Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  A look of anguish came over Anne’s face. Marbeck expected tears, but instead she shook her head weakly. ‘I’m not a traitor . . . not like you think.’

  Gifford opened his mouth, but Marbeck stayed him again. ‘Then, go back to the start and tell us,’ he said. ‘But leave nothing out, or I will be overruled. Do you understand me?’

  She understood well enough. Her gaze went to Gifford, then to Sangers, who stood only feet away, his enjoyment of her plight obvious to all. Finally, she met Marbeck’s eye again.

  ‘They used me badly,’ she muttered. ‘Tom never knew. He would have killed them if he’d known . . . if he could have done.’

  ‘They?’ Marbeck raised his eyebrows.

  ‘The Portuguese . . . Gomez . . .’ She faltered, as if the memory pained her. ‘It began with him, after Tom came home and lay sick. Tom was like a child; he couldn’t walk or do aught for himself. But they knew already how his mind was turned. They knew even before he left Ireland. There are priests that spy for the Spanish.’

  By the wall, Sangers grunted his contempt. But now that the testimony was flowing, Marbeck and Gifford relaxed slightly.

  ‘How did Gomez make himself known?’ Marbeck asked.

  ‘He came to our house . . .’ Anne was tiring, the pain of stretching already taking its toll. But when she looked into his face, she saw no pity. ‘He knew where to find us,’ she went on. ‘He came as a physician, to attend upon Tom. He even had some skills . . . and he gave us money. No one else helped us. I was grateful, even when I found out what he wanted.’

  ‘And what was that?’ Gifford asked.

  ‘When Tom could walk, he had to go to his old captain, beg him to find him work as a prison informer,’ Anne answered. ‘He would befriend those they think traitors and uncover their secrets. He would claim he was a papist – they gave him a crucifix, to keep under his shirt. His lameness was good cover, they said.’ The words caught in her throat. ‘What else could he do?’

  ‘But when he went to work for the Crown, he was really working for Gomez.’ Gifford’s voice was flat. ‘So he passed a few titbits to his masters, but more intelligence flowed the other way – to your friend the Portuguese.’

  After a moment, Anne gave a nod.

  ‘And Gomez gave Tom a name to use – Mulberry?’

  She nodded again, quickly. ‘He said it was a kind of jest. That we were the fruits of our masters’ toil.’

  ‘Who was Gomez’s master?’ Marbeck asked casually.

  ‘I never asked, and he never said. I didn’t dare—’ She broke off suddenly, but Marbeck saw.

  ‘He could make you do anything, couldn’t he?’

  She met his eye – and for the first time, there was terror in her gaze. Gifford saw it, too – and when she made no answer, he spoke up. ‘So you would run errands, serve any way you could,’ he said. ‘Even serve Gomez. Isn’t that so?’

  Her expression was answer enough.

  ‘Well now . . .’ Gifford put on one of his thin smiles. ‘At last, we have a picture. She has no one to protect her, so wicked Gomez does what he pleases with her. And after he’s used her, she’s too frightened – or too ashamed – to tell her husband.’ He eyed Marbeck. ‘Plucks at the heart, does it not?’

  ‘When did the next part begin?’ Marbeck asked, ignoring him. ‘I speak of the putting out of false reports . . . Did Gomez write them?’

  ‘I can’t read well, but Tom could,’ Anne said hoarsely. ‘Gomez told him what to say, and Tom would write it out using cipher and such.’

  ‘Even to the very last?’ Gifford enquired. ‘The story of the Spanish fleet that will become a new Armada?’

  ‘I think that was Silvan’s work,’ Marbeck said. ‘We’ll come to him soon.’

  There was a moment, then a moan of pain escaped Anne’s lips. She stretched her feet, striving desperately to touch the floor. Sangers snickered.

  ‘Please set me down,’ she gasped. ‘I’ll tell all, though there’s little more . . .’

  ‘Pray, tell us from there,’ Gifford murmured.

  ‘How you must have feared, after Gomez was caught,’ Marbeck went on, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘I wonder you and Tom didn’t try to flee the country.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Gifford said conversationally. ‘If I was Saxby, I’d have soiled my breeches.’

  ‘We went invisible!’ Anne cried. ‘We never left the house – we watched the street. Then after you came poking about –’ she jerked her head at Marbeck – ‘we knew it wouldn’t be long. Tom told me to get a second pistol. We were ready to die . . .’

