Marbeck and the Double Dealer

by John Pilkington

  The other looked puzzled. ‘Last time we spoke, sir, I fear you had taken too much drink,’ he said. ‘You and the player Grogan – you were harsh with me, I recall. Nevertheless, you are welcome. What is your pleasure?’

  ‘Grogan’s dead,’ Marbeck said, watching him carefully. ‘Have you not heard?’

  A frown creased the other’s brow. ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘He died trying to help me,’ Marbeck went on. ‘But I can say that the man we were chasing has paid with his own life. He too was known to you, I think.’ And when the other looked blank, he added: ‘His name was Silvan.’

  Charbon was silent.

  ‘You heard me, I think,’ Marbeck persisted. He took a step forward, until the two of them were barely inches apart. ‘Your friend from Savoy is dead.’

  ‘My friend?’ The man’s frown had deepened, but he appeared calm. ‘I don’t understand you, Sands.’

  ‘I think you do,’ Marbeck said. ‘As I think you know my real name, and that I serve the Queen’s Council.’ Before the other could speak, he added: ‘It was you who knocked me out that night in the street and called Silvan. As it was you in the dark, pointing a pistol at me. You didn’t speak, because you knew I would recognize your voice.’

  Charbon’s gaze shifted, as if he was looking for assistance. Marbeck put a hand on his arm. ‘There’s no one to help you now,’ he said mildly. ‘And if anyone here knew who you really are, they’d come to my aid in a trice.’

  The landlord’s bushy moustache was twitching. Finally, he spoke, very low. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to look in your cellar,’ Marbeck said. ‘I think it may hold treasonable matter.’

  A pause, then: ‘By what warrant do you demand it?’

  ‘I have none,’ Marbeck said. Then he glanced aside and was relieved to see Thomas Rose moving towards them, dragging his weak leg. He faced his suspect again.

  ‘You may know this man,’ he said. ‘What you don’t know is that he’s a Crown servant, too – or was once. Now, will you open up your cellar, or do we have to force you?’

  There was a moment while Rose came puffing up to stand at Marbeck’s side. He said nothing, merely fixed Charbon with a hard stare. For some reason, the man relaxed.

  ‘Force me?’ he echoed. ‘But there is no need. The cellar is not locked – pray, look for yourselves.’ And he stood aside, gesturing to the doorway. Immediately, Rose went towards it, grasped the latch. The door opened.

  ‘Search there, if you wish,’ Charbon said in a harsh voice. ‘Then, when you’re finished, you can leave. Henceforth, you are not welcome at this inn. Now, I have work—’

  ‘No – that won’t do.’

  Marbeck spoke sharply. He glanced at Rose, who stepped back, not needing any instruction. Charbon was between them. The man’s chest rose, but he was trapped.

  ‘That’s right,’ Marbeck said. ‘You’re coming down with us.’

  ‘I have an inn to keep,’ Charbon persisted.

  But Marbeck merely gave him a push that brooked no argument. In a tight group, the three of them descended the cellar stairs, Rose bringing up the rear. At the foot of the steps was a lantern. The old pursuivant found his tinderbox, struck a flame and lit it, whereupon he and Marbeck looked about. Charbon stood by the wall, from where he watched the other two without expression.

  But it soon became clear that the search would be useless. The room was small and low-ceilinged, and held nothing but barrels of beer and wine. Rose knocked on all of them, and on the walls, too – without result. Marbeck then took the lantern and peered into every corner. Finally, he turned to see Rose shaking his head.

  ‘Well – are you finished now?’

  They looked, and saw Charbon wearing a disdainful expression.

  ‘If you’re done, messieurs, I will go back upstairs,’ he said coldly. ‘I would offer you refreshment after your labours, but – I repeat – I do not want you at the French Lily. So, with your permission . . .’

  He moved to the stairs, but at once Marbeck was at his side. ‘No, I’m not finished,’ he said. ‘And I won’t be until I’ve been over every inch of this house – whether you’ve barred me or not, Charbon.’ Then, leaning so close that the man flinched, he added: ‘Or should I call you Membrillo?’

  The other’s sharp intake of breath was all the confirmation he needed. The next moment Charbon found himself being shoved up the stairs, with the other two on his heels.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The three men emerged from the cellar doorway into the noise and bustle of the tavern, only to find that their activities had not gone unnoticed. There stood Charbon’s drawer, a big man in a stained apron, looking puzzled.

