Dark Entry

by M. J. Trow

  In the angle of the roof, he hauled himself upright and lay for a moment on the damp coldness of the tiles. Some June this, with autumn already coating the stonework in the small hours. Dominus or not, could he really stand another winter in Cambridge before his own warm south beckoned him? He crawled along the eaves, feeling the bird droppings, hard and crusty under his fingers. A sleeping pigeon woke, startled and flapped frantically to the sky.

  Now, Marlowe was on the leads, the little attic windows of the servants’ quarters standing sentinel over the sleeping town. A small studded door crouched to his left, half-hidden by the ivy that grew there. He tried it gently with his shoulder and it creaked open. Good old Latimer; Marlowe felt vaguely guilty now about exposing the man’s hand at the Devil.

  He ducked inside and crept along a corridor, wincing as his groin collided with a table. One door, two, and then in the dim half-light from the nearest window he found the staircase. The banister was like polished glass under his hand, the ancient oak worn smooth by generations of scholars. On the first floor, he stopped. He couldn’t risk lighting a candle, although they stood unlit at intervals on the furniture in the hall. He peered at the name beside the door, but it was too dark to see. He felt with his fingers. An ‘F’, definitely. A tall letter in the middle . . . Firebrace. Damn. He padded on, checking left and right. The next was easy. Hartland. Where was the man’s room?

  It was the light that stopped him. The growing glimmer of a candle from the floor below, illuminating the plaster ceiling, pargeted with its knots and heraldry. Then, the sound. A rattle of keys, a low, almost tuneless humming. Not a King’s scholar, certainly. Not with a voice like that.

  Marlowe flattened himself against the wall. He just had time to catch the name by the door as the candle’s glow lit it – Whitingside – before he slid round the corner, not daring to breathe. He had not graduated yet. And breaking into another college would mean he never would. Not even the kindly Dr Norgate could save him and those bastards Harvey, Lomas and Darryl would have a field day.

  He heard the whisper of skirts along the passageway, the rattle of a key and the squeak of a door being opened. He popped his head round at an awkward angle to see the bedder disappearing into Ralph’s rooms.

  Eliza Laurence had been a bedder since before Christopher Marlowe was born. She’d come all the way from Royston as a girl, walking barefoot with her father who got an ostler’s job, courtesy of the university. She knew these stairs like the back of her hand, every twist and turn. She bobbed before all the scholars, whatever their rank and had never spoken to the Master or the Fellows in her life. But then, she’d never drunk a pint of beer, or missed the Sabbath or seen the sea. And she’d never seen anything like what she saw lying in the guttering candle flame on the bed in Ralph Whitingside’s room. She would have screamed, but couldn’t.

  And that was because Christopher Marlowe had placed his hand tightly over her mouth.

  THREE

  Marlowe closed the door with the hand that wasn’t steadying Eliza Laurence. He led her, weeping, into the next chamber and sat her down.

  ‘I am a friend,’ he said quietly. ‘I mean you no harm.’

  She blinked up at him through her tears. ‘Oh, sir, what can have happened? Is it the plague?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘The sweating sickness?’ she suggested, trying to make sense of what she’d seen in the next room. ‘My old mother went of that years ago. It strikes you down like God’s own hand.’

  A hand had struck down Ralph Whitingside, certainly, but Marlowe wasn’t sure God had much to do with it. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.

  ‘Eliza, sir.’

  ‘You’re a college bedder?’

  ‘Yessir.’ Her eyes were wet in the guttering light of her candle, still wobbling in the clasped hands in her lap.

  ‘Do you usually go into scholar’s rooms in the early hours?’

  ‘No, sir!’ The woman, for all her shock, was outraged. ‘I had my instructions.’

  ‘From Master Whitingside?’

  She nodded. ‘He told me to clean his rooms this morning, sir. He was to be away, sudden like, but would be back by today. Well, I’ve got three staircases to do, sir, so I had to start early. It’ll be breakfast for the scholars soon.’

  Marlowe looked at the sky through Whitingside’s leaded panes. There was just a blush of pink on the horizon. Eliza was right. ‘When did he tell you this?’ he asked her. ‘When did you see Master Whitingside last?’

