Dark Entry

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Where would Ralph have seen it, though? It could have been anywhere,’ Manwood said.

  Marlowe clicked his fingers. ‘I was on the Backs this afternoon and I saw what I thought was a pile of clothes, but it was a college servant. It was in the cloister along the side of the King’s meadow, leading from the gate to the Chapel.’

  ‘That doesn’t narrow things down at all,’ Dee complained. ‘I know in my day that was a short cut for every Tom, Dick and Harry.’

  ‘True,’ Marlowe said. ‘So in that case, Ralph possibly told the wrong person what he had seen. And that person is the one who killed him.’

  The silence was palpable. The men could hear the pinging of the candle sconces as the hot wax ran over the metal. They could hear the birds shifting in their nests in the chimney. They could hear their own hearts beating.

  ‘Oh God’s teeth!’ Marlowe suddenly shouted and Manwood almost died of shock. ‘I’m sorry, Sir Roger,’ Marlowe said, contrite. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Henry asked one of the Fellows to help him with the translation when he took it over from Tom.’

  ‘Who?’ Manwood and Dee shouted together.

  Marlowe sat back in his chair and sighed. ‘The same man I found in my ransacked room one night, waiting for me. The man who had been kind; too kind, perhaps.’ The answer was in sight but it gave him no pleasure. ‘Michael Johns,’ he said.

  FIFTEEN

  Ambrose Falconer sat in the carriage and couldn’t remember when he had felt more ill than this. His trouble was very long-standing and an unexpected fit of it had robbed him of the post of organist at Canterbury Cathedral, many years before. His general malaise had not been helped by the fall into the carp pond; as he had sunk below the murky surface, he thought he saw his whole life flash before him and could certainly feel the nibble of fishy lips on his cheek before two of Francis Hynde’s gardeners had fished him back to the world, coughing and spluttering. They had manhandled him into one of the second best guest bedrooms and that strange, slightly singed little man in grey had come to see him. For some reason that he still couldn’t fathom, Ambrose Falconer had told him every symptom of his trouble and the man had told him to drink the contents of a small package dissolved in wine and then, dried and dressed in one of Francis Hynde’s second best guest robes, he had fallen into a sleep like death. But now he was awake and dressed again in his own clothes, which were still very slightly damp about the seams and the dreams that had come to him in his long sleep still lingered at the corners of his eyes. He groaned and sat patiently, waiting for what would happen to him next.

  Richard Thirling sat in the carriage next to Ambrose Falconer and couldn’t remember when he had felt more ill than this. He often had attacks of whatever it was that made his leg give way, which was sometimes accompanied by singing in the ears; he had always attributed that to years as a choirmaster. But this afternoon, at the wedding breakfast, he had suddenly been spectacularly sick all over the second cousin twice removed of the bride. He had been removed with not too much ceremony by two of Francis Hynde’s grooms, who had taken him, up the back stairs, to a second best guest bedroom, where he had been stripped of his clothes and put to bed. Just as he was drifting off into a troubled sleep, he would jerk awake as his muscles spasmed and arched his back. Then he would shiver as though with ague and drift off, until the whole sorry business would start again. There was a bucket strategically placed at his bedside, but he usually missed his mark, with a muttered apology to the empty room. His memory was unclear after the first visitation of whatever this pestilence was; one minute he was talking to the wedding party, the next he was in bed. Then, he thought he could remember, a strange grey man had materialized and had made him vomit some more. There was talk of oysters and wine, but he had to say no; he really wasn’t feeling all that well.

  Professor Goad sat in the carriage and couldn’t remember when he had felt more ill than this. He had absolutely no memory of the whole sorry day and just closed his eyes and hoped to die.

  Michael Johns stood talking to the groom who would be driving them home. He was trying to persuade the man to let him ride up on the outside bench, where the groaning and the belching and the general stench would be less noticeable, but the man was adamant. It just wasn’t done in Sir Francis Hynde’s employ that gentlemen rode with grooms up front. He would have to travel with the other . . . gentlemen – the pause was small but telling – in the carriage. Sighing, Johns turned away from the man. Surely there must be an alternative to getting into that noisome box and holding his breath the whole way to Cambridge.

