An Honourable Murderer (12 page)

“Advantage?”

“You and Sir Philip are about the same weight.”

“I'd say that he was a bit lighter.”

“Not much in it, I'd say,” said Snell, gesturing once again at the foot of the ladder.

“Oh, well,” I said, slowly reaching out a hand to grasp at the nearest rung, and hoping desperately that something – the end of the world, for example – would intervene and prevent my having to scrabble up the ladder.

“Naturally, if you'd rather not . . .”

Snell left the sentence dangling. Clever of him. I could not back out without losing face, losing face badly. This was a choice which was no choice. Anyway what was the worst that could happen? (The worst that could happen was that I would fall down and break my neck.)

“I'll be down here, minding the windlass.”

In my distraction I had not noticed an elaborate device which stood a few feet away from the ladder. It was like a great barrel wound about with hemp rope and with long spokes projecting from each end. Up in the gloom were more ropes, some of them slack, some taut, together with various pulleys. I couldn't see how any of this worked.

“Made of the best English elm,” said Jonathan Snell, going across and patting the windlass as if it were a horse. “It took six men to put this in position.”

“And just one to operate it.”

“It requires a light touch only. You will provide the motive force, Nicholas. That is the beauty of it.”

“Beauty?”

“Some people find beauty in a face or a figure or a flower,” said Jonathan Snell. “But I find beauty in an engine in which each part co-operates with its neighbours, and where nothing is superfluous. Specifically, Nicholas, your weight in the chair will bring it down. My job is to make sure you come down at the right speed.”

“My life in your hands,” I said, putting my foot on the lowest rung and starting to haul myself up the ladder.

The engine-man called after me. It was some words about finding Jonathan up on the top, but I must have misheard because he, Jonathan Snell, was waiting at the bottom, wasn't he? He was going to operate the windlass and safeguard my life, wasn't he?

No head for heights
? WS had said to me recently, and I'd made a light reply. But it was true. I did not much like heights. I glanced down. Already I seemed a long way above the ground. Snell, holding the bottom of the ladder, nodded at me encouragingly. The ladder swayed and shivered under my weight. My hands were slick as they took hold of each rung. As I climbed I entered into a more obscure region, one which was cloaked with curtains and screens. A web of uprights and diagonals, of beams and ropes, criss-crossed in the darkness. I risked a glance upwards and almost fell off the ladder in surprise.

A spectacled face was hanging over the edge of a kind of gallery or platform where the ladder terminated. One hand was holding firm to the top of the ladder while the other was extended to help me up the last few feet.

“Welcome to paradise, sir.”

I stepped warily on to the railed gallery, holding on to the arm of the man at the top.

“Your father sent me, Jonathan,” I said. I was pleased that, all things considered, I had my voice under reasonable control. There wasn't much illumination up here in the realm of the gods – only a few oil lamps, doubtless safer than naked candles – but there was enough for me to detect the likeness between the man at the bottom of the ladder and the younger, unlined version of him at the top.

“He said he'd send someone up.”

“Well, here I am.”

“Come this way, er . . .”

“Nick.”

Jonathan Snell the younger picked up one of the oil lamps. Like a nightwatchman, he turned and led the way across the gallery. His spectacles gave him an old-head-on-young-shoulders appearance, and he walked with a slight stoop as though feeling his way forward. But he must have known this floating platform well, for he moved with assurance. It was more stable underfoot than I'd expected, but then after the swaying ladder anything would have seemed so. I observed a pack of fleecy clouds, made of canvas stretched over wooden frames and stacked to one side of the gallery. Next to them was the pale orb of a full moon, more than a yard across.

“The figure of Truth will come down with these clouds?” I said, indicating the painted effects.

“No, they're for the sea-crossing of the Spaniard,” said young Snell, miming waves with his free hand. He had his father's long thumb, proof of paternity. “Be careful, Nick.”

