by M. J. Trow
‘Is this it?’ he asked Mrs Isam without turning to look at her.
‘What did you expect?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t been able to let this room, what with the Pestilence. So I had to make a living somehow.’
‘You sold his clothes?’
‘Of course. Not that they fetched much. His cloak was pretty threadbare and he’d long ago pawned that stupid bloody earring he used to wear. Anything else, that slut Fanny Jackman must have taken.’
‘She was fond of Dominus Greene,’ Marlowe turned to her, checking that the cupboard really was empty.
‘Fond, my arse!’ Eliza Isam toyed with spitting on the floor, but it was her floor and she might be able to let the room again, one day. Also, it never did to let the girls see her show her coarser side; she had to keep a distance.
‘Tell me, Mrs Isam,’ Marlowe said, ‘apart from Gabriel Harvey, who spent time with Dominus Greene? When we spoke before, I wasn’t quite sure of the situation here. Now, I am.’
‘Situation?’ she frowned. ‘What situation?’
‘You keep a bawdy house, Madame,’ he told her. ‘The girl I just met is one of your doxies. So was Fanny Jackman.’
‘How dare you!’ Mrs Isam snarled, climbing onto her dignity and clinging to it for dear life. ‘They’re serving wenches, that’s all.’
‘And I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury. I’m also running out of patience. Somebody killed Robert Greene, Mrs Isam, in your house. Shall I find a magistrate to start some enquiries? Keeping a knocking-shop is one thing, but allowing the murder of a gentleman …’ he closed to her, looking down into her twisted face, ‘perhaps even participating in the murder of a gentleman …’
‘I never!’ she screamed. ‘I never did!’
‘Then tell me who came here. Who visited Greene in the days before he died?’
Mrs Isam shuddered. This strange, dark man with the singular purpose had not touched her, yet she felt as if he had driven red-hot irons into her flesh.’ There was one man,’ she said. ‘Came twice. Both before and after Dominus Greene died. Name of Johnson.’
‘Johnson?’ The name meant nothing to Marlowe. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Er … tall. Older than you. Dressed like a roisterer. We don’t get many like that in Kyroun Lane.’
‘What did he want? One of the girls?’
‘No, just Dominus Greene. Said he was an old friend, from way back.’
‘He talked to Greene here? In this room?’
‘Yes. On the day before he died. He came back the day after.’
‘Did he take anything with him? Of Greene’s, I mean.’
‘Papers.’ She was trying to remember. The passing of her lodger had left her, it had to be said, a little unnerved. ‘I don’t know what they were. Plays and poetry, I suppose.’
‘They didn’t go with Dr Harvey?’
‘No, no. He came later. It’s funny. Nobody came at all in those last days and suddenly there was two of them. Well, three, really, if you count Fanny I-can-speak-Latin Jackman, which I don’t. Oh, and Timmy, of course.’
‘Timmy?’
‘My nephew. He comes round to see me from time to time. He’s home now, as a matter of fact. Do you want a word?’
Marlowe did. Fanny Jackman had told him that Mrs Isam’s nephew often sat with Dominus Greene. Perhaps he could shed some light in the darkness of Dowgate.
Mrs Isam shrieked out the lad’s name and there was a clatter of pattens on the risers. A young man stood there on the landing, a young man that Marlowe had seen before.
‘Master Marlowe!’ the boy stood open-mouthed.
‘Timothy,’ Marlowe nodded. ‘The sorcerer’s apprentice.’
‘That’s right,’ Mrs Isam grinned her gappy grin. All in all, Marlowe was happier when she was scowling. ‘Although I don’t think I care for Dr Forman being described as a sorcerer. He’s—’
Marlowe raised a hand. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know what Dr Forman is. Would you leave us, Mrs Isam?’
‘Leave?’ The woman was nearly speechless.
‘It’s all right, Aunt El,’ Timothy said, patting the woman’s shoulder and shooing her through the door. ‘Master Marlowe and I are just going to have a little chat.’
‘Ah, you University wits, eh? All right, call me if you want me.’
Timothy closed the door behind her. ‘She was a good woman once, Master Marlowe,’ he said, ‘when her husband was alive.’
‘And now?’ Marlowe eased himself down onto Greene’s bed. It wasn’t the softest he had ever known.
