Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  Marbeck had employed many disguises in his time, and this was not one he relished. But discomfort he could bear, along with the smell of the moth-eaten clothes he had picked up. Nor did he fear recognition, for his face was grimed with dirt and partly hidden by a torn, wide-brimmed hat. What made him uneasy was the prospect of being confronted by a constable and arrested for vagrancy, or sent on his way. There had been no time to arrange a forged licence. He knew a long wait was likely; indeed, his plan might not even bear fruit at all. Yet he had no choice but to settle to his task.

  A short time after his arrival, the second player in the plot appeared: Augustine Grogan. Nobody, however, would have recognized him; Marbeck was satisfied on that score. For his role as Madge Mullins, a woman of the streets, Grogan had excelled himself. Under an old gown of red taffeta, fluffed out with layers of petticoats, he wore a padded bodice. His hair was concealed beneath a thick horsehair wig, his face whitened, cheeks rouged and lips painted with vermilion. He had been a boy actor, playing female roles by the score then and since, and even at close quarters could convince most people. How long he would be able to fool a man like Silvan, however, remained to be seen.

  Now, as instructed by Marbeck, he approached the doorway of a warehouse near the end of the quay. From the corner of his eye, Marbeck watched him take a piece of chalk from his gown and make a sign on the doorpost: a rough fleur-de-lis. Then, with a practised gait, he moved to a position a few yards away from Marbeck. Between them was the entrance to the Three Cranes Tavern, where Anne had once awaited her spymaster – and where she waited now, in a back chamber, with an armed guard at the ready. And then the waiting began.

  It was a long morning. For his part, Marbeck had an easy time. A few coins were dropped into his bowl, but no one challenged him, nor did any official appear. He grew stiff and longed to stretch himself, but had to keep his place. His growing fear was that, as the hours dragged by, Grogan would lose his nerve. At first the player had enjoyed himself. Flirtatious behaviour came naturally to him, as did ripostes to the lewd remarks he attracted. When propositioned, he would claim he was awaiting a customer. Since he was within earshot, every word reached Marbeck . . . but after a while he detected a strain in the man’s voice. Though neither looked at the other, an understanding grew between them: Grogan could not keep up his role indefinitely. Indeed, Marbeck knew that only the promise of a handsome payment was keeping him there at all.

  As noon came and went, with no sign of anyone who looked like Silvan, even Marbeck became restive. The tavern had grown noisy, and customers wandered in and out, threatening at times to kick his bowl away, or even to kick him. Then, when he was on the point of getting to his feet and taking a walk, something landed in the bowl with a clack. He saw a small pebble, and his eyes flew up towards Grogan. The player stood poised, one hand twisting a strand of his wig, but he caught Marbeck’s eye, before looking pointedly away. Marbeck followed his gaze to the door-post with its mark . . . and froze.

  Someone was standing there, apparently in idle conversation with another man. He was exactly as Anne had described him – down to the blue velvet cloak with its silk lining – but it was the sword that gave him away. Even from a distance, Marbeck caught a glimpse of the silver hilt with its beaked point. Now he watched Silvan clap his acquaintance on the shoulder and turn away. As he did so, his eyes went to the chalk-mark, though he gave no sign of noticing it. In fact, stifling a yawn, which only Marbeck and Grogan would have known was forced, he promptly walked away and rounded a corner.

  Marbeck glanced aside and saw Grogan looking uneasy, but when he turned again, it was all he could do not to flinch. From another corner, Silvan suddenly reappeared and strolled towards the player . . . and the moment he spoke Marbeck knew for certain he had found his man.

  ‘Do I know you, mistress?’ Silvan stopped, eyes upon Grogan, who quickly summoned a smile: he was on.

  ‘I think not, sir – but we can soon remedy it,’ Grogan answered coquettishly. Then, as the other waited, he lowered his voice. ‘My name’s Madge – mayhap you know my friend, mistress Anne?’

  ‘Anne?’ Silvan raised an eyebrow. ‘The name means nothing.’ He used a French accent, that of a fluent native speaker.

  ‘No . . . nor should it, master,’ Grogan said quickly. ‘Only she and I were at close quarters . . . in a confined place, you might say. Poor Anne was in bad straits; she feared to die there. I was the one she trusted with her tale.’

