Marbeck and the Double Dealer (23 page)

Without answering, Marbeck left her.

The someone he had thought of was Augustine Grogan. And that same night, late though the hour was, the player found himself being collared in his usual haunt – the French Lily – by a suspiciously cheerful Marbeck.

‘You surprise me, Sands,' he murmured. ‘When we last spoke, you couldn't wait to send me away, as I recall.' His eyes narrowed. ‘I wonder what occasions this bonhomie?'

‘Well might you wonder,' Marbeck said. ‘But let me buy you a cup of Charbon's best, and I'll reveal all.'

The other needed little persuasion. Within minutes the two of them were seated in a booth, where Marbeck wasted no time in outlining his proposal. Grogan was intrigued.

‘You wish me to act as a decoy?' he blurted. Seeing Marbeck's expression, he clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘Your pardon . . . I take it a degree of discretion is required in this matter?'

‘A very great degree,' Marbeck answered, speaking low. ‘In short, the man I want you to fool would slit your throat if he suspected you.'

The other blanched. ‘I like this less and less.'

‘How would you like a purse with ten crowns in it?'

A moment passed, then: ‘What should I do? Or, shall I ask, what role is it you wish me to play?'

‘The sort you've played since you were around twelve years of age, I would guess,' Marbeck said.

At that Grogan sighed. ‘I should have known.'

‘I've even chosen a name for you,' Marbeck went on. ‘Madge Mullins. You've just been released from prison.'

A frown appeared. ‘I hope you're not implying I should perform services of a physical nature,' the player said with a frown. Marbeck shook his head.

‘You're there to convey a message, and then direct the man in question to a place nearby. After that your part is ended. But we will rehearse it, to the last point. So – are you my hireling, or are you not?'

The player hesitated, though it was a theatrical pause. With raised eyebrows, Marbeck waited.

‘Forgive my poor memory,' Grogan said at last. ‘Did you mention twenty crowns?'

‘I thought I said ten,' Marbeck replied. ‘But it might have been fifteen . . . Will that serve?'

The other picked up his mug and raised it in mock salute.

By mid-morning of the following day the scheme had been set in motion. It was not without difficulties, one of which was the role Marbeck had chosen for himself. Silvan knew him, so his disguise had to be convincing; he, on the other hand, had not yet set eyes on Silvan. Having obtained a description from Anne, however, he believed he could identify the man. He was not overly tall, she said, but he was muscular. He wore his hair curled and his beard trimmed to a point. At the quays he dressed as a prosperous merchant, in a feathered hat and silk-lined cloak. And he wore a sword with a distinctive hilt, its tip fashioned into the likeness of an eagle's head. This touch of vanity pleased Marbeck; it might even be Silvan's undoing.

Now, at last, he was ready. Amid the noise and bustle of the Vintry quay, he took a place near the corner of Three Cranes Lane, close to the tavern entrance. The day was fair, with a breeze off the river, from where the cries of watermen echoed. On the wharf, men were busy, handling casks of wine and loading them on to carts. The cranes were at work, their pulleys squealing as barrels were hoisted up from a lighter moored below. Few people paid any attention to the shambling figure of a beggar swathed in rags, who appeared from somewhere and sat down against a wall, setting his wooden bowl at his feet.

Marbeck had employed many disguises in his time, and this was not one he relished. But discomfort he could bear, along with the smell of the moth-eaten clothes he had picked up. Nor did he fear recognition, for his face was grimed with dirt and partly hidden by a torn, wide-brimmed hat. What made him uneasy was the prospect of being confronted by a constable and arrested for vagrancy, or sent on his way. There had been no time to arrange a forged licence. He knew a long wait was likely; indeed, his plan might not even bear fruit at all. Yet he had no choice but to settle to his task.

A short time after his arrival, the second player in the plot appeared: Augustine Grogan. Nobody, however, would have recognized him; Marbeck was satisfied on that score. For his role as Madge Mullins, a woman of the streets, Grogan had excelled himself. Under an old gown of red taffeta, fluffed out with layers of petticoats, he wore a padded bodice. His hair was concealed beneath a thick horsehair wig, his face whitened, cheeks rouged and lips painted with vermilion. He had been a boy actor, playing female roles by the score then and since, and even at close quarters could convince most people. How long he would be able to fool a man like Silvan, however, remained to be seen.

