Crimson Rose (29 page)

‘Explain.’ Walsingham never used three words where one would do as well.

Marlowe explained all he and Faunt knew to the Spymaster, saving the best until the last. ‘But now,’ he said, ferreting in his purse for the tiny ledger, ‘we also have this.’ He flourished it and handed it to Faunt, as the one with the better eyesight. Even he had to take it over to a candle on the table and turn it to the light.

‘It’s a ledger,’ he said. He turned it in his hand. ‘A very small ledger. So what is your point, Kit?’

Marlowe was about to reply when Walsingham held out his hand. ‘Don’t spoil the game, Master Marlowe,’ he said. ‘Let me see if I can work it out.’ He took the book from Faunt and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. He stroked the soft leather covers and flicked the pages, then smelled the open book. He too turned to the candlelight and ran his finger down a line of figures. ‘Is this the best you can do to test the old man?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t seen one of these for a long time. In fact, not many people choose to keep a ledger of such dealings. Whoever wrote these figures is dabbling –’ he looked at the totals – ‘I should say more than dabbling, perhaps, in double stoccado.’

Marlowe visibly wilted.

‘Well,’ the older man said, throwing the book back to the playwright, ‘am I right?’ He looked closely into Marlowe’s eyes. He slapped his knee. ‘I
am
right. I haven’t lost the touch, eh, Nicholas? So, who is this blackguard? Mind you.’ He flicked through the pages. ‘He only seems to be keeping around ten per cent and on very small amounts. Not much harm done there, I don’t think. The sums loaned are paid back quickly –’ again, the flick through the pages – ‘very quickly, looking at these dates.’ He frowned at Marlowe. ‘Explain.’

‘I have only just had this double stoccado explained to me,’ Marlowe said, ‘and as I walked here, I thought it through. Thaddeus Bancroft seemed quite sure that his cousin was not an out and out rogue and I agree that as far as a moneylender goes, he seems to get his money back very quickly. The same day, as Sir Francis has noticed, very often.’ Faunt seemed about to speak, but Marlowe forestalled him. ‘You can tell by the dates on the bottom of one page and the top of another, Nicholas. The summing works too well for there to have been a gap – there would have been sums carried over, that kind of thing. I think, anyway.’ He raised an eyebrow at Walsingham, who nodded. ‘So I think that Simon Bancroft was the second person, the “friend”, to whom the borrower is taken. He may not have known how much money was being made by the principal.’

Faunt had picked up the book again and was looking through it, page by page, holding each one up to the light. Finally, on the last but one, he breathed a triumphant, ‘Ah ha.’

‘What have you found there, Nicholas?’ the old Spymaster asked.

‘Here, on this page, pricked with a pin. Hold a minute, it is not well done …’

Walsingham turned to Marlowe with an indulgent smile. ‘Nicholas is master of the pricked message. Anything less than perfection irks him.’

‘This is not … no, I have it. “H. Crutched Friars”. That’s all.’

‘That could be the moneylender, do you think?’

‘The Crutched Friars,’ said Walsingham. ‘Just around the corner. It is the kind of address where a moneylender might live, I suppose … but why are we worrying ourselves over this? Why would a moneylender be killing – I think this is what you are saying, Kit – killing the people who help him? Did they steal from him, perhaps? Did they try to keep the valuable goods that they were “buying” each time? Surely not. They would know that they couldn’t get away with that. And, besides, if these initials denote the item …?’ Marlowe nodded. ‘Then it is clearly used over and over again.’

‘Is someone else killing them?’ Marlowe suggested. ‘Because they want to be part of the scheme and are not chosen, because … No, that won’t work. If that was all, then why kill three?’

‘Blackmail!’ Faunt said, clicking his fingers.

‘My boy,’ Walsingham said indulgently, ‘you are working too hard. Blackmailers don’t kill their victims.’

‘No,’ Marlowe said to Walsingham, ‘but victims kill their blackmailers. If the moneylender was being blackmailed, he would assume it would be someone who knew all about his business. And who better but one of his partners, if we can call them that?’

‘Precisely so,’ Faunt said. ‘But he didn’t know which one it was, so he is killing them one by one, until the blackmail stops.’

‘In that case,’ Walsingham said, rather cold-heartedly, ‘why are we using precious breath by discussing it? A moneylender, his cronies and a blackmailer. Let them bludgeon and shoot each other until they are all extinct. The air of London will be the sweeter for it, surely?’