  Marlowe, Manwood and Dee reluctantly left some food, just a little, on the trestle in the inn and prepared to leave. The landlord was so ecstatic and lost in his cloud of cuckoo-dreams of having at last broached the world of quality clientele that it was not for some time that he realized that no one had paid.

  They left Marlowe’s horse behind, as Manwood and Dee had their own way of getting back into the park. A path wound through a small shrubbery between the church and the inn, which came out at the back of the stable yard. Manwood and Dee did have the grace to admit that it was possibly easier to use in daylight than it was in the dark, but eventually they were walking on cobbles and no longer had to pause every few yards to disentangle themselves from the clutch of brambles. As they walked, swearing under their breath every now and again as a mistimed branch whizzed back from the grip of the man in front, they made plans. Marlowe and Manwood were dagger men, at bottom. Subtleties suggested by Dee were, in the final analysis, too slow and not foolproof. The murderer – Marlowe still had trouble naming him as Johns, even in the teeth of the evidence – had killed at least three times to their knowledge and could easily be planning to kill again. Dee favoured a more oblique approach. He had, after all, tinctures by the dozen, incantations galore, which could bring the soul of a man to its knees and make him tell the truth though it condemned him to eternal damnation.

  Manwood hadn’t liked the light in Dee’s eye, the way he rubbed his hands together. It smacked of heresy, necromancy and the rest; a good dagger-point at the throat would achieve all that and more and no risk to anyone’s eternal soul except that of the murderer.

  They were still discussing it, although an eavesdropper may have chosen to call it arguing, when they stumbled on to the cobbles of the stable yard. There were no carriages to be seen and even the grooms seemed to have gone to bed.

  ‘Where was their carriage?’ Marlowe asked, urgently.

  ‘Here,’ said Manwood, spreading his arms.

  ‘I should have given them a bigger dose,’ Dee said. ‘But with Falconer, I had to be careful. It could have killed him in his condition. And of course, Thirling . . .’

  The other two waited. Finally, Manwood could bear it no longer. ‘Yes? Thirling? What about Thirling?’

  ‘Thirling might have been poisoned,’ Dee said slowly. ‘I assumed it was the oysters or the wine.’

  ‘Poison has to be given to the person somehow,’ Marlowe said. ‘With Ralph and Henry, we couldn’t tell when or how they had been given it. But I know that Dr Thirling had not eaten for hours before we got to Madingley, so he must have been given a dose there.’

  ‘But why didn’t it kill him?’ Manwood asked.

  ‘Because,’ Dee said, ‘tincture of digitabulum takes varying times to kill – and because I gave him tartar emetic when I went to see him after he was taken ill. It got the poison out of his system when only a little had been absorbed.’

  ‘So who gave it to him?’ Marlowe wanted to know.

  Manwood was confused. ‘Haven’t we decided it was Johns?’ he asked.

  ‘Was Johns near Thirling when he ate or drank?’ Dee asked. ‘I can’t remember, but I don’t think he was. He had already gone off with the bride, I think. And he couldn’t have just put the poison in some food because if he had we would have a house half full of the dead and dying.’ Dee wished he had a showstone which would clarify the past in the way that it clarified t
he future.

  Marlowe was almost hopping with frustration. He had missed a vital clue because he had had other clues to find. Why had neither of these stupid men . . . ?

  ‘Shhhh!’ whispered Manwood, peering through the shrubbery. ‘There’s someone creeping out of the side door of the house. Whoever it is is making for the stables.’

  ‘Can you see who it is?’ breathed Marlowe, who had his back to the building and was loath to attract attention to himself by turning round.

  ‘No. He’s going into the tack room. It’s probably just a manservant on some assignation with a scullery maid. Shhhh . . . No, he’s coming out again . . .’

  ‘Turn your head away,’ Marlowe said. ‘The moonlight reflecting in your eyes will give us all away.’

  Dee looked at the scholar with new eyes. ‘Master Marlowe,’ he whispered. ‘I believe you have done this sort of thing before.’

  Marlowe lifted a shoulder in recognition and bent his head towards Manwood’s shoulder, whispering, ‘What’s he doing now? Can you see who it is?’

  ‘He’s saddling a horse,’ whispered Manwood. ‘I still can’t see who it is . . . he’s keeping to the shadows. Where is he going?’

