by M. J. Trow
‘Ralegh.’ Dee’s voice was full of command and the privateer who listened to no one did as he had been told and sat down.
‘Why would you kill Walsingham?’ Marlowe was like a terrier with a rat in its jaws. ‘Because if I know about Bess Throckmorton, I’m damned sure the Spymaster did. Dead men tell no tales, do they? And you visited Walsingham on the day he died.’
‘This is nonsense, Marlowe,’ Percy said. ‘You can’t just accuse people like this. Some of us are peers of the realm.’
‘Peers of the realm,’ Marlowe took up the theme, ‘who rebel against the Queen.’
‘C-careful, Marlowe.’ Percy wagged a finger. He was a poet and a dreamer, but he was also a man of honour and the Percys had a long history. His old stammer had come back with the tension of it all.
‘Your father hated Lord Burghley,’ Marlowe did not need to remind the company, ‘and wanted to return the church – how did the minutes of the Privy Council have it – “to the time of the late King Henry”? In that King’s time, men who did not accept the monarch as governor of the church went to the block. Your family lands have been cut to what you must regard as penury. How many tenant estates did you have in the North? Two hundred? Three hundred?’ He leaned nearer to the wizard earl. ‘What better way to hamper the Jezebel of England than to cut off Walsingham, her right hand? I doubt the Queen’s imp spends many nights of sweet slumber with you on the prowl.’
‘Are you including me in this, Kit?’ Strange asked. He alone of the School of Night had ridden the roads with Marlowe. Lord Strange’s Men were travelling actors and Marlowe had, briefly, travelled with them. The poet turned to the nobleman, sadly, inevitably. He was so far steeped in accusations now, he could never turn back.
‘Poisons, my lord, the ways of the hedgerows,’ he said. ‘Who in this room knows more of their properties than you? Lord Percy may think he has a knowledge, but compared to yours, he knows nothing. You come from a family of Northern earls and – for this alone – Master Topcliffe would rack you and Francis Walsingham would have had you hanged, drawn and quartered – you follow Rome.’
There was another silence, but Strange was unruffled. ‘I found the poisons for you,’ he said. ‘My man Beaucheek …’
‘… Is, for all I know, a figment of your imagination. Are you taunting me with your superior knowledge, or have you given me the wrong agents altogether?’
‘You forget to point out that I fear witches, Kit,’ Strange said.
‘As King of England, you need fear no toothless crone, my lord. Just take care that your imp can be trusted.’
‘King of England?’ Hariot spoke for the first time. ‘Did I miss something?’
‘You can’t hide behind your screen of numbers for ever, Master Hariot, or your gibberish tongues from the savages of the West. If Lord Strange here were so disposed, he could assume the mantle of leader of a good many discontented lords – the wizard earl here among them.’
‘A revolution?’ Hariot blinked. ‘Overthrowing the Queen?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Marlowe pointed out.
‘What of me, then?’ Hariot persisted. ‘If you have convinced yourself that Walsingham was murdered as part of a rebellion against the Queen, how do I fit in?’
Marlowe smiled. ‘Count the chairs, mathematician. How many do you see?’
‘Seven.’ Hariot didn’t have to look.
‘Seven.’ Marlowe nodded. ‘The number of the planets in the sky. Except that you see more, don’t you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Hariot was flustered. For a moment he thought his heart had stopped.
‘Your perspective trunk, the one you hide so carefully in your laboratory. It magnifies the Heavens, doesn’t it? Shows you stars that the rest of us have never dreamed of. Tell me, Master Hariot, you have built machines to navigate at sea, could you build a craft that could reach the moon?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Marlowe!’ Hariot snapped. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Ah, but the trying of it,’ Marlowe beamed. ‘The challenge. That’s what moves you, isn’t it? What sets your blood racing. Could it be done? Could you find a way of getting past the most careful, best-protected man in England and kill him secretly, to the extent that most men would say he died of natural causes? That’s something you couldn’t resist, could you? All it would take is a nod from Percy here, or Strange or Ralegh. You’re just a cog, a mere factotum.’
