by M. J. Trow
‘. . . Balthasar Gerard,’ Marlowe finished the sentence for him.
‘You know?’ Faunt’s voice was cold.
‘When I told the last of my stories to the Egyptians at William’s court, I calculated that a murderer would run. It could have been anyone. My mistake was in thinking that the murderer of Helene Dee was also the murderer – or potential murderer – of the Statholder. I didn’t think for a moment that there might be two men with murder in their hearts so close together . . . Do you think either of them knew? I . . .’ Marlowe was unable to go on. Words were his lifeline, but they had deserted him.
Faunt raised his gloved hand. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Kit,’ he said. ‘You saved the Statholder’s life twice. As for the third time? Well, it was not to be. These things happen in our business.’
‘To Hell with your business!’ Marlowe yelled at him. ‘You and Minshull and Walsingham. I’m sick of your business. Don’t come to me again, Nicholas. I don’t want to know.’
Faunt looked him up and down, noting the cloak, the gloves, the boots. ‘You’re dressed for the road, Kit,’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’
Marlowe had half turned to take the stairs, to begin his life all over again. He turned back. ‘To London,’ he said. ‘To see if, indeed, the streets are paved with gold.’
‘How will you live?’ Faunt asked.
Marlowe smiled and tapped his forehead. ‘By this,’ he said. ‘As always.’ And he clattered up the risers.
Faunt turned to the moonless Court. ‘Take care, then, Kit Marlowe,’ he said, half to himself. He walked out into the spring air and sniffed the breeze. There was always something new for Nicholas Faunt and his kind, and there was a hint of it now, blowing from the south. He looked up to where a candle was glowing in Marlowe’s rooms, clearly just a final stub in a chamber stick for him to see his way for one final time. He laughed quietly and turned on his heel. ‘Keep in touch, won’t you, Kit?’
