Traitor's Storm (18 page)

Just as he was on the edge, about to drop off, he heard a rustle beyond the bed hangings and a low voice say his name.

‘Master Marlowe?’

It was so quiet he couldn’t begin to identify it, but there was a precedent.

‘Mistress Avis?’ he said, not bothering to whisper.

‘Avis?’ There was a click of a tinder and a candle burst into light on the desk in front of the window. It illuminated the cheek and lips of the mistress of Carisbrooke Castle.

‘Mistress Carey!’ Marlowe said. ‘My apologies.’ As he spoke he couldn’t for the life of him think what he was apologizing for, but it seemed as good a way as any of starting a conversation, in his bedchamber, at the dead of night.

‘Avis?’ the woman asked again. She had had some surprises in her life, some good, some bad, but none as unexpected as this.

Marlowe sat up in bed and looked across at her. This was becoming a bit of a habit and he couldn’t think of a way to stop these women coming into his room willing, nilling. It was their home after all, but even so, surely the humblest guest deserved some privacy. ‘You misunderstand me, madam,’ he said. ‘Mistress Avis …’

Bet Carey held up a hand. ‘Please, Master Marlowe. I won’t pry. I had heard some gossip from my maid but … but that is not why I am here.’ She blushed, an unusual response from Bet, known as the boldest woman at Elizabeth’s court or anywhere else.

Marlowe could tell that sleep was not to be his lot tonight. He gathered his pillows together and leaned back on them, settling down for a long and probably difficult conversation. He looked at his hostess, dressed in a nightgown under a plain stuff wrap. She had a shawl over her head and although the night was chilly for June, it was clearly more for disguise than warmth that she wore it. She leaned forward, keeping her voice low.

‘Master Marlowe, I need your help.’

He leaned forward to catch what she was saying. Then he came to a decision. It might prove his undoing, but he could barely hear her. She was whispering but also her voice kept fading as her will deserted her and he would never get the facts this way. He rearranged the pillows again, slid over in the bed and patted the vacated half.

‘If you must whisper, Mistress Carey,’ he said, ‘then please do it in my ear and not to the air. Blow out the candle and come and sit with me here.’ He patted the coverlet encouragingly. ‘Look. I will stay under the covers. You can stay above them. All will be quite proper, I can assure you.’

To her surprise, Bet Carey took no offence. It was not often men took pains to observe the niceties and she found she liked it. She looked across at the bed. The man who sat there, patting the empty space beside him, was probably the most handsome man who had ever made such a gesture. His hair was curling round his face from the damp night air, his eyes were large and dark, his mouth carved like a cherub’s. There was danger there but she somehow knew it was not anything she need fear. Making her mind up, she blew out the candle and in two strides was at the bedside. She hopped up with the grace of long practice and curled up against the pillows, her knees to one side. Marlowe could feel the warmth of her and her breath stirred his hair.

‘That’s better,’ she whispered. ‘I can talk more freely in the dark.’

‘The dark makes many things easier,’ Marlowe agreed. ‘Now tell me, why are you here?’

‘I am frightened, Master Marlowe,’ she said quietly. ‘I am afraid of … you will misunderstand me. I should not have come.’ She started to get off the bed.

‘You have come so far,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t go now. I promise I will jump to no conclusions.’

She settled back and took a deep breath. ‘I am afraid of my husband, Master Marlowe.’

Marlowe was surprised. Sir George Carey was a man of sudden enthusiasms and his decisions were not always the wisest; he may even be a traitor, but he had not seen that side of him. ‘Does he beat you?’ he asked.

‘No, no, of course not. He wouldn’t raise a hand to me. No, I am afraid he is … there is no way of putting this so that it sounds like sense, Master Marlowe. I am afraid he is killing people.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ As he said it, Marlowe knew it sounded trite. He would certainly not put that line in the mouth of anyone on stage. And yet there was no other way of putting it. As Captain of the Wight, he knew perfectly well that George Carey killed people. He did it with the full force of the law at his back as the Island’s chief magistrate.

She was silent and in the dark Marlowe sensed she bowed her head. Her voice when it came was as soft as a breath. ‘Men with whom … men who have … men with whom I have lain in adultery.’

Marlowe was surprised at her mealy mouthed choice of words. He had decided that Bet was Rabelaisian to her core. Perhaps she thought that he was not worldly enough to bear more earthy words. Perhaps she thought he was a Papist priest; he had posed as one before. He contented himself with a querying grunt.