  He was smiling, but Marbeck, listening with face averted, cursed silently. Grogan had spoken too soon, and he sensed that Silvan was suspicious.

  ‘And what tale was that?’ Silvan enquired in a bored tone. ‘Not that it matters . . . I had a mind to pass a moment with you, but I’m a busy man. My cargo won’t wait.’

  ‘Your cargo?’ Grogan appeared to be thinking fast. ‘I believe Anne told me of such. You import fine wines, don’t you, sir? From Bordeaux – and Savoy, even?’

  ‘Do I?’ Silvan replied. ‘What else did your friend Anne tell you?’

  There was a pause, then Grogan took a breath and delivered his crucial speech. ‘She told me to make that mark on the post yonder,’ he said, his voice falling almost to a whisper. ‘And then to await you with her message – the one she entrusted to me, where we both were confined. ’Twas in the Marshalsea, a few days past. I faced a whipping – but she faced death.’

  ‘So Anne is dead?’

  The words came sharply, though Silvan kept his smile. Any casual observer would have seen a man of business dallying with a trull, as if trying to decide whether she was worth his trouble. Before answering, Grogan glanced both ways, a little too like a player for Marbeck’s liking.

  ‘Nay, sir . . . she lives,’ he murmured. ‘And she awaits you, not far away—’

  Then he yelped. Without warning, Silvan had grabbed his false bosom and squeezed it. ‘As I thought,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re not Madge, any more than I’m Queen Elizabeth. Is there anything more you would like to tell me? But have a care – for if it’s another lie, I will know. And your reward will be a poniard in the cods – do you see?’

  Grogan went rigid. From his seat by the wall, Marbeck cursed the weakness of his plan. Silvan had seen through the disguise in a moment. He was readying himself to spring, when the player spoke up.

  ‘All right! Sweet Jesu, don’t hurt me!’ he begged, dropping his performance in an instant. ‘I’m a player. I got taken by the watch for stealing. I was facing a branding, or worse – but I swear I was in the prison with Anne. Her husband was killed in a fight in Clerkenwell . . .’

  ‘Stop there.’

  The command brooked no refusal. Grogan fell silent. He was shaking, and it was no act: even he knew a killer when faced with one. Tense as a wand, Marbeck waited.

  ‘Now, answer my questions, and you live,’ Silvan breathed. ‘Lie, and I’ll slit your gizzard. First, I ask again: is Anne dead?’

  ‘No – she’s alive, and she’s near. I spoke the truth!’ Grogan protested.

  ‘How did she get out?’

  ‘We bribed a turnkey . . .’

  ‘With what? No, it matters not.’ Deliberately, Silvan put a hand to Grogan’s face and, still smiling, brushed his cheek. Even from yards away, Marbeck heard him gulp.

  ‘You said she gave you a message for me?’

  ‘Only what I’ve told,’ Grogan answered. ‘I was to direct you to her . . . she wouldn’t trust me with more than—’

  ‘Was she questioned?’ Silvan asked abruptly.

  ‘I know not,’ Grogan said. ‘She was in fear of it – but she’s unharmed, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘So . . .’ Silvan glanced round, and Marbeck tensed further. His face was shaded by his hat, but he knew the man had looked down at him. There was a moment, then:

  ‘So, you can take me to her?’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ Grogan said hurriedly. ‘She’s here, in the Three Cranes – the back room.’

  ‘And you w
ill take me.’

  It was an order, not a question. Grogan hesitated, then forced a nod, whereupon Silvan linked arms with him, smiling broadly, and guided him to the inn doorway.

  On the threshold he paused, glanced down and fumbled in his cloak. A coin appeared, which he tossed into Marbeck’s bowl. Then he was gone.

  TWENTY

  Marbeck counted to five, then got to his feet.

  The back room of the Three Cranes was normally used for dicing and gaming, but early that morning he had hired it exclusively. It suited him, because there was a rear entrance. Once Silvan and Grogan had gone inside the inn, he slipped down a side alley and entered the room, which was bare of furniture apart from a few stools. It was also in semi-darkness, because he had curtained the windows. He was elated, though uneasy at Grogan’s involvement. Grogan was no longer supposed to be part of the plan.