‘That is certainly one way of looking at it,’ Marlowe said. ‘But so far a woman is widowed, three children are orphaned and …’ He was a little stuck for a sob-story on the Puritan, so let the sentence hang. ‘While this man is killing his partners, he is killing people guilty of nothing more than trying to make some money on the side and who can argue with that? Simon Bancroft wanted his wife to have a comfortable life. Eleanor Merchant was trying to get back the money squandered by her husband. Even God’s Word Garrett was trying to do good, to set up a new life for the Godly away from England. Why should they die?’

Faunt and Marlowe were looking at each other with glittering eyes. The game was afoot and they were eager for the chase. Walsingham looked at them as they sat there, hardly able to keep still. ‘You remind me of greyhounds in the slips,’ he said at last, rising painfully from his chair. ‘I am for my bed. I have boxes of papers to read before I sleep, so I’ll say good night.’ He smiled at the two and made for the door. ‘I think that if I know nothing of your plans I will sleep the better for it. Wait until I am down the stairs; my hearing is excellent.’

The two men waited, listening for the old man’s footsteps to die away. Faunt relaxed back in his chair and extended a hand. ‘You first, Kit,’ he said.

Seething Lane was as quiet as it ever got, with just a flickering candle in Walsingham’s bedroom on the first floor. The old house was shifting as it cooled, clerks bedding down under their desks, the kitchen range clicking as the embers died one by one. Two men, cloaked in black, oozed out of a door tucked round the side of the building and pressed themselves into the shadow of the wall.

‘Ready, Kit?’ breathed Faunt. He was excited – as only a man of action lately tied to paperwork and plotting could be – at last, to be doing something active. There would be blood; and if he wasn’t exactly hoping for it, if the prophecy came true, he wouldn’t be sorry.

‘Ready.’ Like Faunt, Marlowe could feel his heart beating just that bit faster and his brain was fizzing. A play with your name on it was all very fine and well, but there was nothing quite like the thrill of the chase. ‘Crutched Friars; I don’t know it well. Are there many houses in it? How will we find the one we want?’

Faunt raised a shoulder. Who knew? That was what working in the field was all about, after all. They trod on silent shoes until they reached the corner and creeping round it found they were suddenly not alone. A bellman stood there, raising his dark lantern to shine into their faces. He knew a couple of felons when he saw them, although quite what he could do against two strong young men, and one armed to the teeth at that, he wasn’t so sure. But still, the City paid him to keep watch, and so keep watch he would.

‘May I help you gentlemen?’ he said, in as brave a voice as he could manage. He estimated that their cumulative ages came nowhere near his own.

‘Hush.’ Faunt’s admonishment came out as almost a breath.

The bellman had many admirable qualities, but sharp hearing was not among them; ringing a bell next to his ear for ten years straight had not helped the situation. ‘Eh?’ he said loudly, inclining his head.

Marlowe leaned in and whispered as loudly as he could. ‘Pray, be quiet. We are trying to take someone by surprise.’

‘Party, is it?’ the bellman said. Now he looked more closely, they were more roisterer than felon.

Faunt sighed and reached into his doublet and showed the man the Queen’s badge. He took him by the sleeve and pulled him back round the corner. Tilting the man’s lantern so it shone on his own lips, Faunt enunciated clearly, but quietly. ‘We need to be quiet. We need to find a house in the Crutched Friars. Do you understand? Just nod.’

The man nodded. This was better; if only people always spoke this clearly.

‘Your lantern will be helpful. May we borrow it?’

No nodding this time. ‘Oh, no,’ the bellman said. ‘We have to buy our lanterns with our own money. You’re not taking that.’

Marlowe moved the lantern over and continued the conversation. He sensed that Faunt had a very low threshold when it came to dealing with the stupid elderly deaf. ‘If you come with us, you must be quiet. Whatever you see us do, you mustn’t try to intervene. Can you do that? If not, then I’m afraid that my friend here will have to take your lantern by force.’ Without prompting, Faunt had unsheathed his dagger and held it under the light. ‘So, may we have your lantern?’ Against his better judgement, the old man shook his head. ‘So, you’ll come with us, but be quiet.’ There was a pause, then a reluctant nod. ‘Well then, off we go.’

‘It will be time soon for me to ring my bell and tell everyone all is well.’ The man was stupid, perhaps, but very conscientious; a dangerous combination in these circumstances. ‘All
is
well, isn’t it?’

