Marbeck frowned. ‘Would you, indeed?’
‘So, what might you think?’ Deverell let go of his arm.
‘I’d think that, having a loose tongue, he could have posed a risk to someone,’ Marbeck said, after some reflection. ‘In which case, mayhap you should reconsider the kidnap threat.’
‘I’ve done that,’ his fellow-intelligencer said. ‘I was poking around, making a few enquiries … until our good master returned and trampled all over my efforts.’
His hostility gone, Marbeck stared at him.
‘And so, you may have been right all along,’ Deverell went on, ‘even if not about young Duke Charles. It seems our friend Thomas Percy stops often in the Midlands, at the houses of men of his faith. For some reason he often lingers by Coventry: close to Coombe Abbey, the seat of Lord Harrington – where lives a certain royal princess.’
‘That could fit,’ Marbeck said, with growing unease.
‘And now that he’s returned to London,’ Deverell began, at which Marbeck blinked.
‘He’s back here, already?’
‘Along with everyone else of any rank, in time for the opening of Parliament,’ Deverell replied. ‘Since he’s a Gentleman Pensioner, such an action is perfectly normal.’
‘And yet …?’
‘And yet something stinks, like a dockside shambles. You smelled it first, but I wouldn’t listen to you.’
In surprise, and no small relief, Marbeck met his eye. ‘Then, would you care to listen now, to what I told Monk less than half an hour ago?’
Deverell nodded.
They waited until evening before carrying out their task. It was straightforward enough and unlikely to arouse suspicion. Deverell had been seen about Westminster, even if the true nature of his position was unknown. Marbeck was less familiar here, but both could rely on their appearance as men of some status. Having spent the day in discussion they were ready: two unlikely allies, in an unsanctioned operation to discover a cache of gunpowder – enough to blow up the Parliament Chamber.
‘I mentioned the vault,’ Deverell said as the two of them walked past Westminster Hall, hatted and cloaked. A pair of gentlemen on some late business, they attracted only passing looks from those who were about. ‘It’s the first place I’d search … It’s at ground-floor level and runs the entire length of the building. A woman named Mistress Bright, as I recall, leased it from John Whynniard to store coals in. But she’s gone, and someone else rents it now – I don’t know who. Perhaps we could find out.’
They passed the Hall, in the lane between the two gates, with St Margaret’s church on their right. But as they walked under the second one Marbeck slowed. ‘Whynniard? But I heard that name, last night.’
‘He’s Keeper of the Old Palace,’ Deverell explained – then, seeing Marbeck’s expression, he stopped.
‘He’s also Thomas Percy’s landlord here,’ Marbeck said.
They stared at each other. From the river came the cries of watermen, still plying their trade in the dark. Between the river and where they stood was the Lords’ Chamber. Without speaking they started off again, Deverell leading the way round the building to a pair of heavy doors. Finding these locked, they halted. ‘This is the vault,’ he said, his brow furrowing. ‘And it isn’t even guarded.’
Marbeck looked up at the tall windows: the Lords’ Hall itself, on the first floor. Turning, he peered along the river front to the Parliament Stairs, where a torch burned. Almost directly opposite, as he’d reminded himself already, was Lambeth. He faced Deverell, who nodded.
‘It would be easy enough to slip across, in a covered boat,’ Deverell said quietly. ‘Distract the sentries perhaps, while you unload your barrels at the stairs and roll them up to the doors. You’d need to make several trips, but if anyone asked, you could say they were kegs of wine or ale, and brandish a key …’
‘Is there another way in?’ Marbeck asked. Excitement stole over him: he was close to a discovery … He could feel it.
‘From above,’ Deverell said. ‘The Great Chamber itself. And I think it’s time we stopped padding about like tomcats, don’t you?’
They walked around the building, through the Cotton Garden and thence through the Painted Chamber, deserted just now. But at the main entrance to the Lords’, it was a different story. Guards stood about, some smoking their pipes. When the two official-looking gentlemen approached, a pair of sentries moved to block their way, crossing halberds.
‘Who comes here?’ a sergeant in a buff coat demanded, striding up. ‘Pray, state your purpose.’
