Dark Entry

by M. J. Trow

  ‘But . . . when I unlaced him, he . . . was not in need of me.’ She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘I was angry, Master Marlowe. I thought he had already been with someone else. I dropped my skirts and came back inside. And . . . I . . .’ She buried her head in her hands and cried, almost howling the words. ‘I never saw him again. I never said I was sorry.’

  Marlowe put his arms around the girl and she burrowed in to his chest. He stroked her hair and murmured, as he did to his sisters when they were sad. Soon, she struggled up for air. He looked down at her and tucked a curl back up under her cap. ‘Better now?’ he smiled.

  ‘I never saw him again, Master Marlowe,’ she whispered, her eyes big and dark with tears.

  Again, Marlowe was on a cusp. If he told her that Ralph Whitingside had been less than lusty that night because he was already dying, and not because he had come to her fresh from another bed, she would feel even worse than she did already. He couldn’t swear to that, but Dee had suggested that this would be a symptom of poisoning by foxglove. He took refuge in his own words. ‘Love is childish which consists in words.’

  She sat up. ‘I beg your pardon, Master Marlowe?’ she said. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Ralph told me you were a poet. Are you quoting from your poems at me?’

  ‘A play,’ he muttered. ‘Currently in the hands of Lord Strange’s Men.’

  She flicked him with her wash-cloth. ‘Don’t talk of players to me,’ she said. ‘We have been cleaning and scrubbing for nearly two days because of what those wastrels brought here – rioting and looting.’ She jumped to her feet, every inch the busy cellar maid. ‘Let me get on with my work.’ She rubbed the last of the tears from her eyes and bustled away.

  Marlowe smiled to see her go. He didn’t need Dee’s showstone to see that any child of Meg Hawley’s would grow up big and strong, whoever his father was, and that she would survive. He turned towards the door.

  ‘Master Marlowe?’ she called.

  ‘Yes?’ He didn’t turn to her, but paused in the doorway.

  ‘I didn’t speak to Ralph before he died,’ she said. ‘But I speak to him now.’

  His shoulders slumped. Poor deluded girl. But he decided to let kindness prevail. ‘That’s good, Meg. That must comfort you.’ And he stepped out into the afternoon light.

  ‘Oh, it does, Master Marlowe,’ she said, polishing her mug. ‘It does.’

  It was still early to be going back to Madingley – it was no good wearing dark clothes and riding a black horse if arriving in broad daylight – so Marlowe took a walk along the Backs. It had always soothed him and had the added attraction that he wasn’t overlooking, and being overlooked by, his own college. The sunlight was golden, almost thick with motes of dust and ash still settling out of the air after the uproar of the days before. College servants were working in most of the grounds as they swept down to the river; the crowds had not been concentrated here, but stragglers had managed to get across the river and had either hidden there overnight, lighting small fires and making shelters, or had abandoned looted goods, to be collected later. Some of the meadows had been gouged by running pattens, others had been more unlucky, and windows were being covered up temporarily by planks of wood.

  King’s had been quite badly hit, although the Chapel was untouched. Marlowe assumed it had been used, as other churches had, as a meeting place for the injured and disoriented. This would probably explain the piles of clothing he could just see in the entryway leading to the side door from the gate in the fence. Then, suddenly, his heart gave a lurch, as the pile of clothing moved and he realized that what he had been watching was a college servant taking a rest in the shade. The man looked at him, straight into his eyes and leaned forward with his finger to his nose. Across the grass and echoing through the arches, Marlowe heard his stage whisper: ‘Don’t tell on me, Master.’

  Marlowe waved to him and walked away, back round to Trinity Lane and Hobson’s Stable. He had a lot going on in his head, and wanted to put it all in order before his meeting after dark with Manwood and Dee. A ride in the countryside would perhaps put it all in perspective.

  Soon, he was clattering down the road out of town, glancing through the windows of the Swan as he passed. Although he had no feelings other than friendship for Meg, it would have been nice to see her before he left town, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  In the ale-soaked shadows of the Swan, Francis Hall turned to Meg. ‘I do believe I’ve just seen my horse ridden down the street,’ he remarked, calmly.

