Marbeck and the Double Dealer (14 page)

‘Yet he sent me a report, only two days ago,' Cecil replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘While you were still en route here from Dover. As far as I'm aware, he continues to instruct the sons of gentlemen in the Italian style of fencing. Hardly the behaviour of one who fears capture, is it? Unless he's cleverer than you thought, and has some elaborate bluff in mind.'

‘No.' Marbeck shook his head. ‘He hasn't the nerve for that – there must be another reason.'

‘Well, he has a wife, and a house in Mark Lane,' Master Secretary said. ‘But even that's not enough to make a man brave interrogation. I speak of a torture warrant,' he added. ‘I believe the Queen will grant one. Ottone would know what to expect, at the hands of someone like Sangers.' Seeing Marbeck's expression, he frowned again. ‘What is it?' he asked. ‘A while ago you were sure you'd unmasked Mulberry; do you now harbour doubts?'

‘This report of Ottone's,' Marbeck said. ‘Does it concern—'

‘Spanish activity? Not in the slightest degree. It's routine matter: talk of someone in the French ambassador's train, who may or may not be in contact with a priest hiding in the north. Barely worth the trouble of setting it down.'

‘Then, let me visit him again.' Marbeck spoke more sharply than he had intended. ‘I'll get the truth out of Ottone if—'

‘You would if I allowed it – yet I do not.'

The spymaster's tone brooked no argument. Biting back a reply, Marbeck waited.

‘For now, you may rest easily,' Cecil went on. ‘I've already set a watch on Ottone: on his hall in Gracious Street, and his house. There's been no sign of anything unusual.'

Though relieved, Marbeck remained troubled. Suddenly, the conclusions he had come to in France seemed in doubt. He began to run matters over rapidly in his mind, but Cecil cut through his ruminations.

‘However, I'm sending Prout – tonight. Along with a pair of pursuivants,' he added. ‘They'll bring Ottone in.' He gave a sigh. ‘I repeat: I can but hope your instincts prove true. About the other matter, too. I speak now of Ireland.'

‘You mean, the new Armada being destined for O'Neill?' Marbeck was suddenly glad to talk of something else. ‘I would stake anything on it. Indeed, the more I ponder it, the more likely it looks.'

‘Well, there we're in agreement.' Master Secretary paused – then, for once, showed his irritation. ‘I curse the day the Queen ever committed troops to that land,' he said, with sudden vehemence. ‘It will bankrupt our nation – indeed, it's halfway to doing so already!'

He fell silent, whereupon Marbeck seized the opportunity.

‘Sir . . . I pray you, let me go with Prout tonight. I need to see Ottone: to look him in the eye once more and know the truth.'

There was a moment while Master Secretary appeared to consider. But when he spoke, he was on a different track. ‘This Juan Roble . . . do you think he exists?'

‘I believe so,' Marbeck answered, taken aback. ‘The Spanish have always had spies in Paris. Though who the man really is, I cannot say.'

‘Well, whoever he is, he's been getting intelligence from us, as well as laying false trails,' the spymaster mused. He was thoughtful, then suddenly he grew brisk. ‘Very well – go with Prout tonight,' he went on. ‘Gaze at Ottone all you wish. But forbear to lay a hand on him: it's Prout's commission, and you'll follow his lead. No swordplay – you understand?'

Marbeck let out a breath and nodded.

After that, the night couldn't come quickly enough.

Back in his room at the Dolphin, he paced about, racked with impatience. All day he had striven to keep himself occupied: seeing to Cobb, getting rid of the travel-stained clothes he had purchased in France, garbing himself in his preferred black. The sword would have to serve for the present, since he had no money for a new one. He had been so eager to leave Cecil that morning that he had forgotten to ask for a payment. Fortunately, his credit at the inn held firm.

By the time dusk fell, having taken a quick supper and a mug of sack, he could wait no longer. He left the Dolphin and walked through rain-washed streets, into the city by Bishopsgate. Curfew had sounded, and the gates would soon be shut. His orders were to await Nicholas Prout in Fenchurch Street by the Clothworkers' Hall, from where they would proceed to Ottone's house in nearby Mark Lane. But as he reached the crossing with Cornhill, he saw a body of men coming towards him and stopped.