‘I’ve heard enough.’ Ralegh was on his feet and making for the door, his man behind him. ‘John,’ he paused at the door. ‘Next time you call a meeting, I want your word that this upstart won’t be involved. And as for you, Marlowe,’ he turned to face his accuser, ‘I’m letting you live tonight because I owe you a debt of honour. I consider that debt collected. Should we meet again, it will go ill with you.’
‘I owe you nothing, Marlowe.’ Percy was following Ralegh to the door, his man in tow. ‘C-consider my warning the same as Sir Walter’s.’ And he left.
Ferdinando Strange was next. He closed to Marlowe. ‘There’ll be no more Lord Strange’s Men, Kit, not for you. It’ll be hard, but I’ll find another playwright from somewhere. And I daresay he will do.’
Hariot left without a word, anxious to get home to move his machinery to somewhere safe before the world got to hear of it. Salazar had already gone, slipping out silently in Ralegh’s turbulent wake. In the end, only three of them stood there – Carter, Marlowe and Dee.
‘I fear you’ve made some enemies tonight, Kit,’ the magus said sadly, staring into the fire’s dying embers.
‘And lost some friends,’ Marlowe said. ‘And for what?’ He threw his arms wide. ‘I really thought it would work, that I would twist their nerves to such a height that one of them would give something away.’
Dee shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to pour cold water on it,’ he said. ‘I want Walsingham’s murderer caught as much as you do. But a projectioner standing in a room accusing suspects of murder and expecting a result? There’s no science in that. And no magic, either. Carter, go with Master Marlowe and watch his back. There are lessons taught by the School of Night it is better none of us experience.’
‘I’m sorry, Dr Dee,’ Marlowe said. ‘Not just for wasting your time, but for the things I said. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
Dee smiled and nodded sadly, shaking the man’s hand as he left. With Carter close behind him, Marlowe made for the stairs and the door. The night was old now and the gentleman’s carriages had gone. All except one. Its owner sat inside, his feet on the step, the door open.
‘You didn’t get round to me, Master Marlowe,’ Salazar said.
‘Time ran out,’ Marlowe said, ‘along with Ralegh and the rest.’
‘So you don’t want to talk to me, then?’
Marlowe looked up at Salazar’s man on his perch, the reins slack in his hands. ‘There seems little point now,’ he said and started walking, Carter at his elbow.
‘That’s a shame,’ Salazar said, raising his voice so Marlowe should miss nothing. ‘Because there is one man in this great country of ours who can solve this little conundrum of yours.’
Marlowe stopped and half turned. ‘Oh, who’s that?’
‘Walsingham.’ Salazar got up and climbed fully into the carriage, turning and patting the seat beside him. ‘Francis Walsingham. Come and see.’
Marlowe hesitated and Carter leaned forward and whispered in his ear. ‘Wait here – I will fetch the doctor. This sounds like something he would want to witness.’
Marlowe nodded and put one foot up on the step of the carriage, keeping the other firmly planted on the cobbles. ‘Walsingham?’ he said. ‘How can he help us now? His body lies in Paul’s.’
A wild light came into Salazar’s eye and he dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Do not speak of it, Master Marlowe. The spirits are everywhere. If he gets wind of it – he may not come.’
‘I see.’ Marlowe had seen many things he could not explain, but s
omehow he found it hard to imagine a spectral Walsingham floating above his head, listening in. When he had been alive, he had had people for that; there was no reason to suppose anything would have changed now. ‘Master Salazar, I must be honest with you. Carter has gone back to fetch Doctor Dee.’
Salazar looked mutinous. ‘The Queen’s magus. I do not know whether the spirits will come with him there.’
Marlowe laughed. ‘But the doctor raises spirits as a matter of course.’
‘Yes,’ Salazar agreed with a sneer. ‘But his methods … I spit on them.’
‘If you must,’ a voice said from the doorway suddenly open behind Marlowe, spilling light into the street. ‘I did hear tell that … bodily fluids are an important part of your rituals, Master Salazar. And, of course, if that works for you, who am I to gainsay it?’ Dee pushed Marlowe into the carriage from behind. ‘Budge up, Kit. There is room for one more inside. Carter,’ he spoke over his shoulder, ‘stay here and watch the house for me. I feel uneasy tonight, I don’t know quite why.’ He gave Salazar a dazzling smile from the depths of his wispy beard. ‘A goose stepping on my grave, perhaps.’
