Crimson Rose

by M. J. Trow

  ‘This gun?’ Waad took it back from Marlowe. ‘Impossible. It has never left the building.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Absolutely. Only a handful of people know about it. And you are only the third person to handle it.’

  ‘You, I presume,’ he said, ‘are the first. Who is the second?’

  ‘No, Marlowe,’ Waad corrected him. ‘I am the second. The first is the man who made it.’ There was a pause. ‘Of course …’

  ‘Yes?’ Marlowe looked the man in the face. Something was not right.

  ‘There is a second snaphaunce.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘The man who made it, in fact made two. A brace for Her Majesty.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  Waad cleared his throat and put the gun back on its rack. ‘The other one was bought by private treaty, before I could prevent it.’

  ‘By whom?’ Marlowe was surprised that after all the subterfuge and secrecy, there was another gun like this, possibly, by now, dozens, on the streets of London. Not to mention in the hands of any enemy who cared to invest a little gold.

  Waad shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  Marlowe rounded on him. ‘Sir William …’

  ‘As God is my judge,’ Waad blurted out, not liking the look in Marlowe’s eye at all. ‘All I can tell you is what I heard. It’s gossip, so it may be wrong.’

  ‘Try me,’ Marlowe said, coldly.

  ‘Yes, well, when I heard this, it stuck in my mind as being rather odd. Why this man should want such a weapon, but also how he could afford it. I know that men of his profession are doing well at the moment, but …’

  ‘The gossip, Master Waad, if you please.’ Marlowe took a step closer and Waad put up a restraining hand.

  ‘A tobacconist,’ he said. ‘He was a tobacconist.’

  ‘The Coiled Serpent?’ Ingram Frizer was not at all sure that he knew where it was. He knew most inns in the entire city of London, but not all went by the name on their sign. For all he knew, the Coiled Serpent could be one of his regular watering holes. He never looked above his head; opportunity and danger lay below, where the people were.

  ‘Yes, Ing,’ Skeres reminded him. ‘It’s down the Bailey. You know the one. Does meals. Lets out rooms. More of an ordinary than an inn.’ Frizer shook his head. ‘Landlord won’t allow swearing in the place. A bit of a Bible thumper.’

  The light dawned on Frizer’s rather weasel-like face. ‘I do know it, now you say that,’ he said. ‘I’ve often thought that keeping an inn was a strange calling for someone like that.’

  ‘There’s a lot of wine in the Bible, or so he says. In any event, I know where it is; are we going there now?’

  ‘Why not?’ Frizer said. ‘The sooner we go and see this lunatic, the sooner the money is in our pockets.’

  ‘But I still don’t see what he wants us to do. “Done down” – what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Did he say “gunned down”, perhaps?’ Frizer said. ‘In that case, it could be difficult, as we don’t have a gun.’

  Skeres thought for a moment, then said, ‘No. He definitely said “done”. He wants us to be … unpleasant about this man, Marlowe. This playwright. I suppose we could go and say nasty things in his play.’

  ‘We’ll be shouted down. Everyone loves this play that’s on. Tamburlaine. We’ll have to do better than that.’

  ‘Is he married? We could tell his wife he has a woman on the side.’

  Frizer pulled a face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘These are players. The surprise is when they haven’t got a woman on the side. Ned Alleyn is a legend, they say, in the bedroom.’

  Skeres shrugged. ‘I don’t know, then. Perhaps this Harvey will have some ideas. Come on,’ he tugged at Frizer’s sleeve, ‘it’s down here, the Coiled Serpent.’ The pair jostled their way along Giltspur Street, with the old Grey Friars to their left and old Rahere’s Hospital of St Bartholomew at their backs.

  The inn sign swung in the morning breeze, rather faded and tattered. ‘Oh.’ Frizer looked up at it. ‘A coiled serpent. I don’t think I had ever noticed it before. Terrible carving.’

  ‘What did you think it was?’ Skeres asked, pushing the door open.

  Frizer looked up once more and followed his colleague inside. He shook his head. ‘I have no idea,’ he muttered.

  Skeres was asking for Harvey. The grey-faced skivvy pointed up the stairs. The two men were about halfway up before she remembered her instructions. Her shriek went through them like an ice-cold knife in the back of the neck.

