by Trow, M J
‘I have to ask you to believe that this man loved her. It is the only reason she kept going back to him, because it wasn’t easy. She loved him, there is no doubt. She had been seeing him for months. He had hired her first, on a street corner, like any man would. Sylvie is a pretty little thing, boyish, not like me. Men like to look after her, she has always had . . . shall we call them regular friends. She doesn’t often have to go looking, but this time, she did and she met this man. He took her against a tree to begin with but then he smuggled her into where he lived.’
‘The English College,’ Marlowe said, softly and almost to himself.
She stiffened. ‘Have you heard this from someone else?’ she hissed.
‘No,’ he assured her. ‘It was a lucky guess.’
She settled down again and carried on her story. ‘In that case, I won’t need to tell you how difficult it was for her to see him. And what it was doing for our earnings, because he wasn’t rich enough to pay for her time. She was spending all night with him and then all day with other men. She was almost dead on her feet.’
‘As well as . . .’ Marlowe couldn’t think of a polite word for what he was thinking. And what he was thinking was only a rough guess.
‘Yes. That too.’ The sharp finger dug into his ribs again. ‘You are a bright scholar, Monsieur Whoever You Are.’
‘Greene.’ The name had become automatic.
‘Monsieur Greene. Yes, she was not giving good value to the paying customers, that is true. This man of hers . . .’
‘Father Laurenticus.’
‘Was that his name? She never told me. Well, he was quite active, from all accounts. She would regale me . . . but enough of that. One night, she went to him as always and by some miracle he let her sleep. She woke up when she heard a noise, a grunt, she says and a deep sigh. The door was closing and this Father Laurenticus was lying dead beside her, or dying perhaps I should say, with his blood arcing from his throat with the rhythm of his heart. She leaped up and ran. She ran past his murderer, who was on the landing, cleaning his knife against his thigh, as calm as you please.’
Now Marlowe really was interested. ‘Did she see the man clearly?’
‘No. He had a habit pulled over his face. Black. He made a grab for her, but she wriggled free. She hasn’t left the room since until today.’
Marlowe sat up, unwinding himself from his cloak. ‘Did he see her face? She could be in danger.’
‘She says he didn’t. And we are always in danger, Monsieur Greene. We are used to it.’
‘Can you get her away somewhere?’
‘No.’ The answer was flat. ‘She has nowhere to go and neither have I.’ Again, the finger poked him in the ribs. ‘You must find the killer for us, Monsieur Greene, and keep us safe that way.’
Marlowe stood up, brushing moss from the tree from his breeches. ‘I’ll try my best,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Meanwhile, I may need to see you again. Where can I find you?’
She waved an arm. ‘Around. About.’
‘What’s your name, then? So I can leave messages for you if I need to.’
‘Mireille. But, why not pay me and then we can make a regular appointment?’
‘I have no money,’ Marlowe lied. ‘I come from the English College, remember.’
She laughed. ‘You tell me that, wearing those clothes. That doublet of yours would keep me in bread and cheese for a year and more. Besides, everyone in town knows where the money is around here. The vintner, Aldred, is kept in funds by their business alone. No, if you are too mean to pay me, Monsieur Greene, you must find me where you can. Good night,’ she said, and she walked away into the pearly morning.
Suddenly, Marlowe felt desperately sleepy. He went back to the room he would never feel at home in now and dropped fully clothed onto the bed and slept until almost noon, the clanging bells of Prime and Terce that called the faithful to prayer just a distant rumour in his head.
SIX
The amber sun of the autumn had climbed high by the time Marlowe found Solomon Aldred’s wine shop in the shadow of the tanneries. It was a smell the projectioner knew well, reminding him of his Canterbury home and the calling of his father, tapping studs into the soles of the shoes he sold to the gentry. Most people gagged at the stench from the curing hides and recoiled at the carcasses rotting along the Vesle, but Marlowe had grown up with all that and he hardly noticed it.
He ducked under the low portal and groped his way to a bar laden with bottles wrapped in straw.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur,’ a female voice called. ‘Ça va?’
‘Do you speak English, madame?’ He wasn’t in the mood to banter in French this morning and besides, the French of the Marne region was particularly unpleasant. It sounded not unlike a cat coughing up a hairball down a well.