‘The girls.’ Forman’s apprentice was looking out of the window. ‘I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but she says a woman must make a living. Who are we to judge? God will have the last word.’
‘What about Robert Greene’s last word?’ Marlowe asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Timothy turned to face him.
‘Were you with him when he died?’
‘No, I was at the master’s … er … Dr Forman’s house in Philpot Lane. Where we bumped into each other, in fact.’
‘But you spent time with Greene?’
‘Yes, I did. He was quite the philosopher, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘We had long discussions into the night, about all sorts of things. The exact shape of the world. The existence of God.’
‘And what conclusions did you come to?’ Marlowe asked.
Timothy looked at him oddly. ‘I’m rather more concerned with your conclusions, Master Marlowe,’ he said.
‘Mine?’ It was Marlowe’s turn to frown.
‘Yes. Men say you have dared God out of his Heaven. Men say that you believe that Moses was just a conjuror. Men say—’
‘—that I am Machiavel and that there is no God. Yes, I know, Timothy. Men say a lot of things, through spite and envy and malice, those three wise men who ride with us wherever we go, following what star they will.’
‘You are making fun of me, Master Marlowe,’ Timothy said, a rather sad look on his face.
‘Not for all the world,’ Marlowe said. ‘Rather, I am making fun of myself. Tell me, did Dominus Greene talk of any enemies?’
‘Enemies?’
‘I received a letter from him, written in the days before he died. He thought that someone was trying to kill him.’
‘Who?’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Whoever it was, killed him slowly.’
‘Slowly?’
‘With poison would be my guess.’ Marlowe knew that it would be civil to give John Dee credit where it was due, but the least said, the soonest mended. ‘There was no inquest.’
‘The master … Dr Forman … said there was no need.’
‘Did he now?’
‘He is a great man, Master Marlowe,’ Timothy said, ‘except …’
‘Except?’
‘No, no,’ the boy shook his head, ‘I’ve said too much.’
‘You’ve said nothing,’ Marlowe contradicted him. ‘What were you going to say?’
Timothy hesitated. He wasn’t wearing his silly robes today – he never did in Dowgate on the principle that he probably wouldn’t escape with his life – so, somehow, he felt removed from Forman, at arm’s length at least. ‘He preys on women. Relies too heavily in my opinion on glamour. He wants faerie dust and flashing lights. And money, of course. The rest of us want science. Even Gerard, in his country bumpkin way. Actually, perhaps more than any of us; the man knows his herbs, I’ll give him that.’
‘Does he?’ Marlowe raised an eyebrow. ‘And what is the good of your science, Timothy?’ he asked.
‘To find God, of course. Isn’t that what all of us are about?’
Marlowe smiled. ‘I didn’t have Forman or any of his boys down as Puritans,’ he said.
‘We’re not that,’ Timothy assured him. ‘We just see things differently.’
‘So does John Dee,’ Marlowe reminded him.
Timothy’s mouth hung o
pen. ‘You know Dr Dee?’ he asked.
Marlowe nodded. ‘I am proud to count him a friend,’ he said.
‘Oh, Master Marlowe. Could you introduce us? The master is a genius, of course, but Dr Dee …’
Marlowe laughed, holding up his hand. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘One thing at a time. First, I must find out who killed Robert Greene.’
‘I don’t see how I can help,’ the boy said.
‘How often did Dr Forman come to this house?’ Marlowe asked.
‘Now and then,’ Timothy told him.
‘With you?’
‘Hardly ever,’ Timothy said. ‘He encourages us apprentices to go our own way. Says he doesn’t need to hold our hands. Between you and me,’ he leaned in to Marlowe, lowering his voice and becoming confidential, ‘I think we cramped his style. Ladies-wise, that is.’
‘Did he like Greene?’ Marlowe asked. ‘Spend time with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Timothy said. ‘He never mentioned it. I know he spent quite a lot of … time … with Fan Jackman.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Gerard and Matthias did, though.’
‘What?’ Marlowe didn’t follow.
‘Spent time with Greene. I introduced them. Matthias is an Oxford man, so I think he liked teasing Robert with the Cambridge thing, as he does me. Gerard doesn’t know one end of a university from the other, so men like Robert impress him.’
