Marbeck and the Double Dealer (21 page)

‘You should get to a surgeon, too,' he muttered.

‘Soon.' Marbeck sat down, throwing him a glance which conveyed enough: the wounded man had only minutes to live. Gifford took a step forward.

‘There's no sense in holding back now, is there, Saxby?' he said in a flat tone. ‘We can do no more harm to you . . . but we can to your wife. You should think upon that.'

Saxby gave a start. ‘You would sweat her, in my place?' There was fear in the man's eyes – though not for himself. He peered up at Gifford.

‘I wouldn't, but there's one who would, and smile while he did it,' Gifford answered. ‘Name of Sangers . . . you'll know who he is.'

There was a gasp from Anne. Her eyes flickered towards Marbeck, who remained impassive. A current of understanding passed between him and Gifford: like it or not, this was an interrogation. Gifford had already chosen to play the hammer role; Marbeck would be the anvil.

‘Was it Gomez who came to you?' he asked Saxby. ‘The man you swore you hadn't heard of?' Receiving no answer, he added: ‘No matter, let's say it was him. So – was it merely money he offered?'

‘Of course it wasn't. D'you think you can buy a man like Tom as easily as that?'

Anne was overcome with fury. Hatred shot from her eyes, as she turned them on Marbeck. And she would have said more, had not a word from her husband stayed her. Swiftly, she turned back to him, squeezing his hand.

‘Let me talk,' he said weakly.

There was a brief silence, before Anne sagged. Racked with sobs, she began shaking her head from side to side.

‘Nay, forbear to weep,' Saxby murmured. ‘There's things to be said.' He eyed Marbeck. ‘I want your word she won't be punished for my sake.'

‘You know I can't give that,' Marbeck told him.

‘Then, the devil take you!' The man's breathing was laboured now, but a fierce light burned in his eyes. ‘For you'll get naught but my contempt.'

‘Your words may help, though,' Marbeck added, his gaze steady. ‘And I would hear them anyway. When did they recruit you? After you got back from Ireland?'

There was a moment, then a grim smile appeared on Saxby's face. ‘Nay, they'd no need to do that . . . My mind was altered long before I was shipped back from there.'

Without warning, Gifford dropped to his heels beside Marbeck, making the wounded man start. ‘Do you mean you converted to the Roman faith?' he snapped.

‘Nor that, even,' Saxby answered, his voice low. ‘You may blame the Queen's commanders in Ireland if you like . . . for they did Spain's work for themselves.' He closed his eyes: his life was ebbing away. Impatiently, Gifford leaned forward.

‘Then, what say you?' he demanded. ‘Was it the plight of the Irish people that moved you? The burning of their fields, the starvation . . .'

‘In heaven's name, why can't you leave him to die?'

Anne faced Gifford, her voice torn with grief. ‘I can tell you as much as he,' she cried. ‘More, even. You think I haven't heard all there is to hear about Ireland? Women and children burned alive in their huts – treated worse than dogs! The English soldiers are become animals over there. Tom was all fired up for Queen and country too, when he went – but 'twas a different man who came back!'

She fell silent and turned to her husband. Thomas Saxby's face was taut, but he was smiling at her.

‘She's painted the picture well enough.' He sighed and turned his gaze upon Marbeck. ‘I remember you now,' he added. ‘You bought me a mug in the Red Bull, only you'd come to rack me for a turncoat . . . but I gave a good account, did I not?'

Marbeck said nothing.

‘Well, I lied to you,' Saxby went on. ‘Just a little. I wasn't always with Chichester's force. I was with Sir Henry Harrington's, too – you know what happened to him?'

Gifford frowned. ‘Harrington's army was beaten by the Irish last year, at Wicklow . . .'

‘Aye – and you know what our Queen's commanders did, to pay him out for that?'

From somewhere Saxby had found a shred of energy: the last gasp of a dying soldier. Angrily, he eyed both men, fixing at last on Marbeck. ‘The Earl of Essex – damn his heart – took it as an affront to his command,' he muttered. ‘Called our men cowards. He executed every tenth man as punishment – officers, too. How is that for English justice?'

‘So – you saw your comrades slain, by our own men?' Marbeck asked calmly.

‘Not just comrades: his own brother!'