  ‘To get Thirling,’ Dee whispered back. He risked a glance out of the corner of his eye. ‘It could be Johns, I suppose. It’s hard to tell in this light. He needs to finish off Thirling; to stop him telling what he knows.’

  The sensible Justice of the Peace rose up inside Roger Manwood. ‘Aren’t we perhaps getting a little overexcited?’ he asked quietly. ‘There may be a perfectly simple explanation.’ He wondered what would happen if people at home in Canterbury heard of him skulking around stable yards at dead of night and accusing reputable members of Cambridge colleges of murder.

  Marlowe pulled the two men aside into the shadows. ‘Sir Roger, there is no simple explanation. Creeping about and saddling horses by moonlight is not normal behaviour. Murder has been done three times. We couldn’t stop them happening, but this fourth one we can prevent. My horse is ready for me down at the inn. If I run now, I can be on its back and waiting to follow before this man passes that way. It is hard for one man to saddle a horse, and if it is Michael Johns he isn’t used to it.’

  ‘If?’ Dee said.

  ‘Yes. If. That will leave me time.’ The older men started to complain, to argue that they should just stop the man and see what he was up to.

  ‘He’ll say he was up to have a midnight ride, after the stresses of the day. We have to catch him red-handed or we won’t catch him at all. Go into the house, but don’t raise the alarm. Just tell Sir Francis. Then, get a carriage, or a horse if you’re able.’ Marlowe remembered the time slip journey with Dee, but put that out of his head. ‘Get into Cambridge as fast as you can and raise the Watch, Constable Fludd for preference.’ Then he was running on tip toe along the edge of the shadow of the stable wall. And he was gone.

  The stable boy at the inn was in seventh heaven. He had never even been near a horse this beautiful before, let alone had one left in his care. And if that scholar, the one with the scary eyes, hadn’t come back by tomorrow, he would be able to ride this lovely beast all the way to Cambridge. He started to plan his route, the slow way, the most meandering way he could devise . . .

  ‘Boy!’ Marlowe’s voice cut through his reverie. ‘Is my horse ready?’

  With a sigh, the lad got up from where he sat in the stall and wordlessly handed Marlowe the reins. The dream had been nice though, whilst it lasted.

  The animal had liked the boy. He had been kind and had apples in his pocket, a little wizened at this time of year, but a nice change from oats. But Marlowe was exciting, leaping on to his back and then keeping him, like a coiled spring, back from the light that spilled in through the stable door. Soon, in the distance, the beat of a horse’s feet thrummed through the night, first as a tremor in the horse’s fetlocks, then as a sound that anyone could hear. The stallion whickered and tossed its mane, but Marlowe kept him reined back until the hoof beats began to recede, dopplering into the distance. Only then did he give the horse his head and how they flew, eating up the dusty road on the way to Cambridge, still outlined on the night sky by the few desultory fires still burning on the outskirts.

  Every now and again, Marlowe reined his mount in and they sat, like one exotic creature, ears cocked to judge the distance and direction of the other rider. When they were too near, Marlowe walked the black, only breaking into a canter when the sound was faint enough. Once or twice, the lead horse stopped also, and Marlowe could imagine the rider twisted in the saddle, listening for the hoof beats which were following him. But he always set off again, Marlowe like an echo in the night.

  A gap in the hedge gave him an idea and he urged the stallion through it and into the field beyond. They couldn’t keep up the speed on the more uneven ground, but what they lost in speed, they made up for in not having to stop, because the horse was almost silent in the soft meadow grass.

  Soon another sound could be heard over the beat of the galloping horse, the creaking leather, plodding feet and rumbling wheels of the carriage bearing the Fellows back to Cambridge. Marlowe could faintly hear their querulous cries to the groom to go more slowly and not to rock about so much and he knew they were really close. He couldn’t hear the other horse any more. Either he was waiting for Marlowe, knowing he was being chased, or he had fallen into silent company with the carriage, waiting to carry out the rest of his murder when he got the opportunity.

