Crimson Rose

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Perhaps the bellman knows someone whose name begins with H,’ Marlowe suggested. ‘Perhaps …’ He glanced at the man, who was staring vacantly into the distance. As distant church bells began to ring, his hand kept straying vaguely to his belt where his muffled bell hung, waiting. ‘Or, perhaps not,’ he conceded.

  ‘Let’s go the other way round,’ Faunt suggested. ‘Widdershins.’

  ‘How would that help?’ Marlowe asked. He was cold and disappointed that they had got nowhere.

  ‘Perhaps if we come at the houses from another direction, we will see something we missed before.’ Faunt shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try, surely?’

  Marlowe nodded and the three men trudged slowly along the northern edge of the street, going widdershins with the lantern bobbing at eye level. Marlowe was finding it hard to keep his concentration on the job in hand. His imagination had already finished the night with the murderer in the Compter and he and Faunt celebrating their success with Walsingham’s Burgundy. Feeling people’s windows had not been in the story in his head at all. He looked up at the sky; the clouds were gathering. All they needed to make the night perfect was rain. Then he saw it and he stopped dead. The bellman stepped on the back of his heel and jabbed him sharply between the shoulder blades with his chin. Marlowe pointed to the corner of a door frame, above his head. ‘Look, there.’

  He raised the lantern high, risking opening its shutters a little to give more light. And there, as clear as day, was what Faunt had taken for an H. It was an heraldic ermine symbol, as near to an H as made no difference, the upstrokes fused together at the top.

  Faunt clapped him on the back. ‘That’s it,’ he whispered. ‘That’s what it was in the book. I just thought it was an H, badly done. Good work.’

  Marlowe turned to the bellman and mouthed, ‘Thank you. You have done the Queen a great service tonight.’

  The man snatched back his lantern and made off round the corner. They half expected him to ring the hour and assure the populace that all was well, but he was clearly confused on the matter and was silent. The moment had gone. His shadow lengthened and then disappeared.

  Faunt turned to Marlowe and whispered, ‘Next stage. Ready?’

  Marlowe nodded. He disappeared into the shadow of the doorway and heard Faunt tap gently on the door with the ermine mark.

  The door creaked open and a voice said, guardedly, ‘Yes?’

  Faunt answered in a voice Marlowe had not heard him use before. He sounded rather stupid, but well bred and sophisticated. There was something about the sibilants in his speech that hinted at a dilettante lisp. ‘My man, I am in need of … funds. Gaming losses, I’m afraid. A friend told me you could help.’

  ‘A friend?’ the voice said from behind the door. ‘Does your friend have a name?’

  ‘’Fraid not. Well, he does, of course. But I don’t know whether he would like me giving it to voices behind doors.’

  Marlowe clenched his teeth. Faunt was a loss to the stage, he could see, but he was antagonizing the man. A slammed door now might mean the end of everything.

  ‘Fair enough. You have a name, though?’

  ‘I certainly do. My name is Sir Oliver Blennerhaysett. From Warwickshire, you know. Down in London for the Horse Fair and I seem to have lost all my money at dice.’

  The voice behind the door sounded amused. ‘You country gentlemen! You will do it, won’t you? I don’t do any moneylending here, but if you go down this street to the end, then turn north …’ The voice reconsidered the man’s rural status. ‘That’s to the left. Then not the first street, nor the second, but the third on your right, that’s where you need to go. See this sign above my door? You’ll see another such, halfway along, on the left. Knock there.’ And with no further ado, the door scraped closed and Faunt was left on the doorstep.

  ‘Kit?’ he whispered. ‘Did you get that?’

  Marlowe leaned out from the doorway and waved a reply. They had planned to leave a minute or so between them, so that if anyone decided to follow Faunt, Marlowe would be behind them, the old coney-catching trick. He waited in his doorway while Faunt made his way along the street to the end. No one came out of the door with the mark of the ermine, so he fell in behind.

  Following Faunt was like following the wind. He was silent as he ran through the streets, his cloak snapping behind him like a sail. At the end of the third street on the right, he stopped and straightened his doublet, ran a hand through his hair and pulled up his hood. Then he walked swiftly and, looking up to check he was at the right house, tapped on the door. He stepped back two paces, looking up at the windows on the floor above. He risked a glance to his left to check that Marlowe was there and he saw a shadow move slightly two doorways down. Being followed by Marlowe was like being followed by the wind; you didn’t know he was there until he suddenly blew you over.