  ‘What goes on, Gaston?’ he enquired, looking uneasily from his master to the others. ‘Is there trouble?’

  ‘No trouble,’ Marbeck said. ‘The landlord’s helping us search for something.’ He turned deliberately. ‘Is that not so?’

  Charbon hesitated, and for a moment Marbeck thought he would try to bolt. Casually, he took a sideways step to forestall such action. Rose was behind them, and then the Frenchman twitched, as if at a spasm of pain.

  ‘Yes . . . all is well, Peter,’ he said quickly, with a nod to the drawer. ‘Monsieur Sands and I will go to the upper chambers now. It’s business. You may go back to work.’

  He indicated the stairway, which was close by. After a moment the drawer shrugged and moved away. Marbeck glanced round and understood: Rose’s fist was pressed tightly to Charbon’s back. There was no sign of the tailor’s bodkin Marbeck had given him out in the street, but he knew it was there.

  ‘Upstairs it is, then,’ he said.

  They climbed to the upper storey, where there were bedchambers for hire. Once out of sight of the crowd, however, Charbon turned on Rose.

  ‘You ’ave no right for this!’ he spat. ‘I will—’

  ‘You’ll do nothing,’ Marbeck said. ‘Except stand where we can see you – and if you try to run, I’ll use this.’

  He placed a hand on his sword hilt, whereupon the man’s face twitched. ‘This is all a foolish nonsense,’ he said, wetting his lips. ‘You confuse me with another, I think . . .’

  But he broke off, as Marbeck merely pushed him through the open doorway of the first room. It was empty save for a bed and a chamber pot. Rose followed them in, found a candle in a holder and lit it. He peered about and knocked on walls for a while, then shook his head. So they moved across the landing to a second room, Charbon sent in first again. This chamber, at the front of the inn, was grander, with a curtained four-poster, stools and a table. There was also a chest, but it contained only linen. Rose rummaged about in it, then slammed the lid.

  ‘Rest yourself,’ Marbeck suggested. ‘Keep your eye on this one, while I look about.’

  With a nod, Rose went to a stool and eased himself down. But he never took his eyes off Charbon, who stood stiffly aside. Marbeck began to search the room, more urgently now. Since the fruitless visit to the cellar, he was less certain of his theory, yet he persevered: peering under the bed, lifting the mattress and coverlet, standing on a stool to look above the tester. It was all to no avail, however. Finally, he stood in the middle of the room and gazed down at the floorboards. But when he glanced at Charbon, he saw a look of contempt on the man’s face.

  ‘Lift the boards, if you must,’ he said. ‘Do as you will – you’ll find nothing. Why do you not listen to me?’

  Marbeck caught Rose’s eye; even the old pursuivant, veteran of many searches, appeared to be wavering. Half-heartedly, he lifted a hand and knocked on the wall beside him, then gave a shrug.

  ‘Well, we’ve hardly begun yet,’ Marbeck said, with a show of confidence. ‘There’s a yard, isn’t there? And a stable.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Charbon nodded. ‘Look there, too – dig around in the horse-dung. It seems you ’ave naught better to do.’

  Without expression, Marbeck crossed the room to the single window. The jutty projected for se
veral feet over the lane, almost meeting that of the house opposite. He looked out into the darkness that had fallen, heard voices from the street below. He thought fast – where to look now? Idly, he banged the wall below the window, in three places . . . then paused. The first two knocks had produced a hollow sound; the last one, a muffled thud. He span round – and at last Charbon made his move.

  With sudden energy, the man darted forward and pushed Rose over. The stool crashed to the floor, sending the old pursuivant sprawling. But as Charbon lunged for the door, he found Marbeck was quicker. With a rasp, his sword flew out. The other lurched, then stopped in his tracks with the point at his chest.

  ‘Kneel!’ Marbeck ordered, his voice cold as steel.

  The other looked up and saw his expression. With a curse that was almost a groan, he dropped to his knees.

  ‘By the Christ, why don’t you prick the bastard?’ Like an ungainly spider, Rose was struggling to his feet. Breathing hard, he bore down on Charbon, but Marbeck stayed him.

  ‘I’ll watch this one,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you do what you’re best at – what you used to do?’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Your dagger should serve.’