  ‘Oooh.’ She pursed her lips, secretly glad that she had something to think about other than the corpse beyond the oak-clad wall. ‘Tuesday, sir. It was Tuesday, because that was the day Dr Falconer was took funny.’

  ‘Took funny?’ Marlowe repeated. ‘That would be Dr Falconer, the organist?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. He has these turns. Master Whitingside, he laughs . . . laughed at him, saying it’s God striking the wicked.’ Eliza suddenly went rigid and pale in the candlelight. ‘Should he have done that, sir?’ she asked Marlowe. ‘Master Whitingside, should he have taken the Lord’s name in vain?’

  Marlowe patted her arm. ‘We don’t know these things, Eliza,’ he said. ‘I must look to Master Whitingside. Will you be all right here for a while? You’ll wait for me?’

  ‘Let me keep the candle, sir,’ she blurted out, suddenly afraid of the dark.

  ‘Of course,’ he said and fumbled in the half light until he found another one and leant to her, to touch its wick to her trembling flame.

  Ralph Whitingside lay in his own filth on the bed, the candle flames dancing on the hollows of his cheeks and eyes. Kit Marlowe had seen dead men before, but none like this. Whitingside was half-dressed, his hose and boots in place, the points of his shirt tied but his doublet open, one sleeve dangling on the floor, as if he had died putting it on. There were dark stains over his chest and shirt, pooling in the tumbled bed covers. The smell was overpowering, sickly and sweet, like Death itself.

  Marlowe steeled himself and held the candle to the dead man’s face. Whitingside’s mouth was open, his sunken eyes dull and dried out with sightlessly staring at the ceiling above him. The pupils were tiny and dark circles were spreading outwards over his cheeks. A bubble of saliva across his mouth flashed silver in Marlowe’s flame, then burst and was gone in a second, dried up by its slight heat. For all the world, it seemed as though the dead man spoke. But there was no sound, no breath. The time for talking with Ralph Whitingside was truly past.

  The Corpus man felt the King’s man’s chest, arms and legs. The body was cold as the grave. Nothing seemed broken and there was no blood. Yet when he stood back and widened the candle’s all-seeing arc, he realized that the room showed signs of a struggle. A chair had been overturned, the rugs on the floor had been kicked into untidy folds and the contents of the chamber pot, dark like the stains on the bed, had been spilled on the boards.

  He knew he would not be allowed in these rooms again, so he must act fast. He checked Whitingside’s wardrobe, his travelling chest, his presses. Clothes that befitted a man who was about to take his place on life’s stage – starched linen, pomandered velvet, pattens for his brocaded shoes. In the corner stood a swept-hilt rapier of Spanish design, its quillons curling like quicksilver in the candle’s flame. That alone would have paid some poor sizar to stay in Cambridge half a lifetime – and given him the run of the buttery in any college in the university.

  Marlowe went back to the parlour where Mistress Laurence still sat, trembling, welded to her seat more by shock than Marlowe’s injunction. She barely noticed as he swept past and only came to as she heard him rummaging through Whitingside’s shelves of books.

  ‘What are you looking for, sir?’ she asked.

  Aristotle and Ramus? Marlowe mused to himself as he read the spines of the dead man’s library. No. Virgil and Ovid. Better, but hardly anything incriminating. ‘I wish I knew,’ he muttered without looking at her. A bundle of papers caught his eye, wrapp
ed in scarlet ribbon. He tucked them into his doublet in one deft movement, careful to keep his back to the woman and was just turning over Whitingside’s Geneva Bible when something fell from inside it. It was a slim volume, parchment, much written on in his old friend’s handwriting, crossed this way and that, now vertical, now diagonal. Some of it was in Greek, some in Latin, but it was the single inscription on the front that gripped Marlowe most. Quod me Nutruit me Destruit. That which feeds me destroys me. He frowned. He couldn’t remember reading that anywhere. Pliny, perhaps? Not Cicero, surely? The volume followed the other papers into his doublet.

  He glanced out of the window. Against the black tracery of Gonville’s rooftops, the dawn was creeping over Cambridge. Soon the solemn bell of King’s would call the faithful to breakfast, then to Chapel. And with the finding of Ralph Whitingside, all Hell would break loose.

