by M. J. Trow
‘I understand that kind of marriage,’ Balthasar said. ‘Many hands which are offered to me to read have been given into that kind of marriage.’
‘But they were happy, though. This household will never be the same, now she is gone. The three will be but perfect shadows in a sunshine day.’
Balthasar looked at him. ‘Is there nothing that is not a subject for your poetry, Kit? Do you keep a notebook somewhere, to write these things down as they pop into your head?’ The smile softened the phrase.
Marlowe smiled at him. ‘They just come to me, Balthasar. If they stay of their own free will then yes, you may see or hear them again. If they don’t stay – then perhaps they should not have been in my head in the first place.’
‘Like Dido Queen of Carthage and her cat?’
‘Dido has been with me for a while,’ he said. ‘I even wrote a play about her once. She didn’t have a cat, that time. But she will live on, if only in the memory of Starshine.’
‘So Helene will live on?’
‘In the memory of John Dee and all who knew her. She was a lovely woman, in every way.’
Balthasar looked from side to side and leaned forward. ‘But cannot Dr Dee . . . bring back the dead?’
‘He says so. He thinks so. I have seen . . . I’m not sure what I have seen, but I don’t think that what comes back is something I would want to have as hostess at my table, for companionship at my fireside. Death may be just a door, but it is one no one should come back through.’ He leaned back. ‘That may be just my opinion, though. What about Lily? Can she . . . ?’
‘No. She can only heal the sick, and then only sometimes. I have never personally seen her fail, but she says it has been known. Another one where the beauty is not just skin deep.’
‘And Rose?’
Balthasar leaned back. ‘What of her?’
‘She knew Helene, that much was clear. She knew her in her hedge witch days and she knew the trick, so Hern told me.’
‘What was the trick, do you think?’
‘I think you are asking the wrong person, Balthasar. I remember feeling very heavy and then waking up. I didn’t know that Helene was dead until this morning.’
‘It was . . . very convincing. She flew in the air. You were as heavy as lead. It wasn’t possible, and yet we all saw it.’
Marlowe looked at him. He had not known these people for long, but he knew that they had more tricks up their coloured sleeves than they would ever let him know. But the man seemed genuine enough. Rose was the fly in this ointment; she was the stranger among them but Balthasar would see only good in her until she told him with her own lips that she was a murderess. ‘What do you know of Rose?’
‘She came to me. She was distressed. I thought I could . . . no I can mend her heart and soul.’
‘You don’t think that she might have used you to get into this house?’ Marlowe suggested, gently.
‘Why would she want to? Dr Dee is the Queen’s magus. Rose is a beautiful woman and she could get into the court and find him that way.’
‘But if she wanted Helene, not the magus?’
‘Why would she want Helene?’ Balthasar was puzzled and also getting rather angry.
‘To kill her,’ a voice said from behind him.
Marlowe looked up and Balthasar turned round to see a man they didn’t know standing in the kitchen doorway. He was square and solid like the Norfolk brogue that tumbled from his lips. ‘I hope this is not an intrusion, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My name is John Sedgrave and I am the Constable of Ely.’ He flashed a painted tipstaff at them. ‘Dr Dee’s man, Bowes, came to fetch me at first light, something about his mistress being murdered. Poisoned, it appears. There was no one at the door so I have let myself in. There are . . .’ The question lingered in his voice. ‘Egyptians in the courtyard.’ He looked Balthasar up and down. ‘And in the kitchen, I see.’
Marlowe stood up. ‘My name is Christopher Marlowe,’ he said, ‘of Corpus Christi College. Dr Dee invited this gentleman, Balthasar Gerard is his name, and his companions to the house and they remain his guests.’
‘Strange guests for a house such as this,’ Sedgrave said. ‘The law demands we hang Egyptians in the country. Does Gregory Leslie know they are here?’
‘Who is Gregory Leslie?’ Balthasar asked. ‘If I knew that, I could tell you if he knows.’
‘He doesn’t know,’ the Constable said, firmly. ‘Because if he did, you would all be hanging from trees in the orchard, and that would include your brats. Master Leslie hangs first and asks questions later.’ He gave them a twisted smile. ‘I have been here before on many an occasion, and know it to be true.’ He looked at the two. ‘My men have searched the house and we have the woman, Rose, in irons in the Great Hall.’