  ‘Master Harveee!’ It sounded like something a farmer might use to attract his pigs. ‘Master Harveeee! Two gennlemen to see yer.’

  Gabriel Harvey’s face around the edge of the door was as startled as theirs. ‘I apologize, gentlemen,’ he said in a low voice, holding his head. ‘She never seems to learn. It goes right through me,’ he pointed to his temple, ‘here.’

  Frizer nodded. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘What a delightful girl.’

  ‘I am only here until my own house is ready, you understand,’ Harvey was quick to point out. ‘It’s along the Strand. Rather large. Rather imposing. But, may I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?’

  Skeres silently rearranged the words in his head, to see what he had just been asked. ‘Ingram Frizer,’ he said, pointing to the other man, ‘and I am Nicholas Skeres. We met a … friend of yours today in St Paul’s. He said you may have a …’

  Before he could finish his sentence, Harvey had hooked a finger into the front of his doublet and pulled him inside. Frizer nipped in quickly before the door was slammed in his face.

  ‘Please,’ Harvey hissed. ‘Please, be careful. No one must know what I have planned.’

  Skeres gave Frizer a meaningful look. So, murder was afoot, then. All that nonsense of ‘doing someone down’ was all so much double talk. This was going to cost.

  ‘I think I can make myself clear, gentlemen, in very few and succinct sentences. You look like men of the world.’

  Frizer and Skeres exchanged satisfied glances. They certainly felt like men of the world. It was nice to have their suspicions borne out by a stranger.

  ‘So,’ Harvey continued, ‘you know how annoying it is when you find that someone else in your area of endeavour is fêted when you yourself are doomed to be ignored.’

  They weren’t quite so clear about that, but they were being paid, so they nodded. Or should they have shaken? The strange man with the rather mad eyes and flecks of foam at the corners of his mouth seemed content with nods, so they nodded some more.

  ‘I am so glad we understand each other. Now, do you know Master M—’ He stopped himself. ‘The person who is at issue here?’

  ‘We’ve heard of him,’ Frizer said, ‘but we have never met.’

  ‘You are fortunate in the extreme,’ Harvey said. ‘I have heard nothing but his name and seen nothing but his face every time I close my eyes for years. But I digress. I would like him … eliminated.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right men, Master …’

  ‘Professor.’

  ‘Professor Harvey.’ Skeres didn’t miss a beat. When there was serious money to be had, the customer was always right, be they barking mad or only nor’ by nor’west. ‘We do elimination to order, and very discreetly.’

  Harvey looked puzzled. ‘Discreetly?’ he asked. ‘How can you do it discreetly? I want Marlowe’s sins shouted from the roof tops. He must be …’

  ‘Eliminated, yes.’ Frizer jumped in. He had enough blood on his hands to see him in Hell, should there be one, for the rest of time, so a little more wouldn’t hurt. But if he could earn money with no blood being spilled, then so much the better for his immortal soul – should he have one. A man couldn’t be too careful these days. ‘I just need to get your orders straight in my mind. Could you just answer “yes” or “no” so we all know what is going on?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harvey was not happy with monosyllables
, but realized that needs must when the Devil drives.

  ‘Do you want us to kill Master Marlowe?’ Frizer asked.

  ‘God, no! Sorry.’ Harvey composed his face and folded his hands in his lap. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want him to be injured at all, even slightly?’ Skeres had the idea and was joining in with a will. ‘Kneecaps, that kind of thing.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want us to –’ now it was his turn again, Frizer was stuck for the phrase for a moment – ‘say nasty things about him?’

  Harvey brightened up. God’s teeth, could it be that these idiots had got the idea at last? ‘Yes!’

  ‘That’s all? No knives, no beating, no injuries of any kind?’

  Harvey was a literal-minded man and was stuck for the right answer. ‘Um … Yes, and … yes?’ He wasn’t sure that was right. ‘Yes, that’s all. Yes, no knives, no beating, no injuries of any kind?’ He stood up sharply, looking madder than ever. ‘What do you take me for?’

