A Prisoner in Malta

by Phillip DePoy

  “I may not kill you now,” Marlowe answered. “You’ll be just as dead when this final betrayal is reported to Walsingham.”

  That, of all things, seemed to puzzle Lopez.

  “What will you report?” he asked. “To whom?”

  “What will I report?” Marlowe repeated incredulously. “That you attempted to poison the Queen! And Walsingham will report that to the Queen.”

  “Ah,” Lopez sighed. “Let us begin to unravel the fabric of your confusion.”

  “I am not in the slightest confused.”

  “You left me on the beach. You were subsequently told I died. I did not.”

  “So I see.”

  “Don’t interrupt,” Lopez chided gently. “After you left, Argi and I were set upon by the strangest of assailants: Moorish hashishim. We would surely have been lost but for Captain de Ferro. He and his men were close at hand. They were able to kill most of the attackers, and bind our wounds. We sailed at once with five hundred of Her Majesty’s troops, including the contingent of Basque separatists you encountered in Cambridge—they told me about you. Together we upended the Spanish invasion in secret. Of course, we had to do that without alerting Parsons. Am I correct in assuming that he still thinks his plan is in place?”

  Marlowe swallowed.

  “I thought as much,” Lopez continued. “Without going into great detail, we were able to prevent the Duke of Guise from mustering his Spanish legions. That part of the Throckmorton plot has been dismantled.”

  Marlowe knew better than to believe Lopez. A man at the point of a rapier would say almost anything to escape it.

  “I saw you put the poison into the Queen’s cup,” Marlowe accused. “There’s a peephole in that closet.”

  Lopez closed his eyes. “That’s not poison, Chris.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Hand me that pouch and I’ll prove it.”

  Marlowe’s eyes flashed to the small leather pouch that Lopez had dropped on the floor. That proved to be a mistake. The instant Marlowe’s eyes were averted, Lopez moved his head half an inch backward and swatted Marlowe’s rapier away.

  Marlowe recovered, but it was too late. Lopez sank to the floor, rolled, and retrieved his own weapon. When he was standing once again, he was also holding the leather pouch.

  “Now,” he said.

  Without hesitation he drank from the pouch.

  Marlowe gaped.

  Lopez’s face contorted.

  A second later, he said, “It tastes terrible. But it’s not poison. Quite the opposite, in fact. Will you put your sword away?”

  Marlowe continued to stare.

  “Well, at least do you mind if I put mine away?” Lopez sheathed his rapier while he was asking the question.

  “What is in that pouch?” Marlowe managed to ask, lowering his blade.

  “Something I concocted,” Lopez answered, “to detect the presence of poisons in food or drink. It has proved quite useful to Her Majesty and, incidentally, saved the lives of several of the royal food tasters.”

  “It’s not poison,” Marlowe said slowly.

  “It detects poison,” Lopez told him.

  Marlowe looked to the Queen’s goblet. “And?”

  “Oh, that wine has definitely been poisoned. Have a look. It’s turned a lovely shade of green.”

  Warily Marlowe moved to the Queen’s table and stared down into the goblet. The liquid there was, indeed, the color of light jade.

  “Someone has already poisoned this wine,” Marlowe said slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “But how did you know Her Majesty was to be poisoned this way? I only learned—”

  “I’ve been testing everything the Queen eats or drinks for some time now,” was all Lopez would say. “Who else was in this room when you came in? One of the ladies?”

  “No, only the—it was—Christ!”

  Marlowe would not believe it, but some voice in his brain forced him to say it: Tin had attempted to poison the Queen.

  “Through here!” Marlowe shouted. “Her majesty’s with a chambermaid and a single guard.”

  He tore into the closet, through the room, and out the opposite door. He could hear Lopez behind him. They burst into an outer hallway. It stretched fifty feet in either direction.

  Lopez brushed by Marlowe.

  “This way,” he whispered. “The guard would take them to an eastern gallery. Lots of light.”