  Marlowe squatted in front of the bedder, snuffing out his candle and relying on hers. He helped her to her feet. ‘Eliza,’ he said, ‘you must go to the Proctor. Tell him about Master Whitingside. The authorities will know what to do.’

  ‘Yessir,’ she said, still numb in the chill of the morning. Marlowe nodded and swept to the door. He took one last look at the dead man on his bed. Time was he would have crossed himself, knelt in prayer; perhaps, since this was dear old Ralph, cried. But not now. Those days were past, gone forever.

  ‘Sir –’ Eliza’s voice held him for a moment longer – ‘when they ask me, sir, I shall have to tell them, about you, I mean.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded briskly.

  ‘May I know your name, sir?’ her voice trembled.

  He smiled in a way that frightened her. ‘Know that I am Machiavel,’ he said. And he was gone, to the stairs and the leads and the light.

  ‘Machiavel?’ Dr Goad strained to catch the word. ‘Did she say “Machiavel”?’

  ‘She did, Provost.’ Benjamin Steane nodded, alarmed. ‘I’ve been fearing this for a while.’

  ‘Have you?’

  Steane looked with contempt at the old man. He’d been waiting for his shoes now for more years than he cared to remember and the old duffer was getting dottier and deafer by the day. The exasperating truth was that old provosts didn’t die and they didn’t fade away, either.

  ‘You can walk into any study in this university,’ Steane told him, ‘and ten to one you’ll find a copy of the most pernicious book ever written – The Prince by Nicolo Machiavelli. The man was the Devil himself, Provost, and yet today’s scholars think nothing of reading him.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s sore decline.’

  ‘There always was, Benjamin.’ The Provost’s memory went further back than Steane’s. Under his predecessor, scholars had failed to doff their caps to their betters, or to make way for them in the street. Goad intended, as a young new broom, to do something about that. One of his first acts as Provost was to ban attendance at bear-baiting, bull-baiting and playing football in the street.

  ‘And bathing,’ he suddenly blurted out, as though he’d been talking all along. ‘You remember the incident?’

  Steane didn’t, but he’d heard it so often from the Provost he felt he had witnessed the thing personally.

  ‘Young Dick Hadden.’ Goad was shaking his white-haired head. ‘Drowned in the Cam in the prime of his youth. Oh, he could have gone a long, long way. Why do you suppose the scholars call that place Paradise, Benjamin?’

  ‘Boys will be boys, Provost,’ Steane observed, ‘the careless cruelty of youth.’ For years in Cambridge the sick joke had run that Dick Hadden had found Paradise earlier than he’d expected. Steane cleared his throat and nodded to the bedder standing, head bowed, before them in the lodge hall. ‘Now, perhaps, to the matter in hand?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. This stranger –’ his old eyes focused on the woman – ‘the one who called himself Machiavel, where did he come from?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Eliza Laurence mumbled. She was walking through a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake up. She, who had never spoken to the Provost or any of the Fellows before, was now facing the most powerful man in her life. It was the day of judgement for her and Dr Goad might have been St Peter himself. ‘One moment I was alone in the room . . . well, alone save for the Master . . . then he clamped a hand over my mouth so I shouldn’t scream.’

  Steane nodded. ‘Clear guilt, Provost.’

  ‘The door was locked, Benjamin,’ Goad said. ‘This woman used her key – and Whitingside was dead in his bed. Are we sure that foul play was involved? A sudden seizure, surely? Apoplexy. Perhaps the sleeping sickness?’

  The Provost looked hopeful. His college had come in for its share of knocks under his hand, scurrilous notices about him pinned to the Lodge door and the main gate. Getting on as he was, he was too old for all that now and wanted a quiet life. That said, there had not been a reported case of the sleeping sickness in the college for a quarter of a century.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Steane nodded. ‘Provost, may I have a quiet word?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Goad looked up at him. ‘Ah, of course. Er . . . leave us, Mistress . . . ah . . . But prepare yourself.’

  ‘Sir?’ Eliza Laurence’s eyes widened.

  ‘There will have to be an inquest, my good woman. Late tomorrow, I shouldn’t wonder – such is the way of things. I’ll try to arrange it here, in the Great Hall. You are First Finder. You will have to be there.’

  ‘Yessir.’ She bobbed and made her exit as quickly as she could.

