A Prisoner in Malta (20 page)

He glanced between Frances and Frizer.

“I would say that you could tell her everything. She's probably guessed most of it anyway.”

“Do you mean the bit about Ingram's being a double agent?” Tin piped up. “I knew that.”

“How could you—” Marlowe began, then shot a look to Frances. “And by the way,
Richard
: I am the one who saved your life. This girl sent a letter to London. I sent myself to Malta, killed a man, dragged you out of a hole,
and
undressed you onboard a ship.”

“I see your point,” Frances said softly. “I really do. But I think you have no idea what it takes to produce valor of a similar sort in a woman.”

“And although I am a woman, sir,” Tin said firmly, “I will not be slack playing my part in Fortune's pageant.”

“No doubt,” Marlowe agreed, “and I have seen the power of a woman's will in these past weeks.”

“But that is something I've known for a lifetime,” Frances said gently, “not just a few weeks.”

Frances turned to Tin then.

“I am heartily sorry for deceiving you when I was at Coughton,” Frances said. “I had no intention of encouraging your affections, you know that. You have taken great pain to help a person who does not exist. You cared for a shadow. Richard was an insubstantial thing, a player on a stage. He is not here.”

Tin lowered her head, then took a single step closer to Frances and spoke in a voice so soft that it was barely audible.

“Do you really think,” she began, not looking up, “that I did not know what you were? I loved you on the first day I saw you, because I knew you to be the bravest woman I would ever meet. Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”

Silence overtook the room for the span of several heartbeats before Marlowe's sigh blasted the air.

“God, Tin,” he whispered, “that's the same thing that happened to me.”

Tin looked to Marlowe then. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“I know,” she said, her voice still barely making a sound. “I could see it in you the moment I walked into this room. I recognized a fellow sufferer. We are doomed, you and I, Mr. Greene, to love this shadow.”

And although Marlowe did not quite understand what the girl meant, he nevertheless felt a stone sink in the pit of his stomach, and knew that she was right.

 

SEVENTEEN

Downstairs in the public house not five minutes later, the strange trio took a table by the door, Tin disguised in gray, Marlowe claiming to be Greene, and Frances with her hood pulled so far over her head that she appeared to have no face at all.

Frizer slipped out the back with the letters from Mendoza, and was on his way to purchase a horse with money Frances gave him. Walsingham would have the information before dawn.

After a moment, one of Pinch's daughters wafted her way to the table and winked. She was the one who had attended him before.

“Look at this,” she said to Marlowe. “You've already made friends here in town. And mysterious ones at that: a lady hiding her face and a young boy spitting-ready to kill someone. Better have some ale, eh?”

“Three, please,” Marlowe said, smiling.

“By the way,” she said more confidentially, “I'm sorry about the fuss before.”

“Your mother was right to protect you.”

“You're a gentle soul,” she said, nodding.

With that she was off.

“Frizer attacked that girl,” he explained under his breath, “in sight of everyone here.”

“He was drunk,” Tin surmised. “He does that when he's drunk. Tried it with me. Once.”

“And I'm certain that he learned his lesson there,” Frances said quietly.

Tin nodded.

“Do you really think that this Basque/Spaniard will show his face?” Frances continued.

“I do. I think he may have heard what happened to Frizer. That kind of news travels fast. And he'll want to know if Frizer gave anything away in his stupor. He'll be here, and he'll be asking questions.”

“Possibly,” Frances agreed.

“It's what I'd do,” Marlowe explained.

They sat watching. As he often did, Marlowe saw the public house as a stage, the men and women making their exits and entrances. How many parts had he played in the past weeks: a schoolboy, a soldier, and now a bearded leopard, waiting to pounce?

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Marlowe saw Aldano Zigor, the Pope's assassin; he was obvious. Zigor slipped into the relatively crowded room through the side entrance and stepped into the shadows next to the door. He wore a woolen hat and a short leather cape, as if to call attention to the fact that he was a foreigner. He was searching the room as if his life depended on it.

