Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot

by John Pilkington

  Cobb had a shoe loose. Had he been fully alert last night, Marbeck told himself, he would have noticed it sooner. With an air of resignation, he went looking for a blacksmith.

  In the forge, he stood by the open doorway and watched the man at work. At the rear the furnace roared, while a sweating boy worked the bellows. The smith himself, his hair tied back, plucked the glowing horseshoe from the fire with tongs and swung it round to his anvil. Expertly, he hammered away, punching a new hole in the iron, pausing now and then to talk. The coals he’d got of late were poor, he said. He preferred charcoal from his own parish … Did the gentleman know Croydon produced it? Mostly from willow and alder, but dogwood charcoal was best. It was hard to get just now … Evelyn took it all, down in Godstone.

  To all of this Marbeck listened with half an ear, managing a nod from time to time. His thoughts were now on John Cutler and last night’s frugal supper at his cottage. The man had chattered about his bees to the exclusion of all else; anything that might have passed for intelligence was gone to the wind, and Marbeck couldn’t wait to take his leave. When he’d finally done so, his host hardly seemed to notice …

  ‘He’s a close one, sir – Evelyn, that is,’ the blacksmith was saying. ‘Took over the works after his father died – the family’s held the patent from way back. Never short of business – you’d think we were still at war with the Spaniards, the way they turn the stuff out. Opened up the old nitre pits in the forest, I heard, because they can’t get enough of it.’

  Emerging from his reverie, Marbeck caught the man’s last words and turned to him. ‘What can’t they get enough of?’

  ‘Saltpetre, sir.’

  The smith lifted the horseshoe and plunged it into a pail of water. There was a loud hissing, and steam filled the air. Marbeck tried to recall the rest of what he’d said, though without much success.

  ‘You mentioned works, at Godstone …?’

  ‘Gunpowder mills, aye – the Evelyn brothers.’ The man drew the shoe from the pail, peered at it and nodded. ‘This will serve. If you’ll fetch your mount over, I’ll fit it in no time—’ He looked up, caught Marbeck’s expression and broke off.

  ‘Would you mind telling me again – about the gunpowder?’ Marbeck asked.

  It was another ten-mile ride, southwards down the old Roman Road through Warlingham and the Caterham Gap to Godstone. The village was tiny: a cluster of cottages with a church and an inn, surrounded by a patch of heath and, beyond that, dense woods.

  Marbeck reined in by the horse pond, dismounted and let Cobb drink. At the Bell Inn he ate dinner, asked casually about the Evelyn brothers and received a ready response. The family were well-known in the area, the tapster told him: they owned the manor. There were four brothers, but Master Richard ran the mill. They employed local men, brought prosperity to the parish; Godstone was lucky to have such industrious folk. If the gentleman had business with them, they were easy to find.

  And so it proved. In the early afternoon, Marbeck walked Cobb along a muddy cart-track through the woods until a wide clearing opened before him. Leigh Mill: a collection of sheds beside a brook, with a noise like a great drum roll emerging from one of them. There were storehouses, solidly built and windowless, with barrels stacked along the walls. Two empty carts stood nearby. Marbeck halted and found his pulse had quickened.

  It was a whim, of course; but as so often before, his instinct told him he was on the edge of some discovery. Perhaps the visit to Cutler had not been wasted, after all. He’d been uneasy at the man’s garbled account of carts rumbling through Croydon – and suddenly he realized why that was: there was a large tannery in the town. Why would anyone be sending untanned hides up to London – and by night? Was it really beer in the barrels Cutler had noticed underneath, or …?

  ‘Good day, sir. How may I aid you?’

  From a nearby building, a man had emerged. Broad-shouldered, he approached Marbeck and stood barring his way.

  Summoning a faint smile, Marbeck drew breath; the situation called for swift impromptu. ‘Master Evelyn, is it?’

  ‘It is … and you are?’

  ‘Thomas Wilders.’ He used the cover name by which he was known on the continent, as a dealer in armaments. ‘I do business with the Crown, now and then. I had a mind to see your workings … Word of your success has travelled far.’

  But with a suspicious look, Evelyn took a pace forward. ‘This land is private,’ he said. ‘I’ve no time for visitors.’

