Marbeck and the Double Dealer (25 page)

On their knees, the two faced each other. Silvan's right arm hung at a bizarre angle, while his face was a mask of pain and rage. But Marbeck still gripped his left hand with the poniard – and, as if at a signal, they began to strain against each other, tiring quickly as they fought for mastery of it. Silvan was the weaker now, however, and he knew it. For the first time an expression appeared – not of fear, but of uncertainty. Then all at once he fell backwards. In a second Marbeck had wrenched the poniard from his fingers and put it to his neck.

‘Be still,' he panted.

A hiss of pain escaped Silvan's lips. His eyes darted aside, to his shattered arm. Then he spoke.

‘Let me die, or let me live – choose now!'

For a moment Marbeck was seized by an impulse to do the first. The heat of combat had cooled in him, to be replaced by a cold fury. Here was the cause of his misfortunes, at his mercy, and there were no witnesses . . .

A sound startled him, only feet away. He looked up sharply, to the doorway of the house. Anne stood there, gazing down at them. She was holding a small pistol.

‘Kill him,' she said quietly. She lifted the gun and pointed it.

But Marbeck shook his head.

‘Then, get out of the way.' Anne's voice rose. From the grass where he lay, Silvan let out a groan.

‘Is this why you helped him escape?' Marbeck said, forcing her to meet his eye. ‘So you could get him alone? Is that what you intended?'

‘Stand up and move away,' Anne ordered.

‘I cannot.' Suddenly, Marbeck was calm, and his calmness unsettled her. Though she was shaking – whether with fear or anger or both, he was unsure – she wavered.

‘I do it for Tom,' she muttered. ‘And for the things this devil made me do.'

‘You could hang,' Marbeck said. ‘Do you think he's worth that?'

She shrugged, to show she no longer cared.

Slowly, he got to one knee, keeping Silvan's dagger pressed against the man's neck. ‘He's my prisoner, Anne,' he said. ‘My masters want him alive. They need to question him.'

She hesitated. Marbeck turned and put his face close to Silvan's. ‘Who's Membrillo?' he demanded.

There was no answer.

‘It was him beside you that night, when you had me at your mercy, wasn't it?' he persisted. ‘He held the pistol.'

Through his pain, Silvan managed a harsh laugh. ‘You cannot kill us all,' he breathed. ‘Others will come – every year, a new harvest—'

‘Who is he?' Marbeck shouted, and he jabbed the point of the poniard, drawing a little blood. Silvan flinched. Then, from the corner of his eye, Marbeck caught a movement from Anne, and for a second his attention shifted – which was a mistake. Silvan's left hand shot up and seized his wrist, shoving the dagger point aside. Crying out, with the last of his strength, he forced the point upwards. Marbeck veered away – but as he did so there was a deafening explosion. Half blinded by the flash, he fell over.

A long moment followed. His ears ringing, Marbeck got to his knees and stared downwards at Silvan's body. There was a gaping wound in the man's head, from which blood and brains had welled. The eyes were open, but they were lifeless.

He looked up, but Anne would not meet his eye. Without expression, she dropped the pistol.

‘Why did you not shoot me?' Marbeck asked finally.

She made no reply. Stiffly and painfully, he stood up.

‘Now I have to take you back,' he said. ‘There are things they'll want from you; you're still a source of intelligence.'

‘I would shoot you, too,' Anne said abruptly. ‘If I had the means.'

‘Well, you stabbed me once,' Marbeck replied. ‘And now I'm torn again.' He looked down at the blood seeping through his doublet. He was hurting in several places, but he was alive. He drew a long breath.

‘You said my life depended on me helping you,' Anne said. ‘Are you a man who keeps his word?'

He nodded. ‘I am. Though they'll hold you for a while yet, until they've got all they need. I speak not of close questioning. You endured it once; they'll know they only need to threaten it.'

She gave a long sigh. A breeze had got up, blowing in from the river. Absently, she surveyed the overgrown garden.

‘We wanted damson trees,' she said, almost to herself. ‘Me and Tom . . . we were promised a house with an orchard, in Barbary.'

Marbeck gazed at her. All at once something fell into place. His mind flew back to Silvan's tempting of him, in the darkened room: the promise of riches, if he turned traitor. All along it had troubled him – how Silvan knew where to find him that night – and suddenly he saw it: the French Lily.

