The Playmakers (29 page)

“Oooh, I do like a man who likes a
decent-sized drink,” said Frizer.

“You like any man, sweet-heart,” said
Skeres.

The three clinked their drinking vessels,
said, “Cheers” and took a sip.

“This way, gentlemen,” said the wench,
opening a door on the opposite side of the landing, and directing
them through.

Derek gasped as he walked in. In the centre
of a large table was the most astonishing collection of food he had
seen - plates of meats, fowl, vegetables, fruit. There were cakes,
desserts, cheeses. And drink everywhere, ready to be poured. Wine,
sherry, ale.

“Good heavens,” he said.

“Good luck!” said a voice behind him, and he
turned to see that Robert Poley had now joined them, and was
raising his glass of sherry in salutations.

It was several hours later before it finally
dawned on Derek that he was, in fact, the only man of theatre in
the room. That he was, in fact, the only other guest in the room at
all. No one else had turned up, as Shakespeare had promised. Not
Alleyn, not Burbage, and certainly none of the backers and
back-slappers he had anticipated.

“Typical, typical,” sniffed Skeres, when
Derek politely mentioned this.

“Big-noters all of them. Only want to come
out when they think it is to their advantage,” added Frizer.

But by then, Derek really did not care. He
had sated himself on a most sumptuous meal, including a species of
smoked fish that the waitress had told him was now very popular in
Germany, and a stuffed plover – the word ‘stuffed’ sending Skeres
and Frizer into yet another of their sexual fantasy school-boy
giggling spasms.

He had drunk the most glorious drinks,
including a delightful red wine, which had proved its durability by
travelling well from France, and more sherry from southern
Spain.

The countries of origin of the drinks sparked
hectic political discussions, rounding off a remarkable few hours
of dining table talk, the likes of which Derek had never witnessed
or been involved in before.

Indeed, he was glad for once in his life that
he was the centre of attention. And that the pompous Alleyn, the
actor’s actor, had not turned up after all, and taken over centre
stage, as he no doubt would have, regaling them with tales of his
triumphs at The Globe.

So much so, that by late afternoon, the group
was in distinct need of a break from their serious mission. Derek
wanted to lie down on a small bed that was in one corner of the
dining room.

However, the other three insisted on fresh
air, and, guiding him gently, they took him down the back stairs
for a walk in the garden, where once again Dame Eleanor waved
through the window to “the man who has done so much for
theatre.”

It was upon their return that Derek’s day
started to turn sour.

Was it him? Or the fresh glass into which Mr
Frizer had just poured another tipple of wine? Or a different
bottle? Somehow this new drink did not taste quite the same as the
others. It seemed a little more bitter. Undrinkable. Unnerving
…

Looking up from his seat he intended to ask
the others their opinion. But found he could not get the words
out!

His voice! His stock in trade was failing
him.

Once more he tried, but he could not get his
lips to move.

Attempting to stand up, his legs felt like
lead.

What is happening?
he thought.

He placed both hands firmly on the arms of
the chair to push himself up, rose a few inches, fell backwards,
and tumbled out of the chair onto the floor, unable to move.

A hand grabbed his hair roughly and pulled
his head up. He could see a face inches away, feel its breath.
Robert Poley’s voice came from the other side of the room. It was
harsh, and nasty. “Is the little faggot dead yet?” he said.

Faggot? Dead?

Derek looked at the face just inches from
him. It was his newfound friend Ingram Frizer.

Ingram will help me,
he thought.
Ingram is my soul brother. He’ll save
me from whatever this is all about. He’s seen my work and likes my
style. I’m sure he likes me.

But he watched in horror as Ingram Frizer
pulled the blond wig off his head, screwed his face into an
unrecognisable, malevolent scowl, and sneered in a loathsome voice,
“Not yet. But soon.”

Derek looked on in horror as Frizer rolled
his sleeves up, revealing, on his left forearm, a nasty looking
tattoo of a coiled snake …

The leering face of Nicholas Skeres joined
that of Frizer. “Good-bye you bloody sodomite. Hope you burn in
hell.”