‘What!’ Balthasar was on his feet, fists balled at his sides.
‘Would you like to join her?’ Sedgrave asked. ‘Because if so, it is the opinion of my men that she did not plan this alone.’
‘Plan? Plan what?’ Balthasar shouted. ‘Kit. This man is an idiot. Speak to him for me before I knock his head off.’
‘Master Gerard is distraught,’ Marlowe said, leading Sedgrave further away from him. It was a difficult task, as he was at least a head taller and as broad as a barn. ‘We have only just met Rose, but I can’t imagine that she is a killer. How would she do such a thing?’
‘She is skilled in potions. One of my men recognized her. The women around here . . . well, they visit her from time to time, shall we say? She told me that she knew Mistress Dee in the old days, when their lives were very different. And now, here we find her. Mistress Dee, the wife of a powerful and rich man. Rose, living a hand to mouth existence, dependent on one man and then another. That’s a nice black eye she has, don’t you think?’ He spoke over his shoulder at Balthasar but got no reply. ‘Hmm, yes. A nice black eye. Where was I?’
‘Rose knew Helene in the old days,’ Marlowe said, helping him out. With his long experience as a student of Dr Lyler he was adept at keeping a man’s wandering mind on its path. Hebrew and Rhetoric were sometimes strange bedfellows.
‘Thank you, Master Marlowe. Yes. And so, I believe, she was jealous and poisoned her. She no doubt had a plan to usurp her position as the wife of the Queen’s magus, Dr Dee. She had powers that would interest him, just as the late Mistress Dee had.’
‘You are clutching at straws, Constable Sedgrave,’ Marlowe said. ‘Do you have knowledge of poisons?’
‘No more than the next Constable,’ Sedgrave admitted, ‘but I know when a woman is dead.’
Marlowe changed tack. ‘How could Rose know we were coming here?’
‘We?’ The Constable was on the word like a cobra striking home. ‘We? Are you one of these Egyptians, then?’ He looked him up and down and saw only a rich young man in fancy clothes. These scholars were above their station, these days.
‘I am proud to be travelling with Master Hern and his band, yes,’ Marlowe said, standing straight and unconsciously pulling at his clothes to tidy himself up.
The Constable looked him up and down. ‘Well, that is of course a decision for yourself to make, sir,’ he said, strangling the language in his attempt to keep things formal. ‘But to return to the matter to hand, you know nothing of this Rose, not even her other name or where she comes from or any fact about her. Is that not so?’ He turned to face Balthasar.
The Egyptian faced him but did not speak.
‘Is that not so, Master Gerard?’ he repeated, still polite.
‘It is so,’ Balthasar muttered, his eyes on the ground. He turned to the fire and poked around in the ashes, lost in his own thoughts. Marlowe expected more from the man, a token resistance if nothing else, but there was nothing else. Perhaps knowing the future had made him fatalistic.
‘Master Marlowe,’ Sedgrave said, ‘I must tell you that we have found some things in this house which have disturbed us, but I have been told that they belong to Dr Dee, so unless you have reason to suppose that h
e killed his wife . . .’
‘Dr Dee adores his wife. He would die for her.’
‘As I thought. The woman, Rose, had herbs in her possession which she refuses to identify. She knew Mistress Dee. She is a stranger to you all and to this household. As far as I can tell, she is the only suspect in this crime.’
‘What about Edward Kelly?’ Marlowe said. ‘He is a criminal and he was here.’
‘Edward Kelly? Is he with your band?’
‘No. He is a . . . not a friend, an acquaintance, an old acquaintance of the doctor.’ Marlowe, thinking on his feet, did not want to make too much of the link between Dee and Kelly, with his clipped ears.
‘We have not spoken to a Kelly.’
‘He was sleeping in the stable,’ Marlowe said.
‘Not so much of a friend, or even an acquaintance, then,’ Sedgrave said. ‘The stable is where charity cases are put in houses such as this.’
‘It is a very long story,’ Marlowe said, ‘and I don’t know the half of it. But Edward Kelly is your man. I would stake my life on it.’ He raised his finger in the air, excitedly remembering something. ‘I remember seeing Helene looking out through the doorway, staring at Kelly. She seemed nervous all evening.’