‘There's been a turnabout,' Prout said, as if he had seen Marbeck only that day instead of weeks ago. ‘Our man's not at home, and his wife doesn't know where he is. She looks like a worried woman.'

‘Then, we go to the fencing hall?'

Marbeck eyed the messenger, before glancing at the men who accompanied him. Both were seasoned soldiers, well armed, faces hard as flint. He faced Prout again.

‘We do,' Prout said. Returning Marbeck's gaze, he added: ‘It's my warrant, and you're a bystander. Is that plain?'

‘It is,' Marbeck nodded. ‘See – I'm not even wearing a sword.'

Prout didn't bother to look. He gave the order, and they trooped back the way they had come with Marbeck in the rear. They passed the Cross Keys Inn and stopped outside Ottone's fencing hall. It was in darkness, and the door was locked.

Marbeck stood on the edge of the group, fighting dismay. The man had bolted: suddenly, he felt certain of it. In the weeks since he had questioned him, he had been making plans, sending in a report to Cecil merely to give the impression that all was normal. He was Mulberry – and cleverer than either of them had imagined.

‘Is there a back entrance?' Prout asked one of his men.

The soldier shook his head. ‘There was a yard once, but Ottone built over it when he extended the place.'

‘Very well – force an entry.'

It was easy enough. After a few kicks, the lock gave way. The door crashed inwards and the Queen's servants piled in, boots thudding on the bare floorboards. With little hope, Marbeck followed. One of the men had a lantern, which he lit at once. The four of them stood in the middle of the wide room and looked about, but it was clear the place was empty.

‘He's flown,' Prout said, in his most phlegmatic voice.

The other two began poking in corners, but there was nothing to see: only rows of swords hanging up. His spirits sinking, Marbeck moved to the wall – to the spot, he realized, where he had once made ready for a fencing bout with Ottone.

‘What's through there?' Prout was pointing.

Without interest, Marbeck followed his arm towards a doorway at the end of the room. He shrugged . . . then stiffened: he had smelled the iron tang of blood. He started for the opening. The man with the lantern was already walking towards it.

‘You've been here, haven't you?' Prout was saying. ‘Are there more rooms, or—'

He was cut off by a shout. The soldier was holding the lantern up, peering inside. In alarm he stepped back, just as Marbeck came up. Together they stared down at the grisly sight.

It was a tiny back room, containing only a low bed. On the bed lay Giacomo Ottone, his body rigid and soaked with blood. The man was as Marbeck remembered him, clad in breeches and shirt. There was no mail glove on his hand – but there was a knife in it, his fingers clenched about its handle. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

And his eyes, which were open, seemed to stare directly at Marbeck.

O
ttone had taken his own life; at least that was Prout's first thought. But Marbeck knew that he hadn't.

‘It looks utterly wrong,' he insisted. ‘No one could have made a cut like that – not even a skilled rapier-and-dagger man like Ottone. It was done from behind – by the same person, I expect, who laid him on the bed and placed the knife in his hand. It's murder.' He thought for a moment. ‘By the hand of someone he knew, I'd say – the killer locked the door when he left.'

Prout glowered at him. They were standing in Gracious Street, outside the fencing hall. On his orders, the soldiers had remained inside, but for the moment the messenger seemed at a loss. He looked more shaken than Marbeck had ever seen him. Then it struck him: Prout simply looked old. Finally, he said: ‘I'll make my report. But now we'll get rid of the body and clear up, before the constables of Bridge Ward get to hear about it. Whether suicide or murder, there'd be an inquest, and we don't want that.' He shrugged. ‘Ottone will just have to disappear.'

‘I'd like to ask something of you, Prout,' Marbeck said.

The other gave him a bleak look.

‘Someone should tell Ottone's wife. Will you let me do it? Master Secretary would agree, I'm certain.'

He expected resistance, but instead the messenger seemed relieved. ‘Go to her, then,' he said. ‘Her name's Margaret – English, not Italian. But have a story ready. She won't be able to claim the body, or even see it . . .' He broke off, finding his own words distasteful. He was a devout man. With a nod, Marbeck left him.

He walked along Fenchurch Street to Allhallows, then turned into Mark Lane, with the Tower looming over the rooftops. It was not yet late, and people were about. Having been directed to the house of the fencing master, he knocked. Soon the door was flung open, and an anxious face appeared.