‘William Catherwood, servant to the Lord Secretary,’ Deverell answered haughtily. Marbeck followed suit, giving his John Sands alias.
‘We wish to inspect the state chamber,’ Deverell added. ‘Ensure that all is in order for His Majesty’s arrival on Tuesday. There may be a daily inspection, from now on.’
‘Your orders, sir?’ the sergeant enquired in a phlegmatic tone. ‘You have written instructions, I assume?’
‘You’ll assume no such thing,’ Deverell snapped. ‘I can get one and return, of course, but I wouldn’t want to disturb My Lord at this hour. He’d want to know who was the cause of it, if I did.’
‘True enough, Master Catherwood,’ Marbeck put in as the sergeant blinked. ‘I could wait here while you go to Salisbury House, in case there’s a change of guard.’
‘One moment, sirs, if you please …’ The sergeant looked at each of them in turn, but the battle was already won. Like most Crown intelligencers, Deverell too was a consummate actor when he chose. Without expression, he and Marbeck stood their ground as the man stepped aside and spoke to his fellows. Other guards were looking in their direction, but no difficulty seemed imminent. Finally, the sergeant faced them and said: ‘You may look about the hall, sirs, but I’ll accompany you – if that’s to your liking.’ And since his expression said clearly that he was coming along in any case, Deverell agreed. A few moments later a small door set within one of the larger doors was opened, and the three men stepped through.
The sergeant had a lantern, which he raised as they entered. The Lords’ Chamber was spacious, its tall windows letting in a little moonlight. Here stood the King’s throne on a dais, with benches around it on three sides and tables for officials. The place was still and silent, like a vast, empty church. Deverell and Marbeck, with the sergeant on their heels, walked its full length, making a show of looking around. As they expected there was nothing to see; their real destination lay beneath their feet, reached by a door at the far end. But when Deverell said he wished to inspect the vault, their guide became obstructive.
‘That’s private, sir … rented out to reputable citizens, for storage and such. No one can get down there without a key – which I don’t have.’
‘Indeed?’ The spymaster looked him over until the man bristled. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because it’s private, as I’ve said. You may try the door for yourself, if it please you.’
‘I’m not accusing you of lying, sergeant,’ Deverell said dryly, ‘only of incompetence. We speak of the King’s safety here: his, and that of the entire Council. If I were a Papist assassin who wished to conceal himself somewhere close by, the vault would be one place I’d choose – wouldn’t you?’
‘Perhaps I would, sir,’ came the stiff reply. ‘And no doubt it will be checked, closer to the opening … It’s days off, yet.’
Impatient as ever, Deverell was about to make some retort, but feeling a tug on his sleeve he checked himself. Both he and the sergeant turned as Marbeck said: ‘I have a solution to our difficulty, sergeant. If I can open the door, will you let me go down and take a peek? Master Catherwood can remain with you, as a guarantor of my good will. I’m no assassin … I’ll even leave my sword here. It will take but a moment, then we can return to My Lord Secretary and speak of your willingness to aid us … your worthiness, as a protector of the King’s person.’
Beside him, Deverell breathed out in quiet approval
. The sergeant, however, didn’t like it; nor, it seemed, was he susceptible to flattery. But when he began to ask the obvious question – how he intended to open a locked door – Marbeck was ready for him.
‘It’s a skill I learned in Queen Elizabeth’s service, in Ireland,’ he said. ‘I helped storm a few strongholds, by the simple means of picking locks.’ Reaching in his pocket, he drew out his bodkin and showed it. There was a moment … then at once the man’s expression changed.
‘You served in Ireland?’
‘At Yellow Ford, Kinsale … and other places.’ Marbeck put on a grim smile. ‘Need I add more?’
‘Nay, you needn’t.’ The man lowered his gaze and, after a moment, held out the lantern. ‘Do as you wish, sir. I’ll wait here as you say …’ He glanced at Deverell. ‘If you agree?’
‘Of course.’ Hiding his relief, Deverell nodded.