‘Was he the only one in sight?’
‘Well, no . . . the others were out there, too.’ Marlowe was not naturally truthful, but this man seemed to create an aura in which the truth was the only language spoken.
‘Including Rose?’
‘Yes.’ There was no other answer. The poet heard Balthasar’s grunt behind him.
‘And was Master Kelly in the room when Mistress Dee died?’
‘No.’
‘We believe the poison to have been very quick in its action, whatever it was, as she complained of no pain; there were no signs but sudden death. It must have been given to her within minutes of her dying and Rose, by her own admission, was standing nearest. So, I am sorry, but unless you can produce this Kelly, Master Marlowe, I will have to take Rose back to the town. I have no choice.’ He turned to Balthasar. ‘I am sorry, Master Gerard. It gives me no pleasure.’
Balthasar shrugged his shoulders, but did not turn round.
‘Would you like to come and say goodbye?’
The man shook his head.
‘In that case, we will be away. Good morning to you, gentlemen. And, Master Gerard?’
‘Yes?’ the man muttered.
‘Please get your people on the road as soon as you can. Master Leslie is not the only man in these parts who thinks trees look better with an Egyptian or two decorating the branches.’
‘Thank you for your advice,’ Marlowe said, ushering him out. ‘I don’t think we will be lingering. Dr Dee needs to mourn in his own way, and I suspect that is quietly.’
‘Master Marlowe,’ said Sedgrave, ‘if you will take my advice, you will leave these people. They can only bring you trouble.’
‘I like trouble,’ Marlowe said. ‘But thank you for your concern, Master Sedgrave.’
‘It’s no trouble to me, sir,’ he said and touched a finger to his cap. ‘Mind how you go.’
Marlowe went in search of Dee, the cook and Bowes to tell them that the camp was packed up and that they were leaving. The house was as silent as the grave and with the big oak doors shut tight little sound filtered through from outside. He crept quietly up the curving stair and found the three of them surrounding Helene’s bed. She lay as though carved from marble, a look of total peace on her face. Dee sat at one side, with a hand gently cupped over one of hers where it lay on the embroidered counterpane. On the other side, the cook and Bowes were a little more restrained and did not venture to touch her, but the cook’s face was bloated with weeping and Bowes looked as though he was made of oak. He certainly didn’t seem to notice the tear that crept down his cheek.
Marlowe walked softly up behind Dee and placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. Whenever they met, there seemed to be loss and this time it was very great. Even for Marlowe, there were no words.
Dee reached up with his free hand and patted Marlowe’s. ‘Isn’t she beautiful, Christopher?’ he said, almost in a whisper, the tears making his voice thick. ‘Did you ever see anything so lovely?’
All Marlowe could think was that the living Helene, with her mischievous face and ready smile was more beautiful by far, but to say that would be to finish the old man by the bed. ‘She is beautiful,’ he said. ‘She is fairer than the evening air, clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.’
‘Poetry, Kit?’ Dee said, with a faint pressure on his hand.
‘It’s all I have to give you,’ Marlowe said, ‘and her.’
‘Make her immortal,’ Dee said. ‘One day when you have time, sit in a sweet garden and bring her back to life for me, with your words. In the meantime, I will try to keep some warmth in her, just for a little while. She always hated to be cold.’
His hand dropped from Marlowe’s and he joined it to the other, holding Helene’s hand, keeping her warm. Because when she was completely cold, men would come to encase her in oak and bury her and he wasn’t ready for that yet. He would never be ready, but he would allow it.
‘Goodbye, Kit. Safe journey to you all.’
‘I’ll see you again,’ Marlowe said, ‘and I will show you Helene’s immortality.’
‘When you have time.’
‘Yes. When I have time.’
The camp had been made late and lazy. There were no fires and the Egyptians were sleeping tumbled together in the wagons, wrapped up in their cloaks and each other to beat the chill. They had not bothered to erect the yurt; time was pressing, they were tired and the death of Helene and the arrest of Rose had plunged them all into a low mood. Marlowe found himself sharing the wagon not just with the various livestock from his first night, but also Simon, who took up more than his fair share of room and had a tendency to mutter in his sleep. At least the parrot was quiet once it had a cloth over its wicker cage. The monkey, at the furthest extent of its leash, was pressed up against Marlowe’s back, where he exuded enough warmth to pay for the inconvenience of the fleas and the smell.