Someone, for reasons of his own, had tipped off Silvan, and suddenly he saw the stern face of Charbon, peering down at him.

He faced Anne again, saw her staring at him. ‘Did Silvan ever send you on an errand to the French Lily?' he asked. ‘In Mark Lane?'

‘The Frenchman's place?' she nodded. ‘Two or three times . . . but 'twas only about wine. Consignments and such . . .'

She trailed off, for Marbeck was no longer listening. Her face blank, she watched him turn away and go to pick up the pistol.

After conveying Anne Saxby back to the Marshalsea – a procedure she submitted to in silence – he crossed the river again. First, he found a barber-surgeon and had his wound newly sewn. Then he returned to the White Bear, where he washed, attired himself in his own clothes and rested with a jug of Rhenish wine for comfort. By evening he had gathered himself and knew what to do; but it would require help, which presented a difficulty. Gifford was the man he wanted just now, but that wasn't to be. Nor could he go to Prout; in fact, none of the Crown's servants were available to him. He would have to make a full report to Sir Robert Cecil first, which would take time. But at last he saw a solution. If it was unorthodox, just now he had little choice. So, at twilight he left the inn and walked to the Strand, where he entered the Duck and Drake and found Thomas Rose.

‘What do you want of me now?' the grizzled drawer asked sourly.

‘I had a mind to take you on a search,' Marbeck said. ‘Like in the old days. If you're interested, that is.'

‘A search – for what?'

‘The usual matter – seditious books and papers.'

‘Are you mocking me?' Rose grunted. But when he caught Marbeck's expression, he gave a start.

‘I need someone discreet, and I need him quick,' Marbeck told him. ‘It's not a warrant – just a notion I have, to sound out a man who might not be what he seems. Will you hazard it with me, or no?'

Rose frowned at him, standing by the barrels. The inn was not yet crowded, but men were calling their orders. At that moment the hostess appeared, her hands full of empty mugs. ‘What are you about, Tom?' she demanded. ‘You're paid to serve, not to gossip. Move yourself!'

Her eyes went to Marbeck, who turned away. But he threw Rose a look . . . and suddenly the man made his decision.

‘I've got to go, mistress,' he said. ‘There's bad news – someone's sick.'

She peered at him suspiciously. ‘Who's that, then?'

‘No one you know.' Calmly, Rose took off his apron, but there was a light in his eye that Marbeck hadn't seen in years. And when the hostess opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand. ‘There's no sense wrangling with me. I'm going, and that's that.'

‘Is it indeed?' She breathed in hard. ‘And how long will you be gone – can you answer that?'

‘Nay, I can't,' Rose told her. And with that he thrust his apron at her and followed Marbeck to the door.

Outside, dusk was gathering. But when Marbeck told where they were going, the older man's face fell. ‘That's a mighty long walk for a sluggard like me. And we'd need to hurry – they'll be closing Ludgate soon.'

‘We'll take a boat,' Marbeck said. And he set off at a pace, with the other hurrying to keep up. Fortunately, it was not a great distance to the Ivy Stairs, where skiffs were waiting, their stern lanterns lit. In minutes the two were seated together, heading downstream on the current, and in a low voice Marbeck told his companion of his plans.

‘Charbon?' Rose showed surprise. ‘But he's a Huguenot . . . he hates papists. As would anyone who went through what he did, on Bartholomew's day.'

‘So he's always maintained,' Marbeck said. ‘But has anyone ever questioned him about it? Supposing it was a cover, all along?'

Rose thought for a moment. ‘Then, I'd say it's been a mighty good one,' he muttered. ‘What set you on to the man?'

‘Just a notion,' Marbeck replied, not wanting to add details. ‘A feeling I've had . . .' He frowned. ‘You're unarmed – I should have thought of it.'

‘I've a dagger,' Rose said, indicating his belt. Noting Marbeck's sword, he added: ‘And from what I remember, you're no slouch with that.'

The boat lurched just then, as another passed too close, heading upriver. Their waterman shouted a curse at his fellow, then bent to his oars again. Marbeck lowered his head.

‘When we get to the French Lily, we'll enter separately,' he said. ‘I've an idea the cellar's the place to look. I'll move towards the door and wait for you.'