Frances cleared her throat softly. Marlowe nodded once.

Just then the serving girl returned with three tankards and momentarily blocked the man from their view.

“Let's make it a penny for all three,” she said, winking, “and call it a reward for a gentle soul.”

Marlowe smiled at her and handed her a coin. “Let's make it a shilling,” he said softly, “and call it an apology from Ingram Frizer. Not all men behave that way.”

“What in God's name?” she began, staring at the coin.

Before she could finish, Tin stood and strode with great speed toward Zigor. Zigor saw her coming and stepped back through the side door to the alleyway.

Marlowe was up instantly, brushing past the girl and flying to Tin's side.

Frances stood more slowly.

“We'll be back at the table in just a moment,” she promised warmly.

Bursting into the alleyway, Marlowe thrust his dagger just in time to stop Zigor's small knife from slicing Tin's hand off. Tin had that hand around Zigor's throat.

Zigor took three quick steps backward and produced a
cinquedea
. It was short, more than five times thicker than a rapier, with a ribbed double blade as well as its deadly point. It was an odd weapon for a Basque mercenary, a bit antiquated, and almost certainly Italian in origin.

Tin drew her rapier, as did Marlowe.

Zigor licked his lips, then spoke.

“My English is not good,” he began, his eyes darting quickly between his adversaries. “I wish to be finding Ingram Frizer. He is my friend. I have see you with him.”

To make certain they understood his point, he pointed in Marlowe's direction with his little knife.

“He's gone,” Marlowe said simply.

“Dead?” Zigor asked.

“No, I mean gone away. Not in Cambridge.”

Zigor appeared to take the news badly.

“Where?”

“Where did he go?” Marlowe asked. “I have no idea. But since he accosted the daughter of this establishment, his reputation isn't worth much in Cambridge.”

“I see. Yes.”

From behind Marlowe, Frances, standing in the doorway, spoke quickly and in Portuguese.

“
Assassino,
” she whispered, “
o que
é
que vos levou a fazê-lo?
”

“Do
what
?” he asked, but his eyes were cold.

“Pygott,” Marlowe said simply.

“You think I kill that boy?” Zigor laughed.

“That's what Argi told us,” Frances continued.

“Argi?” he asked, his face affectless. “Who is Argi?”

“You know very well who he is,” Frances pressed. “He sails with Captain de Ferro, and he murdered Rodrigo Lopez.”

That took Zigor by surprise. He lowered his formidable sword an inch or two, and blinked.

“Lopez is dead?”

He seemed genuinely weakened by the news.

“You knew him?” Frances asked.

“No. But he is—a great man, no?”

“He was,” Marlowe said softly.

“But about Pygott?” Zigor asked, deliberately changing the subject.

Marlowe started to speak, then stopped, reached down into his boot, keeping his eyes locked on Zigor's, and produced the silver earring that had been secreted there.

“I think this is yours,” Marlowe said to Zigor, holding it out for him to see.

Zigor glanced down at it. “It might be. I lost one like it.”

Marlowe examined the man's ears, then. The twin to the object Marlowe had in his hand was resting in Zigor's right ear.

“It does seem to be a match for the one you have there,” Marlowe said. “I found it in the room where they say Pygott was murdered.”

“No—wait.” Zigor was obviously trying to collect his thoughts.

“Maybe you ought to tell us everything,” Marlowe said grimly.

Then, taking a gamble of his own, Marlowe put away his weapons and took a step closer to Zigor.

Zigor took in a single breath and sheathed his blade as well.

“Where I should begin?” he asked.

“Maybe we should go back inside?” Tin suggested.

“Better out here for the moment,” Marlowe answered absently, staring at Zigor. “Too many ears inside—one way or another.”

“Tell us about killing Pygott,” Frances said. “That's what's pressing most.”

She moved her cloak then, only briefly, but long enough to reveal that she was holding a pistol in each hand. After a second, they were gone and she stepped into the alleyway beside Marlowe.