  Now Frizer and Skeres were both stuck for answers, but eventually Frizer spoke. ‘A man of the world, who doesn’t resort to violence,’ he said, soothingly. ‘Refreshing, in our line of work.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, Ma—Professor Harvey. Time is money. The sooner we start the sooner we finish …’

  ‘Please,’ Harvey said, closing his eyes. ‘Enough clichés. Here is your payment; I trust you will find it adequate for your task.’ He handed them a purse, reassuringly heavy, then walked to the door and opened it for them. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

  ‘Er … good morning,’ muttered Frizer.

  ‘Shall we be in touch?’ Skeres asked. ‘To let you know how we get on?’

  Harvey looked at him and laughed, a harsh bark. ‘I shall know,’ he said. ‘The heavens will proclaim it when the Muses’ Darling crashes to earth. I will hear the angels sing.’

  Skeres opened his mouth to speak, then settled for a nod and a hurried departure. Once out in the street, both men were silent until they reached the crossroads by Smithfield.

  ‘Was he …?’ Frizer began.

  ‘As a serpent, coiled or otherwise,’ Skeres agreed. ‘Still –’ he hefted the purse before stashing it in his belt – ‘easy money, Ing, the easiest we’ll earn in a long day’s march.’

  ‘Are we going to, you know, do it?’

  ‘What?’ Skeres was planning what he could spend his ill-gotten gains on and his mind was very much elsewhere.

  ‘Be nasty about Master Marlowe?’

  ‘Nah. What would be the point? But we’ll treat ourselves to a penny show, shall we? Just to say hello. It would be as well to know what he looks like, at least.’

  ‘Dinner, then a show,’ Frizer said, linking arms with Skeres. ‘That sounds like a plan.’

  Ingram Frizer dashed away an errant tear, as Ned Alleyn, after much gasping and clutching at his breast, finally died.

  ‘My body feels,’ the actor groaned, ‘my soul doth weep to see your sweet desires deprived my company. For Tamburlaine, the scourge of God, must die.’

  Frizer sniffed, glancing at Skeres. ‘Not such a bad old stick, was he?’

  Nicholas Skeres, always more pragmatic, was simply glad that most people died more easily than that, with far less noise and fuss.

  John Meres, as Amyras, stepped forward to close the play and, apart from Skeres’, there was scarcely a dry eye in the house. ‘Meet heaven and earth, and here let all things end, for earth hath spent the pride of all her fruit, and heaven consumed his choicest living fire! Let earth and heaven his timeless death deplore, for both their worths may equal him no more!’

  The applause was thunderous, and even the seated gallery patrons were on their feet. Backstage, Philip Henslowe leaned on the back of a piece of the walls of Babylon and muttered his thanks to whoever up there was looking after him. The play had gone off without undue incident, just the odd heckler being ejected. Another full house! His mouth was almost watering at the thought of smashing all the penny pots. His backers were happy. His actors were happy. If this was what a murder could do, he might arrange one for every new play.

  Marlowe, passing, poked him in the ribs. ‘I know what you are thinking, Master Henslowe, but I must take some credit, surely?’

  Henslowe came to with a start. ‘Of course, Kit, of course. This wouldn’t have happened with a bad play, not even with the shooting. No, no, this is your skill that has …’

  Marlowe laughed. ‘Spare me, Philip, please. Excuse me, I must just go through and meet the patrons. I had to calm down Lord Aumerle yesterday; he didn’t at all enjoy being sprayed with blood in the execution scene.’

  ‘Did you speak to Tom about that? We can’t afford to be replacing clothes left, right and centre.’

  ‘All done,’ Sledd said, scurrying past with an armful of wood for running repairs.

  ‘Good lad,’ Henslowe said absently, and wandered off to the box office.

  Marlowe bowed and complimented his way across the stage and was about to disappear behind some flats when two men approached him.

  ‘Master Marlowe?’

  He pinned on his most polite smile and turned round. ‘Gentlemen?’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘We are here with compliments from Ma … Professor Harvey,’ Skeres said.

  ‘Really?’ Marlowe’s eyebrow rose. ‘That is very … unexpected. Thank you.’

  Ingram moved round to Marlowe’s other shoulder, so that he was trapped between them. He looked closely at Frizer. ‘But, I know you. We met in St Paul’s.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Skeres said. He had had his suspicions, but had not been sure. The lighting in the theatre was so different. He wished Harvey’s task had been murder; it would have been a pleasure to take this popinjay down a proper peg or two.