I hadn't really forgotten that we were the best part of thirty feet above the ground, but the novelty of our surroundings had enabled me to push the fact aside for an instant. Now it came rushing back as I stood on the far edge of the platform next to Jonathan junior. Below was an unimpeded drop to the floor of the dais or stage. People bustled about, carrying objects, chatting together, whistling while they worked, quite oblivious that we were peering down at them.

Fastened alongside the exterior rails of the gallery was a chair – a simple wooden chair attached to ropes disappearing into the darkness overhead. The chair had a seat and a back, it had arms and legs, but no more.

“I know it looks a bit plain,” said Jonathan, “but believe me, on the night it'll be fully decked out. Gilded and richly draped.”

If I looked surprised, it wasn't because of the plainness of the chair but because of its flimsiness. Was this fragile contrivance meant to bear someone's weight while he descended to the bare boards below? Meant to bear
my
weight?

“Aren't you afraid of, er, losing Sir Philip Blake if he rides in this device?”

I meant, of course, aren't you afraid of losing
me
?

“He'll be strapped in, discreetly strapped in. No one'll notice. But the straps haven't been installed yet. So
you
will have to hold on. I'll help you in. Step over the rail here and swing yourself around.”

He put out an arm to steady me.

It was like being requested to walk off a cliff. If I could have thought of an honourable way to refuse I would have done. But my head was empty. I straddled the rail and by some sideways shift got myself into the seat, which quivered. (Or maybe I was doing the quivering.) I placed my feet on the cross-piece between the front legs. I gripped the arms of the chair and stared out straight in front of me.

“Take it easy, Nick. You might even enjoy it,” said Jonathan, untying the cords which secured the chair to the rails.

I grimaced. Jonathan stepped across to the other side of the aerial platform and tugged on some ropes as a signal. Moments later I experienced a mild jolt, and the chair began to move downwards. I kept my eyes shut for several seconds. The only thing that persuaded me to open them was the thought of how I must appear – that is, scared enough to piss myself – to anyone looking up from the ground.

So I opened my eyes. I was on a level with the top of a wide window at one end of the audience chamber. It was a slow but surprisingly steady descent. I had time to wonder why it was that, instead of spinning around in space like a top, the chair stayed more or less angled in one direction, facing out towards the prospective audience. I attributed this to the mechanical skills of the Snells. Then at once the chair stopped dead.

I glanced down. Between my splayed feet the floor seemed to rock slightly. It wasn't the floor which was rocking. There were creaks and groans from up above. I did not want to see what was causing them. Down below, the painters and carpenters had broken off from their work to watch a man coming down, or not coming down. And then there were a couple of gents wearing elaborate ruffs and standing with Giles Cass by the dais. They were holding their hats in their hands, so I was able to see their heads from above. One balding, one black-haired. Spanish, weren't they? Cass was pointing at me, or more precisely at the chair which dangled from the heavens. He leaned over and confided something in the ear of one of the gents. The gent grinned. This did not make me feel any better. I put on a brave face in front of these foreigners. Still at least twenty feet from the ground, I estimated. Quite enough of a drop to ensure fatal damage.

Then, all at once, a strange mood overtook me, a resigned mood. What could I do, anyway? I was absolutely in the hands of others, at the mercy of their ropes, windlasses and pulleys. From what I'd seen of the Snells, father and son, they were skilled engine-men. Snell senior had talked lovingly of his engines. I might as well take up the younger Jonathan's suggestion and enjoy myself. Who hasn't dreamed of flying? Well, here I was hovering above the ground like a skylark!

This new state of mind, carefree or reckless, was only a little disturbed by the sight of Snell senior strolling round the corner of the scaffolding.

Wait a minute, though. If he was here, who was looking after the windlass?

“Don't worry, Nicholas,” called up the engine-man. “It's only a question of soap.”

Soap? I must look more ragged and dirty than I feared. Had I pissed myself after all?

“I told my son to make sure to put more soap on the ropes,” said Snell to Cass by way of explanation. “Does he listen?”

To the trio on the ground, he mimed pulling a cord through a furled fist. There was a barely concealed irritation in the gesture. He didn't like mistakes or the fact that English incompetence was being shown up in front of foreigners.