Zigor sighed. “We find him—
como uma rosa no jardim
.”

“Like a rose in the garden?” Marlowe snapped. “Where?”

“
A Igreja
.”

“The church. St. Benet's, do you mean?” Marlowe asked.

Zigor nodded.

“That's what Frizer said,” Frances noted.

“Yes,” Zigor went on. “Ingram too. We find him—Pygott. Already dead.”

“You're claiming that you didn't kill him?” Marlowe pressed.

“
Ouve-me,
” he insisted, “I follow Ingram. We go to the church to steal.”

“Wait just a moment,” Marlowe said. “You mean you went to St. Benet's to steal something that you wanted another student to steal? The man you attacked, along with Lopez, on the road to London a month ago?”

“Yes. A student who is called Marlowe. But he is not willing to do the work. So, we try to kill him. That also did not go well. So Ingram makes another plan: get this Pygott to steal. Ingram has a plan to meet Pygott at the church.”

“But you found Pygott's body in the garden. This is what you want us to believe.”

“Yes. Also: Pygott, he already have the—it's a Bible. We find it on his body.”

“That doesn't make sense.” Marlowe shook his head emphatically. “It was supposed to be something that would incriminate a man named John Marlowe, the student's father. Why would Pygott care about that?”

Zigor started to speak, then gave up.

“
Desculpa.
You talk too fast. I cannot understand. I need Ingram to tell you.”

“That's convenient,” Tin muttered suspiciously.

“But I must to go,” Zigor concluded, looking around. “
Existem inimigos
à
minha procura por todo o lado.
”

“‘Enemies looking for you everywhere?'” Marlowe snorted. “You have your share of enemies standing before you.”

“You? No,” he disagreed. “No enemy. For me? Is business.
Católico, Protestantes, Judeu
—it's matter not to me.”

“But you are in the employ of the Catholic Church,” Frances pressed.

“But, like Ingram,” he admitted, “only for the money.”

“What about the item you say you found on Pygott?” Tin wanted to know.

“Ingram.”

“You did help Frizer to carry the dead boy's body to a room upstairs here at the Pickerel, is that correct?” Frances confirmed.

But before Zigor could answer, a grating voice from just inside the doorway startled them all.

“What the hell are you ruffians about out here, then?” Pinch growled, stepping out of the shadows with his large wooden club in one hand and a butcher knife in the other.

Everyone turned his way.

“This is Ingram Frizer's friend,” Marlowe said quickly. “We were just telling him what happened here.”

“Telling him to clear out,” Frances added.

“Oh.” Pinch nodded. “Well, that's done then.”

Marlowe turned back around to see that it was true.

Zigor was gone.

“Incidentally, Mr. Greene,” Pinch went on, “there was gentlemen of the constabulary in your room earlier today, when you was out. They say that this Marley, the murderer, is suspected of being back in Cambridge, and might approach the digs what's rented to you. So watch out for yourself. Of course, they're watching the place now, these beadles, so you're not alone. Thought you should know.”

And away he lumbered.

“Christ!” Marlowe whispered. “Now the law is watching my room!”

“Steady, Mr. Greene,” Frances answered. “They're only trying to help.”

Marlowe shook his head and stepped toward the door to the bar.

Back inside, at their table once more, the odd trio sat in silence, trying to make sense of everything.

Marlowe's mind raged. Every thought that rose up was met with a warring opposite. Lopez was gone, and that caused Marlowe pain, but Lopez had been watching him, observing him. It was even possible that Lopez had purchased the murder of Pygott. Why would he do it? To test Marlowe? Or worse: to get Marlowe out of the way? Every thought of Lopez as a friend and hero was matched by a suspicion of Lopez as a spy and a traitor.

Then there was the notion that the law was watching his room. It would only be a matter of time before someone discovered that the real Robert Greene was in his grotesque digs in London, suffering illness and regret, working on his newest theatre piece.

He ended his tormented introspection by staring at Tin's profile. She was an odd rival, enamored with Frances as much as he was.