So, after unbuckling his sword and laying it aside, Marbeck left them both and went to the vault door, where he set down the light. Whereupon, for a fleeting moment, he saw himself at the gates of the Walden House in Crutched Friars …
He forced the thought aside and busied himself. It didn’t take long; the lock was old, like the door itself, its hinges stained with rust. There was a final, muffled click; he turned the handle and the door squealed open. Catching up the lantern, he raised it to reveal a set of stone stairs. Without looking back, he descended; though he didn’t know it, his persistence was about to be rewarded.
The vault was broad: a great, cobble-floored room with arches at either side. Down the centre ran a row of thick pillars, supporting the floor of the Lords’ Chamber above. The place was dirty and littered with debris: bird-droppings, twigs, lumps of coal. A pile of empty sacks lay against one alcove, a few wooden planks by another. There were smells too: of old timber, damp mortar and coal dust, along with the ever-present reek of the river. Lifting the lantern high, Marbeck walked slowly down the middle of the room … and halted. Before him, spilling out of one alcove, was a great heap of brushwood tied in bundles, almost blocking his way. Beyond it, he realized, was the entrance where he and Deverell had stood.
And suddenly, his pulse was racing. He put down the lantern and took off his hat and cloak, placing them on the floor. Then he stepped forward, seized the nearest bundle of faggots and pulled it aside. Another followed, and another … He began to work faster, raising dust as he threw each one down; then he stopped and took an involuntary step back. Heart pounding, he caught up the lantern and lifted it … and realized he was almost shaking.
He had uncovered a great hoard of barrels: three dozen or so, packed tightly together. Moreover … He raised his eyes and let out a breath.
Where they stood, he guessed, was more or less directly beneath the King’s throne.
SIXTEEN
In Marbeck’s chamber at the Duck and Drake, somewhat shaken, the two intelligencers sat by the light of a single candle. They had turned the matter about, examined it from every side, yet the facts were unavoidable. Moreover, there was the dreadful knowledge that, apart from the movers of the terrible plot, it seemed likely they were the only ones who knew about it.
‘I’ll say it again: I commend your nerve,’ Deverell murmured. ‘None would have guessed what you’d found, when you told the sergeant all was safe and well.’
Marbeck barely heard him. In his mind’s eye he still saw the truncated pyramid of barrels, disappearing as he replaced its covering of brushwood. At least, he thought, he’d kept enough presence of mind to conceal his discovery. Finally, he looked up. ‘So … do we go to Monk, or over his head to the Lord Secretary?’
His companion made no immediate answer. The enormity of the discovery was still sinking in, along with the burden of responsibility both men now carried. Taking up the bottle of ale he’d brought from the inn, Marbeck drank and passed it to him.
‘You do realize,’ Deverell said, after taking a restorative drink, ‘that were you and I of a different religion – and eager for a change of government – we need only go about our business and say nothing?’
‘Except that the vault might be inspected soon. In which case, we’re traitors for not reporting what we know.’
‘But you already told the sergeant that all’s clear – so we might appear traitors anyway. Though it’s more likely no one will trouble themselves to search the place … They can’t even be bothered to guard the vault doors.’
‘True enough,’ Marbeck allowed.
‘Or even …’ Deverell gave a snort. ‘Were we wicked enough, we could seek Catesby and his friends and throw in our lot with them – demand handsome fees for our silence.’
‘We could,’ Marbeck said dryly. ‘Instead, we’ll take the whole tale to our masters and relieve ourselves of this weight.’ Then he frowned: Deverell looked as if he were trying not to laugh.
‘We might be deemed heroes,’ he muttered. ‘We save the lives of the King and Queen, the Privy Council and half of England’s nobility – we could find ourselves knighted.’
Marbeck met his gaze … and he too suppressed a laugh. ‘At the least,’ he said. ‘In time, we might even take our seats in the very building we’ve saved from destruction … How does Lord Deverell sound?’
‘By the Christ.’ Suddenly, Deverell looked alarmed. ‘I believe you’re almost serious.’
‘No more than you,’ Marbeck replied, gazing levelly at him. ‘Don’t think I haven’t been tempted to turn traitor. I was once offered a villa in Barbary, with servants and a harem.’
‘Perhaps you should have accepted,’ the other said, with a touch of sourness.