Now, as instructed by Marbeck, he approached the doorway of a warehouse near the end of the quay. From the corner of his eye, Marbeck watched him take a piece of chalk from his gown and make a sign on the doorpost: a rough fleur-de-lis. Then, with a practised gait, he moved to a position a few yards away from Marbeck. Between them was the entrance to the Three Cranes Tavern, where Anne had once awaited her spymaster – and where she waited now, in a back chamber, with an armed guard at the ready. And then the waiting began.

It was a long morning. For his part, Marbeck had an easy time. A few coins were dropped into his bowl, but no one challenged him, nor did any official appear. He grew stiff and longed to stretch himself, but had to keep his place. His growing fear was that, as the hours dragged by, Grogan would lose his nerve. At first the player had enjoyed himself. Flirtatious behaviour came naturally to him, as did ripostes to the lewd remarks he attracted. When propositioned, he would claim he was awaiting a customer. Since he was within earshot, every word reached Marbeck . . . but after a while he detected a strain in the man's voice. Though neither looked at the other, an understanding grew between them: Grogan could not keep up his role indefinitely. Indeed, Marbeck knew that only the promise of a handsome payment was keeping him there at all.

As noon came and went, with no sign of anyone who looked like Silvan, even Marbeck became restive. The tavern had grown noisy, and customers wandered in and out, threatening at times to kick his bowl away, or even to kick him. Then, when he was on the point of getting to his feet and taking a walk, something landed in the bowl with a clack. He saw a small pebble, and his eyes flew up towards Grogan. The player stood poised, one hand twisting a strand of his wig, but he caught Marbeck's eye, before looking pointedly away. Marbeck followed his gaze to the door-post with its mark . . . and froze.

Someone was standing there, apparently in idle conversation with another man. He was exactly as Anne had described him – down to the blue velvet cloak with its silk lining – but it was the sword that gave him away. Even from a distance, Marbeck caught a glimpse of the silver hilt with its beaked point. Now he watched Silvan clap his acquaintance on the shoulder and turn away. As he did so, his eyes went to the chalk-mark, though he gave no sign of noticing it. In fact, stifling a yawn, which only Marbeck and Grogan would have known was forced, he promptly walked away and rounded a corner.

Marbeck glanced aside and saw Grogan looking uneasy, but when he turned again, it was all he could do not to flinch. From another corner, Silvan suddenly reappeared and strolled towards the player . . . and the moment he spoke Marbeck knew for certain he had found his man.

‘Do I know you, mistress?' Silvan stopped, eyes upon Grogan, who quickly summoned a smile: he was on.

‘I think not, sir – but we can soon remedy it,' Grogan answered coquettishly. Then, as the other waited, he lowered his voice. ‘My name's Madge – mayhap you know my friend, mistress Anne?'

‘Anne?' Silvan raised an eyebrow. ‘The name means nothing.' He used a French accent, that of a fluent native speaker.

‘No . . . nor should it, master,' Grogan said quickly. ‘Only she and I were at close quarters . . . in a confined place, you might say. Poor Anne was in bad straits; she feared to die there. I was the one she trusted with her tale.'

He was smiling, but Marbeck, listening with face averted, cursed silently. Grogan had spoken too soon, and he sensed that Silvan was suspicious.

‘And what tale was that?' Silvan enquired in a bored tone. ‘Not that it matters . . . I had a mind to pass a moment with you, but I'm a busy man. My cargo won't wait.'

‘Your cargo?' Grogan appeared to be thinking fast. ‘I believe Anne told me of such. You import fine wines, don't you, sir? From Bordeaux – and Savoy, even?'

‘Do I?' Silvan replied. ‘What else did your friend Anne tell you?'

There was a pause, then Grogan took a breath and delivered his crucial speech. ‘She told me to make that mark on the post yonder,' he said, his voice falling almost to a whisper. ‘And then to await you with her message – the one she entrusted to me, where we both were confined. 'Twas in the Marshalsea, a few days past. I faced a whipping – but she faced death.'

‘So Anne is dead?'

The words came sharply, though Silvan kept his smile. Any casual observer would have seen a man of business dallying with a trull, as if trying to decide whether she was worth his trouble. Before answering, Grogan glanced both ways, a little too like a player for Marbeck's liking.