The joking had gone; the shrill voices had
disappeared; the bouffant hair and make-up had been ripped off.

It had all been an
act,
Derek thought.
All an act. They had
me. I thought they were my friends. My admirers. Christ, they are
better actors than me …

But why?

He could not move.

His two former friends, now revealing their
true selves, stood up. One picked him up by the legs, the other by
the shoulders, and Derek could feel himself being thrown roughly on
the bed. He lay there helpless as his sight started to diminish and
the conversation flowed around him.

“Sir Thomas said it would work in a few
minutes,” said Frizer.

“The best poison he’s ever had made up, so he
claimed,” said Skeres.

“Let’s just wait,” said the voice of Poley
from the other side of the room. “It’s probably all the food the
little bastard ate - blocking the sleeping draft from going through
his body.”

There was a brief silence, followed by the
sound of chairs being drawn up around the table, and the clink of
glasses as more drink -
But I wager not the drink
I had, thought Derek!
- was poured.

After a few minutes, Derek could hear a chair
scrape, followed by the sound of feet on the wooden floor.

He could not see the figure - by now he had
all but lost his sight - but he could tell it was close. Through
the numbness that had overtaken him, he could feel a finger roughly
prodding him in the chest.

“Is he dead now, then?” said Poley.

“No!” said Skeres.

“Jeezus, it was going to be bloody simple,
according to the boss,” said Frizer angrily. “One glass of the
sleeping draught, say goodnight, Derek, we tell the old dear he’s
drunk himself to death - you know what them theatre people are
like, ma’am, hopeless drunks - and we’re out of here.”

“Give him some more, then,” said Poley.

“I haven’t got any more!” said Frizer, his
voice rising in intensity. “That’s all the stuff Walsingham gave
me. He said it would be enough. And having worked for him for all
these years, I believe everything he tells me.”

There was silence.

“What about now?” said Poley ultimately.

Derek could feel another prod in the chest,
and, this time, a hand on the side of his temple.

“Nah,” said Skeres. “Still kicking.”

“How do you know?”

“Listen, Mr Poley, I’ve been around the game
long enough, doing a bit of this and a bit of that. I know when
someone’s dead and when someone isn’t. His heart beat’s still
pretty strong.”

“Must be fit from carrying the big fellow
around in the sedan-chair, along with the black woman with the big
tits,” said Frizer, laughing. “His triumph as an actor.”

“Phhhewwaaww,” said Skeres. “That black
beauty. Wouldn’t you like to give her one?”

“You pair!” said Poley laughing. “Making poor
old Derek here feel that he was the next Alleyn or Burbage - and
even having him think you were queer buggers just like him.”

“I think he took a fancy to you, too, Mr
Poley,” said Skeres.

There was much laughter, followed by silence,
during which a small tear trickled out of Derek’s left eye and slid
silently down his cheek.

Many minutes later, Derek could feel the
tension in the air. He could tell that they had run out of
patience. Footsteps angrily approached him, and he could feel the
finger push him in the chest again - only very roughly this
time.

“Christ almighty, I’ve had enough of this,”
said Skeres, and suddenly Derek felt a surge of pain above his
right eye. It pierced agonizingly through his skull and jolted down
his body, as if he had been struck by lightning. Pandemonium flared
all around him.

“Jeezus, what have you done!” shouted Poley,
scrambling from other side of the table.

“I’ve fixed the bastard good and proper,”
shouted Skeres.

“He’s stabbed him. He’s stabbed him!”
screamed Frizer. “You idiot! Sir Thomas said no wounds. No wounds!
You heard what he said. There was to be no marks at all.”

“We’d be still here at midnight!” snarled
Skeres, “As it is, we’ve been hanging around since ten o’clock this
morning dressed up like a pair of pansies entertaining this
third-rate actor, and I’ve had enough.”