‘I felt as if a madness had come over me in that vault,’ Marbeck mused, after a short silence. ‘It was like a vision; nothing I’ve seen before compares with it. And to think I reminded Monk of the time someone tried to blow up the Queen’s bedchamber – even then, I didn’t countenance something like it happening again.’
‘In God’s name, who would?’ Deverell shook his head.
They sat in silence again, while from below the noise of the inn rose. For Marbeck, the England he knew teetered on the brink of disaster. There was little doubt that, were such a quantity of gunpowder set off by someone who knew how, the effect would be, in Monk’s word, cataclysmic. King James would certainly be killed, and many of those near to him. In the fear and mayhem that followed, the rebels, as he now thought of them, would be able to mount the rising they’d no doubt planned; within days, the nation could be plunged into a civil war. He drew a breath and glanced up to see Deverell watching him.
‘I know,’ his fellow-intelligencer said. ‘It’s almost beyond my ken, too.’
‘That servant of Percy’s …’ Marbeck frowned. ‘Calls himself Johnson. He’s an ex-soldier, and a bold one – and he resides within yards of the place. He could be the one charged with setting the explosion.’
‘You’re not thinking of confronting him?’ Deverell said sharply. ‘We’d need evidence.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Marbeck assured him. ‘We have a few days yet … We should do nothing to arouse suspicion until we’ve talked to Cecil – or Monk, in the first instance. He can hardly refuse to listen now, if we both make report. If he did, I’d drag him to the Lords’ myself and show him the—’
‘No – not Monk.’ Deverell cut him short. ‘I don’t trust him, Marbeck … Indeed, I wonder now if I ever did.’
Marbeck eyed him. ‘Do you care to elaborate?’
The other got up restlessly and took a few paces about the small chamber. ‘Let’s start with Prestall. Monk told you he would interrogate him, didn’t he? Instead, the fellow turns up dead in the Thames. And more: why was Monk so ready to dismiss your report of Catesby’s actions? I’ll admit I was sceptical too, but …’ He frowned. ‘Now I piece it together, it could look as if the man’s blocked both your investigations and mine. He told you to go off and watch Percy, while—’
‘The men who were waiting to kill me,’ Marbeck broke in. ‘I wonder why they came
there, even though I’ve realized how they knew where I lodged.’ He drew a breath. ‘I should have forced them to tell me who sent them. But after finding Curzon’s body, I’d little thought for much else.’
‘It’s too late for regrets,’ Deverell said impatiently. ‘Think now – what do your instincts tell you?’
‘Not a great deal, on the face of it,’ Marbeck replied. ‘If any man’s loyal, I’d swear Monk is … or so I always thought. He almost worships Cecil … He’d lay down his life for the man.’
‘As would we all,’ Deverell replied. ‘Especially since …’ He hesitated. ‘Especially since our Lord Secretary makes sure he has enough leverage to force each of us to do his bidding.’ He turned about, standing by the window in the dim light.
Marbeck gazed at him, then nodded. ‘You too?’
‘Oh yes … An indiscretion, years ago, that could have cost me my reputation.’ His companion managed a grim smile. ‘Some say the Earl of Salisbury’s more clockwork than flesh and blood; that every man – especially his agents – is a commodity to be evaluated and docketed. If it’s any comfort, Marbeck, he’s always kept you in the cubbyhole marked highly valued.’
They fell silent again; an unspoken understanding passing between intelligencers. Finally, Deverell sat down on the bed and let out a sigh. ‘So: it’s our cool-headed Lord Secretary we must go to. Tell him everything – including our suspicions about Monk. He’ll listen – he’s too clever not to. And when he inspects the vault for himself …’ He shrugged. ‘Then, it’s out of our hands.’
Marbeck had been gazing at the floor. ‘Something Monk said struck an odd note with me,’ he admitted, looking up. ‘After batting aside my suspicions, he said he hadn’t noticed a stack of barrels anywhere about Westminster … and yet that’s precisely what we’ve discovered.’
Deverell look uneasy. ‘Is it possible?’ he said, frowning again. ‘Could he truly be a part of something so dreadful? It’s hard to believe – the risks of failure are terrible …’
Marbeck and the Gunpowder Plot Page 14