‘Perhaps.’ Salazar was clearly not happy to have the magus in the company, but there was little he could do. He settled back in the now rather cramped seat and rapped on the roof of the carriage with his cane. With a lurch, they were on their way.
Carter stood with his back to the door and watched them go, rattling along the Cheap. He had been Dee’s right-hand man ever since he had entered his service in Prague. It seemed a lifetime ago and yet, in other ways, just yesterday. Marlowe he could take or leave, but Dee he would take care of until his last breath. He turned to go in, torn between obedience and the call of his heart, to find the door open and Jane Dee standing there, in nightgown and shawl, clutching the woollen wrap close around her.
‘Elias.’
‘Mistress.’
‘Was that the master? Where has he gone?’
‘I don’t know, Mistress. With Master Salazar and Master Marlowe.’
‘And you are still here because …?’
‘Because I was told to look after the house, Mistress. You and the house.’
Jane pushed him out of the door. ‘For the love of God, Elias,’ she said. ‘Don’t do as the master tells you. Keep him safe. That’s what we pay you for, isn’t it? This road is straight for a good half-mile, with no turnings that a carriage could take. If you run, you’ll catch them easily.’
Carter stood looking down at her upturned face, angry, worried.
‘Don’t just stand there, idiot man. Run!’
And Carter ran. For his life and the life of Doctor John Dee.
Marlowe attempted some small talk in the crowded carriage. He had no idea where they were going or how long it would take and the animosity between the two other men threatened to poison the air.
‘I was sorry to hear of Jorge’s … passing.’ He knew how careful he would have to be with the choice of words. Salazar was probably not comfortable with death as a concept, as he considered it at best temporary, at worst a minor inconvenience.
‘Thank you,’ Salazar said, automatically. ‘I shall miss him. In fact, Master Marlowe, it may interest you to know that you were the last person to enjoy his famous pastel de nata. Their like will not be seen or tasted again.’
Marlowe smiled reminiscently. ‘They were delicious,’ he said. ‘A local speciality, I assume?’
‘Of Sendmarsh?’ Dee was surprised. ‘Does Sendmarsh have a cuisine of its own?’
‘No,’ Salazar was testy. ‘Portugal. My homeland and Jorge’s. Mistress Jorge is English and doesn’t have the skill. The secret is in …’ he laughed. ‘But like so many secrets, to tell it is to make it secret no longer.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Poor Jorge. He did love his pastel.’ He sighed and his chin dropped on to his chest.
Jorge’s death seemed to colour the air in the carriage and the men were silent until the horses were pulled in with a jerk and the driver banged on the roof. ‘We’re here,’ they heard him call.
Salazar was annoyed. ‘When will that man learn what the word “quiet” means? He may as well have banged a drum. However, hopefully no harm done. Out you get, gentlemen, but …’ he put a finger to his lips, ‘no more noise, if you please.’
They stepped out into almost total darkness. The man on the box was putting out the carriage lights and there were no buildings nearby showing so much as a candle. As their eyes adjusted, they saw the bulk of something huge and tall looming between them and the stars, but there was no obvious sign to show them where they were.
Carter, coming up behind them, saw the lights go out and heard his master say, ‘Where in the name of God are we, Salazar? You can’t just take us where you will without letting us know.’
‘Ssh,’ Salazar hissed. Carter crouched low and kept silent. ‘We are at St Barnabas’ Church,’ he said. ‘A small conceit, being so near to my own name, that is all. The location scarcely matters. But now we are here, please follow me, gentlemen.’ He reached behind him into the carriage and pulled a small bag from under the seat. ‘But, don’t forget. Silence. From now on, not a word.’
Marlowe and Dee exchanged glances in the dark, the gleam of starlight shining on an eye being their only contact. Salazar squeezed past and went round the side of the building, with the sure step of practice. Marlowe and Dee followed, the poet with his hand outstretched, the magus hanging on to his sleeve. Feeling each pace with a tapping toe, they found their way around the corner and Salazar was nowhere to be seen.
‘Down here!’ A voice hissed from near their feet. ‘Take care. There is a rail, but it is loose. Come down. I can light a candle then.’
