Marbeck and the Privateers (8 page)

‘I waited all morning for you,' Herle said. ‘You'd best get in.' He indicated his skiff, then seeing Marbeck's questioning look, he added: ‘Monk wants to see you – at once.'

T
he journey didn't take long. Skilfully Matthew Herle rowed Marbeck downriver, past Whitefriars and
Bridewell, then veered towards the shore. With the tower of St Paul's looming behind, they neared the busy waterfront of Blackfriars and hove to. The two of them had barely spoken, but it seemed there was little the messenger could tell. No doubt Monk would have more to say … with an air of resignation, Marbeck stepped on to the stairs where people were waiting for boats. Having paid Herle a penny, he paused and leaned close.

‘He's on the corner, by the Blackfriars Theatre,' the messenger murmured, before turning away to do business.

Marbeck walked up Castle Lane to where Thames Street opened on his right. There was a tumbledown corner house, which he remembered had once been used as a letter-drop. Having knocked on the door, he waited. Nearby was the indoor playhouse leased by the King's Men, but not yet in use. Perhaps the new spymaster had a weakness for theatres, he mused …

The door opened to reveal a dark passageway. Marbeck looked, but made out only a figure in shadow. When the person stepped aside he entered, and the door was closed. Seeing a light to the rear, he made his way into a candlelit chamber with the windows covered. There was a single occupant, seated at a table.

‘I wonder what kept you?' Levinus Monk said drily. He waited, elbows on the table, while Marbeck reached in his doublet for his report. As he fished it out he looked round at the man who'd showed him in … and paused in surprise.

‘Oxenham?'

The other inclined his head. ‘It is, Marbeck.'

They exchanged looks. Marbeck had not set eyes on Thomas Oxenham for a year, perhaps longer. A florid-faced fellow with a penchant for garish clothes, as Crown intelligencers went he was not one of the brightest. He had been given few tasks in recent times, Cecil having decided he was unreliable.

‘This man's one of my party just now,' Monk said, from which Marbeck inferred he was one of those watching Somerset House. He handed over the paper, which Monk took and unfolded quickly. There was nowhere to sit, so he stood by the table as Oxenham did. Both intelligencers waited as the spymaster read the report, then dropped it on the table in irritation.

‘Is that all you have to tell me?' When Marbeck made no reply, he went on: ‘You don't think I might have learned already about the wicked device that went off?'

‘Device?' Marbeck echoed. ‘I heard a servant was stabbed …'

‘No, not stabbed.' Monk frowned at him. ‘If anything it's more serious, even though the only victim was the ambassador's clerk. He had the task of opening despatches yesterday evening, it appears, and unfortunately for him, the first letter he chanced upon was the one containing the needles. They had been placed inside in such a cunning, mathematical order that the moment the seal was broken the package sprang apart, launching a salvo of barbs into the man's face. As forcibly as if they'd been shot from a crossbow, I gather. He's been blinded in one eye.'

Having delivered his account, the spymaster sat back and allowed Marbeck to take in the grim news. ‘Coming on top of the shot fired at the house yesterday, the picture grows uncomfortably clear,' he added. ‘Someone's trying to disrupt the talks – or at least to cause unrest among the delegates.'

‘My Lord Secretary always feared that possibility,' Marbeck observed, after a moment. He glanced at Oxenham, who remained impassive.

‘Of course he did,' the spymaster snorted. ‘He leaves nothing to chance, which is why you were charged with keeping watch on the Count de Tassis: a task in which you appear to have failed, I might add. Not surprisingly, both the Spanish and Netherlands delegations are angered by these events. They've threatened to postpone the talks; fortunately Lord Cecil's assurances of good will have prevailed – for the moment.'

‘Speaking of my own task,' Marbeck ventured. ‘It's somewhat difficult to carry out, from two houses away.'

‘What do you mean?' Monk looked sharply at him. ‘Have you not had every assistance? Besides, from what I see you've paid a boatman to be your watchman. Yet two attempts have been made on the ambassador's life—'

‘Not on the ambassador's,' Marbeck broke in, keeping a level tone. ‘I believe the shot was fired deliberately at a servant – any good marksman could have hit his target from that range. And everyone knows that ambassadors don't open their own letters.'

