“Yes, I beg your pardon, young man,” Bartholomew said quickly, “I am past my time for our appointment. Do come in. President Cole was just leaving.”
Cole’s face reddened and his hand crushed the papers he was holding. He clambered past Marlowe, utterly ignoring him.
“If I had known that the president—” Marlowe began again.
“Close the door, young man,” Bartholomew admonished harshly, “and lower your voice!”
Marlowe stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The offices were comprised of two large working rooms, a smaller private water closet, and a curtained alcove that Marlowe took to be a sleeping cubicle. The stone walls were high, and there was a tapestry on the one beside the entrance door, but the rest were obscured by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves overflowing with volume after volume. A slight haze of dust hung in the air, and the silver motes floated in the sunlight from a large arching window. There was a desk with a chair where the professor sat, and only one other chair beside the window.
Bartholomew looked Marlowe up and down, then shook his head. Easily, in a single movement, he produced a cocked pistol from a drawer and laid the gun on his desk directly in front of him. He kept his right hand near it.
“What is the meaning of this ridiculous costume you are wearing, Mr. Marlowe?”
Taken aback, Marlowe was momentarily struck dumb.
“I suppose it has something to do with the assertion that you’ve murdered that idiot Pygott, yes?” Bartholomew went on.
Marlowe could only nod.
“Sit,” the old man commanded. “I’m afraid our time must be short for the moment. I have a class and I think it best not to be seen with you.”
Marlowe sat. “You recognized me right away: bad news for my disguise.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” Bartholomew told him. “I know you’ve been away, to London at the very least. And it was easy to deduce that a stranger barging into my offices might be Christopher Marlowe since that stranger spoke in a voice I knew and wore boots I recognized, though a face that I did not. There is also the matter of your dagger, which is quite distinctive, that filigreed hilt.”
Marlowe glanced down. “Yes. Someone else pointed that out.”
“You ought to conceal it better under that cassock,” Bartholomew concluded.
“I should.” Marlowe nodded. “How on earth would you know I’ve been to London?”
“I happened to see your little imbroglio with Pygott,” Bartholomew said with a wave of his hand. “I saw him leave. I saw you get into a coach. And then you were not in classes after that. Not only does it stand to reason that you were not in Cambridge when Pygott was killed, but I surmised that you went to London on royal business. I know the Queen’s conveyance when I see it. But, to the point: I have been expecting you, as I say. I have learned information that may prove quite startling to you.”
“You—you have already given me several surprises,” Marlowe stammered. “Would you be willing to swear to what you’ve just told me—about seeing Pygott alive, as I left for London—in a court of law?”
At that Bartholomew put his hand on the gun.
“I cannot do that,” the old man said, “for reasons of my own. But I can offer you this insight: John Pygott, the father of the unfortunate corpse, is a close friend to a certain family called Throckmorton. The boy, Walter, was a frequent guest at certain so-called hunting parties held on the grounds of Coughton Court, the Throckmorton home in Warwickshire. The gatherings are, in fact, secret meetings. Walter Pygott was there at Christmastide.”
“Go on.” Marlowe held his breath.
“At Coughton Court,” Bartholomew continued, “Walter Pygott met the sickly son of a London courtier. Said pale young person had quit London for reasons of his health, or so it was told. This person, called Richard, was, in actuality, a spy.”
Was Bartholomew in league with the conspirators? How else would he know these things? Marlowe’s hand crept closer to his dagger. Bartholomew noticed and picked up his pistol, aiming it at Marlowe’s head.
“A spy?” Marlowe asked disingenuously.
Inexplicably, Bartholomew raised the index finger of his free hand to his lips and nodded once in the direction of the door.
Marlowe hesitated, then turned silently. He could see a moving shadow through the space underneath the door. Someone was just outside, listening. The professor was aiming his gun at the door, not at Marlowe’s head. Marlowe moved slowly and deliberately, rising out of the chair, soundlessly inching toward the door. Dagger bared, he reached for the handle.
Glancing at Bartholomew, who stood stony, pistol at the ready, Marlowe threw open the door.
A familiar figure filled the doorframe.
Bartholomew smiled instantly, and lowered his weapon. Marlowe could only gape.
“Frances,” Bartholomew said softly but warmly. “Welcome to Cambridge.”
She was dressed in travel clothing, a simple pale dress and a thick brown cape. She had tied up her hair and wore a cap. Her eyes were the color of emeralds.
She stepped into the room and closed the door.
“You were about to tell my friend what happened to poor Richard,” she said, gliding toward the chair in front of Bartholomew’s desk.
“Yes,” Bartholomew said, setting down his pistol.
Marlowe allowed a dozen or so questions to race through his mind before he put away his dagger.
“Walter was angry with me—with Richard,” Frances explained, “because I had bested him at cards. He drew his rapier. I disarmed him. I should not have done it, but my anger or pride got the better of me, I suppose. He could see quite clearly that I was not as helpless as I pretended to be. It made him suspicious. That suspicion, coupled with his shame at being disarmed, set him running to Throckmorton; I’m almost certain of it. With only a modest bit of investigation and bribery, Throckmorton discovered that the courtier who was supposed to have been my father was childless. I was on my way back to London by the time he’d discovered that fact. I thought it best to deliver what intelligence I had gleaned as quickly as possible. It was considerable. That’s when I was taken on the road and, eventually, buried in a hole in Malta.”