Both Marbeck and Gifford showed surprise, as again Saxby's wife turned her fury on them. Eyes blazing, she spat the words out. ‘Tom would have died in his place – his brother was but a lad of seventeen! He begged them to spare Samuel and take him instead, but they wouldn't listen. He had to stand with the others and watch him perish! Do you wonder that he hates Elizabeth, and all those who do her bidding?'

Gifford drew a sharp breath. ‘By the Christ – do you tell us all this was but a matter of revenge?' he said harshly. ‘Because Essex is a vain fool, you turn against your own country – to work for Spain, our sworn enemy?'

‘The boy was all the family I had,' Saxby breathed. ‘They showed no mercy . . . Soldiers are but tools to them, to be used and thrown aside. I lost my loyalty back there in the bog, along with my leg . . . Do you tell me you'd have done any different?'

To that Gifford made no answer. Instead, with a swift glance at Marbeck, he straightened up.

‘I've heard all I want to,' he said. ‘I'll wait outside.'

But even as he moved away, Saxby appeared to forget him. The man's eyes were glazed, his breathing shallow.

‘He's near the end,' Marbeck said to Anne. ‘I'll leave you, too.' He paused. ‘Do you wish me to fetch a parson?'

But the woman barely heard him. Shakily, she raised a hand and laid it against her husband's face. Marbeck got up stiffly and took a step, whereupon a jolt of pain checked him. He glanced down, saw the dark stain that had soaked his doublet and his breeches, as far as the thigh. He looked to the doorway, where his companion stood.

‘You must attend to that,' Gifford said.

Weakly, Marbeck nodded.

‘I'll finish up here,' the other added. ‘Then I'll take her to the Marshalsea. They can get all they need from her now.'

Marbeck nodded again.

‘Surely you're not going to peg out too, sirrah?' Gifford made an attempt at a smile. ‘Master Secretary would be most displeased to lose another man – especially so soon.'

‘I don't believe so,' Marbeck said at last. ‘I've a score to settle yet, with the one who runs these people.' He indicated the dying man and his wife. ‘It may have been she who pointed a pistol at my head that night, but Silvan's voice was one I shan't forget. I mean to see it silenced, one way or another.'

There was a cry of anguish. Both of them looked towards the corner. Anne was leaning forward, peering into her husband's face, but even from a distance they could see it was over. Saxby's eyes were closed, his body lifeless. His wife lay her head upon his bloodstained chest and wept quietly.

‘Let her alone for a while,' Marbeck said.

Gifford sighed and looked away.

T
hree days later, on a bright morning that carried the chill of approaching winter, Marbeck crossed London Bridge and made his way to the Marshalsea prison.

He walked stiffly through the crowds, with his sword on the right; he was bandaged, to cover the stitches made on his left side by a barber-surgeon. The wound was raw but it was clean, and he was recovering. Yet his mouth was tight; what lay ahead was something he did not relish at all.

Once he and Gifford had made a full report to Sir Robert Cecil, the spymaster had wasted no time. He was displeased by the outcome of the raid on the Saxby house, and by the death of the false agent now known to be Mulberry. There was some relief in the knowledge that both Nicholas Prout and the other man would recover from their wounds. But, in the light of what had emerged, his orders were clear: every scrap of knowledge must be extracted from Anne Saxby, by any means necessary. Marbeck and Gifford were to conduct the interrogation, with Richard Sangers in attendance.

He reached the gates, showed his written pass to the turnkey and entered the prison as he had done a month earlier. This time he was directed not to Sangers but to a small cell with a barred window. The room was bare save for some straw – and an iron ring set high in the wall, with a set of manacles attached. Here, Gifford was awaiting him.

‘How is the wound?' he asked.

‘It's healing.'

They fell silent. Even Gifford, he thought, viewed the task before them with distaste. The pair had not seen each other for the past two days, since Gifford had left the White Bear and found lodgings elsewhere. Marbeck had used the chamber to rest, though he too would remove himself soon.

‘Where's Sangers?' he asked.

‘Collecting the woman. She's been put in with others. One of them's a prison louse, but it seems she was wise to that ploy. She hasn't spoken a word since she was captured.'

