A Prisoner in Malta

by Phillip DePoy

  Marlowe spent the next hour crawling around on his hands and knees, sneezing, then breathing through his mouth so as not to smell the room. He discovered several other threads of cloth, a silver earring, and most significantly: a smudge of blood on the outside of the door, and another in the hall. Pygott had been killed elsewhere and then carried into the room. That explained the relative lack of blood in the mattress. The body had been loaded into it and left as clumsy, heavy-handed, ridiculous evidence of Marlowe’s guilt. It might have been laughable under other circumstances.

  After that Marlowe began to straighten up the room. He set the furniture aright, repaired the bed, and collected his papers, most of which had been destroyed beyond use. He stacked the books in one corner, checked the chamber pot, found it and the washbasin empty, and then sat down at the desk to consider what to do about the mattress.

  Clearly he couldn’t sleep on it; even the idea of keeping it in the room any longer was out of the question. He was, however, loath to destroy it away. It might be found to contain other clues upon further examination.

  Another five minutes’ consideration gave him a decision: take the mattress out of the room, down the stairs, and into the alleyway behind the Pickerel. There it could hang on a line and air out with impunity: no one who came within three feet of it would ever consider stealing it.

  That settled, he wrestled the offending lump outside, largely unheeded, and threw it over a line by the back wall of the public house. The alley was barely three feet wide, cluttered with refuse and bird droppings. An empty barrel collected moss and mold. It appeared to be seldom used. Still, Marlowe moved the mattress so that it would not entirely block the way. Then, adjusting his robe, checking his beard, and securing his cap, he strode back through the door and into the bar.

  The Pickerel was said to have been a brothel as well as an inn, partially owing to its riverside location, but inn or whorehouse, it was all the same to Marlowe. The place was cozy, the ceiling was low, the light was dim, and the ale was flavored with rosemary, Marlowe’s favorite.

  The pub was crowded and loud early in the afternoon, filled with every imaginable sort of person. A riot of color seized the eye with exactly the same violence that noise ravaged the ear.

  The fireplace was in the wall opposite the door. A pot of stew churned lazily, as well as a joint of beef, unattended. The fire was low, the coals orange like sunset’s horizon, a color that said, “Welcome in.”

  At the bar, an oaken barricade against the onslaught of students and laborers, stood the woman of the house. Standing beside her was the famous husband, Pinch, who had fought in many Spanish campaigns. The popularity of the Pickerel was based, at least in part, on Pinch’s reputation as a great liar. The rumor was that Pinch had acquired such a name by stealing, but Nell swore his name was to be attributed to the gesture that first brought them together. Pinch was a vague, towering skeleton, nearly six feet tall. Standing next to his wife, it was impossible to understand how they had managed to have children, but they had. The three young serving maids at the Pickerel were their handsome daughters. They weaved through the glut of men with the grace of dancers. They set a cup here, got a plate there, cheerfully enduring the occasional rude suggestion, lewd gaze, or unholy proposition.

  Marlowe nudged his way up to the bar and placed himself immediately in front of Nell. She glared at him, but did not speak.

  He smiled. “I’ve cleaned the room a bit,” he said, pitching his voice so that only she could hear. “I found some interesting items.”

  Nell’s face hardened. “How’s that?”

  “I say I’ve found things in the room,” he said, his voice filled with menace, “things that tell me you have not been completely honest with the authorities.”

  “I’ve worked it out, you know,” she said, leaning close to his face. “You haven’t fooled me with your disguise and your fancy talk.”

  “What?” he asked, drawing back from her.

  “You ain’t never a college student.” She laughed. “You’re a spy.”

  Marlowe straightened up. “No—” he began.

  “Listen here,” she whispered back violently. “I goes to the theatre at least once a month; stands right up front. I ken an actor’s beard when I sees one. I’m not just anybody.”

  “I don’t take you for just anyone,” Marlowe countered viciously. “I take you for an aide to murder.”

  Nell twitched and the look in her eyes changed significantly. Suspicion had been replaced by fear.