  Not quite knowing what that meant, Marlowe dashed after Lopez. Down several more long corridors, their boots echoed against the bare stone walls. A final turn presented them with an open gallery crowned with high windows. Light was everywhere. The walls were covered with blazing tapestries, images of fire and phoenix, and the floors were softened by large rugs of Arabian design. There was no furniture, nothing else in the room.

  The Queen was not immediately in evidence, but the guard who’d been standing outside her dressing chamber was at the door, sword drawn. And next to him was a young man in gray costume. Its headpiece obscured all but the eyes.

  Marlowe knew Tin at once, and stopped short.

  Tin was armed, rapier and dagger. She threw her head back and the cowl fell away, revealing her face, and the fire in her eyes.

  “I couldn’t maneuver in that damned dress,” she complained.

  The guard shrugged. “I have no idea what this is all about, but this person and I stand alone guarding Her Majesty.”

  Lopez moved into the room, sheathed his rapier, and went to the tapestry of a phoenix warring with a dragon. There was a grating of stone and wood, and then silence.

  Marlowe stared at Tin. She met his gaze with equal strength. He was utterly unable to read anything in her eyes. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a chaos of noise coming down the outer corridor. Marlowe turned immediately and stepped in between the guard and Tin, ready to defend the entrance to the room with his life.

  Frances appeared from around the corner, dragging Carier in one hand and Penelope Devereux in the other. They were both complaining, but unable to extract themselves from Frances’s iron grip. Behind that trio were several guards, Walsingham’s personal men.

  As Frances drew closer, she saw Tin, and slowed.

  “You must stand aside,” she said to the guard, not looking at Marlowe or Tin. “I would see the Queen.”

  Marlowe was the first to sheath his weapons.

  From behind he heard the grating of wood and stone once more, and then the booming voice of Lopez.

  “Her Majesty is unharmed,” he announced rather formally, “and it is her wish, Lady Walsingham, that you should enter this room with the baggage you have in tow.”

  The guard stood aside. Marlowe acknowledged with a flourish of his right hand that Frances and her prey must precede him into the room. Tin, weapons still drawn, stood amazed.

  As Frances strode through the room, pulling her captives with her, the guard who had followed her came to Tin. She realized then that she must put away her weapons.

  Clearly at a loss, she began to speak, but Marlowe ignored her, following Frances into the room beyond the tapestry. The guards escorted Tin behind him.

  Instead of the Queen, Lord Walsingham emerged from behind a heavy wooden table. He was dressed in a long flowing deep blue robe held at the neck by a crisp white frilly collar and crowned with a black skullcap. His beard seemed carved from black and gray stone.

  Not waiting for her father to speak, Frances took several steps toward him, face flushed, voice thick.

  “It was not Bess Throckmorton,” she growled. “I told you it wasn’t. It was Penelope.”

  With that she thrust Penelope Devereux forward, keeping a tight grip on Carier.

  Penelope nearly tumbled, caught herself, and sucked in a breath. It was obvious that she had been crying, and was only composed at that moment through great effort.

  “Is this true?” Walsingham asked simply. “Did you pour poison into Her
Majesty’s cup?”

  “No!” Penelope wailed. “It was a purgative! Tell them, Benjamin. I wanted—my desire was to induce an illness in Her Majesty and then come to her with the cure. It was all planned. This man, Benjamin Carier, he was helping me—along with a churchman, a bishop.”

  “The Jesuit Robert Parsons,” Walsingham said.

  “Yes!”

  “Why did you wish to attack our Queen in such a manner?” Walsingham asked, staring Penelope in the eye.

  “You know why,” she snapped bitterly.

  “Do I?” he asked.

  “I love Philip, you know that!” she wailed, letting loose her well of tears. “And she forced me to marry Robert Rich! She ended my life!”

  “The Countess of Huntingdon proposed your marriage to Robert Rich,” Walsingham responded. “Not Her Majesty.”

  “No!” Penelope was verging on hysteria, an odd, uncomfortable display in a courtly room. “The Queen did it. She did it because my mother married Robert Dudley and the Queen wanted Robert Dudley for her own! She did it to punish my mother!”

  “I hardly see how your marriage to the first Earl of Warwick, a very wealthy man, is a punishment. The Tower is a punishment. Torture is a punishment. Slow death is—but what exactly was your plan, Lady Rich?”