  As he entered, Anne got up from the corner. The guard, one of Prout’s best men, was almost hidden in another corner. He too rose, but Marbeck raised a hand.

  ‘Stand ready,’ he said.

  The man melted back into the shadows. Marbeck motioned Anne to sit, then stationed himself behind the door. Moving swiftly, he threw off his hat and ragged coat and picked up the sword he had secreted. Then he flattened himself against the wall and waited.

  But nothing happened. Seconds became a minute . . . Across the room, he heard the guard stir. Noise came through the wall, that of the Three Cranes on a busy afternoon. Marbeck stooped to look through the keyhole, peering along a passage, but could see nothing. He pressed himself to the panelling again. Another minute had passed, and all at once he feared the worst. Did Silvan suspect a trap, after all? Had he seen through not only Grogan’s disguise, but his, too? Then suddenly the latch clicked, the door opened, and a figure in hat and cloak walked in. Immediately, Marbeck’s sword point was at his back.

  ‘Be still,’ he ordered.

  The man halted. With a squeal of hinges, the door swung to behind him. Marbeck walked out from the wall, sword levelled. From the corner, he heard the guard move. He rounded the cloaked figure . . . then froze.

  ‘It’s me.’ Grogan’s whitened face stared at him from under the hat brim. He was shaking like a leaf.

  Marbeck whirled round – too late. The door flew inwards, cracking him on the forehead. He staggered back, while at the same time Grogan was shoved forward. Then mayhem broke out.

  There was a scream – from Anne, he thought. There was a shout, too – from the guard, no doubt. Then came a clash of weapons, more cries, and bodies were swaying about in the gloom. In a daze Marbeck raised his sword – and when a shape loomed over him, he lunged. He felt the point strike home – there was a fearful shriek, and the figure collapsed.

  He lurched across the room. There was a grunt, and someone fell to the floor in front of him.

  ‘Anne!’ he shouted.

  Figures flitted across his field of vision, then stopped. There was a brief silence, which was broken by an anguished cry from behind. Marbeck’s heart gave a jolt.

  ‘Help me . . .’

  It was Grogan. In dismay, Marbeck snapped round, knowing at once what he had done. As he did so, he realized that the other on the floor was the guard, who lay still.

  ‘Your friend needs help, I think.’

  There was the voice in the dark again: Silvan’s. But as Marbeck raised his sword, something swung at him, thudding into his shoulder. Pain shot through him. He reeled and fell to the floor, squinting up at his assailant: it was Anne.

  She dropped the stool and stepped back. As she did so, the rear door opened, flooding the room with daylight to reveal Silvan, minus his hat and cloak. His sword was in one hand, while with the other he took Anne’s arm . . . and he was smiling.

  ‘You are a disappointment, signor.’ He looked down at Marbeck. ‘You and I could have done much together.’

  Then he was outside, and Anne with him.

  His shoulder throbbing, Marbeck staggered to his feet. There was a noise at the other door, and a face poked round: that of the landlord of the Three Cranes.

  ‘What’s the coil here . . .?’ he began. Then he gasped.

  Walking heavily, Marbeck came forward and knelt beside Grogan. The player was shivering, while his heart’s blood pumped from the wound: the fatal wound that Marbeck himself had inflicted.

  ‘I was good, wasn’t I?’ Grogan gazed at him, his eyes very bright. ‘My Madge Mullins, I mean . . . and my extempore, too.’

  Slowly, Marbeck nodded.

  ‘I always tried to give my best,’ the player added. He shuddered, and his eyes closed.

  ‘You were superb, my friend – as always,’ Marbeck said. Then he fell silent. He was talking to a dead man.

  Bleakly, he looked up at the landlord. ‘Will you call a constable?’ he said. ‘Tell him two players were practising their swordplay and suffered an accident . . .’ He broke off. There was a groan, and he looked round to see the guard stirring.

  ‘Accident?’ The landlord stared at the scene of carnage. ‘And what of him?’ he demanded.

  Dazed, the guard sat up. His and Marbeck’s eyes met, whereupon the other gave a brief nod. His hand was bloody where Silvan’s sword had slashed it, but otherwise he had suffered nothing worse than being knocked unconscious.