Faunt pulled his face close to his own and spoke in a normal tone. ‘Yes and no,’ he said, ‘but if you do, that bell is going down your throat. Do you understand?’ As well as he could with Faunt’s hand on his collar, the bellman nodded. ‘Well, then, let’s try again.’

In single file, with Marlowe at their head and Faunt bringing up the rear, they crept round into Crutched Friars, the rabbit warren of hovels where the monastery used to stand in the days of King Harry. Marlowe’s heart fell. The houses had been built over the years, piecemeal and at random. Some were almost derelict with neglect, others spick and span, but there was nothing to denote where ‘H’ might live. He looked round and caught sight of Faunt’s expression. He was obviously thinking the same.

Holding the bellman’s sleeve to show that they were going to be stationary for a moment, Marlowe went close to Faunt and whispered in his ear. ‘Which house?’

‘I have no idea. There must be a mark of some kind. Let’s see if there is anything that might guide us.’

Marlowe prised the lantern from the bellman’s grip and, holding it aloft, they slowly started on their examination of the doors along the riverwards side of the street. Faunt, an expert in discovering the undiscoverable, ran his fingers along the mullions of the windows, feeling the stone or wood for incised signs. They found nothing, but crossed to start again in the other direction. Neither wanted to believe they could fail this early in the enterprise. But all along the northern side, there wasn’t a sign of an ‘H’ on any door or window.

Pulling the bellman with them, they huddled together round the corner. ‘Now what?’ Faunt asked. ‘Look again?’

‘Perhaps the bellman knows someone whose name begins with H,’ Marlowe suggested. ‘Perhaps …’ He glanced at the man, who was staring vacantly into the distance. As distant church bells began to ring, his hand kept straying vaguely to his belt where his muffled bell hung, waiting. ‘Or, perhaps not,’ he conceded.

‘Let’s go the other way round,’ Faunt suggested. ‘Widdershins.’

‘How would that help?’ Marlowe asked. He was cold and disappointed that they had got nowhere.

‘Perhaps if we come at the houses from another direction, we will see something we missed before.’ Faunt shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try, surely?’

Marlowe nodded and the three men trudged slowly along the northern edge of the street, going widdershins with the lantern bobbing at eye level. Marlowe was finding it hard to keep his concentration on the job in hand. His imagination had already finished the night with the murderer in the Compter and he and Faunt celebrating their success with Walsingham’s Burgundy. Feeling people’s windows had not been in the story in his head at all. He looked up at the sky; the clouds were gathering. All they needed to make the night perfect was rain. Then he saw it and he stopped dead. The bellman stepped on the back of his heel and jabbed him sharply between the shoulder blades with his chin. Marlowe pointed to the corner of a door frame, above his head. ‘Look, there.’

He raised the lantern high, risking opening its shutters a little to give more light. And there, as clear as day, was what Faunt had taken for an H. It was an heraldic ermine symbol, as near to an H as made no difference, the upstrokes fused together at the top.

Faunt clapped him on the back. ‘That’s it,’ he whispered. ‘That’s what it was in the book. I just thought it was an H, badly done. Good work.’

Marlowe turned to the bellman and mouthed, ‘Thank you. You have done the Queen a great service tonight.’

The man snatched back his lantern and made off round the corner. They half expected him to ring the hour and assure the populace that all was well, but he was clearly confused on the matter and was silent. The moment had gone. His shadow lengthened and then disappeared.

Faunt turned to Marlowe and whispered, ‘Next stage. Ready?’

Marlowe nodded. He disappeared into the shadow of the doorway and heard Faunt tap gently on the door with the ermine mark.

The door creaked open and a voice said, guardedly, ‘Yes?’

Faunt answered in a voice Marlowe had not heard him use before. He sounded rather stupid, but well bred and sophisticated. There was something about the sibilants in his speech that hinted at a dilettante lisp. ‘My man, I am in need of … funds. Gaming losses, I’m afraid. A friend told me you could help.’

‘A friend?’ the voice said from behind the door. ‘Does your friend have a name?’

‘’Fraid not. Well, he does, of course. But I don’t know whether he would like me giving it to voices behind doors.’

Marlowe clenched his teeth. Faunt was a loss to the stage, he could see, but he was antagonizing the man. A slammed door now might mean the end of everything.