  ‘Well, one of you did,’ Gifford observed dryly. Over by the wall, Sangers guffawed.

  ‘And then Silvan appeared,’ Marbeck said quickly. ‘Having slipped in past those who were supposed to watch out for him.’

  Gifford bristled, but said nothing.

  ‘He came to us – mayhap three weeks after Gomez was taken,’ Anne panted. ‘He goes as a priest sometimes, or a merchant. He can be anyone he chooses . . .’

  ‘But disguise isn’t your forte, is it?’ Gifford put in, in a tone of mock sympathy. ‘Was that Silvan’s idea? The drawer at the Duck and Drake saw through it. And as for trying to pass yourself off as a bowman . . .’ He gave a snort of derision.

  But Anne wasn’t listening. Instead, she threw an imploring look at Marbeck. ‘Please get me down,’ she begged. ‘You know I’ll not lie—’

  ‘Who is Membrillo?’ Marbeck broke in. ‘Do you know the name?’

  ‘I do not – I swear it!’ she cried, and now tears welled. She closed her eyes, her face contorted with pain.

  ‘So Silvan killed Ottone, the fencing master – didn’t he?’

  ‘I know naught of that either – I swear!’ She let out a sob. ‘Silvan has his own orders, that he brought with him . . .’

  Marbeck threw a glance at Gifford. Then, on impulse, he said: ‘He’s worse even than Gomez, isn’t he?’

  Her reply was an anguished wail. ‘He said he’d have to kill Tom – he was too much of a risk!’ Anne cried. ‘He said he’d come to clean out the stables, start afresh . . . Then, when I begged him, he said he might spare me. He could use a mare, he said, that was willing . . . How could I not do as he said?’

  Weeping, she hung her head. Marbeck drew a breath.

  ‘You work fast, friend . . . I’ll say that much.’

  He turned sharply to find Sangers eyeing him. ‘I’d likely have took more than an hour to get all of that,’ he added, rubbing his beard. ‘She owes you, right enough.’ A sly grin formed. ‘I could arrange for you to collect, if you like – for a price.’

  ‘Take her down,’ Marbeck snapped.

  The interrogator’s grin vanished. ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said, take her down,’ Marbeck ordered. ‘I’ve heard all I need to.’ Deliberately, he faced Gifford, who caught the look in his eye and gave a sigh.

  ‘You heard him,’ Gifford said, turning to Sangers. ‘She’s told us all she can.’

  ‘Well, what of it?’ the other retorted. ‘She’s a traitor – a papist’s whore. She should hang all day and all night.’

  ‘This is our warrant, Sangers.’ Marbeck took a step towards the man. ‘Master Secretary may have further use for her – do you not see?’

  Sangers frowned. ‘No one’s said aught to me of that,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m saying it,’ Marbeck told him. ‘And you should mind your place . . .’ He matched the man’s frown. ‘It wasn’t so long ago that you let this woman’s master perish, when he might have told more – have you forgotten that?’

  Already, Sangers’s bull neck was swelling. ‘I’ve not forgotten,’ he muttered. ‘Nor have I forgot you, Sands – a snooper who thinks he’s a gentleman.’ He glared from Marbeck to Gifford, and back. ‘It’s not wise to wrangle with me,’ he added. ‘Master Secretary needs me more than he cares to admit – mayhap more than he needs men like you.’ But he flinched as Marbeck laid a hand on his sword hilt.

  ‘For
the last time, unchain her and take her down,’ he said.

  A tense moment followed as Sangers’s gaze wandered towards Gifford. He too had his hand on his sword hilt.

  ‘As my friend told you, this is our warrant, Sangers,’ he said coolly.

  The interrogator opened his mouth – but there came a scream of pain that startled even him. At once Marbeck turned away and went to Anne. He bent stiffly, grasping her legs.

  ‘Stop, you fool – you’ll tear your wound open!’

  In a moment Gifford was beside him, swearing under his breath. Between them they lifted her body, taking her weight. As they did so, a look passed between them. Anne, of course, was their only route to Silvan. Marbeck glanced up, saw her eyes were closed. She had fainted.

  ‘Get over here, Sangers!’ Gifford shouted. ‘Unchain her and help us lay her down. Do as I say!’

  The interrogator was still glaring. But at last he sniffed and reached for the key at his belt.

