife had nursed him back from near-death, shared his hardship . . . and he remembered the look in the woman’s eyes, as she took the coin he had given, to aid her in her poverty.

  ‘No . . . there’s no reason not to go there,’ he said to Prout. ‘Master Secretary’s right: nineteen is the false agent. Only nineteen isn’t one person, but two – one who runs errands and carries messages, because the other cannot. She’s the one disguises herself as a man.’ He faced Gifford. ‘Mulberry’s a man and wife – and her name is Anne.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Dawn had broken by the time the four men marched down the narrow, refuse-strewn street in Clerkenwell where Marbeck had walked a month before. This time, however, people stepped aside in alarm at sight of the heavily armed group. Thomas Saxby was known to possess firearms, and both Prout and his guard carried pistols. Their orders were to capture the man alive, Marbeck and Gifford to assist if required. But now that it seemed both Saxby and his wife should be arrested, everything had changed.

  There had been heated words back in Long Lane, but the dispute was short. Once Marbeck had spelled it out, it made sense even to Nicholas Prout. Saxby’s lameness was beyond doubt – if he was a double-dealer, he must have had help. Marbeck almost believed he could picture Anne sitting in the gloom when Silvan had tried to persuade him to turn traitor. How long had it been since such an offer was made to the embittered ex-soldier – and to his wife, too? It now looked as if the false physician Gomez had recruited them. In spite of himself, Marbeck had to admire the Portuguese. He had been tortured unto death, yet had not revealed the identity of his double agent in London. Now Silvan was their master. A grim resolve formed in Marbeck’s mind. Once the Saxbys were taken, surely a path could be laid to the other?

  Now, at Prout’s order, the group halted. The messenger glanced at Marbeck, who pointed to the last house in the row. He and Gifford loosened their swords. The other man readied his short pistol.

  ‘There’s no light,’ Gifford said. ‘They’re still abed.’

  ‘We’ll break the door in,’ Prout said. ‘We take Saxby; you two follow and take the woman. Can you accomplish that?’

  ‘Most amusing,’ Gifford muttered, but was ignored.

  ‘If he tries to fight, aim to wound,’ Prout told his man. ‘
Disarm him at all costs.’ He threw a questioning look at Marbeck.

  ‘There are stairs at the rear, as I recall,’ Marbeck said. ‘But he sleeps on a pallet on the ground floor. He had an old wheel-lock, though it wasn’t primed.’ He shrugged. ‘Yet, with all that’s happened lately, they may be on their guard.’

  ‘Why do we wait?’ Gifford jerked his head towards the tumbledown dwelling. ‘By the look of that door, one good push will cave it in.’

  With a grunt, Prout gestured them to take their places on either side of the doorway. No sooner had they done so than he clapped his guard on the shoulder, but the man needed no prompting. In a moment he had thrown his body against the timbers, which gave way at once. He and Prout hurried in, the messenger shouting as he went.

  ‘Thomas Saxby, I arrest you in the Queen’s name! Show yourself!’

  But the answer was as immediate as it was unexpected: a deafening roar. Close behind Prout, Marbeck ducked instinctively. There had been a red flash, and the air was now filled with powder-smoke. He was aware of a grunt and a body crashing to the floor: the guard had been shot.

  ‘Get back, or I’ll fire, too!’

  It was a woman’s voice. Prout fell forward, stumbling over his pursuivant, while it was all Marbeck and Gifford could do to avoid falling over him in turn. They blundered into the house, scattering to left and right.

  ‘Throw down your weapon! One warning is all I’ll give!’ Prout cried. He was on his knees, coughing in the smoke. Peering through it, Marbeck saw Saxby’s bed where he remembered it, but it was empty. He had barely time to register the sight of someone crouching in the corner – then came another pistol-shot, and this time Prout fell. But even as he did so, the messenger fired his own weapon. The result was a cry – and the figure in the corner collapsed.

  ‘Prout . . . are you hit? Speak, damn you!’

  It was Gifford. Turning, Marbeck saw him bending over the wounded man. Beside them, the guard lay groaning.

  ‘I can fadge for myself – attend to your duty!’