At the edge of the huddle of wagons, the horses stood quietly, too cold to toss their manes, just intent on huddling together for as much warmth as they could muster. The blankets over their backs were something, but the frost coloured their breath silver as they waited for dawn. The dogs had slunk into the wagons one by one and were twitching in their sleep amongst the children.
Only one pair of eyes was watching the road from Ely, watching for followers, flannel-footed and evil. There was no reason to believe that all the trouble had been left behind the doors of Dee’s grieving house and it was not possible to be too careful. But the soft hoof-beats which finally broke the silence of the night came from the other way, from the Fens and the coast and the heaving North Sea. The rider was not making an effort to be quiet, he was almost asleep in the saddle and the horse had settled into an uneven walk, with one loose shoe giving a double clip to every clop.
The watcher in the hedge peered closer in the starlight and drew back as the rider came closer. It was Trumpy Joe Fludd, on his way back to Cambridge, empty-handed and despondent. His head lolled and every fourth nod woke him sufficiently to stop him falling from the saddle. His empty purse was at his belt and his empty future as Constable reached ahead of him on the curve of the frosty road. He didn’t look to left or right and so he never saw his quarry sleeping on the other side of the hedge. So, like two galliasses passing in thick fog, oars muffled and sails hanging slack, the Egyptians and Joseph Fludd met and parted for one final time.
‘Who are these people, Hern?’ Bracket wanted to know as the Egyptian caravanserai rattled into the little seaside town.
‘Fishing folk.’ Hern turned to the boy on the wagon beside him. ‘Ship-men who cross to Holland and France. I expect . . . what? Ten purses from you and Tomaso. Twelve would be better.’
‘Why twelve, Hern?’
‘You’
ll need that many to match one taken in London. They’re poor. Take Starshine with you. Get her to limp a little, turn in her feet. And only go for couples. The men won’t soften like their wives and the wives won’t be carrying any money.’
The smoke drifted lazily up from the chimneys of Lynn, made the King’s since Lord Harry’s day.
‘Drums!’ called Hern. ‘Music!’
And the sleepy, stunned caravanserai thumped into life, the women shrilling and the children cartwheeling in the road, streaming their bright ribbons into the sky.
NINE
Joseph Fludd stood over the little mound of earth that marked Ann Harris’s grave. Beside him stood his under-constables, Nathaniel Hawkins and Jabez Hazel. The winter ground was like iron, the ice lying in rivulets in the ruts of the road. A single posy of dead flowers lay at the grave’s head below a small wooden cross.
‘Who put that there?’ the Constable wanted to know. He still ached from his hours on the road and had barely had time to kiss his Allys and the children before he had returned the horse to Hobson’s stables and made his way in the raw morning to Trumpington churchyard, in the care of St Mary and St Michael.
‘The Reverend Mildmay,’ Hazel told him. ‘We were all here, along with half of the village.’
‘Nobody from the town, though,’ Hawkins mumbled. ‘Bastards.’
Fludd nodded. ‘They’re urban, squat and packed with guile,’ he said. ‘What did you expect?’
Nat Hawkins knew Trumpy Joe Fludd of old. They’d grown up together, learned their letters from the same schoolmaster. Except that Nat hadn’t learned that many. Still, some things needed to be said. ‘I expected you to come back with an Egyptian or two,’ he blurted out. ‘To pay for this.’
Fludd turned to the man. For a second, he contemplated flattening him, then he relented. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘The Egyptians had nothing to do with this.’
Hawkins looked at Hazel. Had Trumpy Joe gone mad? It had to be the Egyptians.
‘Know what I think?’ Hazel crossed to the others. ‘It went something like this. One of ’em, the moon children I mean, would have got her talking, old Gammer Harris, telling her fortune, filling her head with all sorts of nonsense. Then, another one, one of the kids I reckon, would have been ransacking the house. She heard ’em, did old Gammer, and would have set off a-shouting, like she did. You must remember, Joe, when we were children and scared to death of Gammer Harris and her tongue.’