‘Agreed … but there are other matters, that alarm me equally.' Monk glanced at the papers on his table, before eying Marbeck again. ‘We received a coded despatch some days ago. It accuses de Tassis himself of intending to press for a restoration of Papistry in England, something the man would never do. Such matters were agreed long before dates for the treaty were even set. The missive was designed to arouse suspicion and unease – as were the acts of sabotage.'

‘Then what would you have me do?' Marbeck asked, struggling to hide his impatience.

‘That fellow Solomon something … the one we saw at the Fortune. You managed to get in a fight with him, then lose him – do you think he's involved in this?'

‘I don't know,' Marbeck admitted. ‘I'd like to find out what Tye was doing in the company of Simon Jewkes, who's aroused my suspicion from the start …'

But impatient himself, Monk dismissed that matter. ‘Jewkes has no relevance in this matter. He has much to gain from a successful conclusion to the treaty, when trade with Spain and Portugal opens up again. Men of business like him have an eye to the future.'

‘Then can we speak plainly?' Marbeck said, after a moment. ‘Do you have an idea who—'

‘Who might stand to gain by wrecking the talks?' Monk gave a hollow laugh. ‘Well, where shall I begin? I fear the list would be long. And I don't simply mean Puritan fanatics, and others who hate the Spanish. There are always people who profit from war, and have been throughout eternity. Do you follow me?'

Marbeck followed well enough. Perhaps the King's intention to be
Rex Pacificus
was not universally popular … the picture was widening. He frowned, hearing Oxenham say: ‘The one who escaped – that rogue Solomon Tye. He appears to be a renegade, and should be found.'

‘That's obvious,' Monk snapped. But he was looking at Marbeck, who said: ‘There are other trails I might pursue, if you'll allow.'

‘Such as?'

‘This letter filled with needles …' He thought for a moment. ‘It's a rare skill, to fashion such a device. I've a notion who might have done it.'

‘Very well.' Quickly Monk came to a decision. ‘Make your enquiries then, and if they bear fruit, inform me at once. I don't mean here …' He indicated the room. ‘It's temporary – you may send a message through Herle. Whereas you …' He turned to Oxenham. ‘Find that devil Tye, take him to the Counter on a pretext and inform me.'

Taken aback, Oxenham blinked, and Marbeck almost sympathized with him: since Tye might be anywhere, it was a tall order.

‘Now, I think we're finished.' Monk put his hands on the table and waited. And though there were other things he would have liked to air, Marbeck decided to hold his tongue.

Once outside he was eager to be gone, but Oxenham stayed him. ‘I … I thought perhaps we might pool our resources, you and I,' he said, somewhat haltingly.

‘In what way do you mean?'

‘Well …' The man appeared embarrassed. ‘To tell truth, I've been at a loose end of late. Cecil's all but disowned me. Monk throws a few scraps my way: following people of small importance, searching boats at Dover or Gravesend … you know what I speak of.'

‘Perhaps …' Marbeck found himself frowning; how much did Oxenham know of his own recent affairs? But it seemed the man's thoughts ran on a different tack.

‘They treat us like whores,' he said, with sudden bitterness. ‘Only we're paid a deal less.' He forced a smile. ‘That's why I thought …'

‘I work better alone,' Marbeck said, after a moment.

‘That's not what I've heard.' The other eyed him. ‘You and Edward Porter were close companions, were you not?'

He used Gifford's codename, though Marbeck suspected he knew his real one. ‘In the past,' he replied. ‘Though I haven't seen him in months …' Suddenly he thought of Meriel, who had nursed him through his sickness. He'd meant to seek her out …

‘Even so,' Oxenham was saying. ‘Yet can we not strike a bargain? I let you know of anything I uncover, and you do the same for me … I mean, before you take it to Monk?'

At that Marbeck frowned. ‘Why so?'

‘Well, only …' The other hesitated as people passed by, then lowered his eyes. ‘No – it's naught,' he said, as if suddenly changing his mind. ‘I'm fretting like a fool. You have your work, and I have mine.' And abruptly he left, walking briskly towards Blackfriars Stairs.

After a pause Marbeck too turned, to walk in the other direction. Oxenham's manner was strange, but he had neither the time nor inclination to ponder it. Instead he set his mind to a new purpose: that of finding a rogue named Elias Fitch.