‘Nay, sir . . . she lives,' he murmured. ‘And she awaits you, not far away—'

Then he yelped. Without warning, Silvan had grabbed his false bosom and squeezed it. ‘As I thought,' he said flatly. ‘You're not Madge, any more than I'm Queen Elizabeth. Is there anything more you would like to tell me? But have a care – for if it's another lie, I will know. And your reward will be a poniard in the cods – do you see?'

Grogan went rigid. From his seat by the wall, Marbeck cursed the weakness of his plan. Silvan had seen through the disguise in a moment. He was readying himself to spring, when the player spoke up.

‘All right! Sweet Jesu, don't hurt me!' he begged, dropping his performance in an instant. ‘I'm a player. I got taken by the watch for stealing. I was facing a branding, or worse – but I swear I was in the prison with Anne. Her husband was killed in a fight in Clerkenwell . . .'

‘Stop there.'

The command brooked no refusal. Grogan fell silent. He was shaking, and it was no act: even he knew a killer when faced with one. Tense as a wand, Marbeck waited.

‘Now, answer my questions, and you live,' Silvan breathed. ‘Lie, and I'll slit your gizzard. First, I ask again: is Anne dead?'

‘No – she's alive, and she's near. I spoke the truth!' Grogan protested.

‘How did she get out?'

‘We bribed a turnkey . . .'

‘With what? No, it matters not.' Deliberately, Silvan put a hand to Grogan's face and, still smiling, brushed his cheek. Even from yards away, Marbeck heard him gulp.

‘You said she gave you a message for me?'

‘Only what I've told,' Grogan answered. ‘I was to direct you to her . . . she wouldn't trust me with more than—'

‘Was she questioned?' Silvan asked abruptly.

‘I know not,' Grogan said. ‘She was in fear of it – but she's unharmed, if that's what you mean.'

‘So . . .' Silvan glanced round, and Marbeck tensed further. His face was shaded by his hat, but he knew the man had looked down at him. There was a moment, then:

‘So, you can take me to her?'

‘There's no need for that,' Grogan said hurriedly. ‘She's here, in the Three Cranes – the back room.'

‘And you will take me.'

It was an order, not a question. Grogan hesitated, then forced a nod, whereupon Silvan linked arms with him, smiling broadly, and guided him to the inn doorway.

On the threshold he paused, glanced down and fumbled in his cloak. A coin appeared, which he tossed into Marbeck's bowl. Then he was gone.

M
arbeck counted to five, then got to his feet.

The back room of the Three Cranes was normally used for dicing and gaming, but early that morning he had hired it exclusively. It suited him, because there was a rear entrance. Once Silvan and Grogan had gone inside the inn, he slipped down a side alley and entered the room, which was bare of furniture apart from a few stools. It was also in semi-darkness, because he had curtained the windows. He was elated, though uneasy at Grogan's involvement. Grogan was no longer supposed to be part of the plan.

As he entered, Anne got up from the corner. The guard, one of Prout's best men, was almost hidden in another corner. He too rose, but Marbeck raised a hand.

‘Stand ready,' he said.

The man melted back into the shadows. Marbeck motioned Anne to sit, then stationed himself behind the door. Moving swiftly, he threw off his hat and ragged coat and picked up the sword he had secreted. Then he flattened himself against the wall and waited.

But nothing happened. Seconds became a minute . . . Across the room, he heard the guard stir. Noise came through the wall, that of the Three Cranes on a busy afternoon. Marbeck stooped to look through the keyhole, peering along a passage, but could see nothing. He pressed himself to the panelling again. Another minute had passed, and all at once he feared the worst. Did Silvan suspect a trap, after all? Had he seen through not only Grogan's disguise, but his, too? Then suddenly the latch clicked, the door opened, and a figure in hat and cloak walked in. Immediately, Marbeck's sword point was at his back.

‘Be still,' he ordered.

The man halted. With a squeal of hinges, the door swung to behind him. Marbeck walked out from the wall, sword levelled. From the corner, he heard the guard move. He rounded the cloaked figure . . . then froze.

‘It's me.' Grogan's whitened face stared at him from under the hat brim. He was shaking like a leaf.