“For God’s sake, you’ve cut a wound over his
eye, it must be two inches deep,” said Poley. “What are we going to
do now?”

“Oh, well,” said Skeres, “you’re the
government agent, Mr Poley, the man trusted with secret documents,
you’re so smart, you come up with an idea!”

“I will, Mr Skeres,” hissed Poley, “don’t you
worry, I will.”

There was silence as they stared at the
forlorn figure.

“I have it,” said a voice triumphantly. It
was Poley. “I have it.”

“What’s your solution, Mr Government Agent?”
snarled Skeres.

“The judgement of Solomon, Mr Skeres. Seeing
as you have cut him, then he shall cut you.”

“What!”

“Lie down, Mr Skeres, while we do some
surgery.”

“You’re not cutting me!”

Poley moved forward, and leaned into Skeres'
face. “This is the only way out, Mr Skeres,” he hissed. “The only
way out.”

“What's the plan, then?” interrupted
Frizer.

“It goes like this. We cut you, Mr Skeres,
and …”

“Cut?” said Skeres.

“Nothing serious, mind. At least, nothing
that will cause you more than a little inconvenience. But we spread
the blood around a bit, get you to scream in agony, make it look
much worse than it is.”

“And?”

“And then we call in the owner of this most
commodious house, Dame Eleanor. There’s been a terrible fight, we
say. Our young theatrical friend here, after a long day on the
wine, got nasty about paying the bill, and suddenly grabbed Mr
Skeres’ knife from his belt when he wasn’t looking, Dame Eleanor,
and stabbed him. Naturally enough, Mr Skeres was surprised by all
this. We all were, as you can imagine, Madam. But Mr Skeres had the
presence of mind to wrestle the knife from his enraged attacker,
and, in the mêlée that followed, alas, had to strike him a similar
blow in self-defence, and now he is dead. End of story.”

There was silence.

“Sound all right to me,” said Frizer,
slowly.

“It’s all right for you - you don’t get cut!”
shouted Skeres.

“Listen,” hissed Poley, “you are a low-life
con-artist, Skeres, a skiver, double-dealer and street-wise
poltroon in the employ of Sir Thomas. And as I am the most senior
man in this group here, you will do what I tell you.”

“That’s the point,” replied Skeres, with a
smarmy tone in his voice. “I am just a low-life con-artist, and
proud of it. So, who would believe that this man would attack me
over a bill … when I have never paid a bill in my life!”

There was silence, as Poley looked across to
Frizer.

“He’s right,” said Frizer. “He’s right, you
know. It’ll have to be me, instead.”

“What?” said Poley.

“Cut me, not him. It will look more
convincing that, in his rage, our friend here has attacked the one
who would obviously be paying the bill, and that is me, Sir Thomas’
personal servant.”

Poley looked down at the floor, and went into
deep thought.

“All right, then,” said Poley slowly after a
few moments. “All right.”

“See, you're not as smart as you make out, Mr
Government Agent,” said Skeres.

“Shut up, Skeres.”

“Besides, there’s one further little hiccup
to your great plan,” added Skeres, as Derek felt another prod in
the chest. “He ain’t dead yet.”

“I’ve thought of that, too, Mr Skeres. After
all, I am also tired and want to go home, too. Here, take this
pillow, place it over his head, and do your duty.”

For a moment, no one moved in the room.

Then Derek heard the footsteps, felt the cool
satin of the pillow on his skin, valiantly tried to struggle
against the increasing pressure against face, but could not resist
the final Curtain of Death coming down on his sad, unfulfilled
career. The only feeling of goodness surging through his body was
the realisation that on this day, his final day of existence, he
had, unwittingly or otherwise, played his greatest ever character
role.

And when the alarm was raised, and Dame
Eleanor rushed in, and heard the explanations, and saw the body in
the green doublet lying on the bed bleeding, she put her head in
her hands and sobbed, “My God, my God, what a tragedy. The great
Christopher Marlowe graced this house with his presence today - and
now he lies here dead …”

CHAPTER TWENTY