  Rose eyed him, then gave a nod. Drawing his poniard from its sheath, he went to the window and began prodding the wall beneath it. Soon he found a crack and forced the point in. With an effort, he prised out an oak pale, along with a shower of plaster dust. Then, stooping, he put his hands to the opening and wrenched. With a great noise of splintering staves, part of the panel came away – whereupon Rose gave a cry of triumph, and fell back on his rump.

  ‘Found!’ he shouted. ‘Will you look at this?’

  Keeping his sword levelled at Charbon, Marbeck looked – and breathed out in relief. In the dim light he saw papers, tied up in neat bundles.

  ‘Would you care to tell us what those are?’ he asked Charbon. The man looked balefully up at him, but refused to answer.

  ‘Shall I hazard a guess?’ Marbeck went on. ‘Gifts from friends in Douai or Paris – or even Rome, perhaps? Treatises that speak of that joyous day when England is returned to the true faith. Do I hit the mark?’

  ‘I think you do, Master Sands.’ Rose was on hands and knees with the candle, peering into the recess. ‘I don’t read well, but I’ll wager the top one’s in Latin . . . Papa loquitur.’ He rummaged about, then dragged a bundle towards him. ‘Now see this: The Abomination of Luther: to all servants of the true faith.’ He grimaced. ‘That’ll make fine reading.’

  ‘It will,’ Marbeck agreed, his eyes still on Charbon. ‘Especially for those who’ve been looking for such cargo. Indeed, I think one of them intercepted a letter from you – Membrillo.’ He rolled the word round his tongue. ‘You it was, I think, who reported the safe arrival of our brother, was it not? I speak of Silvan – who received a ball in the head but a short while ago.’ He paused. ‘A sort of justice in that, wouldn’t you say?’

  Charbon was shaking now. His chest rose and fell, his eyes going from Rose to the stack of forbidden pamphlets, and back to Marbeck.

  ‘The papers came in hidden in wine casks, didn’t they?’ Marbeck went on. ‘To be unloaded at the Vintry, in full view of anyone. Wrapped in tarred leather, were they?’

  Suddenly, Charbon spoke. ‘You will have your judgement too, one day,’ he said bitterly. ‘As will all of you heretics, when that she-viper Elizabeth is dead, and a man rules in her place – a man born of Mary Stuart, a lady of the true religion.’

  ‘But King James is a Protestant down to his soles,’ Marbeck replied calmly. ‘Or so I hear.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a bold one, Charbon, I’ll admit that. A clearing house for secret matter – right under the shadow of the Tower. Who’d have guessed it was here all along?’

  ‘Well, you did,’ Rose said from the window.

  He got up, dusting off his hands, and threw Charbon a withering look. ‘But now you have him. And in time he’ll tell all he knows. How this stuff was distributed, and who it was destined for.’ He eyed Marbeck. ‘You haven’t lost your nose, after all,’ he added. ‘I hope you get thanks for it . . . It’s more than I ever did.’

  ‘Perhaps I can remedy that,’ Marbeck said. ‘Once I’ve made my report.’

  The older man shrugged. ‘Just put in a good word for me at the Duck, will you? I wouldn’t want to lose my place.’

  The next day, tiring of the White Bear, Marbeck threw caution aside and moved back to the Dolphin. Hibbert seemed glad to see him, and not merely because Marbeck still owed him money for Cobb’s stabling. He paid the man a little on account, promising the remainder soon. That, he hoped, would follow after he had seen Sir Robert Cecil. This time he would not forget to ask for payment.

  Once installed in his old chamber overlooking the Spital Field, he set himself to writing a detailed report: of the death of Silvan, whose body still lay in a house on Bankside, and the subsequent discovery of a cache of Catholic propaganda at the French Lily. There was no hiding the fact that Silvan had been killed before he could be questioned, in particular about the spymaster Juan Roble. But now, with Charbon’s capture, new intelligence would be gained. Marbeck drew some satisfaction from that, though he had one uneasy thought: that Master Secretary might decide to send him to Paris again – whereas he had other plans, which did not involve taking ship to anywhere.