  Marbeck sighed: this particular ordeal was over. What came next, he knew, would depend upon the wretched woman whose limp body he and Gifford now held. But somehow he was determined to lay a trap for the smooth-voiced spymaster who had been the cause of two deaths, and come close to causing his own.

  And he had an idea that, even after this, Anne would help.

  NINETEEN

  There was a low tavern in Thames Street, which Marbeck had used for various purposes in the past. Four days after her ordeal, Anne Saxby was removed from the Marshalsea prison by night, taken across the river and hurried up the inn stairs to a tiny chamber. There, by candlelight, her future was spelled out for her in the starkest terms: the one concession that Marbeck had been able to win from Sir Robert Cecil.

  ‘Be under no illusions,’ he told her. ‘Your life depends upon your helping me. If you fail, the worst that’s likely to befall me is a drubbing from my master. Whereas you will be taken back to the prison, there to remain until you are executed. Are you clear upon that?’

  ‘I expected little else,’ came the reply.

  She was sitting on a low bed, in borrowed clothes. Marbeck was the only other present, though a guard was posted outside. Anne was still in pain from the torture she had been subjected to, but she was recovering, bodily at least. Her mind, however, had suffered hurts that would never heal. Bleakly, she faced her former captor, who now seemed to have become her guardian.

  ‘First, tell me of Silvan,’ Marbeck said. ‘My fear is that he will flee from England. Indeed, some might say it’s likely he’s gone already. What do you say?’

  ‘He’s here yet,’ she answered, after a moment. ‘He won’t leave until he knows what’s become of me.’

  Her answer came as a relief. Marbeck took a few paces about the chamber. It was two days since he had endured a short but gruelling encounter with Master Secretary, in which his own position had been set out in terms as stark as those he had put to Anne. His orders were to put an end to the whole untidy business, by any means necessary. The responsibility was now his alone, Gifford having been sent elsewhere. Then, Marbeck preferred it that way. He had a score to settle with the man who called himself Silvan – one that had become somewhat personal.

  ‘But he will know you’ve been taken.’ He turned to face Anne. ‘As he knows your husband’s dead – it’s the talk of Clerkenwell.’

  She looked away. ‘He will know . . . as he is aware you tried to betray him. After you followed me from Finsbury Fields. He was very angry. You can’t know what he’s like, at such times.’

  ‘I think I can,’ Marbeck said. ‘But did he really think I would turn traitor – that I could be bought so easily?’

  She gave a shrug. ‘I know not what he thinks. He tells me little.’

  Suddenly, Marbeck thought of Moore’s testimony. Perhaps his fellow intelligencer had kept his wits to the end, after all. If he’d told his Spanish interrogators that Marbeck was ripe for turning, that would explain a great deal . . . He almost smiled. Moore was one of the best: even at the last, he had led them astray. The least Marbeck could do now was avenge him.

  ‘How do you make contact with Silvan?’ he asked.

  ‘At the riverside,’ Anne answered. ‘By the Three Cranes in the Vintry. I pass there and put a mark upon a certain doorpost with chalk. Then I wait near the tavern – sometimes an hour, sometimes a whole day – and he finds me.’

  Marbeck considered. ‘Do you think he has eyes and ears in the prison? Will he know you’re gone from there?’

  She shook her head. ‘I know not.’

  ‘Do you still swear you don’t know who Membrillo is?’ he asked, watching her closely.

  ‘I do,’ Anne said. ‘He never uttered that name to me.’

  ‘Was it Silvan who ordered you to dress as a bowman? It was a foolish notion.’

  She sighed. ‘Nay . . . it was Tom. He hated Silvan from the start, as he hated me taking risks for him. He would have gone himself, save that he stood out so. But Tom never believed you would turn. It was he told me to see if I was followed – and how to lose you, in the market.’

  ‘He was right,’ Marbeck said shortly.

  But his mind was busy. The Vintry was the wharf where cargoes of wine were landed, winched from Thames lighters by the cranes on the quayside. The ghost of a plan was forming . . . and all at once he saw the likely means by which Silvan had entered the country.

  ‘He goes as a wine merchant, does he?’

  ‘That and other things,’ Anne said, after a moment. ‘He speaks many languages. He can be a Frenchman, if he wishes.’

  ‘If he knows you were taken, he’ll assume you were questioned,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘Hence, if you were to place your chalk-mark on that post now, he would suspect a trap.’