Marlowe marveled at her brevity, as he had on so many other occasions.
“Why are you here in Cambridge?” he asked.
“A fair question,” she admitted. “I’ve come to visit Professor Bartholomew, though I also hoped to see you.”
“How does Professor Bartholomew fit into our little drama of intrigue and mayhem?” Marlowe asked.
The old man lifted his shoulders. “Lord Walsingham and I are acquainted.”
Frances smiled. “Slightly more than that, I believe, sir.”
Bartholomew looked away, but said nothing.
“At any rate,” Frances continued, “the professor is—how shall I put it?—woven into the fabric of our play.”
“You knew what you were doing when you interrupted those men,” Marlowe said to the professor, “the men who were Catholic agents, out on the quadrangle. You were interceding.”
Bartholomew shook his head. “I was merely—”
“You were also investigating me,” Marlowe went on, “making certain of my loyalties.”
“Well.” The old man glanced at Frances.
Marlowe sat in silence for a full minute.
“Incidentally,” Marlowe told them both at length, “I solved Pygott’s murder. The assassin is a coarse brute called Frizer. Ingram Frizer, one of the Catholic ruffians. I will shortly have enough evidence to prove that assertion, and then I can get on with saving the Queen.”
“Ingram Frizer?” was all Frances could say.
“Yes.”
“Oh, dear,” she said.
Marlowe examined her face. She was genuinely concerned, or confused, or confounded.
“Is this name familiar to you?” he asked.
She glanced at the professor. “Will you be late for your class? We shall have our vis
it a bit later this afternoon, I think.”
He seemed to understand. “My offices are at your disposal.”
He stood, gathered several books, and headed toward the door.
Marlowe watched, biting his tongue. He had so many more questions.
“Oh,” Bartholomew said as his hand touched the door handle, “do remind me to tell you what’s happening with Cole. The president of this institution has some peculiar notions. And he is, I fear, quite angry with me at the moment. It’s important.”
He looked as if he might say more, then turned abruptly and left, pulling the door shut.
“You know Ingram Frizer,” Marlowe whispered.
“I didn’t want Professor Bartholomew to carry any more knowledge than he had to,” she began, “but, yes, I do know that man. Frizer is a double agent. He was at Coughton Court when I was there. He works for the Pope in order to spy for my father.”
“Frizer?” Marlowe asked a little louder. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same man. The person I mean is scarcely bright enough to put on his pants.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “that is his gift. No one would ever suspect him of counterintelligence.”
“No, they would not,” Marlowe asserted.
“You must believe me when I say that he is not the man who murdered Walter Pygott.”
“I find that difficult,” Marlowe muttered. “He must at least know who did it. Possibly his compatriot, a Spaniard.”
Frances exhaled, folded her hands in her lap, and said, with an obvious effort at patience, “You will have to realize, Kit, that these phenomena are very much more complicated than that.”
“Than what, exactly?” he snapped.
“You are irritated,” she answered calmly.
“I am.” He leaned closer to her, lowering his voice. “I hardly need tell you how difficult it was for me to leave you in London.”
“Difficult for me, too,” she admitted, “but we have a larger task before us.”
“You are everywhere in my mind,” he whispered harshly. “All my faith has been replaced by a single belief: that you could make me immortal with a single kiss.”
“No,” she said sweetly. “I cannot be your religion.”
“A clever deflection,” he said, sitting back. “You are as quick with words as you are with a rapier—and twice as deadly.”
“Are you quite finished?” She shook her head. “You have a murder to solve, England to save, and no time to waste.”
Marlowe stood. “In the solving of the murder there is something to be gained in the thwarting of the plot.”
“Yes, we’re all agreed on that.” She stood and stepped close to him. “Walter Pygott is key to both, in some way. What do you know of Ingram Frizer, by the way?”
“He was one of the men who accosted me here in Cambridge, and who subsequently tried to kill Lopez and me on the road to London. Earlier today I followed him out of a bar and into a baker’s shop. I knew he was up to something.”
“Would that bar be at the Pickling Inn?”
“Pickerel,” he corrected, “where I’ve procured my old room, the room where Pygott was found.”
“You’re certain you weren’t recognized?”
He had momentarily forgotten his disguise, a good sign: it was becoming more natural to him, which would make it more believable.
“I had complete confidence in this costume,” he admitted, “until Professor Bartholomew saw through it.”
“Well,” she said, touching his arm, “there are few minds in this world the equal of his.”
“Yes,” Marlowe agreed, “but you seemed to know me right away as well.”
“Even if you dressed as a woman with a veil across your face,” she said softly, “I would know you. I could feel your heart beating the moment I stepped into this building.”
“There,” he said, his head tilted slightly. “There’s the kind of talk I want.”
“And there will be words aplenty,” she answered, “as soon as you solve the murder and save the Queen.”
“Yes. To that end, you must tell me what your father did not, when last we met.”