‘So they both came here? And so did Dr Forman?’
‘Yes,’ Timothy said. ‘Yes, of course. What are you saying?’
Marlowe sighed. ‘I wish I knew,’ he said. ‘Tell me, your aunt mentioned a Master Johnson who called on Greene in the days before his death. Do you know him?’
‘No,’ Timothy said. ‘I have seen him, though.’
‘When?’
‘Ooh,’ Timothy had to dig deep into his memory. ‘I suppose it would be the last time I saw Robert, a couple of days before he died.
‘What did he look like?’
‘To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention. I assumed he was a client, you know, of one of the girls. He was a gentleman, that much is certain. His clothes, his manner of speaking. He had an air of authority about him.’
‘Authority?’
‘Yes, you know; as if he was used to giving orders. And having them followed.’
Marlowe clutched at an impossible straw. ‘He wasn’t unusually short?’ he asked. ‘A dwarf, almost?’
‘No.’ Timothy shook his head, this time without having to think unduly. ‘Six foot, if he was an inch. Why the interest, Master Marlowe?’
Marlowe looked deep into the boy’s eyes. ‘The interest, Timothy,’ he said, ‘is that you might just have seen Robert Greene’s murderer.’
As Marlowe made his way back to Hog Lane late that evening, he was in two minds as to whether he had achieved a lot that day or nothing at all. He had certainly spoken to a lot of people, asked them a lot of questions and, in some cases, requested a boon. But whether any of it would lead anywhere was anyone’s guess. He walked more and more slowly as he got nearer to his own front door, somehow reluctant to go in and be by himself, alone with his thoughts. A new play, rudimentary jottings only, lay on the table in his bedchamber and in normal times he would feel that itching in his head and in his hand to get more words down on paper. Sometimes, he could see them, swirling around his head like moths to a flame, clamouring to be the next one written, to be forever part of one of his mighty lines. But tonight, it was faces he could see; Robert Greene, grey and still petulant, even in death; Richard Williams, bereft and suddenly only half of a whole; Eunice Brown, bruised, battered and baulked of a peaceful meeting with her Maker. They seemed to have no link between them and, try as he might, he could not make them fit. And yet …
‘Kit?’ The word was whispered but it hit Marlowe’s ear like a gunshot, so deep was he in his own thoughts. He had spun round, dagger in hand, almost before he realized it.
‘Who’s there?’ he hissed. ‘Show yourself.’
‘Whoa there, Kit.’ Shaxsper stepped out into the fitful moonlight. ‘It’s only me. Will. Will Shaxsper.’
‘Are you some kind of idiot?’ Marlowe stormed at him. ‘Don’t you know by now not to creep up on me? I could have killed you.’
Shaxsper was a phlegmatic man but even his heart was beating faster. ‘You were very quick on your feet, there, Kit. But I was sure you had seen me – you seemed to be looking straight at me as you came down the lane.’
‘I was thinking.’ Marlowe sheathed his dagger and Shaxsper did fleetingly wonder why he had kept it in his hand so long. ‘I’m sorry, Will. I have a lot on my mind. Did you want me for anything in particular, or were you lounging in my doorway by sheer coincidence?’
Shaxsper laughed. He was clearly forgiven. ‘I wanted to see you, Kit. Without the theatres we’re all a bit shiftless and I am trying to decide whether to go home and be a glover like my father. Move back in with …’
‘Anne.’
‘I do know my wife’s name, Marlowe.’ Shaxsper was on his dignity. ‘I was just pausing for thought.’
Marlowe undid the latch and pushed open his door, gesturing Shaxsper to follow. ‘Ah, I see. A little dramatic break, there. Very effective. Keep it in.’ He groped for a tinderbox and lit a taper with the ease of long practice. ‘Come through into the kitchen. It will be warmer in there and there might be a posset warming on the hob.’
‘Your women keep you well, Kit.’
‘I’m not too sure whose benefit it is for,’ he said with a smile. ‘They don’t have too hard a life. I am hardly here, when all is said and done.’
The kitchen was indeed warm and comforting, lit softly by the embers of the fire. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg lightly perfumed the air and the posset pot and ladle were where he knew they would be, in the far corner of the hearth, keeping warm.