  Marlowe saw Faunt’s head turn sharply and heard a voice ask who was there.

  ‘Sir Oliver Blennerhaysett,’ Faunt said, in his foolish voice. ‘To borrow some money, if you would be so kind.’

  An arm shot out and dragged him inside. Marlowe edged closer and crouched under the nearest window. There was the faintest glimmer of light showing through the shutters and he could hear voices, but not what was being said. Then the voices stopped and the light went out. The playwright scurried back to his doorway and pressed himself back against the cold stone. With luck, the men wouldn’t pass him, but if they did they would hopefully be so deep in conversation that they wouldn’t even notice him standing there, still and as silent as a statue.

  There was no conversation as they left the house and Marlowe could hear just one set of footsteps, going away from him. Whoever Faunt was with didn’t mind making a noise, the nails in the soles of his boots ringing on the flags. Faunt, as usual, flannel-footed as a cat, was padding alongside in silence. Marlowe risked looking out from his doorway and saw the men outlined against the faint grey of the starlit sky as they reached the top of the sloping street. Faunt was wiry and strong, walking on the inside, against the walls of the houses. The man he walked beside was taller, wider at the shoulder but didn’t walk so smoothly. Marlowe guessed he was a little older, just that touch stiffer in his walk. Both had hoods to their cloaks, but Faunt’s was thrown back, showing his close-cropped dark head. The other had his hood pulled down. Marlowe could see the edge of it well forward of his face when they turned to the left at the top of the hill. As soon as they turned the corner, he ran forward to make up some time. Pausing at the turn in the street, he heard a soft tap at a door. Peeping round carefully, he saw the two waiting outside an imposing doorway, decorated in the new Italian style with lions’ masks and roundels. As he watched, the two men stepped inside.

  Inside, Faunt could see little beyond a tapestry hanging on the wall beyond the curving stair. A manservant stood there, with a nightstick in his hand and a nightshirt trailing almost to the floor. He looked Faunt up and down with faint derision in his eyes. Sir Oliver Blennerhaysett put his thumb firmly on Nicholas Faunt and stopped him from punching the man right between the eyes. Faunt was used to playing a long game but his blood was up and the chase was over. He had his moneylender and now his partner in crime. The day was his. Nevertheless, he waited quietly, trying to look like a gentleman of the shires, down on his luck in London.

  ‘The master will be down shortly,’ the manservant said, placing the candle from the nightstick in a sconce on the wall. The moneylender turned his face away, so it was still shielded by the hood. There was a soft footfall on the stairs and a white stockinged toe came round the corner, with a long white nightshirt above it. A hand slid along the polished banister rail and the master came slowly and carefully down the stair and into view.

  Faunt caught his breath.

  The master of the house stopped and peered into the hall, then straightened up. ‘Nicholas Faunt?’ he said, in disbelieving tones. ‘Nicholas Faunt? I always thought you did quite well for a living. Never out of business, in your li
ne, I should have thought. Thynne, what were you thinking, bringing Master Faunt here?’

  ‘Sir William.’ Faunt sketched a bow and put his hand on the dagger at his back. ‘I’m afraid you can’t blame Master Thynne. I told him I was Sir Oliver Blennerhaysett of Warwickshire.’

  Sir William Danby, Coroner to the Queen, carried on down the stairs and allowed himself a dry chuckle. ‘Sir Oliver would be flattered,’ he told Faunt. ‘He must be eighty if he is a day and hasn’t left his estates in at least twenty years, to my knowledge. But I repeat, Thynne, what were you thinking? A man in your position should know all the important people in London.’ He nodded at Faunt, who nodded back. Two men who knew just what was what and who was who.

  Thynne had thrown back his hood and stood with his back to the door, like a stag at bay. Walsingham’s greyhound had chased him into this covert and there was no way out, except by his tongue.

  ‘Let me explain—’ he began, but Faunt stopped him.

  ‘There is someone outside who needs to hear your explanation,’ he said. ‘If you will just excuse me, Master Thynne.’ He pushed past him and opened the door. ‘Kit?’ He raised his voice so the men inside could hear him.