A short distance along Castle Lane, he turned left down a narrow street which led directly to the city wall. There was a postern gate here, which opened on to Bridewell Bridge. He crossed the foul-smelling Fleet Ditch, and having skirted Bridewell itself, was soon in a different world: the warren of ruined buildings and noisome alleys commonly known as Alsatia, which claimed old rights of sanctuary. The law held little sway here … One hand on his sword-hilt, he moved through ever-narrowing ways, sagging jetties closing above him so that sunlight was almost blocked out. Finally, with the noise of Fleet Street away to his right, he stopped outside a low doorway. Dogs barked, and though the closed yard was deserted, he felt eyes upon him.

Drawing a breath he knocked, and at once there was a muffled sound within. He stepped back and looked about, but there could be no other egress from the hovel. Then he glanced up and sighed: at the upper storey a casement had opened, and a face peeped over the sill.

‘There's sickness in the house – get you gone!'

‘Fitch?' Marbeck shaded his eyes and peered upwards. ‘John Sands … I'm here on business.'

The face had disappeared. A moment passed, then a voice called down: ‘I will not open. Depart, for this is a plague-house!'

‘I don't see any painted cross,' Marbeck called back. ‘Might I come in?' And before the other could reply he lifted the latch. The door was locked, but a single kick broke the fastening. He made his way inside, into a foul-smelling room with one small window and a ladder-stair in the corner. He pushed the door to, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the poor light. Above him was a thump of footsteps, then at last with much creaking and cursing a figure appeared, clambering downwards. As he reached the floor he turned jerkily, an old poniard in his hand … and faced Marbeck, who stifled a laugh.

‘In God's name, Fitch, what's the matter?'

Elias Fitch glared at him. Four feet tall and bald as an egg, he was dressed in a hand-me-down coat that reached to his knees. ‘Breaking in is construed as a felony!' he cried. ‘I'll call a constable!'

‘Can we cease this tomfoolery?' Marbeck said. ‘You know I'm not an enemy … I may even have work for you.'

‘Indeed? Well, I think not,' the other retorted. ‘You promise much, Sands – but you always leave having done little but ask questions. There's nothing for you here.'

With a sigh, Marbeck reached for his purse and tugged it open; a generous payment was called for this time. Finding a shilling, he placed it on the windowsill and stepped aside.

‘That's for the door – as a mark of my good will,' he said.

Slowly Fitch lowered his dagger, though his look of suspicion remained. Marbeck took in the details of the grim little chamber: a straw pallet in one corner, a broken press in another. But beneath the window was a cluttered work-bench … the man was still in business.

‘Well then, what is it you want?' Keeping his eye on Marbeck, he moved to the sill and scooped up the coin. ‘I'm a busy man … a scrivener. People hereabouts need me to write letters.'

‘You're a cunning man, who makes things to order,' Marbeck broke in. ‘Trickster's props, say … I won't forget that dagger you made for the theatre folk. The blade disappeared inside the handle when a man was stabbed, squirted pig's blood … very effective at the Globe, I remember.'

The other said nothing. Despite his ways – for Fitch had been a party to many crimes – Marbeck rather liked him. He had been a blacksmith, a spurrier and a dozen other things in his time. If it could be made, the word went throughout London's underworld, Fitch was the man who could make it.

‘That was a while back.' He had relaxed a little, and was looking Marbeck up and down. ‘Why do you seek me out now?'

Before answering Marbeck glanced at the window, saw shadows flicker past. Fitch was a valuable asset here, and if he called for aid it would follow. Facing him, he said: ‘I heard from a friend that you made a wondrous weapon recently. I'd like you to make me one too … Its purpose must be a secret. The shilling is but a part-payment. My people would reward you well, after the success of the first device.'

‘Your people?' Fitch eyed him uneasily, but the greedy look in his eyes gave Marbeck encouragement. Pressing his advantage, he said: ‘I needn't spell out the nature of this cunning machine, save to say that it was made with a mathematical precision that only you, I think, could have accomplished. The one who opened it has learned that to his cost.' When the other made no reply he added: ‘I speak of needles, cleverly placed so that—'