  ‘Sir?’ Meg was startled. He didn’t sound half upset enough. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain,’ the man said. ‘Young man, dark eyes, small beard, long hair, about so tall.’ He sketched a size about equal to his own in the air.

  ‘That could be any one of the scholars in this town,’ she said with a laugh. But both she and Francis Hall knew that it could only be Kit Marlowe.

  Francis Hall’s horse was a magnificent stallion and Marlowe, an occasional rider at the best of time, found that he had to concentrate every second of his time on its back to prevent it having its way and going wherever it wanted to. Its coat was deepest black and its mouth was as soft as silk. Once he and Marlowe had agreed to differ, the ride was smooth and, high above the cow parsley and ladies’ bedstraw, Marlowe was able to organize his thoughts, with the soft clop of the animal’s hoofs in the thick summer dust as counterpoint.

  The sun started to go down just out of the corner of his left eye as he ambled towards Madingley and, with perfect timing, it slipped below the horizon in a blaze of sky blue pink just as the chimneys and copper cupola of Madingley came into view. There was still rather a lot of light in the sky to approach the house, especially on this horse, which had been drawing looks from everyone he passed on the road, so Marlowe started looking around for somewhere to tether him for a while.

  Suddenly, the horse’s head went up and he gave a snicker. Marlowe hunkered down in the saddle and drew in his knees. Pulling the animal to a stop, he slid down from its back and looped its reins in the hedge as he went to investigate what had startled it. As he peered through the interlaced twigs of a quickthorn, he saw a low building in front of him, painted white, but crouching under such a heavy thatch that its walls were in permanent shadow. The small windows were lit with candles as the night drew on and a bench was attached to the wall, running the length of the front of the building to each side of the door, which stood open, invitingly. The raised voices which had made the horse shy were raised in friendship and, on the slight summer breeze, came a smell of ale and a whiff of a fragrant herb burning. He laughed quietly to himself out of sheer relief and crept back to the horse.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to it, clicking his tongue. ‘Here’s somewhere I can leave you, and wait until dark as well.’

  The animal nudged his head with its nose and the two travellers walked round to the back of the inn, where the stable lad was delighted to take over the care of such a lovely creature. ‘I’ll be back for him later,’ Marlowe said. ‘Here’s a coin for you to be going on with. I’m not sure when I can get back.’ Then the reality of his situation hit him; he was going off to meet a murderer. ‘If I’m not back by tomorrow night, take him to Hobson’s in Trinity Lane.’

  ‘Ride him there, you mean?’ the lad asked, struggling under the weight of the saddle.

  ‘Or carry him, if you’d rather,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘Kit,’ came a quiet voice came from behind him. ‘That was unworthy of you. Apologize to the boy.’

  Marlowe spun round, his hand on his dagger hilt, to see Manwood and Dee standing in the stable yard. ‘Why are you two here?’ he asked. Then, over his shoulder: ‘Yes, sorry, ride, of course.’ He stepped out of the stable and closed to the men. ‘I was on my way to Madingley,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you this early,’ Dee said. ‘We thought you would wait until dark.’

  Marlowe looked at the sky which was getting darker by the minute. ‘It is dark, or woul
d be by the time I got to the house. So, as I said, why are you here?’

  ‘Come into the inn with us,’ Dee said. ‘We have ordered some food and some more ale. We’ll eat and talk.’

  ‘Ordered food? Surely, there was the wedding breakfast all arranged . . .’

  ‘Come inside, Kit,’ Manwood said. ‘We can talk there. But meanwhile, have you discovered anything?’

  ‘I have discovered that Ralph was impotent just before he died.’

  Dee nodded to himself.

  ‘I’m not sure whether I need that information,’ Manwood said, prissily. To him, Ralph Whitingside was still the lad he had sent off to Cambridge years before.

  ‘I need it,’ said Dee. ‘It is the last brick in the wall of my diagnosis. Although by no means a certainty, I think we can now consider that the cause of death of the two scholars is poisoning by foxglove.’