Marlowe went first, one foot at a time and after eight uneven, crumbling steps, found himself in an underground room, a large one from the feel of the air, a crypt by its smell. Dee joined him, stumbling a little on the last step and uttering a smothered oath.
‘Doctor!’ Salazar was angry now. ‘Silence. Silence, though Hell itself should yawn in your face. There is too much at stake to lose it all for the sake of a stubbed toe.’
There was silence for a while as Salazar rummaged in his bag, finally there was the scrape of a flint and a candle flame grew steadily to light their surroundings.
The crypt was low and wide, with coffins piled up on all sides. In the middle was a stone tomb, with one side gaping and on it Salazar had rested the candle, which was, as Marlowe had half expected, made of black wax. Without speaking, Salazar motioned Marlowe to stand at one corner of the tomb, Dee to the other, so that the three of them made a narrow triangle, with Salazar at the apex. Muttering under his breath, he laid out his requirements, touching some to his lips, some to his heart and some, again not unexpectedly, to a part of himself below the tomb. Dee risked a glance at Marlowe and was reassured by the cynical gleam in the playwright’s eye.
Carter, crouched on the top step, out of the candle’s gleam, bent down to see what he could. He thought that, in extremis, he would be able to save his master. Marlowe was young enough and fit enough to stir for himself.
The muttering went on and Dee began to feel the cold from the dirt floor seeping through his shoes. He had not changed into boots before he came out; if Jane ever discovered that he had come out in his house shoes, there would be the Devil to pay. As this domestic detail went through Dee’s mind, he could hardly suppress a smile. If he could keep this link with reality strong, he and Marlowe may well survive this night. This idiot in front of him, posturing with his bell, book, candle and whatever else he had brought with him, could kill them all. Dee would be the first to admit that most of what he did was mere charlatanry, but that small, small iota that was not; it needed a man stronger than Salazar to contain it, that he knew. And he could hear the air thick with the chittering of beings locked too long out of the world of men. If a door was opened … Dee closed his eyes and thought of Jane, of Madimi and of his poor old, cold feet. It would keep him in the here and n
ow. Jane. Madimi. Feet. He chanted it under his breath and the chittering grew quieter, though it didn’t go away.
Marlowe watched Salazar with less trepidation. Despite the light from under his chin giving his face shadows that did not belong there, turning his eyes into fathomless holes and his mouth into the entrance to Hell, Marlowe could still see the genial host, dispensing cakes and wine. The rituals he was muttering his way through clearly meant a lot to him; his concentration was deep and total. He bowed, kissed, patted and postured with his salt and his wine and his stolen bits of the Host. If belief could raise the dead, Francis Walsingham would be walking in any minute; but there had to be more than belief, surely, or every beggar would ride.
The candle guttered and Salazar’s mutterings grew in volume and coherence. He flung some salt into the air and momentarily the flame flared blue. Dee smiled to himself. Simple chemistry and one of his favourite effects for the naïve; this time, perhaps more aptly, from the naïve. Surely, Salazar could not think that they would be impressed by such simple hedge magic?
With a dramatic gesture, Salazar shot back his sleeve and exposed his forearm, livid white in the candlelight. He picked up a horn-handled knife from the table and passed it through the flame, dipped it in the salt and then the wine. As Marlowe and Dee held their breath, he dragged the tip slowly across his arm, splitting the old scars which lay there like some macabre spider’s web against the skin. The blood welled like rubies deep in a mine, showing themselves in the light of a miner’s lamp and coalesced to form a black mirror on the magician’s arm. Dee smiled again and nodded his approval. A ring of oil on the arm would hold the blood; a clever trick, but not one he himself employed. He had no love for knives nor wish for scars.
Salazar bent at the knees and brought his arm down straight on to the top of the tomb, the obscene mirror bellying and shimmering with the movement. Salazar muttered some more, then his voice came high-pitched and insistent. Dee looked up, his eyes fluttering over the dark ceiling. Marlowe saw the movement and risked a glance to his right. The magus was watching something that the playwright could not see and he held out his hand to the old man, who took it in an iron grip. The buzzing ceased and he looked back at Salazar, but closed his ears to what he was intoning.