  ‘A pity,’ Marbeck said. ‘I’m not unacquainted with weaponry … I trade in cannon sometimes. Does your powder go up to the Royal Ordnance, at the Tower?’

  ‘If it did, I wouldn’t be at liberty to speak of it.’ Evelyn regarded him, his frown deepening. ‘If you deal in armaments you would know that, surely?’

  ‘I heard you have nitre pits, in the forest,’ Marbeck pressed on. ‘Difficult stuff to make, isn’t it? No wonder it costs so dear … Fellow in Croydon told me you couldn’t get enough of it.’

  There was movement. Glancing aside, Marbeck saw another man emerge from the same building, followed by yet another. Both were in shirt sleeves and wore leather aprons. They looked hard at him, before moving to stand behind their master.

  ‘Is anything amiss, sir?’ one asked.

  ‘No, nothing,’ Evelyn answered, over his shoulder. ‘This gentleman’s been poorly advised, I believe.’ He gave Marbeck a bland stare. ‘You know your way back to the highway?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Marbeck returned his stare. ‘Though I’ve a mind to exercise my mount first, in the forest … It doesn’t all belong to you, does it?’

  The labourers bristled, but Evelyn remained unmoved. ‘Well, if you’re so resolved,’ he said smoothly, ‘I’ll send a couple of my men to accompany you, make sure you don’t get lost.’

  A moment passed. Briefly, Marbeck surveyed the surrounding buildings, but there was no need to look further: he’d seen the powder works at Rotherhithe by the Thames and knew what he would find. As for the nitre pits, they would tell him little. In any case the Evelyns held a royal patent, the tapster had told him, and made no secret of their business … Casually he shortened Cobb’s rein, making ready to mount. ‘I’ll decline that pleasure this time,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t wish to take your men away from such important work.’

  Without moving, the three watched him lift himself into the saddle, and they remained there as he rode away. At a bend in the track he looked behind and saw they still hadn’t moved. With a cheerful wave, he turned and urged Cobb back towards Godstone.

  But soon afterwards, Richard Evelyn might have been somewhat surprised to see Marbeck return to the Bell Inn, get his horse stabled and ask for a room overlooking the London road. How long he would be staying he was uncertain, he told the landlord; perhaps only one night, or even less. He paid the reckoning in advance and asked not to be disturbed. He had journeyed long and was tired.

  Once in the best chamber, however, he ignored the ancient four-poster bed and took a stool by the window. Here, with a pie and a bottle of ale to fortify himself, he settled down to wait for evening. Thereafter he was prepared to watch all night, and if necessary the next one too. Any longer than that and he might have difficulty explaining his extended absence to Levinus Monk. But if his suspicions were correct, the intelligence he could take to his spymaster would justify everything.

  As luck would have it, it was the second night.

  Marbeck was dozing, his head resting on a cushion against the window-frame. He had slipped to the floor once, scrambling to his feet in the hope that no one had heard him. The first night he had dozed off twice before dawn broke, though he was certain no cart had passed through Godstone. Thereafter he had slept for much of the day, before taking supper and steeling himself to another night of surveillance; mercifully, his efforts had now borne fruit.

  In fact, it was not the roll of wheels he heard first, but the grunting of animals, straining up the road towards the horse pond. In a moment h
e was alert, dropping to his knees and peering over the window sill. There was a cart, barely visible in the gloom, drawn by a pair of oxen. Two men sat on the driver’s bench, hatted and muffled against the cold.

  He allowed himself a sigh of relief, then got to work; he’d made his plans and was in no hurry. The teamsters would water their beasts, then move on up the highway; following them would be child’s play. Marbeck’s task was to stay far enough behind to observe, without being seen.

  It took but a moment to dress, take up his pack and let himself quietly out of the chamber. It was barely midnight, he guessed, but he’d left payment for two nights on the bed. In the deserted downstairs room he waited in hat and cloak, his ear to the door, until he heard the creak of wheels. Then he was out in the sharp night air, moving silent and unseen towards the stables.