“What?”
“The details of the plot,” he insisted, “the information for which I went to Malta, and Lopez died. I have a right to know what was in your brain, what was so important.”
“Yes,” she said at once. “In short, Throckmorton’s effort is straightforward. Catholic agents in England and Spain are collaborating to murder our Queen.”
“Yes, replace Elizabeth with the cousin Mary,” Marlowe said impatiently, “and make England a Catholic country again. I know that.”
“But the murder of the Queen alone would not achieve that end,” she went on. “There must also be an invasion exactly coincident with the day of the assassination.”
“Ah,” Marlowe mused, “and that means there would also be support from within our own country, a secret organization of English Catholics.”
“We think so.”
“Because while the Pope may have very spiritual reasons for wishing to reclaim our souls,” Marlowe said, “Spain makes use of religion to acquire our land.”
“As cynical an observation as it is accurate,” she asserted.
Marlowe began to pace.
“Do we know,” he wondered, “who will lead this attack from within? Were you able to learn that at Coughton?”
“No. And we have no suspects for the leader of the invasion from without. I was, however, able to discover several of the invasion sites so that we may have armies ready in those places.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter who actually leads the invasion armies, does it?” Marlowe began pacing faster. “Mendoza is the one behind them.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “the Spanish ambassador is coordinating the efforts. You suspected this?”
“Your father told me.” Marlowe stopped moving. “And Lopez.”
He found it difficult to say his friend’s name out loud. It conjured a ghost, and the ghost filled Marlowe with a keen sense of loss.
Frances seemed to read those thoughts. “We will stop this monstrous plot,” she said softly, “and in so doing, avenge the death of your friend.”
She smiled, and in that smile there was a spark. Marlowe saw it, but could not interpret its meaning. Instead he made a deliberate effort to ignore it.
“How will it be done, this assassination of the Queen,” Marlowe asked, “do we know?”
“Ah,” she answered, moving toward the door. “That is why I have come to Cambridge. I am here to meet with Ingram Frizer. He may know the method and means of the attempt on Her Majesty’s life.”
“Frizer.” Marlowe shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s on our side.”
She pulled open the door and, for an instant, stared into his eyes.
Marlowe was momentarily overcome with a desire to taste her lips.
FIFTEEN
The bakery was closed when Frances and Marlowe came to its front door.
“You saw Frizer go into a back room?” she whispered.
Marlowe nodded, already headed for the alleyway between the bakery and a small butcher shop. The way was narrow and filled with refuse, but there was a door in the side wall of the bakery, and Marlowe hurried to it.
Frances had tied up the hem of her dress. She was wearing leather pants and low-heeled boots underneath her cloak. The hood was pulled up and forward, obscuring her face.
Marlowe had taken out his dagger and pulled a part of his cassock to one side, exposing the rapier’s scabbard.
With a single glance between them, Marlowe threw open the door. He jumped in, Frances beside him, her rapier already drawn.
The room was empty, and small enough to assure them both that no one was hiding behind the confusing array of bread tables and flour sacks and stacks of wood.
It was stifling; the oven was still very hot.
Frances lowered her weapon.
Marlowe took one more look a
round and was about to sheath his dagger when he suddenly realized that the geometry was off. Judging from the outer room, this back chamber ought to have been nearly twice as large as it was.
A cursory examination of the wall opposite the oven revealed what appeared to be a loose panel. Marlowe pointed at it and stood to one side. Frances nodded and hid herself behind the flour sacks.
Slowly Marlowe wedged his fingers behind the panel and took in a deep breath. Then, without warning, he threw it open.
Ingram Frizer and the baker leapt from their hidden place roaring. Frizer had a pistol in each hand, and the baker held a heavy wooden hammer.
Marlowe immediately kicked one of the guns from Frizer’s hand and had his blade against Frizer’s gullet.
At the same time Frances battered the baker’s hand with the hilt of her sword, forcing him to drop his mallet. She tilted backward and held the point of her rapier directly in front of the man’s left eye.
For an instant, silence was everything.
Then, with forced nonchalance, Frizer said, “Hello, Richard.”
“Ingram,” she responded, her eyes locked on the baker.
Frizer attempted to laugh.
“And I suppose you’d be Marlowe, then,” he said, not moving. “I should have recognized you when you followed me.”
“Agreed,” said Marlowe, keeping his knife at Frizer’s throat. “You should always recognize men you’ve tried to kill.”
“Out on the highway?” Frizer shrugged. “I doubt I would have killed you. But I was in a bit of a spot. You have to appreciate that. I had to go along with what was transpiring, didn’t I? How would I have explained myself otherwise?”
“You’re lucky Lopez didn’t kill you.” Marlowe at last withdrew his blade. “He wanted to. I prevented him, and later regretted it.”
“Marlowe,” Frances admonished, “put up your dagger. Frizer has news for us.”
With a great show of reluctance, Marlowe relinquished his hold on Frizer and returned his knife to its sheath.
The baker moved quickly, first to look into the front room, and then to the side door. When he was certain no one was listening, he came to stand beside Frizer.
A Prisoner in Malta Page 13