  They all ducked their heads to enter the inn and waited a moment to get used to the light from the candle sconces on the walls. Looking back through the doorway, it was clear that night had finally fallen. The landlord scurried forward.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, with a touch of relief in his voice. ‘There you are. I feared you had gone.’ And left me with all this food and ale already drawn, was the rest of the message, unsaid.

  Manwood was immediately expansive. ‘No, no, my good fellow,’ he said. ‘We ordered the food and we will eat it. And now we have someone else to help us, so it will not go to waste.’ He looked around. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I have taken the liberty of laying out the food in the back room,’ the landlord said, opening a door in the far wall. ‘I thought you would be more . . . private, there.’

  The back room was small, but tidy, with a table set against the wall, groaning with sallets and capons, tongue and pie. A savoury custard quivered gently in a bowl to one side. The sight of the food made Marlowe realize how hungry he was; he hadn’t eaten that day at all and his memory of meals over the preceding days had been sketchy. There had been some soup and bread before the play, he remembered, but that had ended up tipped over someone’s head.

  Dee noticed the gleam in the scholar’s eye. ‘Tuck in, Kit,’ he said, kindly. ‘Perhaps like me you think better on a full stomach.’

  A smaller table had been drawn up at the end of the trestle, with wooden chargers on it, along with three wickedly-pointed knives. Obviously, the usual customers at this inn were not the kind to bring their own weapons, and for that all three men were grateful; it was good to be able to eat and drink without keeping an eye on the door.

  ‘So, Sir Roger, Dr Dee,’ Marlowe said, ‘what has happened at Madingley that has made you come here for your wedding breakfast?’ He knew it was not in Manwood’s nature to spend money where money need not be spent. ‘No Will Nicholson to put his hand in his purse?’

  ‘Up at the Hall,’ Manwood said testily. ‘Some maid or other had need of his services.’

  The men looked at each other and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘Sir Roger will tell what there is to tell,’ Dee said. ‘He may have noticed things I missed.’

  All three men knew that this was a polite fiction at best, but nonetheless, Manwood began. ‘It all started shortly after you left,’ he said, addressing his tale to Marlowe. ‘I’m not sure whether you noticed, but Professor Johns and the new Mistress Steane went off from the party to look at the Physick Garden.’

  ‘Is that where they were going?’ Marlowe said. ‘I saw them walk off.’

  ‘No one thought anything of it,’ Manwood continued. ‘Johns is well known as a very gentlemanly . . . er . . . man. So, after you had gone, everything went very well for a while. Hynde had arranged for some girls to circulate with wine, and of course it went to some heads rather more than to others.’ He smiled a reminiscent smile. ‘Professor Goad, for example, had to be taken inside to lie down.’

  ‘And Falconer and Thirling,’ added Dee.

  ‘To be fair to Dr Falconer,’ Marlowe said, ‘he was not well before we even began the wedding ceremony.’

  ‘Yes, I did discover that,’ Dee said, ‘when I examined him. Poor chap has been bedevilled by . . . but that is by the way and something which perhaps is best kept between him and his physician. Thirling, though, was taken very poorly, and I was hard pressed to tell if it was the wine or the oysters, but it was certainly one of those, as that was all he had taken.’

  ‘Oysters?’ Marlowe asked, with a raised brow. ‘Where did he get oysters from? There were none on the choir table.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Manwood said, resuming his tale. ‘It seems that Dr Thirling is, like the oyster, a native of Whitstable and so whenever he sees them, he can’t resist. There was a whole dish of them on the table set for the servants, and he did rather make a pig of himself.’

  ‘So, all very sad,’ Marlowe said, ‘people getting drunk, ill and similar, but there is still nothing that I can see that would have made you both leave the house.’ It all sounded pretty much like a routine wedding to him. He had seen things in his years as a treble which would make the prissy Manwood’s eyes pop.

  ‘He’s coming to that,’ Dee said, getting up to refill his plate.

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ Manwood said. ‘In the middle of all this, what with Goad singing something we were shocked to find he knew, and Falconer falling in the carp pond and Thirling . . . well, we will draw a veil over that. In the middle of it all, no one saw for a moment when Johns suddenly appeared in the gateway leading from the Physick Garden, with his robes all anyhow, calling for help.’

  ‘Steane went wild,’ Dee said, putting in his groatsworth. ‘Went for him, like a madman.’