  Now a long, cold ride loomed ahead: twenty tedious miles through Surrey, seven hours or more at oxen pace. It would be morning by the time they reached London, assuming that was the cart’s destination. For some reason, Marbeck believed, Richard Evelyn chose to send consignments of gunpowder out under cover of darkness; he was certain now that Cutler had been mistaken about the carts’ contents. And whatever lay behind it, he was very curious to know.

  In the end, however, the journey took a little over six hours, and dawn was just breaking by the time the cart lumbered off the highway. The reason for it took Marbeck by surprise: the goods were not going to London. Instead, having passed through Croydon and Streatham, stopping only to water their animals, the teamsters left the highway at Newington and turned west, Marbeck trailing some distance behind. After moving along the Lambeth Road, with the lights of Lambeth Palace in view, they then turned south along the Thames Bank and drove another two hundred yards, before drawing to a halt.

  Reining in, Marbeck dismounted and tethered Cobb to a sapling. On foot he moved forward, peering into the gloom. Now there were lights; the bulk of a large house loomed against the sky, and soon he realized where he was: the old Vaux Manor. He saw the carters dismount from their bench, rubbing their stiff limbs, their breath and that of the tired oxen steaming in the light of a lantern. And there were others now … two or three figures gathering about the cart; there was urgency in their movements.

  His pulse quickening despite his own weariness, Marbeck crept closer. Finally, a dozen paces from the cart, he stopped and crouched beside the track. The men were talking softly, and it was impossible to hear what was said. But what he saw next was enough: a rain-sheet being untied and pulled off the cart, and one man clambering up. In the uneven light he saw what he assumed were the hides Cutler had spoken of, being thrown down. Then followed the real unloading: barrels – surprisingly large, needing three men to manoeuvre each one. Carefully, they were lifted down and set on the ground, perhaps half a dozen of them, until the cart was empty. Swiftly, they were taken away into the house, whereupon the lanterns disappeared and only one man remained. This one climbed back on the cart, and without any attempt at concealment cracked his whip, forcing his unwilling oxen to lumber into movement once again. Soon he had turned around a high wall and was lost to sight, prompting Marbeck to curse under his breath.

  He had to know what was in the barrels: supposition and guesswork would be of no use to Levinus Monk. The manor was walled and gated, owned by the wealthy Vaux family … who, as it happened, were well-known Papists. And another memory sprang up: he recalled that the place wasn’t used by them nowadays, but rented out, to persons unknown to him.

  By the waterside, stiff, cold and dog-tired, he forced himself to decide. Trying to break in was out of the question: he had neither the means nor the energy, and there were people within. Only one solution came to mind: catch the teamster and force him to speak.

  He stood up and began walking briskly. Reaching the wall where the cart had disappeared, he rounded it and stopped: there it was, at a standstill, but there was no sign of its driver. Then he heard the squeal of hinges as a gate swung open. A shadow appeared, moving heavily … and in seconds Marbeck had darted forward and seized him. The man yelped in fright as the ice-cold steel of a blade was pressed to his neck.

  ‘Call out, and your blood will wet the ground,’ Marbeck snapped.

  His victim went rigid, but uttered only a whimper.

  ‘This way.’ Marbeck shoved him roughly, back around the wall to the riverside and out of sight of the house. Then, keeping his poniard tight to the man’s skin, he kicked the back of his leg and forced him to his knees.

  ‘That’s better …’ Catching his breath, he bent low and spoke into the terrified fellow’s ear. ‘You’ll come to no harm, my friend – provided you feed me information. I know where you’ve come from, and I’ve an idea what’s in those kegs you delivered … The question is, who are they for, and why all the secrecy? So, are you willing to spill your tale, or must I persuade you?’

  FIVE

  In the afternoon, having snatched a few hours’ sleep, Marbeck took a boat from Blackfriars to the Parliament Stairs and went straight to the private room by the Jewel Tower. When he entered, however, it was not Levinus Monk who rose from the cluttered table, but another man: one whose presence made him tense at once. He took a moment to close the door, before turning round and meeting his eye. ‘Deverell.’

  The other barely nodded, not troubling to hide his own displeasure. The two of them rarely encountered one another, but when they did the feeling was mutual: a long-standing dislike.