  “I understand it now,” she muttered, head down. “You are in the employ of Mr. John Pygott. But you ain’t like the others.”

  That was unexpected.

  Marlowe leaned forward.

  “What others?” he demanded through clenched teeth, obviously threatening her.

  Without warning a bony hand clutched Marlowe’s throat and began to lift him off the floor. Pinch was seeking to intervene on his wife’s behalf.

  Marlowe’s dagger was in his hand immediately and it sliced a small bit of skin from Pinch’s forearm, just enough to make Pinch gasp and loosen his grip.

  “Husband!” Nell shrieked.

  For an instant the noise of the place abated, and several eyes turned toward the commotion, but everyone in the Pickerel knew better than to intrude on petty squabbles, especially if they involved a blade.

  “I mean your dame no harm, Pinch,” Marlowe insisted, “and I am not in the employ of John Pygott. But I know this: someone brought his son’s body here. And Nell, you helped them load it into that room upstairs. I assume they paid you well to do it, and to keep silent, but I believe I have proof, as I was saying, that it happened. I found things in the room just now. Shall I speak with the bailiffs about it?”

  It was a good bluff because it frightened Nell.

  “Wait,” Nell said immediately. “There’s more to it.”

  “Yes, I thought so.” Marlowe nodded. “I will not submit you to the authorities if you will simply tell me who these other men are.”

  Pinch held the wound on his arm, and nodded gravely. Nell’s eyes betrayed uncertainty, but a glance or two at Marlowe’s dagger seemed to urge her to reply.

  “I don’t know who they are, not by name,” she said, and it sounded true, “but they comes in here almost every evening now, like they’re looking for something or waiting for someone. Take a table. Just you wait. One or the other will pop in soon enough.”

  “There were only two?”

  “Aye.”

  “Was one, by any chance, a Spaniard?”

  “Could be,” she mused. “He was a bit dark-faced, and he ain’t say nary a word. The other’s rough. Rude.”

  “Makes advances,” Pinch tossed in solemnly. “At the girls. I don’t like it.”

  Marlowe smiled. “Please forgive my cutting you, Pinch. It was a thoughtless response.”

  Marlowe’s dagger disappeared.

  Pinch’s head jerked sideways. “Well, then. I don’t believe I’ve heard an apology in this place for ten years or more. After all, I took you by the throat.”

  “You were only doing what any loving husband would do,” Marlowe assured him. “Nell, you are the most fortunate of women.”

  At that Nell’s entire demeanor softened. “Well, he’s tall, I will say that. Good for reaching at things in high places.”

  Pinch leaned down a bit and winked at Marlowe. “And not so bad at reaching a few of the lower places too, if you catch my meaning.”

  Nell slapped Pinch’s bicep and even blushed a little. Pinch displayed a largely toothless grin. Marlowe did his best not to be distracted by evidence of marital harmony in so base a couple. He paused only a second before daring the next question.

  “One more thing,” he said, gazing boldly into Nell’s eyes. “What about that room’s previous tenant? Marlowe, I believe, was his name.”

  Nell nodded. “Nice boy. Good manners. It’s a shame that someone’s got it out for him, but there you are.”

&nbs
p; “Any idea what’s happened to him?”

  She shrugged. “If you believe the rabble, he’s fled on account of murdering Pygott. But if you ask me, the same men what killed the fat boy killed poor Marlowe. Too bad.”

  “Nice boy,” Pinch repeated, shaking his head.

  “Well.” Marlowe straightened up. “I’ll just have a seat by the fire, then.”

  Without further comment, Pinch went back to work, and Nell caught the eye of one of her daughters. There was work to be done.

  The rest of the bar’s population had already resumed their previous behaviors: drinking, laughing, cursing, eating, and falling asleep in their food.

  THIRTEEN

  Marlowe strode to a table near the fire, settled back, and watched the crowd. Before long one of the daughters glided up to the table, winked, and rested her weight on one leg. Her skin was alabaster with a blush of pink. Her hair was plaited gold silk.