  Penelope was visibly stung by the use of that title, and she collapsed to her knees, her gown around her like a sea in which she was drowning.

  “The Queen would be sick,” Penelope said weakly, “and I would cure her. She would be grateful. As she has been to Dr. Lopez under similar circumstances. She would release me from my prison, my Rich prison.”

  “Ridiculous puppet!” Walsingham exploded.

  Everyone in the room was taken aback by the force of that voice.

  “You have been duped by our enemies,” he continued. “You poured poison into Her Majesty’s cup, deadly poison!”

  “Poison?” She raised her head, barely able to comprehend what Walsingham had said.

  Carier shook his head violently.

  “No,” he protested, “no. It wasn’t poison. I know it wasn’t. Robert Parsons told me what it was: a mild purgative, something to disrupt the Queen’s digestion.”

  “Robert Parsons is a traitorous monster,” Walsingham said calmly, “and my men will have him soon. He has made you his ignorant accomplices in a vile plot to kill the Queen and take the country.”

  “Penelope is also responsible for betraying me at Coughton,” Frances interjected. “Walter Pygott did not find me out—she did. She told Pygott.”

  Walsingham’s face grew dark with barely controlled rage. “Take her.”

  Two guards flew into the room; each took an arm, and Penelope Devereux was dragged away. She could not form coherent words, only soft sobbing sounds.

  Marlowe watched her as she went, stupefied. It was only by chance that he happened to catch the look in Tin’s eye. It was a look of abject horror.

  Just as Marlowe began piecing together what that look meant, Walsingham forged ahead.

  “And now for you, sir,” Walsingham said, bringing his eyes to focus on Carier.

  “This man,” Frances trumpeted, shoving Carier to the floor, “is a traitor to his country and the murderer of Walter Pygott.”

  Carier yelped like a small dog.

  “Wait,” Marlowe interrupted, “I believe I have been in error concerning Benjamin Carier. He did not, in fact, murder Walter Pygott.”

  Frances turned to Marlowe, brow furrowed.

  “The mistake was entirely mine,” Marlowe went on. “Carier is almost certainly an innocent dupe in this entire affair. He is a secret Catholic. That much is true. But he had no idea what was in the packages he delivered to Penelope Devereux, no more than Penelope did. They were both manipulated by William Allen, whom, I fear, may already have left London.”

  Everyone in the room stared at Marlowe. Frances was the first to find her voice.

  “Carier did not kill Pygott?” she asked.

  “No.” Marlowe sighed.

  “Do you know who did?” Walsingham demanded.

  “You’re not going to like it,” Marlowe answered. “It’s someone we all know.”

  No one in the room moved.

  “Well?” Walsingham boomed.

  “Walter Pygott was murdered by Ingram Frizer.” Marlowe nodded once. “He is a double agent, but not for us. He works with Allen and Parsons. He killed Pygott with the intention of blaming me for the crime, which he did, thus eliminating me from the picture. I failed to cooperate. Frizer is here in London, and should be easy to find. I saw him in the garden at Fulham less than an hour ago. He can’t have gone far.”

  “Ingram Frizer killed Walter Pygott,” Walsingham confirmed slowly. “Is that what you would have me believe?”

  “Yes.” Marlowe stood very still.

  “And you are certain that Frizer has turned against us?”

  “Completely.”

  “Well.” Walsingham sniffed. “Then we shall have to fetch him. Now then, Benjamin Carier, you are detained.”

  Without further utterance from the Queen’s spymaster, guards dragged Carier away.

  “No,” he wailed as he left, “I can’t be detained. I have my year-end examinations!”

  When the room was silent once more, Walsingham spoke again.

  “Dr. Lopez, Mr. Marlowe,” he began, “you have done a great service to England. I give you leave to refresh yourselves and tend to your wounds.”

  “They are of little consequence,” Lopez assured him.

  “Then you are to meet in my official rooms. Shall we say an hour? I would discuss these events; one or two small items must be clarified. And I will also present a more significant demonstration of Her Majesty’s gratitude.”