  Frizer recognized the signs and while he would not have minded doling out a few kidney punches then and there, on stage at the Rose was probably not the place. ‘All’s fair in love and war,’ he said. ‘No harm done.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Marlowe said, extricating himself from them. He struck Frizer a friendly buffet on the shoulder. ‘It’s a shame we don’t have time for a game of Find the Lady, eh?’

  ‘Ha. Ha,’ Skeres replied, mirthlessly, returning the blow, but nothing like as hard as his heart would have him do. ‘Well, it was good to see you again, Master Marlowe. We will tell Professor Harvey we saw you.’

  ‘And Robyn Greene? Is he a friend of yours, too?’ Marlowe asked.

  ‘Greene? Oh, no. Just Professor Harvey. Besides, Master Greene is not … about much at the moment.’ Frizer suppressed a smile.

  ‘Pardon?’ If there was anyone who could understand a hidden meaning, it was Christopher Marlowe.

  ‘Well, when we saw him this morning, he was just being arrested by Constable Harrison and his men. He would have been taken to –’ he looked at Skeres for confirmation – ‘Ludgate, from St Paul’s.’

  ‘What for, do you know?’ A horrible suspicion was creeping over Marlowe. He was not a man much troubled by conscience, but if what he suspected was right, he would need to put things right. When he had the time.

  Skeres shrugged. ‘Who knows? Harrison and his men rarely get things right. He could be there for any reason, or none.’ He clapped Marlowe on the back once more. ‘We must be away. We’ll give your regards to Professor Harvey, shall we?’

  NINE

  He crouched in the reeds while the early-morning mists still wreathed the water. He turned the key in the gun’s mechanism slowly, watching the pool’s edge where the dark waters lay matted with dead bulrushes. Here and there, a new green shoot rose like a promise from the brown. He nestled the pearl-inlaid butt against his shoulder and lined his eye up along the barrel. This gun was a bitch; he knew that of old, but he also knew it was worth a queen’s ransom and he treated it with the respect it deserved.

  Then he saw them, a pair of mallards in the morning, the drake, very like himself, in gorgeous colours, preening its feathers and diving
to impress his lady love, the brown speckled drab who swam dutifully behind, looking coy and simple. It was spring in the marshes of Islington and the mallards, like Ned Alleyn who spied on them, had mating in mind.

  ‘Alleyn!’ The barking voice couldn’t have been worse timed. It coincided with his finger squeezing the trigger and the shot went wide, the gun’s butt thudding into his shoulder with such force that he dropped the thing and only just managed to rescue it from an expensive slide into the murky waters of the pond. The mallards, alarmed and reprieved at the same time, flapped noisily skyward to continue their courtship elsewhere.

  The actor fumed, clutching his aching shoulder and clambering to his feet. A knot of black-clad officials was striding over the tussocks of grass, Hugh Thynne at their head. A clutch of constables. A cobbling of catchpoles. Alleyn was turning into Kit Marlowe. But he was also turning into Shepherd Lane. That was before Hugh Thynne stopped him with his cane. He prodded Alleyn in the chest with it and stood in front of him.

  ‘You’re a hard man to find, play-actor,’ he said.

  ‘Not really,’ Alleyn smiled. ‘It’s Saturday. Everybody knows that Edward Alleyn hunts ducks at Islington Ponds on a Saturday. Gets me in the right mood for whatever part I’m playing.’

  ‘Shot a lot of ducks, did he, Tamburlaine?’ Thynne sneered.

  Alleyn ignored the jibe. ‘I assume you wanted me for something.’

  ‘I might want you for murder,’ Thynne told him. ‘Or at the very least aiding and abetting a killer.’

  ‘You have no writ, High Constable. This is Islington, in the county of Hertfordshire.’ He tapped the man on the chest. ‘You are out of your jurisdiction and out of your depth.’

  ‘When it comes to murder,’ Thynne said levelly, looking into the man’s dark eyes, ‘you’ll find my writ runs everywhere. Show me the gun.’

  Alleyn hauled it upright against his chest and threw it to him. Thynne caught it and looked at the thing. Heavy, ornate, richly lapped in silver and mother of pearl. ‘Yours?’ he asked the actor.