Giles Cass nodded and spoke again to the Spanish grandees, who continued to look more amused than bothered at my plight.

Snell senior disappeared behind the scenes again. I hung about for what seemed like an eternity. The little knots of workers, understanding that nothing really interesting (such as a death-plunge) was likely to occur, had resumed their labours. The chair jerked once more and started to
ascend
. Fortunately we went upward for a moment only before resuming our downward course.

By the time I'd landed on the dais, I was beginning almost to enjoy the experience of flying. Why, if one of the Snells had indicated that the device required another test, I'd probably have volunteered.

I got to my feet, a bit shakily. There was some ironic clapping from those good friends of mine, Abel Glaze and Jack Wilson and Laurence Savage. I bowed to them and inclined my head towards Giles Cass. He returned the gesture while the two grave gents at his side made the slightest of movements. Their ruffs were so large that it looked as though their heads were sitting on two platters.

“Ah, Master Ignorance,” said the dapper and witty Cass. “We can never expel Ignorance for long from this world. We can't do without him. He will always land on his feet.”

I was glad that the part which I played in the masque was making for so much amusement. If Cass hadn't been accompanied by these imposing Dons I might have given him a rough answer, important as he was. Instead I said nothing. Then he turned towards them and uttered some foreign words, among which I could pick out only one. It sounded like
ignorancia
. Now I'm no expert in the Spanish tongue but I'd guess that he was referring to ‘ignorance', wouldn't you?

Then Ben Jonson turned up with Martin Barton and the Blakes and others, and our first Somerset House practice for the
Masque of Peace
began.

“Two Spanish gentlemen,” said John Ratchett.

“Yes. Grandees from their appearance.”

“Please describe them, Nicholas.”

We were sitting in the Pure Waterman tavern in Southwark. The plump agent for the Privy Council was wearing his customary red doublet. He had tried to ply me with aquae vitae once again but I insisted that beer would do.

“It's all written down here,” I said, patting the pocket which contained my ‘report'.

“Even so.”

“Well. The older one was almost bald. He made up for it with a beard which was about the width and length of a man's hand. Grey-white at the edges, the beard that is. A bulbous nose. Maybe there was a touch of humour in his eyes, but mostly he looked serious.”

“That is Juan de Tassis. The Count of Villamediana.”

“Ah,” I said as though the name meant something to me.

“And the other one?”

“He was younger. Shorter than Count Whatsisname. This one's hair was still dark but receding at the sides. He had a sallow face with a hooked nose. Eyes close set. A direct gaze.”

“Hawk-like, even?”

“You could call it that.”

Master Ratchett drained his beer mug.

“You're describing Señor Alessandro Rovida,” he said. “He is a lawyer, a very learned lawyer.”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?”

“Giles Cass was with them and talking in Spanish, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there's no law against learning other men's languages.”

Yes, anyone may learn another's language. There's no law against it. An image of Blanche flashed through my mind. Blanche, who had learned our language from what she called the ‘gen'lemen of England'. In her bed I had spent a portion of the money which Ratchett had given me earlier, spent it before it was properly earned. But it was all right. He was willing to give me more cash for the report which I now fished out of my doublet pocket and placed on the table between us.

I'd done my best to work up some fairly trivial observations on the handful of practices for the
Masque of Peace
into a proper despatch. I didn't mind reporting on Giles Cass in particular, since I did not like him. Anyway I was only writing down the truth. He had been speaking in Spanish, he had been on good terms with Count This and Señor That. And yet Cass was the man who'd tried to entice us with his anti-Spanish remarks in the Mermaid tavern. I was fairly sure he'd been gabbling at the time in order to draw us out.

But there was something else which had been puzzling me.

“Tell me, Master Ratchett, could you not obtain this information directly from someone else, from Giles Cass for instance? He would be able to tell you about the Spaniards, much better than I can. Both of you have the same, ah, employer. The Privy Council.”