  He turned at once—a strange, sudden move—and vanished behind a dragon tapestry. Guards went with him.

  Frances, Lopez, Tin, and Marlowe were left to themselves. The air was filled with a palpable tension. Only the eyes moved.

  “Ingram Frizer did not kill Walter Pygott,” Frances whispered finally.

  “No,” Marlowe admitted. “He did not.”

  “But he is a double agent for the Spanish,” Lopez suggested.

  “Perhaps.” Marlowe shrugged. “Hard to tell.”

  “Are you going to tell me who did kill Pygott?” Frances demanded.

  In answer, Marlowe bent over and retrieved something from the small pocket inside his boot. He stood up and turned to Tin.

  “I happened to notice that you had a button missing from that silver jacket of yours,” he told Tin calmly.

  He held out his hand and produced the dull brass button, a perfect match for the others on Tin’s jacket.

  Frances could not stifle a sudden breath.

  “Wait.” Tin was careful not to move. “That’s been missing for weeks.”

  “Yes. But I only noticed it missing from your jacket a few moments ago.”

  “Where did you get it?” Tin’s blush was deepening.

  “It was pressed into the ground in the garden outside of St. Benet’s. In Cambridge.”

  Tin closed her eyes.

  “It was pressed into the ground by the weight of a dead body,” Marlowe went on. “Walter Pygott’s dead body.”

  Tin’s breathing was noticeably louder.

  “Tin?” Frances stared.

  Tin looked away.

  “I also see that your jacket is frayed at the elbow,” Marlowe went on softly. “I believe I found the place in St. Benet’s wall where you left some of the missing threads.”

  “I thought that Walter Pygott had betrayed Frances.” Tin’s voice was barely audible, her eyes were still closed. “And I heard the vile things he said about you every day at Coughton. When I discovered—thought I discovered—his treachery, I followed him to Cambridge. He didn’t know who I was. He was a remarkably ignorant boy.”

  “You fought,” Marlowe prompted.

  “He denied knowing that Frances was Richard”—Tin
nodded—“but he had more odious things to say about Frances. I drew my sword. He drew his. It didn’t take long. He was dead before I knew it. Dead on the grounds of a church, beside some roses.”

  Marlowe looked at Frances, whose face was drained of all color.

  “I love you, Frances,” Tin murmured, opening her eyes at last. “When you were taken, I could not bear it. When I learned that you were so far away, in Malta, I lost my mind. You must believe me this: I was as much a prisoner in that place as you. My heart and my brain and my fevered dreams were all with you on that island, in that cell. Can you understand that? I love you.”

  Tin’s eyes were filled with tears.

  “That,” Marlowe said softly, “is why I could not reveal that she’s the one who murdered Pygott.”

  “Yes,” Frances rasped, “but why on earth did you tell my father that Frizer was the murderer?”

  Marlowe drew in a slow breath.

  “Difficult to say.” He looked at the floor. “Tin did what she did for you. I can understand that better than anyone else on the planet. The instant I knew that she had done it, I couldn’t let her die for it. But I needed someone to be guilty. Frizer’s a traitor. Hardly innocent. Now the authorities will forget about me. And Walter Pygott is just as dead either way.”

  “I killed Walter Pygott.” Tin sobbed once, as if she had only then realized her crime. Unable to control herself, she sank to the floor.

  Frances rushed to her, knelt beside her, cradling her head. She looked up at Marlowe.

  “This may be the best thing you’ve done in your life,” she said, her eyes filled with a terrible gratitude, “saving this girl.”

  “Although I’m not certain that lying to your father was the wisest thing I’ve ever done,” Marlowe answered.

  “About that,” Lopez said, breaking his silence. “You and I must go now and prepare to meet with Lord Walsingham. We have much to discuss beforehand, and I am in dire need of wine and food.”

  Marlowe turned to Lopez.

  “I’m famished,” he told the doctor.

  “Then come with me,” Lopez told him, heading for the door.

  Marlowe followed, not looking back. He was, however, haunted by the sound of sobbing, and soft whispered comfort, even as the door closed behind him.