That came as little surprise to Marbeck. He had formed an opinion of Anne Saxby as a woman of shrewdness and courage, which made what would happen here all the more terrible. Restlessly, he took a few paces about the room, while Gifford stood by the door, looking tense. From nearby a jumble of sounds reached them: shouts, harsh laughter, the clang of a tin jug. The prison was damp and chill, and the reek, as ever, was all but unbearable.

‘Have you no paper and ink?' Gifford muttered. ‘If there's matter to set down, I mean . . .'

He broke off. From the passage outside came a squeal of hinges, and at the sound of the voice that followed both men stiffened. Gifford stepped back, both he and Marbeck facing the doorway, to see Sangers enter in his rough leather apron. With him, barefoot and shivering in only a shift, was Anne Saxby. Beside the interrogator she looked like a waif.

‘See, what did I tell ye?' With a broad grin, the fellow turned to his prisoner. ‘These men are come to have a talk with you. You'll like that, eh?'

She looked sharply at them both, before recognition dawned. But she said nothing, lowering her head and offering no resistance as Sangers pushed her against the wall. But no sooner had he chained her than the woman's ordeal began – for only by standing on tiptoe could she reach the floor. There she hung by her arms, her body stretched to its full extent; it was clear to any man she would not endure this for long.

Satisfied with his work, Sangers stood back and turned to the intelligencers. ‘Ask what you will, masters,' he said with a sniff. ‘I've the means to get everything you need.' He patted his belt, from which hung several implements. ‘If you need me to step things up . . .'

‘We'll call on you.'

Gifford didn't trouble to conceal his disdain for the man. He caught the eye of Marbeck, who moved close to the prisoner.

‘You need to tell us all, Anne,' he said. ‘This man enjoys meting out pain – he needs no persuasion. Do you see?'

She was breathing fast, her chest rising. He saw the dark patches under her eyes and knew she had slept little. Nor had she been fed, by the look of her. Her lips were cracked, her cheeks pinched. But she managed a quick nod.

‘I've no cause to lie now,' she said, in little more than a whisper. ‘I tried to speak to him, but he wouldn't listen.'

She meant Sangers. Without looking round, Marbeck nodded. ‘It was you, sitting in the dark that night with Silvan, was it not?' he said, after a moment.

But she looked at him uncomprehendingly, whereupon Gifford stepped forward at once. ‘Don't try to dissemble!' he snapped. ‘You had no scruples shooting a messenger of the Crown. You stabbed this man, too – you aimed for his heart!'

She caught her breath. ‘Please – I know not what you speak of,' she said to Marbeck. ‘I never saw you again, after you came to see Tom – until the day he was killed . . .' She hesitated. ‘Save for the time you followed me, from the Fields.'

Gifford gave a snort and would have spoken again, but Marbeck stayed him. For some reason, he believed the woman, whereupon a new thought sprang up.

‘Then, if it wasn't you, who was it? Membrillo, perhaps?'

Mournfully, she shook her head. ‘I don't know that name,' she said. ‘Please believe me.'

‘Did your knave of a husband teach you how to handle firearms?' Gifford broke in.

‘He did.'

Her voice was taut. Whatever energy the woman had possessed since the debacle that had resulted in Thomas Saxby's death, it was now ebbing away.

‘Speak up!' Gifford ordered. ‘Are you too dull-witted to judge your position? Before you leave this cell, you'll spill everything you know, and wish there were more you could tell. The Queen's loyal servants have no mercy for traitors!'

A look of anguish came over Anne's face. Marbeck expected tears, but instead she shook her head weakly. ‘I'm not a traitor . . . not like you think.'

Gifford opened his mouth, but Marbeck stayed him again. ‘Then, go back to the start and tell us,' he said. ‘But leave nothing out, or I will be overruled. Do you understand me?'

She understood well enough. Her gaze went to Gifford, then to Sangers, who stood only feet away, his enjoyment of her plight obvious to all. Finally, she met Marbeck's eye again.

‘They used me badly,' she muttered. ‘Tom never knew. He would have killed them if he'd known . . . if he could have done.'

‘They?' Marbeck raised his eyebrows.

‘The Portuguese . . . Gomez . . .' She faltered, as if the memory pained her. ‘It began with him, after Tom came home and lay sick. Tom was like a child; he couldn't walk or do aught for himself. But they knew already how his mind was turned. They knew even before he left Ireland. There are priests that spy for the Spanish.'