  “Food or ale?”

  “Why not both,” Marlowe said above the din.

  “Indeed,” she agreed. “You’ve taken a room, have you?”

  “I have. Not the most felicitous of chambers.”

  “What with the dead body they found there, you mean.”

  “Yes.” Marlowe smiled.

  “I spot you for new in town,” she said, “so I’m taking care of you. I’ll bring you the stew because it’s fresh, if I skim the top away, whereas the joint of beef is older than me. We flavors our ale with rosemary and ivy, so as to make it go with stew, and it’s only a halfpenny a tankard. There’s manchet comes with it.”

  “Manchet. Lovely,” Marlowe said enthusiastically. “I could murder a slice of bread.”

  Without another word, she turned and slid away. Marlowe watched her go. She moved like a skater over frozen water, and he wondered why he had never noticed her before. Only then did he allow himself to consider how fortunate he had been that no one at the inn recognized him. Still, he renewed his determination not to engage too deeply with anyone, lest he be detected. His entire investigation of Pygott’s death depended on anonymity.

  Marlowe stared into the fire then, and could not prevent his thoughts from rushing to Frances Walsingham, her face, her hands—her ability with a rapier. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the contour of her cheek, and thought of several exhausted conversations beside fires in the South of France. The sound that her blue dress had made as she took his hand in London, leading him out of the tiny chamber where her father sat, filled his ears, obliterating any other noise.

  So it was that he did not notice when the girl brought his stew and ale.

  “Here we go,” she said, breaking his reverie.

  “Ah.” He rubbed his eyes. “Very nice. Thank you.”

  “Manners,” she said almost mockingly. “I don’t get much in the way of ‘thank you’ around here. You’ve just won a bit of extra ale.”

  She was off once more.

  Marlowe devoured his stew, and the bread was gone with it before five minutes had passed. He sat back, oddly contented, only to be startled when a man grabbed the skirt of his serving girl and nearly sent her tumbling. The noise of the room abated, but only slightly.

  “Come on, sweet.” The man began to bunch up her skirt. “Just a peek at the old bird’s nest!”

  The girl slapped his hand with a mummer’s grace.

  “No, Ingram,” was all she said.

  She turned from him and continued on her way, but Marlowe saw that Pinch had taken notice, and Nell tapped her nose with her index finger, then nodded in the offender’s direction.

  Marlowe squinted in the direction of the man. Difficult to see in the lamplight, but that could have been one of the men who accosted him on campus, and on the road. He turned back to Nell; she affirmed his silent query with another nod.

  Meanwhile, the man stood unsteadily and wobbled after the girl. She was almost to the bar by the time he caught up.

  “No?” The misbegotten man she’d called Ingram roared.

  He jerked her arm so suddenly that she dropped the handful of cups she was carrying. The clatter was like a cymbal’s clash against the tables. What was left of the human noise of the place receded like water. Every eye was on the scene composed by Ingram and the proprietors’ daughter. Menace radiated from Pinch, and Nell was already rounding the bar.

  “Now, then,” Ingram went on.

  Oblivious of the danger around him, or the crowd that watched his every move, he reached his hand up under the girl’s skirt. The next thing Marlowe knew, old-man Pinch appeared beside Ingram, roaring. He had Ingram’s arms pinned in the blink of an eye. There was no question of a struggle. Pinch was twice the size of Ingram, and only half as drunk.

  At last Marlowe recognized the man. He was indeed one of the three that had asked him to steal from the church, and then, not much later, attacked the coach to London. This was the man that Marlowe had stabbed and left bleeding on the roadside.

  “What was you saying to my daughter?” Pinch roared.

  Nell stood by, bat in hand, eyes all flame.

  “Pardon!” Ingram croaked, unable to move. “Drink takes a man out of himself. I see that now!”

  “Out!” Nell bellowed. “And never come back here again, or my husband will snap you like a stick. Do you hear me?”