‘Ah, you’re from the English College.’ The owner of the voice emerged from the shadows. ‘Solomon!’ Her shriek could have shattered the bottles around her. It certainly gave Marlowe, hung over from drink and lack of sleep, a feeling that someone was dragging their nails down the slate that was surely embedded in his skull. She was a very large woman, perhaps forty, wearing the apron and cap of the vintner’s guild. Such a thing would never be allowed in England; perhaps she was an honorary member. She glanced back into the bowels of the building, then beamed at Marlowe and disappeared again. There was the sound of an argument, brief, vituperative and hysterical from a passageway further off and then suddenly she was back.
‘Solomon will be with you presently,’ she said, taking a rag stopper out of a bottle and sniffing the contents. ‘He’s in the Jacques. Ah, here you are.’ The little vintner appeared at her elbow and stood no higher than her shoulder. She looked down at him. ‘I hope you’ve washed your hands,’ she said with a frown.
Aldred grinned at Marlowe. ‘It’s something we vintners have to do,’ he said to explain the odd question, ‘and yes, I have, Veronique, thank you, ma chérie. Now, bugger off and leave the gentlemen to talk.’ Veronique snorted and bustled away as Aldred slapped her disappearing backside.
‘Mrs Aldred?’ Marlowe asked politely.
‘Good God, no.’ Aldred led the man to a low table lit by the window that looked out onto the street. ‘The last I heard of Mrs Aldred she was living with a fish-curer in Lowestoft. You married, Marlowe? Er . . . Greene?’
Marlowe smiled. ‘Never had the time.’
‘Lucky man,’ Aldred said. ‘Claret?’ he reached for a bottle.
‘It’s a little early for me,’ Marlowe told him. ‘And, incidentally, don’t Frenchmen drink beer?’
Aldred looked horrified. ‘Wash your mouth out,’ he said. ‘Rheims is the heart of the area where they make a wine called champagne. You get cider further north and west, but beer?’ The vintner shook his head. ‘You’d need to go to Alsace to get that. And believe me, you don’t want to go to Alsace.’
‘I went to the crypt last night,’ Marlowe said, bringing the man to the point of his visit.
‘Did you?’ Aldred paused momentarily as the wine hit his tonsils. ‘And?’
‘And I wasn’t ready for Charles of Westley Waterless’ neck.’
‘Neck?’ The vintner was totally lost.
‘It was broken,’ Marlowe told him. ‘The man had clearly been hanged.’
‘Good God.’ Aldred drained his glass in one swift jerk of head and hand. ‘I was reliably informed he fell from a window.’
Marlowe looked at the man. ‘You are an intelligencer, Master Aldred?’ he asked and not for the first time. ‘Walsingham’s man in Rheims? It’s just that you seem more of a . . . well, may I be frank? Wine merchant.’
Aldred bridled. ‘How dare you?’ he hissed and poured another glass. ‘The whole essence of intelligence work is blending, Marlowe. You must know that. Everyone in Rheims knows I’m an Englishman, I make no secret of that. But they also know I deal in wines . . .’
There was a sudden explosion, like a musket’s wheel crashing in the confined space of the vi
nter’s. Marlowe threw himself sideways, his back to the wall, his dagger glinting in his hand. ‘Jesus!’ he hissed.
‘A useful name to conjure with around here,’ Aldred said. He hadn’t moved. ‘It’s all right. It’s the sparkling wine. It does that sometimes. Care to try some?’
Marlowe sat upright again, sheathed his weapon and straightened his doublet. ‘Not if it’s laced with gunpowder,’ he said. ‘You didn’t know Charles was hanged?’
‘No. Now look here, Marlowe, I warned you about this. The English College is a scorpions’ nest, remember. I have to tread warily. Softly, softly, catchee Jesuit. I wouldn’t be much use to Walsingham if my cover were blown. If I pried too deeply in the College’s doings, they’d get suspicious. Clam up. That wouldn’t suit Walsingham either.’
‘Tell me about Laurenticus,’ Marlowe said. ‘And get it right.’
‘Laurenticus?’ Aldred nodded. ‘Real name, David Vervain, from the south somewhere, the Languedoc, if memory serves.’
‘What was he doing in the English College?’