  Having no answer to that, she gave a shrug. Marbeck turned away, thinking fast. He knew that three vessels had left London for the Continent in the past week, but he doubted Silvan had been on any of them. Searches had been stepped up in recent days. Yet he knew the man would be planning his escape. Haste, it seemed, was now essential.

  ‘I’ll have to take a risk,’ he said finally. ‘Could you convince Silvan you’ve been released from the prison, without telling all? If I gave you a tale, could you spin it?’

  Anne shook her head. ‘I couldn’t lie to him – he’s too clever.’

  Marbeck frowned. Suddenly, a solution sprang up. ‘What if you’d passed word to someone else?’ he asked. ‘Someone who was about to be freed? Might the chalk-mark make him think you’d sent him a message?’

  ‘It might,’ Anne admitted. ‘Yet he trusts no one. At sight of a stranger, he would be wary . . .’

  ‘That’s not your concern,’ Marbeck told her. But having thought of someone who suited his purpose, he relaxed. ‘I have to go out now,’ he added. ‘You should rest . . . Do you have all you need?’

  She nodded listlessly. But when he started for the door, she looked up. ‘What am I to do, then?’ she asked. ‘Act as bait, until he comes for me?’

  Without answering, Marbeck left her.

  The someone he had thought of was Augustine Grogan. And that same night, late though the hour was, the player found himself being collared in his usual haunt – the French Lily – by a suspiciously cheerful Marbeck.

  ‘You surprise me, Sands,’ he murmured. ‘When we last spoke, you couldn’t wait to send me away, as I recall.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I wonder what occasions this bonhomie?’

  ‘Well might you wonder,’ Marbeck said. ‘But let me buy you a cup of Charbon’s best, and I’ll reveal all.’

  The other needed little persuasion. Within minutes the two of them were seated in a booth, where Marbeck wasted no time in outlining his proposal. Grogan was intrigued.

  ‘You wish me to act as a decoy?’ he blurted. Seeing Marbeck’s expression, he clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘Your pardon . . . I take it a degree of discretion is required in this matter?’

  ‘A very great degree,’ Marbeck answered, speaking low. ‘In s
hort, the man I want you to fool would slit your throat if he suspected you.’

  The other blanched. ‘I like this less and less.’

  ‘How would you like a purse with ten crowns in it?’

  A moment passed, then: ‘What should I do? Or, shall I ask, what role is it you wish me to play?’

  ‘The sort you’ve played since you were around twelve years of age, I would guess,’ Marbeck said.

  At that Grogan sighed. ‘I should have known.’

  ‘I’ve even chosen a name for you,’ Marbeck went on. ‘Madge Mullins. You’ve just been released from prison.’

  A frown appeared. ‘I hope you’re not implying I should perform services of a physical nature,’ the player said with a frown. Marbeck shook his head.

  ‘You’re there to convey a message, and then direct the man in question to a place nearby. After that your part is ended. But we will rehearse it, to the last point. So – are you my hireling, or are you not?’

  The player hesitated, though it was a theatrical pause. With raised eyebrows, Marbeck waited.

  ‘Forgive my poor memory,’ Grogan said at last. ‘Did you mention twenty crowns?’

  ‘I thought I said ten,’ Marbeck replied. ‘But it might have been fifteen . . . Will that serve?’

  The other picked up his mug and raised it in mock salute.

  By mid-morning of the following day the scheme had been set in motion. It was not without difficulties, one of which was the role Marbeck had chosen for himself. Silvan knew him, so his disguise had to be convincing; he, on the other hand, had not yet set eyes on Silvan. Having obtained a description from Anne, however, he believed he could identify the man. He was not overly tall, she said, but he was muscular. He wore his hair curled and his beard trimmed to a point. At the quays he dressed as a prosperous merchant, in a feathered hat and silk-lined cloak. And he wore a sword with a distinctive hilt, its tip fashioned into the likeness of an eagle’s head. This touch of vanity pleased Marbeck; it might even be Silvan’s undoing.

  Now, at last, he was ready. Amid the noise and bustle of the Vintry quay, he took a place near the corner of Three Cranes Lane, close to the tavern entrance. The day was fair, with a breeze off the river, from where the cries of watermen echoed. On the wharf, men were busy, handling casks of wine and loading them on to carts. The cranes were at work, their pulleys squealing as barrels were hoisted up from a lighter moored below. Few people paid any attention to the shambling figure of a beggar swathed in rags, who appeared from somewhere and sat down against a wall, setting his wooden bowl at his feet.