  ‘No, no, you’ve got that wrong,’ Manwood said, pausing to pick bits of venison out of his teeth with the point of his knife. ‘He didn’t do that until Ursula appeared behind Johns, with her gown all anyhow and her hair in her eyes.’

  Dee shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s the only bit I saw.’

  Marlowe’s eyes were wide. ‘Professor Johns attacked Mistress Steane?’ he asked, agog.

  ‘No,’ Manwood said. ‘No, that’s not how it was.’

  ‘Mistress Steane attacked Professor Johns?’

  ‘No, not that either. It turns out that she swooned from the heat, and the excitement I suppose, and in trying to stop her falling, Johns had grabbed a handful of her dress and it tore. She grabbed some of his robe and it did the same. She didn’t accuse him of anything, but it was quite a shock to see Steane in such a temper. I always thought he was the mildest of men.’

  ‘I’ve certainly never seen that side of him,’ Marlowe said, ‘although I can’t say I know him well. I have usually only seen him conducting services at King’s and there isn’t that much scope for temper at evensong.’

  ‘It rather broke the party up,’ Manwood said. ‘Francis Hynde has gone off somewhere with a bottle or two, Steane and his good lady have taken themselves off to bed. In the event, Ursula apparently didn’t give her bride’s maids her garters as is the custom and I don’t suppose for a moment anybody wanted Steane’s codpiece. The guests have all gone home, those within a reasonable distance, anyway. Falconer, Thirling and Goad are still having a lie-down although I should think they will be stirring soon. John gave them a tincture.’

  ‘Just a spot,’ Dee said. ‘They will indeed be waking shortly. Johns stayed with them, so that they had someone other than the driver with them on the way home. I’m not sure about Norgate? Do you know where he went, Roger?’

  ‘He went earlier, I think,’ Manwood said. ‘I started to lose track, at the finish.’

  Marlowe blew out his cheeks and looked from one to the other. ‘I’m not sure I can match that,’ he said. ‘All of my news is older than this, of course, and as such doesn’t have the dramatic attack.’

  Dee blinked. ‘Kit, have you fallen among players or something?’

  Marlowe blushed and looked down. ‘No, no. A little poetry, that’s more my métier.’

  Dee l
ooked dubious, but motioned him to continue. When would people realize that it was pointless to dissemble with Dr John Dee, the Queen’s Magus. He knew everything; especially through the clear glass of hindsight.

  ‘I’ve taken it as read that Ralph and Henry were poisoned,’ Marlowe said. ‘Henry was working on Ralph’s journal when he died . . . although I’m not sure that that is pertinent, because we all knew that Tom was supposed to be doing it. We managed to piece together the conundrum that Henry was working on – it was Greek, in a mirror, and not very good Greek at that.’

  ‘What did it say?’ Manwood leaned forward, a dripping spoon of custard halfway to his mouth.

  ‘Well, we can’t be sure that the translation is completely right, mostly because it doesn’t make sense, but it seemed to say “opposite the Dark Entry”. We have thought of what is opposite the Dark Entry, but it is just a couple of tombs and that makes no sense.’

  There was a pause, then Manwood gave a shout of laughter.

  ‘Is that a joke?’ Dee asked, looking at the Men of Kent.

  Marlowe bit his lip and then, smiling an embarrassed smile, told Dee about his childhood gaffe.

  Dee looked at Manwood and they nodded at each other.

  ‘After you,’ Dee said, magnanimously. He had tired of Manwood’s reminiscences over the last week, but the man’s memory had come up trumps this time.

  ‘Perhaps the tombs don’t make sense, but does this?’ Manwood asked. ‘Kit, you thought that the couple in the Dark Entry were fighting, but in fact they were fornicating. So, might Ralph have seen a couple who he thought were fornicating, but who he realized were actually fighting?’ He sat back, and waited for the reaction.

  ‘The woman in the river!’ Marlowe said, suddenly.

  ‘Fludd’s case?’ Dee checked.

  ‘Yes. Even Edward Winterton thinks there is something suspicious about her death, but instructed a verdict of “found drowned” to protect the family.’