‘Oh, they’re a pretty cosmopolitan bunch; haven’t you noticed? Allen’s willing to accept anybody as long as they’re prepared to piss over Puritans. They are Walloons, Italians, Germans, Spaniards. Oh, and Frenchmen.’
‘Like Laurenticus.’
‘Yes. He was a Greek tutor at the university of Douai. When the locals kicked the English out of Douai, Laurenticus came with them. Don’t ask me why.’
‘When was this?’ Marlowe asked.
‘Er . . . let’s see, 1578, give or take.’
‘How did he die?’ Marlowe asked. ‘You said his death was unexplained.’
‘Apoplexy,’ Aldred said.
Marlowe blinked. ‘That sounds quite explained to me,’ he said.
‘No, no.’ Aldred shook his head. ‘That was the official line. Allen’s version. But . . . didn’t you see his body? In the catacombs, I mean?’
‘No,’ Marlowe said. ‘I was interrupted.’
‘By whom?’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘I didn’t see his face. They have some sort of chantry priest down there, I suppose.’
‘Possibly,’ Aldred said, nodding.
‘Whatever the cause,’ Marlowe told him, ‘it involved blood.’
‘Really? How do you know?’
‘His room for one thing,’ Marlowe said. ‘It’s been scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Herbs scattered everywhere. New sheets. New bedding.’ Something told him not to mention what he’d heard from Mireille only hours ago. ‘How easy is it to get in and out of the College? After dark, say.’
‘You’re thinking Laurenticus was murdered by an outsider?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Marlowe said, sighing. ‘But I believe the man was not always alone in his bed.’
‘Really?’ Aldred’s eyes widened. ‘Do tell.’
Marlowe chuckled. An intelligencer who could gossip for England was perhaps after all what Walsingham was paying for; perhaps Aldred just needed practice at sorting the wheat from the chaff, sheep from goats. ‘What do we know about Dr Allen?’ he asked.
‘Got friends in high places, that one,’ Aldred ruminated. ‘Apart from God, I mean. His patron is the Duc de Guise and he’s bankrolled directly from the Vatican. That makes him pretty much unassailable in this part of France. He’s an Oxford man, but we mustn’t hold that against him, must we?’
Marlowe smiled.
‘Spends most of his time sending Papists back to England. Walsingham believes there are about forty of them at any given time.’
‘And you monitor their leaving? Keep Walsingham informed?’
‘I do my humble best,’ Aldred said. ‘Of course, Allen’s been a target himself in the past.’
‘Has he now?’
‘Stands to reason,’ Aldred told him. ‘After the Pope, he’s the biggest antichrist on Walsingham’s list. I know of at least one attempt to poison him.’
‘Do tell.’ Marlowe gently mimicked the man.
‘A Welshman called Ceurig. Before my time here the English College was more the Welsh College, in fact, while they were still at Douai. The rector was Moris Clynog and the poor bastard spent most of his time sorting out punch-ups between the English and Welsh scholars. Allen’s banned them now, of course.’
‘Punch-ups?’ Marlowe asked.
‘Welshmen,’ Aldred said. ‘They hanged Ceurig at Douai.’
‘And did this Ceurig work for Walsingham?’
‘I always supposed so,’ Aldred said. ‘But now . . . I don’t know.’
‘Those deaths . . .’ Marlowe was thinking aloud. ‘Charles and Laurenticus. They couldn’t be Walsingham’s work, could they?’
‘Without telling me?’ Aldred was outraged. ‘No. Impossible. Unless Sir Francis is even more devious than I take him to be. The papers would tell us more, probably.’
‘Papers?’
‘Didn’t I mention the papers?’
Marlowe eased the bottle from Aldred’s grasp and poured himself a stiff one. ‘Perhaps you could now.’ He was patience itself, but he could see the end of his tether from where he sat.
‘Right. Well . . . when I visited the College shortly after Laurenticus . . . died, they gave me a whole pile of papers of his; cleaning out the room, you know.’
‘Why?’
‘To tidy it up for the next occupant, I would imagine. You, in short.’
‘No, I mean, why would they give his papers to you?’
‘Packaging. For transporting bottles to our richest clients, we wrap them in parchment. Best vellum for the Archbishop. I’m always scrounging the stuff.’