‘Mistress Ottone?' Marbeck bent his head; she was small and barely reached his shoulder. ‘I'm John Sands, a friend of your husband. I have some news. Might I come in?'

At once Margaret Ottone's hand went to her mouth. ‘What's become of him?' she demanded. ‘There was another here, asking questions. Tell me, quickly.'

‘I will,' Marbeck said. ‘But indoors, if you please.'

She hesitated, then turned about. He followed her inside, closing the door. He was in a comfortable, well-appointed room. On the wall was a crucifix, and beside it a splendid sword: silver-hilted and chased with gold. A prize, perhaps; too good for use in the fencing hall.

‘He's left me, hasn't he?' she said at once, her face taut. ‘I knew he would; indeed, it's as if he had done so already!'

She stood facing him, hands clasped. She wore a black gown with a high neck, her hair pinned up and covered. She was younger than Marbeck had expected – a good deal younger than her husband. He regarded her calmly; just now, feelings were a hindrance that must be set aside.

‘Left you?' he echoed. ‘Why do you say—'

‘You know what I speak of, sir!' Suddenly, she was angry. ‘He's with someone, is he not? You need not spare my feelings, for I know my husband better than you do – friend or no. If he has gone with a man – or a pretty youth, more likely – then tell me so!'

Surprised, Marbeck hesitated. A moment ago he had been concocting a tale to account for Ottone's disappearance; now it looked as if the man's widow was about to save him the trouble.

‘He's gone, mistress,' he said finally. ‘I fear he will not return.'

She stared, then slowly her face crumpled. ‘He always meant to abandon me,' she said. ‘And lately – since he came back from Scotland – he was resolved to carry it out. He denied it, but I knew he lied. What wife wouldn't know the truth when her husband shuns her – forbears even to touch her?'

There was a stool nearby. She sat down and began to weep, her shoulders heaving. Marbeck could only watch her.

‘Do you face difficulties?' he asked presently. ‘I mean, with regard to money?'

She looked up sharply. ‘Master Sands . . . is that your name?' Plucking a kerchief from her sleeve, she pressed it to her face. ‘Pray, forgive me – you at least came to tell me. Others of his acquaintance would not have troubled themselves.' Her chest rose, but she was reining in her emotions. ‘If you mean has my husband left debts,' she went on, ‘you may rest assured he has not. He was – is – a man of substance. A master swordsman and a good tutor.'

‘Indeed, that's true.'

Suddenly, there was nothing more to say. This unfortunate woman knew less about her husband's life than she could imagine, Marbeck thought briefly. But it was ever thus, with men of their profession.

‘Is there someone you can turn to?' he asked.

‘My brother . . .' She faltered. ‘I would have named my father too, but I will not. He'll shed no tears . . . he will be glad. He never wished us to marry. Nor did he trust Giacomo.' She looked away. ‘Perhaps I should have listened to him.'

She lapsed into silence; it was time to leave. A moment ago Marbeck's intention had been to press her further, but for now he had learned enough. After expressing his regrets he went out, leaving her alone in the room with the silver-hilted sword.

To gather his thoughts, he walked – across Tower Street to Thames Street, then along the river. As he drew near to Billingsgate, it was all becoming clear; by the time he reached Dowgate, he was certain. Everything fitted. Ottone's sexual tastes, which his widow had just revealed – and which Marbeck cursed himself for not suspecting earlier – had been his downfall. Such tastes made him vulnerable: in fact, they had laid him open to blackmail. And the man's recent excursion, he saw – not to Scotland, as he'd told his wife, but to France – had resulted in his being forced to act against his will: in effect, to turn traitor.

Even as he pieced it together, Marbeck pitied him. Ottone, he guessed, had had no choice. He could imagine how it had been arranged: a fair young man in a Paris
auberge . . .
a jug of wine, the offer to go somewhere private – then the trap would be sprung. All he needed to do, he would have been told, was carry a certain report to the English agent. But refuse to cooperate, and word of his dalliance with this
pédéraste
would be spread – not merely to his wife, but all over London. In England, where such congress was a crime punishable by death, his reputation would be ruined – Ottone would have been ruined. Hence his nervousness when Marbeck had questioned him. And hence his suicide – or so it had been made to appear. But he had not taken his own life, which meant . . .