  ‘Well now …’ William Deverell looked Marbeck up and down, his frog-mouth forming a fleshy smile. ‘I was told you were likely to appear sooner or later, as a bad penny will.’

  ‘Where’s Monk?’ Marbeck asked, looking round pointedly.

  ‘He attends My Lord Secretary. I act in his place for the present … Did you wish to make a report?’

  He took his time answering. The man before him was an experienced intelligencer, but better known as a zealous priest-hunter, a veteran of many recent searches. His harshness towards prisoners was notorious; something Marbeck had seldom been able to stomach. But then, perhaps this man’s presence reflected the general mood just now …

  ‘How much do you know about Robert Catesby?’ he asked.

  At once, Deverell gave a snort. ‘A Papist, and a hothead. He spent time in prison for his part in the Essex rising, paid an enormous fine – do you mean to tell me you’ve forgotten?’

  ‘He rents the Vaux Manor at Lambeth, does he not?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose … He’s tight with the Vaux family.’

  ‘Has anyone marked what he’s been doing of late?’

  The spymaster’s deputy – since such appeared to be his role – allowed a look of pained amusement to spread over his features. ‘I hate to disappoint you, Marbeck, but you’re somewhat tardy with your news. If you mean to tell me of the horses Catesby has gathered at his manor in Northamptonshire, or his store of powder and firearms at various places, I’m well aware of them. The fellow’s raising a regiment to fight in Flanders. One of the Percy family is its colonel … Catesby is to be lieutenant-colonel, I heard. He’s recruiting other young firebrands of his persuasion.’ He gave a shrug. ‘It’s no longer illegal, now we’re at peace with Spain. Let them all perish in the Catholic cause, I say – and rot where they lie.’

  ‘Very well, but I followed a cartload of gunpowder,’ Marbeck said tartly, ‘all the way from Godstone in Surrey to the Vaux house. It seems it’s one of several consignments that have been taken there – by night, the kegs concealed under hides. Does that not arouse your suspicion?’

  ‘In view of what I’ve just told you, why should it?’ came the reply. ‘It’s natural that Catesby and his friends don’t want to draw attention to themselves. They hate the Crown … He probably thinks we’ll confiscate his powder.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be best, in any case?’

  ‘Should it prove necessary, it’ll be done,’ Deverell replied brusquely. ‘I must say, you’ve taken a deal of troubl
e to find out something we already knew. As I understood it, you were ordered to keep surveillance on another of the Percy flock – Thomas, the Papist convert. I assumed it was he you wished to speak of.’

  Marbeck eyed him grimly. Not only did his efforts in Surrey now appear to have been a waste of time, he found himself being berated for neglecting his duties. Still weary from his sojourn, he drew a breath and said: ‘I’ll watch Percy, have no fears about that. But I’d prefer to report to Monk next time.’

  ‘Of course you would,’ the other retorted. ‘I hear you and he enjoy the theatre together, at times. You should have a care: two unmarried men, no longer young … People gossip, you know.’

  But to Deverell’s obvious disappointment, Marbeck relaxed; this was the man he remembered of old and could manage.

  ‘They do,’ he agreed. ‘As they do about you and your wife. I’m surprised you’re here, given the tight rein she keeps you on. What did you have to do, to win her consent?’

  Bristling, Deverell searched for a riposte, but Marbeck was already tired of the bout and turned to go out.

  The spymaster said loudly: ‘I’ll speak to Monk – doubtless he’ll be interested to hear about your holiday.’ But as his fellow intelligencer was through the door, the last words were wasted.

  Once outside, Marbeck walked past Westminster Hall, barely noticing the comings and goings of lawyers and courtiers. Standing in New Palace Yard beside the old fountain, he looked out across the river. On the other side of the Thames, the dull red towers of Lambeth Palace could clearly be seen. He thought of his long ride from Godstone, and the testimony he had forced out of the frightened carter early that morning: how Robert Catesby, and another man named Rookwood, were buying gunpowder and storing it in the cellars of the Vaux house under lock and key. What happened to it after that, the carter didn’t know; he had sworn, and Marbeck believed him. His last act had been to order the man not to speak of his interrogation, though it was likely he would have blabbed the moment he was set free.