  Marlowe sighed. This was happening far too quickly to be good. They must have been barking up the wrong tree. He moved out of his shadow and edged round the half-open door.

  Thynne slammed the door behind him and leaned on it again. It seemed to give him some kind of comfort. ‘You!’ he spat. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Chasing you, Master Thynne,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘I admit that usury is not an attractive way to make a living,’ Thynne said, spreading his hands. ‘But I hardly think it warrants you –’ he pointed at Faunt – ‘impersonating a gentleman of the shires, or you –’ he pointed at Marlowe – ‘following me. Not only that, Sir William,’ he said to Danby, ‘but this man is a wanted felon. He murdered a man outside the Rose Theatre and I have been hunting him ever since.’

  Danby came down the last few steps and silenced Thynne with a raised hand. ‘Hugh,’ he said, condescension dripping from his tongue like honey, ‘I think we’ll have to consider you caught, fair and square. I myself,’ he paused for a small smile, ‘am above suspicion, of course, and if you try to involve me in this,’ he looked from face to face, ‘if any of you try to involve me in this, it will go the worse for you. I know you, Faunt, have friends in high places, but mine are even higher.’ He paused and puffed out his chest. ‘I was at the Inns of Court with Lord Burghley.’ No one pulled rank like Sir William Danby. ‘I can help you escape the full penalty of the law, Hugh, if you agree to admit everything to these gentlemen. Is that fair? After all, High Constables don’t grow on trees.’ He spoke directly to Faunt this time.

  ‘It’s not that simple, Sir … William?’ Marlowe began.

  ‘That’s right, Master Marlowe,’ Danby said. ‘Coroner William Danby, at your service. I think your plays are masterly, if I may digress for a moment. Simply masterly. They read as well as they play. I am fortunate enough to be among those who are sent copies, before they appear. For reasons beyond my comprehension, the High Constable gets a copy too, don’t you, Hugh? We check for libel. Obscenity. Things of that nature. And of course –’ he smiled again, that mirthless smile that lawyers share, a smile that first appeared on the serpent in Eden – ‘of course, I find both libel and obscenity, and usually much more besides. I’m sorry. Yet again, I digress. It’s not that simple, you say.’

  ‘No, Sir William,’ Marlowe continued. ‘I have reason to believe that Master Thynne here is a murderer, with at least three deaths on his conscience.’

  ‘Assuming he has a conscience,’ Danby put in.

  ‘Assuming that, yes. So,’ Marlowe turned to Thynne, ‘what have you to say for yourself?’

  ‘I lend money,’ Thynne said flatly. ‘I lend money at huge interest. That is a crime. I don’t deny it. How can I deny it? You and your accomplice here have trapped me and it’s all up with me. My family will starve. My honour is taken from me. But murder? Why should I murder anyone?’

  Danby looked at Marlowe, then Faunt. ‘He has you there,’ he said. ‘Hip and thigh. Have you any proof as such?’

  ‘Not proof,’ Marlowe said. ‘But enough evidence, when stacked one piece on another, surely adds up to proof in the end. The three people dead were like you, Sir William, accomplices in his moneylending scheme. Perhaps you would have been next. Why should he stop at three?’

  ‘I have never had another partner but Sir William,’ Thynne protested. ‘I have brought all my business to him.’

  Danby compressed his lips and shook his head. ‘Hugh, Hugh, Hugh,’ he said, sadly. ‘You must take me for a fool. Like Master Faunt’s, my eyes are everywhere. I knew that you were doing business all over London, otherwise how could you live as you do? One of my men has followed you, off and on, for months and has seen what you are about. Oh,’ he turned to Marlowe, ‘this may be bad for your case, Master Marlowe. It may be that I, in doubting Master Thynne, have inadvertently given him alibis for the nights in question. If so, I am sorry.’

  Thynne was silent, still pressing back against the door. He licked his lips and spoke, with an effort. ‘I know who your murderer is,’ he said. ‘And I can take you to him.’

  Faunt and Marlowe exchanged glances. ‘I think we have him already,’ Faunt said. He turned to Danby. ‘If one of your servants can run to Sir Francis Walsingham’s house, to bring some men, we can take Master Thynne to the Compter. He’ll be among old friends there.’