  Returning to the Dolphin was a rash decision, he knew, but he had ceased to care. Silvan and Charbon, the enemies who had known his true identity and where he lodged, were finished: one dead, the other a prisoner. Whereas Anne . . . He thought hard about Anne. He intended to ask Cecil whether some sort of reward could be got for her. And he was especially remorseful about the death of Augustine Grogan. He meant to find out if the man had any family, and, if so, to ask for a pension to be paid them.

  He was pondering the matter two nights later when someone knocked. Half dressed and half asleep, Marbeck listened until the knock was repeated, then got up and answered the door. Without speaking, Nicholas Prout entered the room. His arm was in a sling, and he looked a tired man.

  ‘Does it mend well?’ Marbeck enquired.

  ‘They dug a ball out, the size of a pigeon’s egg,’ Prout replied gloomily. ‘Thanks to my prayers, though, there’s no infection.’

  Marbeck gestured to his table, where a jug stood. ‘I’d offer you a drink of good Rhenish,’ he said, ‘if I didn’t think you’d turn your nose up at it.’

  ‘Well, I’ve a mind to be contrary,’ Prout said. ‘So I’ll say yes.’

  Without comment, Marbeck went to the table, poured two cups and carried them over. Prout took a long pull from his. In silence, the two eyed each other.

  ‘It’s been a farrago, all this,’ the messenger said at last.

  Marbeck gave a shrug.

  ‘I asked Master Secretary for a pension for Mistress Ottone,’ Prout added. ‘But not only does he refuse to reward traitors, he says he won’t reward traitors’ wives either.’

  ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

  ‘Not only that.’ Prout’s eyes scanned the room. ‘Mind if I seat myself?’ At Marbeck’s nod, he took the stool by the window. Marbeck sat on the bed facing him.

  ‘Grogan, the player . . .’ Prout frowned. ‘Seems his father’s a gentleman, out in Suffolk. He’s now a very angry gentleman.’

  Marbeck looked away.

  ‘I know how it happened,’ Prout said. ‘You shouldn’t bear the guilt alone. Though Sir Robert doesn’t see it that way.’

  ‘What of the woman?’ Marbeck asked suddenly.

  ‘She’s confined,’ was all Prout would say.

  They drank in silence for a while.

  ‘You did good work, ferreting out Charbon,’ he added. ‘There were enough seditious books in that hiding place to fill a cart. Papal tracts, reports from the seminary in Douai – a bale of popery and wickedness.’

  ‘I take it Master Secretary’s had my report,’ Marbeck said.

  ‘He has, and that was my chief reaso
n for coming,’ Prout replied. ‘You’re ordered to Whitehall, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘My chance to make amends, perhaps?’ Marbeck said wryly.

  ‘You and I both, Marbeck,’ came the reply. ‘There’s a lot to do, now the Queen’s short of intelligencers all of a sudden.’

  From somewhere, Marbeck’s anger rose. He thought of his talk with Lady Celia, in her bed at Chelsea. Fixing the other man with a look as bleak as his own, he said: ‘Tell me – how long do you think this will last?’

  ‘What do you speak of?’ Prout asked, not understanding.

  ‘This cat-and-mouse game with Spain. The toing and froing.’ He sighed. ‘They capture one of our men; we unmask one of theirs. They put out a false rumour; we counter with another. Then we each kill one of the other’s, only for someone to take his place . . .’ He broke off and took a gulp of wine. ‘And all the while, commanding them from the shadows are those we never get close to. Men who spend their agents’ lives as gamesters spend halfpennies.’

  ‘This isn’t like you, Marbeck,’ Prout remarked after a moment. ‘I always thought you’re a man who enjoys the game, as you call it. More than most, anyway.’

  ‘Well, I could do with a holiday,’ Marbeck found himself saying. Then he laughed at his own words. ‘By the Christ, now listen to me.’

  Prout tilted his cup and drained it. ‘I’ll leave you to take some rest,’ he said, and got to his feet.

  ‘Have you had any tidings of Moore?’ Marbeck asked him.

  ‘Dead, we think,’ the messenger replied. ‘The Spaniards had him in their fortress at Brussels, but there’s been no further word.’ He frowned. ‘If you’ve got notions of revenge, I’d allay those,’ he added. ‘They blur your vision.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ Marbeck said, and saw him to the door. Outside, Prout checked himself.

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but Gifford’s going back there. To the Low Countries, I mean.’

  Marbeck gave a wry smile. ‘That should please him . . . I hope it pleases a certain Dutch doxy.’