‘I do not know whether you have heard the rumours, Master Marlowe, but I fear I am notorious. I am a woman who needs … affection. More affection than my husband has had at his disposal for some while. I thought he knew and had no complaints. It is not as though I have ever refused him. Not even when I have spent my day fornicating around the town. But … you don’t need to know my wicked ways. Only what I fear my husband may be doing. To the men I …’

‘Have lain with in adultery.’ Marlowe could not keep the smile out of his voice.

‘Exactly so. I see we understand each other, Master Marlowe.’

‘Words can say what we want them to, Mistress Carey. Let your phrase stand.’

‘I am discreet, I assure you. I never, for example, would ever lie with a man under this roof. Even if the assignation is made here, I always …’

‘Go outside, down Hollow Lane, for example.’

‘How did you know about that?’ She drew back in surprise.

‘I had the misfortune to meet with Sir Robert Dillington at the militia camp the other day. That man can impart more gossip in an hour than most men can in a lifetime. It seems to be a favourite story of his; the observance of one of the castle maids, as I understand it.’

‘Does he say it is me that the maid saw?’

‘No, simply that some cries and shrieks have earthly explanations. I presume it was Walter Hunnybun who was having the pleasure of your adultery on that occasion.’ It wasn’t a question. Marlowe had already guessed at it when Dillington was boring his way around the Militia camp.

She gave a low chuckle, remembering. ‘Yes, indeed, Walter. Poor Walter.’

‘That does surprise me a little, Mistress Carey,’ Marlowe pointed out. ‘Farmer Hunnybun was not …’

‘Walter Hunnybun was as rough as a badger’s arse, if you will excuse the language,’ she whispered. ‘But he was inexhaustible. He was standing ready at any hour of the day or night and if I felt lonely, I only need go across a field or two and I could be in his bed, in a hedgerow or up against a wall, depending on my fancy, within minutes.’ She sighed. ‘I shall miss Walter.’

Marlowe’s mind was clicking like an automaton. ‘So Matthew Compton was another of your inamorata, if I may put it so baldly.’

‘Scarcely baldly, Master Marlowe, but I thank you for your politeness. Yes, indeed. Matthew Compton had caught my eye. He was very well set up, you know, for a lawyer. He had … well, you don’t need to know that. But you may have noticed that he and Master Hunnybun have something else in common, besides my company in their beds.’

‘They are both dead.’

She let out a long breath. ‘Correct, Master Marlowe. Indeed they are.’

‘That doesn’t mean much, Mistress Carey, in these uncertain times. Men die every day.’

‘They are not the first,’ she breathed.

‘Oh?’ Marlowe had not been on the Island long, but he sensed that Bet Carey had been warming the beds of the townsmen for a while since.

‘In the past year, four men of the town have been found dead. That is not counting Walter and Matthew. Three of the dead men were …’

‘Yes.’ It seemed fair to take that as read.

‘The fourth one I had considered, but I had not had need of him as yet. He only had one eye and I found it a little off-putting.’

‘So, you have concluded that your husband is making away with these men. Do you have any proof?’

‘Proof?’ Her voice rose and she instantly regretted it. If Sir George Carey really was watching her every move, she would put Kit Marlowe in mortal danger if she let this assignation be found out. ‘Proof, Master Marlowe?’ she whispered. ‘Even you must see that five men dead in the last year, all from around the town and all of them partners in my crime of adultery is beyond any coincidence.’

‘I agree.’ Marlowe nodded in the dark, rustling the pillows. ‘That isn’t what I mean by proof. I mean, was your husband near the men when they died? Has he ever spoken to you, a single word, to let you know that he is aware of your behaviour? Has he—?’

‘I must stop you there, Master Marlowe. Your first question is easily answered. My husband would not need to be near anyone for them to die by his hand. He only has to say the word and anyone he wanted dead would be dead. It is as simple as that. As for speaking to me about it – well, we don’t speak much. Even if we did, I think he would keep his counsel on this. It may be that he gains pleasure from doing it.’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘Though I don’t think he is a cruel man.’

Marlowe didn’t think so either. ‘How did the other men die?’ he asked.

‘Throttled,’ she said with a sob. ‘A horrible way to die. And no attempt to hide the bodies. They were all just … left there. For anyone to find. It was very cruel.’