  ‘He was our umpire,’ Marbeck said.

  Outside on the Vintry wharf, he leaned against a wall to collect himself. People looked askance at him: a beggar, holding a sword. They would think he had stolen it. He shook his head and, with the noise of the quayside in his ears, indulged in a moment of self-excoriation. To say that he had failed would be inadequate. He had underestimated his opponent, who had escaped with ease. More, in the confusion he had killed the man he’d hired to help him, and lost his hostage into the bargain.

  Silvan and Anne could have gone in any direction. The great city seemed to roar defiantly at Marbeck’s back, with its myriad streets and alleys. Before him stretched the river, swollen and sluggish at high tide, dotted with craft of all kinds. Over on the Southwark shore he could see the theatres: the Swan, the Rose and the Globe, flags fluttering to denote a performance about to begin. Now there was one less player to strut their stages, he thought grimly.

  ‘Oi, you – what are you doing?’

  He turned to see a heavy-set man in a russet coat staring at him. There was a billet stuck in his belt. As Marbeck looked, the fellow started towards him.

  ‘That’s two laws you’ve broke,’ he announced. ‘A sturdy beggar with no permit, and carrying a sword. Where’d you filch it from?’

  ‘It’s mine.’ Just then Marbeck hadn’t the energy to lie.

  ‘And I’m the Lord Treasurer,’ the constable jeered. ‘Hold still while I take it off you.’

  ‘Truly, I wouldn’t advise that,’ Marbeck said.

  His tone checked the man. Here was a dirty vagrant, speaking like a gentleman. A frown appeared.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Name’s Sands,’ Marbeck said automatically. His gaze shifted back to the river. Then he gave a start. A skiff had entered his vision, from somewhere to his left. The waterman was heaving at the oars, taking his boat into midstream . . . He stared at the two passengers seated in the stern, and his pulse leaped.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said. And before the constable could reply, he darted past with a speed that caught the man by surprise. But as he went, he called out. ‘You’re needed in the tavern – hurry.’ Then he was running along the quay, and down the Three Cranes Stairs.

  There were two watermen waiting. One was young and lean, eager for trade; the other was a grizzled Thames veteran, his shoulders thick and bowed from a lifetime of toil. Marbeck took one look and went to the older man’s boat.

  ‘There’s a shilling to get me across,’ he breathed, dragging a coin from his jerkin. ‘Another if you can catch that fellow – do you see?’

  The waterman stared. But he took the coin, then followed Marbeck’s outstretched arm to pi
ck out a boat bobbing in midstream, the heads of a man and a woman visible.

  ‘Best get in, then,’ he said.

  Marbeck stepped into the skiff and sat down. He still carried his sword, but the boatman ignored it. In a moment he had put an oar to the stairs and shoved his little craft out. It turned with the current, then shot forward as he plied both oars; at last, the chase had begun.

  As the spray hit his face, Marbeck found hope surging through him. Now, too, his reasoning kicked in. It was no great surprise that Silvan had taken to the water. He might intend to go downriver, and take passage to Dover from Deptford. Or perhaps he had a bolthole on Bankside – that would make sense. Whatever the reasons, Marbeck was on his heels.

  It took a very few minutes to reach the middle of the stream. The grey-headed boatman uttered not a word, but every now and again he looked round, eyeing the other craft. They were gaining, Marbeck was certain of it. He also grew aware of more small boats clustering on the opposite shore. People were spilling out, flocking to the theatres. His mouth tightened: he could lose Silvan in the crowd.

  ‘Pull to your larboard,’ he said. ‘Forget the other boat; just get me ashore.’

  The waterman looked up. ‘They’ll be packed together like eels,’ he said. ‘Better I take you to the Falcon Stairs.’

  ‘No, go the shortest way.’ Marbeck peered forward, gripping his sword hilt, keeping his eye on Silvan’s boat. He could make out faces now, but to his satisfaction neither of the two occupants looked behind. He guessed they did not expect to be followed, but he couldn’t be certain. On impulse, he leaned over the boat’s side and scooped up a handful of water. Tearing off his ragged jerkin and shirt, he used them to clean his face and hands. The boatman glanced up to see his passenger now stripped to the waist.