‘So . . . what’s your point?’
‘It may be nothing, of course.’
‘What may be nothing?’ Marlowe looked at him through narrowed eyes. His tether was nearer now and closing.
‘Well, I’d only sent a couple of bottles out when a college servant turned up, all hot and bothered. He’d run all the way from the Rue de Venise.’
‘What for?’
‘To get the papers back.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Apparently, Father Laurenticus had willed them to the library. They needed them back to bind and add to the collection.’
‘So, what did you do?’
‘Well, I gave them back to him. I didn’t really see that I had much choice.’
‘Did you read them?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Well, Master Aldred?’ The end of Marlowe’s tether was within an arm’s reach and it wasn’t going to be pretty when it was finally in his grasp.
‘I must admit I didn’t read any of the stuff the servant took back, but I did glance at a sheet I wrapped a very good Bordeaux in.’
‘And?’
‘I couldn’t read it at all. It was no language I have ever seen. I believe it was a code. Very small, spidery writing. It could have been nothing at all of course, but it preyed on my mind so I got a message to Walsingham. I asked him for a code-breaker. It could be important.’
‘It could indeed,’ Marlowe agreed. ‘Who is Walsingham sending, do you know?’
‘No idea. Thomas Phelippes is his best man. Got a mind like a razor. But he’s not a field agent. Never been known to leave England. Doesn’t like leaving London very much. I just hope it’s not one of the Giffords.’
‘Giffords?’
‘Projectioner brothers. You know how Walsingham likes to keep his little business in the family. Either of them would be useless – too loose-lipped, too unobservant. They get things wrong.’
‘No!’ Marlowe feigned horror. ‘Please tell me it isn’t so. Where did you send the code paper?’
‘Er . . . why?’
‘I’m going to assume that Dr Allen has long since consigned the bulk of Laurenticus’ documents to the flames. But there might just be an outside chance the one you saw has survived. Where did it go?’
Aldred sighed and crossed to a far corner. He hauled down a heavy, leather-bound ledger. ‘Ta
ke your pick,’ he said, tapping a page covered in his untidy scrawl.
Marlowe ran a quick finger down the page. ‘There are twenty-three names on this list, Master vintner,’ he said as he bent to read them. ‘The wine business must be burgeoning.’
‘It is, actually. I really don’t know why I risk my neck for Walsingham’s pittance.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Marlowe.
‘Actually, it’s not as bad as all that. Look at the dates. It has to be one of the last four. But . . . you’re not going to try to find it, surely? The odds of it still being in one piece must be huge – and anyway, how odd it would look. “Excuse me, I wonder if I could have a look at your wine wrappings?” They’d see through you in seconds. My business would be in tatters.’
‘They might see through me, they might at that,’ Marlowe said, tearing the bottom of the page from the ledger. ‘But, unlike you, Master Aldred, I don’t have a second income. Sir Francis’ pay is all I get. And again unlike you, I believe in working for it. I’ll see myself out.’
The Feast of Michael and All Angels was celebrated with a vengeance in Rheims. While the entire body of town clergy, from the Archbishop to the humblest clerk thronged the narrow, twisting streets on their way to give thanks at the cathedral, everybody else saw it as yet another excuse not to work but to hold another street party.
Marlowe bought a cheap chain of office at a second-hand stall along the Rue Rouge and pushed his way through the illegal boules matches that endangered the unwary ankle, the dancers and the acrobats, to a shady corner in the angle of the wall that rejoiced in the name of the Dancing Chicken. The place was packed, tipplers spilling out onto the cobbles as they laughed and joked. No one seemed to be drinking smoke here, so Marlowe sensed the craze in London had not yet spread east. They were drinking everything else, however, including something glutinous that was taking the polish off the tables and it was not yet Sext back in the English College.
A lady of the night who was not Mireille winked at him, but when she saw his chain of office thought better of it and settled on a particularly stupid-looking country bumpkin in town for the festivities. The aroma of roasting suckling pig reached Marlowe’s nostrils as he waved at the genial host, busy taking money hand over fist on one of the busiest days of his year. Marlowe whispered something in the confused man’s ear and led him, protesting, away from the bustle and noise, to a trap door that led down into darkness. They might as well have been going down to Hell.