  Benjamin Steane relaxed, the minion having gone, and he sat next to Arthur Goad. ‘Provost, you don’t seriously believe this is God’s will, do you? Natural causes?’

  Goad stared at him, gnawing his lip. They were different generations, these men, but they had the common bond of fellowship between them. ‘Either way, Benjamin, we must play this down. Scholars do not die every day at King’s without there is plague in the town and if we are talking about murder, I want this Machiavel caught, now. You know the coroner?’

  ‘Sir Edmund Winterton? Yes, I do.’

  ‘Go and see him. Get him . . . er . . . on our side.’

  Steane sat upright. ‘Provost,’ he said, levelly. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I interfere with the majesty of the law.’

  ‘Tsk, tsk,’ Goad said waspishly. ‘In Cambridge, dear boy, we are the law. I’m not asking you to do anything underhand. Just . . . finesse. A little delicacy. The right, non-committal verdict, quiet burial. What do we know about Whitingside? Pushy parents?’

  ‘No parents at all as far as I can gather,’ Steane said. ‘He was a ward of court until his eighteenth birthday. He’s Lord of some scabrous little manor somewhere in Kent.’

  ‘Good, good. With a bit of luck, nobody’ll make too much of a fuss, then. Get along to Winterton. Have a crate or two of college beer sent round to him – the good stuff. And, Benjamin?’

  Steane turned in the doorway. ‘Yes, Provost?’ he said on a sigh.

  ‘Softly, softly, for God’s sake!’

  If the lads had been gloomy at the Swan the night before, tonight at the Brazen George was positively sepulchral. They had all drunk too many toasts to good old Ralph in their host’s finest Dutch brandy and they sat staring into their cups or the middle distance.

  ‘Suicide,’ Henry Bromerick was mumbling. ‘Who’d have thought it? Ralph Whitingside, suicide. I can’t get over it.’ He looked up at the others as if to find some explanation in their faces.

  ‘You can’t get over it because it isn’t true, Henry,’ Marlowe said. ‘If Ralph killed himself, how did he do it?’

  ‘Poison,’ said Tom, always the sharpest of the bunch. ‘You said yourself, Kit, stains on his clothing, his bedding. He’d have been sick.’

  ‘Where was the cup?’ Marlowe asked him.

  ‘The what?’ Matthew Parker frowned.

  ‘If Ralph took poison, what did he do? Swig something from a bottle? I saw no bottle in his rooms. Did he drink from a goblet, carefully wash and dry it and put it b
ack on the sideboard? Does a man so miserable he wants to end his own life do that?’

  ‘There are more things in Heaven and earth . . .’ Bromerick ventured, with his vast experience of life in the King’s School, Canterbury and Corpus Christi College, Cambridge.

  ‘And one of them is murder,’ Marlowe said, nodding.

  ‘Wait. Wait a minute.’ Colwell held up a hand, wrestling with all that Marlowe had told them in the brief snatches of free time during the day, before Dr Lyler hit them with everything the Civil Law course had to offer. ‘You said Ralph’s door was locked. The bedder unlocked it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘So if someone killed him, they had to have a key,’ Parker chimed in. ‘So it has to be someone at King’s.’

  ‘It has to be someone who killed Ralph, took his key and locked the door, that’s all,’ Marlowe pointed out.

  Silence.

  ‘Still,’ Colwell said. ‘To get access to Ralph’s rooms at all, you’d need to have the right connections. Christ, Kit, you had to get in by the roof.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Marlowe said. ‘But it was Will Latimer who told me how, in his cups at the Devil. How many more people has he told? I wouldn’t trust that man further than I could throw him. How many other college servants blab indiscreetly over their ale or on street corners? And who –’ he leaned forward so that their heads were together – ‘wanted to see Ralph Whitingside dead?’

  The heads moved back and all four of them sat upright, stock still for a moment and looked at the others. Marlowe clicked his fingers for the cups to be refilled. ‘I’ve written to Roger Manwood,’ he said.

  ‘The scourge of the night-prowlers?’ Parker whispered. Bromerick let out a whistle through his teeth. Back in Canterbury, exhausted mothers quietened their fractious children with threats of Roger Manwood.

  ‘Yes,’ Colwell crowed, a look of triumph on his face already. ‘He’ll know what to do!’