  Pinch grunted and shoved the man toward the door.

  “Ingram Frizer shall not return to this place!” He sounded more like a terrified schoolboy than a murderous villain. Frizer looked about, eyes unable to focus, and the steam of human noise rose up again, entirely filling the room.

  The serving girl breezed close to Marlowe. “Mum says he’s all yours now.”

  Frizer managed to stagger out the doorway.

  Marlowe laid money on the table, stood, and left calmly, with only a slight nod to Nell. Once outside, he followed the careening drunkard down the narrow street.

  Noise from the river, and the smell of fish, filled the air. Frizer was easy to follow. He lumbered into people, hit walls; fell down twice. No one took much notice. Just another ale-soaked brawler.

  After a few twists and turns, Frizer fell into a baker’s shop. Marlowe quickened his step and arrived at the door just in time to see Frizer wave off the baker with a rude gesture and crash into the back room.

  The baker cursed, shook his head, and went back to work arranging brown loaves of bread on a board.

  Marlowe paused, trying to determine if Frizer would return. After a few moments, Marlowe entered the shop.

  “Ah,” the baker said, acknowledging Marlowe’s presence.

  “I’m told you have an almond-and-ginger cake,” Marlowe announced softly.

  Marlowe knew about that particular cake. He’d had one his first week in Cambridge. The bakery was well-known for it.

  “Best in England,” the man asserted seriously. “I take a little gum dragon and keep it in rosewater all night, that’s what gives it the character, you see. Then in goes almonds and sugar and ginger and cinnamon, beat into a paste. I dry it in the oven. Just dry it, mind. Makes my mouth water just talking about it.”

  “I’ll take one.” Marlowe reached for his purse.

  “Sorry,” the baker said, eyes narrowed. “Haven’t made any today.”

  Marlowe looked up. “No? Are you certain? Perhaps your man in back could find one.”

  “My man in back?” the baker asked in a loud voice. “You’re quite mistaken. And I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad time, alas. We’re closing.”

  “Closing? It’s three in the afternoon.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “I see.” Marlowe secured his purse. “Another day.”

  “Well,” the baker hedged, “the almond-ginger’s more a winter cake. And spring’s coming on. Don’t know that we’ll have it again until November, you understand.”

  “Yes, I think I understand,” Marlowe answered, glancing toward the back room. “But tell Ingram Frizer that I came to see him.”

  Before the baker could gat
her his wits or respond, Marlowe was out the door.

  FOURTEEN

  Marlowe turned his attention to the next possible source of information: Professor Bartholomew. As he passed St. Benet’s Church, he was suddenly seized by a very bad idea. What if he allied himself with this Ingram Frizer and agreed to steal the documents from this church? That way he would be privy to the Catholic plans, at least to some extent. He might even make a confidante of Frizer, which could lead to more intelligence, though the word intelligence scarcely seemed applicable to Frizer at all.

  He pocketed the idea, and hurried past the church, around the corner, and into the campus yard. There he was struck by a scene at once familiar and foreign. Students were rushing to class, but it seemed a decade ago that Marlowe had been one of those boys. A wave of intense sadness took hold of him as he stared at the spot where he and Lopez had stood, Lopez enjoining him to leave the college for a wider world. The man who saved his father’s life was gone, and Marlowe was not the same person who had stood on that spot only a few weeks earlier.

  Realizing that such thoughts might capsize him, he shoved them out of his mind, quickened his step, and hurried toward Bartholomew’s offices. Into the stone building, up the stairs, and down the silent hall, Marlowe tried not to think of what he’d say to his old professor. Spontaneity was best for lying.

  To knock on the door or to simply barge in? He chose the latter.

  “I do beg your pardon, Professor Bartholomew,” he began as he opened the door.

  The sight of the president of the college stopped him. William Cole was reviled among so many of the more conservative faculty because he was a Puritan and a married clergyman. He glared at Marlowe.

  Cole was standing in front of Bartholomew’s desk with a fistful of papers. Bartholomew was seated.