‘I’ll just get an extra cup for you. Sit down.’ Marlowe gestured to a chair in the chimney corner. ‘Watch out for the cat, she likes to sleep there when it starts to get colder out.’
Shaxsper swept a hand over the shadowed seat but it was unoccupied and he sat down. ‘I would never have guessed this of you, Kit. A house. Staff. A cat.’
Marlowe filled the two cups and handed one over. ‘A man must live somewhere. And it isn’t my cat. As for staff, sometimes I wonder if I work for them, not the other way around. But it is good to have somewhere to sit in the warm and have a drink at the end of the day without having to keep my dagger at my back, it’s true.’
Shaxsper sipped his drink. His landlady tended to the watery when she made posset, which was almost never. This was perfect and he gave it all his attention. His eyelids began to close and he was starting to wonder if Marlowe had such a thing as a second-best bed when his host suddenly spoke.
‘So, Will. As you were saying. Should you move back in with …’
‘Ha ha. Very amusing. But … should I, do you think?’
‘I have never met the woman,’ Marlowe hedged.
‘That doesn’t have anything to do with it,’ Shaxsper said, testily. ‘She’s perfectly pleasant, as far as I recall. It’s just that I know if I go back, I won’t leave again. My dream of fame, of becoming a playwright … that all goes to Hell and I become a glover or end up working on her family’s farm. I’m not sure I can do that, Kit.’
‘Then don’t.’ Marlowe had never worried about what his family would think, but he knew with children, Shaxsper’s outlook had to be different. ‘Look, I perhaps shouldn’t tell you this, but I believe the theatres might be reopening soon.’
Shaxsper held on to his cup with difficulty as he jack-knifed upright in his chair. ‘What have you done?’ he asked, his eyes sparkling. ‘Have you really got Burghley to recant?’
‘Not directly,’ Marlowe said. ‘And this isn’t for public consumption, but hopefully, yes, soon. Probably not immediately – Burghley won’t want to lose face – but soon. So, does that answer your quandary?’
‘Oh, yes!’
Shaxsper leaned his head back in his chair and closed his eyes in bliss. He wouldn’t have to be a glover, to have pricked, sore fingers and unsatisfied customers. He wouldn’t have to move back in with—
‘I know this will surprise you, Will,’ Marlowe said, breaking into the would-be playwright’s thoughts, ‘but I would like some advice from you.’
Shaxsper looked at him wide-eyed. ‘From me?’
‘Yes, I knew it would surprise you,’ Marlowe said. ‘I’ve surprised myself. But with Tom in Bedlam, Nicholas Faunt … who knows where … and Michael Johns and Dr Dee tucked up in their beds too far away to reach, I am left with you, or so it seems. If you’d rather not, I do understand.’
Shaxsper leaned forward eagerly. ‘No, Kit, no, I am truly honoured. I will try to give my very best advice.’
Marlowe smiled grimly. ‘Don’t overdo it, Will. I just need you to be as intelligent as you know how. Can you manage that?’
Shaxsper wasn’t enough of an actor to be able to look intelligent very successfully, but he gave it his very best try, his great brow furrowed, a crooked finger to his chin.
Marlowe sighed. This might well turn out to be a gigantic mistake, but it was too late to renege now. ‘You know I was looking into the circumstance of Greene’s death, of course.’
‘I helped dig him up,’ Shaxsper said proudly.
‘Indeed. Well, when I went to Cambridge in search of Harvey, I met a lad there whose twin brother had drowned in the Cam. It had been put down as a tragic accident but he – and I – suspect murder. Whoever had killed his brother had also tried to kill him. It isn’t often you get to chat with a murder victim, and his story was an odd one. As he remembers it, and Dr Dee says it was his imagination at the point of death, he was dunked under the water repeatedly and a man kept asking him a question.’
Shaxsper had not the same experience of bloody murder as Marlowe, but he thought about it all the time. A play wasn’t a play, in his opinion, without at least a couple of horrible deaths, the more the merrier, so he was always concocting new ways to dispatch a person. ‘What was the question?’
‘“Have you seen him?”’
‘Well, that’s clear. The murderer had obviously mistaken these boys for someone else, someone who knew the whereabouts of … I don’t know … a loved one, perhaps. Someone who had stolen something.’