‘If there's anything Charbon doesn't want us to see, the cellar will be locked,' Rose said. ‘We'll have to spin him a tale, or there'll be trouble.'

‘I've no time for tales. If I have to force him to open it, I will,' Marbeck replied. He didn't add that, provided his suspicions were right, Charbon knew who he was and what he did, in which case trouble was likely enough. In fact, he wondered how long the man had known – that was a troubling thought, too.

‘What, in a tavern full of people?' Rose was saying. ‘The fellow might have friends he can call on.'

‘He might, but I doubt he'll want them to hear what I have to say,' Marbeck said. ‘So you'll have to trust me.'

‘You and this feeling you've had,' the other replied, with a wry look. ‘I hope your nose hasn't failed you, now that I've gone and walked out of the Duck.'

‘And, yet, when was the last time you had any excitement?' Marbeck asked, raising his brows. ‘Let alone a chance to serve the Queen's Council in a proper manner. Doesn't it stir your vitals a little?'

Rose eyed him; slowly, a grim smile appeared. ‘Mayhap it does, a little,' he admitted.

They stepped ashore at Billingsgate, having shot the arches rather than alight above the Bridge, which would have meant a walk from the Old Swan Stairs. Soon they had made their way by Thames Street and Hart Lane into Tower Street, where they halted. They were at the corner of Mark Lane, with the French Lily a stone's throw away. Here, after some last-minute conferring, Marbeck left Rose and walked to the inn, entering once again to the strains of a lute. The place was filling up, the drawer busy serving tables. With a casual air, Marbeck threaded his way across the large room, one eye on a door in the corner which he knew led to the cellar. But before he could reach it, a familiar figure barred his way.

‘Monsieur Sands?' Charbon regarded him coolly. ‘You have returned – what a pleasure.'

‘Monsieur Charbon.' Marbeck matched his stare. ‘I wish I could return the compliment. Last time we met, as I recall, we didn't get the chance to talk.'

The other looked puzzled. ‘Last time we spoke, sir, I fear you had taken too much drink,' he said. ‘You and the player Grogan – you were harsh with me, I recall. Nevertheless, you are welcome. What is your pleasure?'

‘Grogan's dead,' Marbeck said, watching him carefully. ‘Have you not heard?'

A frown creased the other's brow. ‘No, I have not.'

‘He died trying to help me,' Marbeck went on. ‘But I can say that the man we were chasing has paid with his own life. He too was known to you, I think.' And when the other looked blank, he added: ‘His name was Silvan.'

Charbon was silent.

‘You heard me, I think,' Marbeck persisted. He took a step forward, until the two of them were barely inches apart. ‘Your friend from Savoy is dead.'

‘My friend?' The man's frown had deepened, but he appeared calm. ‘I don't understand you, Sands.'

‘I think you do,' Marbeck said. ‘As I think you know my real name, and that I serve the Queen's Council.' Before the other could speak, he added: ‘It was you who knocked me out that night in the street and called Silvan. As it was you in the dark, pointing a pistol at me. You didn't speak, because you knew I would recognize your voice.'

Charbon's gaze shifted, as if he was looking for assistance. Marbeck put a hand on his arm. ‘There's no one to help you now,' he said mildly. ‘And if anyone here knew who you really are, they'd come to my aid in a trice.'

The landlord's bushy moustache was twitching. Finally, he spoke, very low. ‘What do you want?'

‘I want to look in your cellar,' Marbeck said. ‘I think it may hold treasonable matter.'

A pause, then: ‘By what warrant do you demand it?'

‘I have none,' Marbeck said. Then he glanced aside and was relieved to see Thomas Rose moving towards them, dragging his weak leg. He faced his suspect again.

‘You may know this man,' he said. ‘What you don't know is that he's a Crown servant, too – or was once. Now, will you open up your cellar, or do we have to force you?'

There was a moment while Rose came puffing up to stand at Marbeck's side. He said nothing, merely fixed Charbon with a hard stare. For some reason, the man relaxed.

‘Force me?' he echoed. ‘But there is no need. The cellar is not locked – pray, look for yourselves.' And he stood aside, gesturing to the doorway. Immediately, Rose went towards it, grasped the latch. The door opened.

‘Search there, if you wish,' Charbon said in a harsh voice. ‘Then, when you're finished, you can leave. Henceforth, you are not welcome at this inn. Now, I have work—'