  Slowing the horse to a walk, Marlowe had a chance to listen to the beating of his heart; this could so easily be a trap. He had enemies of his own. There was more than one way to skin a cat, and . . . had it been Tom? Matt? . . . had reminded him that there were five arches in the Dark Entry and five scholars, now reduced to three. Was the woman in the river a red herring? Were Manwood and Dee really on his side, or had they been part of an elaborate plot all along? The stallion tossed his head as the reins drew tighter in his soft mouth as Marlowe clenched his fists. The sound of the tiny bells jingling on the bridle brought him down to earth, with his heart thumping. Of course this wasn’t about him. This was about a murderer and stopping him from killing again.

  The scholar strained his ears in the darkness and could hear nothing except the diminishing sounds of the carriage, making its way back to Cambridge and safety, if safety lay anywhere in these days. The voice in his ear was quiet as voices went, but sounded to Marlowe’s strained nerves like a pistol shot.

  ‘Good evening, Master Machiavel,’ Steane breathed in his ear. ‘Taking the air?’

  Marlowe swallowed, but his voice came out sounding cooler than he felt. ‘Doctor Steane. May I take this opportunity to congratulate you on your nuptials. Too excited to sleep, I imagine.’

  The man chuckled. He liked a good adversary. Eleanor hadn’t counted, not at her death or ever. Ralph Whitingside had given him a few nasty moments, but the greedy sot would drink anything in the right shaped bottle and so that had been easy. Bromerick was such a crawler and when he had started talking about the journal, an inn was the natural place to do it and tipping the tincture into his ale had been the work of a minute. Then, it had all started to slip.

  ‘Too excited indeed, Master Machiavel. My bride is . . . modest in her needs and I find I have time on my hands.’ He looked at Marlowe’s horse appraisingly. ‘You have a nice mount, I see. He didn’t come from just inside the door, I’ll wager.’

  ‘Nor did yours,’ Marlowe countered. ‘He’s a good horse, but he will be still done up in the morning. And don’t forget, I have witnesses that you left the house tonight.’

  For the first time, Steane’s gaze flickered. ‘I don’t think you do,’ he said finally. ‘Who else was abroad at that time?’

  ‘Sir Roger Manwood and Dr John Dee,’ Marlowe said. ‘They are rousing the house as we speak.’

  ‘And for what?’ Steane spat. ‘To tell them that I am out for a ride and that you have chased me like a maniac with, no doubt
, the intention of stealing my purse, or worse.’

  ‘No. To tell them that you are a murderer, at least three times over. More if Doctor Thirling still succumbs to the poison.’

  Steane’s head snapped up. ‘Might he?’ he asked. Then, sensing his mistake: ‘I certainly hope that Doctor Thirling recovers. It would be a great loss to King’s if he should not.’

  Marlowe pulled at the left hand rein and turned his horse’s head, reaching as he did so for Steane’s rein. ‘I’ll keep you company back to Madingley, then,’ he said. ‘You can tell me all about your plans for your bishopric. Bath and Wells, did I hear?’

  Steane yanked his rein out of Marlowe’s hand. ‘We’ll do no such thing, Master Marlowe,’ he hissed. The tip of a dagger pricked Marlowe’s thigh as the horses pressed together. ‘I think the best thing we could do would be to dismount – very slowly – and then you will walk with me into the woods over there. Then –’ he reached round behind him and unhooked a coil of rope from the back of his saddle – ‘you will loop this over a branch and, if you would be so good, you will hang yourself with it. I had earmarked this rope for Thirling, but it will do as well for you. Another sad inquest for Sir Edward Winterton to get wrong, another suicide among the Parker scholars.’ He jabbed the dagger a little harder and Marlowe felt hot blood run down the inside of his leg and soak into the saddle. ‘But hardly surprising with the rumours flying about you in your college and indeed all over the University. The shame of it. Sodomy in Corpus. Hanging is too good for you, they’ll say. But never mind, you will be dead and from what I also hear, you will have no soul to go to Purgatory or anywhere else, so not too much harm done. You’re very quiet, Master Machiavel.’

  ‘Doctor Steane,’ Marlowe said smoothly, ‘my death is neither here nor there, in the scheme of things. I would rather live, that I will allow, but if I have to die to prove you a murderer, then so be it.’

  Suddenly, the dagger was at his ribs. ‘And how will your suicide prove me a murderer?’