by M. J. Trow
‘They’re in the Rose somewhere, Nicholas,’ Marlowe told him, ‘along with the plays the hopefuls keep longing for me to read. Will you trust me to find them and burn them? I can guarantee that the pile is high and they are buried deep; no one ever reads so much as a page, I promise.’
Faunt hesitated, then made his decision. ‘Of course, Kit. I’d trust you with my life.’
‘Gratifying,’ Marlowe smiled.
Faunt shook his hand and turned to go. Suddenly, he turned back. ‘Tell me something, Kit,’ he said. ‘Do you miss Sir Francis? I do. He was … if you will forgive the cliché for a moment, he was like a father to me.’
‘Well …’ Marlowe cast his mind back. He had never had a father to whom he could really look up to. As he recalled it, he was about four when he realized that the angry, volatile presence in the house would never love his mercurial son, or indeed any of his children. ‘I didn’t know him as well as you did, of course, but … yes, I do miss him. I wish I’d had time to say goodbye.’
Faunt looked down and, if it had been any other man, Marlowe would have suspected that there was a tear in his eye. After a moment, the ex-spy looked up and smiled. ‘He looked peaceful,’ he said, ‘when I got there. Although it may surprise you, I don’t think he had any regrets at the end.’
Marlowe thought of Carter and his hatred, nurtured over the years against the man who was only doing his best. ‘I’m glad,’ he said, patting Faunt’s shoulder. ‘But now, Nicholas, I worry …’ He looked up and down Maiden Lane, always expecting the unexpected.
Faunt raised a hand. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I must go. Go and dine with your walking gentlemen. There will be another day for us, I know, Kit. Going somewhere nice?’