‘Hunnybun and Compton were hidden,’ he pointed out.

‘A blocked drain is dealt with in hours,’ she said. ‘I can tell you are not a country boy, Master Marlowe. A freshly dug grave is also not much of a hiding place. It is bound to be discovered when the funeral is held, if not before.’

‘A fair point,’ Marlowe said, but his mind was elsewhere. Could it be that Bet Carey was seeing a link where there was none? Or rather, where there was a link but of another kind altogether? ‘Mistress Carey, these five, are they the only ones?’

‘The only ones?’ she hissed. ‘They have nothing else in common. One was a … I’m not sure what they are called. Sold oats and things like that.’

‘A grocer?’

‘No … corn chandler, that’s it. One kept an inn and the other was a draper. Walter Hunnybun was a farmer of course and you know that Matthew Compton was a lawyer. Five completely unrelated lives. And five is enough for any woman to bear, surely?’

‘I am not belittling your pain,’ Marlowe said politely. ‘I mean, have any of your other … men … died or gone missing?’

‘Not died,’ she said. ‘Some may be missing, who knows? When it is over it is over, if you follow me. I don’t mix socially with most of these men.’

Marlowe made a deprecatory noise in his throat.

‘They may be missing. Or they may just be away. Some were merchants, you see. Some were of private means. These men tend to come and go. The Island climate doesn’t suit everyone.’

Certainly not Hunnybun and Compton, Marlowe thought. It had proved fatal for them.

‘I don’t tend to involve my neighbours.’

‘Except Hunnybun,’ Marlowe couldn’t help adding.

‘Perhaps I should have said, my equals.’

‘Ah.’

‘Although …’

‘There is an exception to every rule, Mistress Carey,’ he said.

‘Mine is Henry Meux,’ she said hurriedly.

‘Mistress Cecily’s husband?’

‘Yes. I do feel very badly about that.’ To Marlowe’s surprise, the woman did sound genuinely unhappy.

‘Have you and Captain Meux been … um … for long?’

‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘Since before any of us married. He is, if there is such a thing, the love of my life, and I am his. But our marriage was not what our parents wanted, so … you understand, I am sure.’

‘Ah.’ Marlowe suddenly realized the reason for this nocturnal visit. ‘So you are worried about the health and well-being of Henry Meux. Not the myriad other men who could be horribly throttled.’

She stifled a sob. ‘If you must put it that way, yes. But I do love them all, Master Marlowe. Just a little. In my own way.’

Marlowe shuffled to get a little more comfortable and give himself time to think. He was still not sure that Bet Carey was the link between these deaths. It had occurred to him that Walter Hunnybun’s land lay in the path of Carey’s guessed-at invasion, and that Matthew Compton was a lawyer, with many connections in London. What was such a man doing in the Wight when his business was elsewhere? He turned to the mistress of Carisbrooke. ‘Could you make me a list? Of your …’

Her hand came up across his mouth. ‘I can, Master Marlowe. Lie there and sleep. I will do it now. Do you have ink? Parchment?’

He moved her hand away and whispered, in some dudgeon, ‘I
am
a playwright, Mistress. Ink and quill are never far away. Please – use my desk. I will find a way to protect your Henry, if I can.’

She leaned over and took his chin gently in her hand. Years of practice meant that she knew exactly the position of all his body parts, even in the enveloping dark. She put her mouth on his and kissed him, gently but long and lingering, tasting the cold salt from his ride, the sweet flavour of his skin. ‘I wish that things were different, Master Marlowe,’ she murmured.

He didn’t answer, but drew a gentle finger down the side of her face. ‘Make your list, Mistress,’ he said. ‘And let me doze awhile.’

She slipped off the bed and as he turned the corner into sleep he heard the snick of the tinder and the scratch of her quill.

It was dawn when Lady Elizabeth Carey let herself quietly out of Christopher Marlowe’s chamber, nearly knocking over Ester, scurrying along the corridor with a ewer of hot water.

‘Who is that for?’ her mistress asked, in a peremptory tone.

‘Sir George,’ the girl replied, holding it up in a world-weary gesture.

Elizabeth Carey dipped an aristocratic finger in the water. ‘This is almost cold, you stupid girl. Sir George likes his water really hot. Get rid of it.’

Ester sighed. ‘Shall I give it to Master Marlowe, Mistress?’ she asked.