  Danby looked doubtful. ‘Master Faunt,’ he said. ‘I would love to help, but with Her Majesty at Whitehall tonight, we are in the Verge. Could you either go elsewhere to arrest him, or wait until tomorrow afternoon, when she moves out to Nonsuch and takes the problem with her?’ He looked at them and explained. ‘I would have to officiate, you see, and … well, surely you can see my predicament? Why not humour Master Thynne? Let him take you to his murderer. Who knows –’ the coroner allowed himself a chuckle – ‘he may be telling the truth.’

  ‘I am,’ Thynne agreed. ‘I am telling the truth.’

  Marlowe thought for a moment, then agreed. ‘We must bind his arms,’ he said. ‘I don’t fancy chasing him through the streets, not after having him so close.’

  Danby called over his shoulder. ‘Pursglove! Pursglove! Bring some rope, will you?’

  ‘Don’t tie my hands,’ Thynne pleaded. ‘I won’t run, I promise. I want this foul murderer brought to book as well as you do. And I am still, for the moment, High Constable.’

  The manservant arrived, with a short piece of light rope coiled elegantly on a silver tray. ‘Rope, Sir William,’ he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, given that he was still in his nightshirt.

  Marlowe came to a decision. ‘We’ll take the rope, in case we need it,’ he said. ‘We’re trusting you, Thynne.’

  ‘I won’t run,’ the High Constable said. ‘You have my word. But, for the look of the thing, may I bring my cane of office? So that the world will see the High Constable out walking with two gentlemen?’

  Faunt unsheathed his dagger. ‘I can throw this as well as I can use it in my hand, Master Thynne. Running would not be wise.’

  Danby was running out of patience. This evening had not gone well. Not only was he now at risk of Faunt and Marlowe speaking out of turn, but he would have to find another way of making some extra money. It was experience, one way and another, being the Coroner Royal. The sooner these men were gone, the sooner he could fix the damage. ‘I think we have discussed all we can discuss, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Pursglove, show these gentlemen out.’

  And as if a pleasant evening had wound itself happily to a close and old friends were parting to go their various ways, Pursglove opened the door to allow the three men to leave. Danby called goodnight and they were out on the street. Faunt took up position behind Thynne, his dagger tickling him in the small of his back.

  ‘Take us to the m
urderer, Master Thynne, if you please,’ Marlowe said, with just a hint of irony. ‘We can’t wait to find out who it might be.’

  ‘You know who it is, Master Marlowe,’ Thynne said. ‘It just needs a moment’s thought. I’m astonished that a man with your reputation for brilliance has entirely missed the point. In this life, or so I have found,’ he continued, leading the way back down the street in the direction in which they had come, ‘there are always people who are envious about what one has. When I was a child, I had a little wooden horse which my father carved for me. My brother wanted one the same, but before our father could make one, he had taken mine and broken it. Then, my father refused to finish the horse he was making and so neither of us had one. Jealousy is a terrible thing, Master Marlowe, Master Faunt. Just ask Alleyn and Shakespeare. Given another five minutes at your house, Marlowe, and they would have finished my job for me. They were beating each other to death, over a woman. In my line of work, I see all kinds of crime, sometimes for the slightest of reasons.’

  ‘And what is your point?’ Faunt asked, giving him a none-too-gentle prod.

  ‘That despite the fact that my money came from a complex and totally illegal method of moneylending which gave me little peace, what with the worry and keeping it from my wife and the men I mix with in society, I know that some were jealous of me. And one such has decided to murder my accomplices, so that in time the trail will lead back to me.’

  ‘As it has,’ conceded Marlowe.

  ‘As it has. And then, with me swinging at Tyburn, the murderer can step in and take over my business and get to my position in the world.’

  ‘That’s not much of a position, though, is it, Master Thynne?’ Faunt ventured. ‘The High Constable is only high compared with other constables. I have never noticed you at any of the tables where even I, a humble servant of Her Majesty, eat. So, your position in society isn’t anything to be envious of really, is it?’

  ‘Turn right here,’ Thynne said. ‘And you will see envy writ large. Enoch Harrison. My senior constable. This is his house.’ He stopped and faced the door. ‘Do you want me to knock? We have a code.’ Faunt and Marlowe knew all about codes.