Marbeck and the Privateers (3 page)

‘Stay close to de Tassis, and report to me – be alert for anything amiss,' the spymaster added. ‘There's a waterman hangs about by the Temple Stairs – a square-built fellow named Matthew Herle. He works for us, and will act as messenger. You'll need a new cover name, which I've already concocted. You're Giles Blunt, a scholar and bookman from Norwich – can you carry that?'

‘I expect so,' Marbeck replied after a moment. ‘So long as you're not proposing I attempt a Norfolk accent.'

‘Don't be tiresome,' Monk retorted. ‘You're a university man, employ a little imagination.'

‘I'd better quit the Three Cups, find a lodging nearer to Somerset House …' Marbeck began, but was interrupted.

‘I have a solution to that too. It was suggested, you'll be interested to hear, by my Lord Secretary himself. You will stay in his own mansion, Salisbury House. The place is still unfinished, but servants are in residence. They've been told to expect you – you've been charged with putting his papers in order. Such a task should permit you to move about as you please.'

Now Marbeck showed surprise. So Cecil was not only aware of his new mission: he had been involved in its planning. Suddenly, it seemed he was being entrusted with the most important task he'd had in a year. But he saw the reason for the placement: Salisbury House, the Secretary of State's palatial new residence, was two doors from Somerset House, where the Spaniards stayed. Moreover, a man could come and go by road or the river without drawing attention; it would serve him well.

He was distracted by a stir from below. There was a blast from a trumpet above the stage, and a robed figure stalked out to be greeted by applause. But as the player spoke his opening lines, it gave way at once to boos and jeering.

Levinus Monk leaned forward then, wearing a rare expression: the closest thing to a smile, Marbeck thought, that the man was capable of. Yet he couldn't help a smile of his own. Only Kit Marlowe would have put the great cynic Machiavelli on stage as his Prologue: a fiendish comment on the way the world truly worked, born of his own experiences in the murky world of espionage.

‘We're the shadow folk,' he said to himself.

Monk glanced at him. ‘What?'

‘Nothing … I was thinking of the role I'm about to assume.'

The spymaster grunted. ‘I've said all I need to, I think. Now I have business elsewhere. Perhaps you should stay and see the play, rest while you can …' Then seeing Marbeck's expression, he frowned. ‘What is it?'

Without answering, Marbeck kept his eyes on the stage a dozen feet below them. From the booth it was possible to see those at the front of the crowd, pressed up against the apron – and among them was a face he recognized. But what caught his eye was the fact that the man's gaze was directed not at the figure of Machiavelli, but upwards: towards the private box where the Spanish party sat. And the next moment, he realized who it was.

‘Well?' Levinus Monk demanded.

‘Solomon Tye …' Marbeck spoke a name he had not uttered in years. Turning, he added: ‘He was one of our people … it was said he'd gone to France, even that he'd turned traitor. I thought he was dead. But if he's here it's not by chance, I'd wager – see the way he regards the ambassador.'

‘Well then, he's suspect,' Monk said sharply. ‘I want to know what the fellow's up to.'

With a nod Marbeck raised the ale-bottle and drained it. Whereupon in silence the other went out, leaving him alone in the booth. From the stage, Machiavelli leered at the crowd:

T
hat night was Marbeck's last in the shabby bed-chamber at the Three Cups. Having eaten a supper and taken a potion given him by his landlord, he slept soundly and awoke feeling stronger. By midmorning he had paid the reckoning, left the inn and the persona of Thomas Fowler with it, and was walking Cobb through the din of Candlewick Street and Budge Row into Watling Street. His belongings were in a saddle-bag, and he wore his old scholar's gown, his sword and poniard beneath it. Skirting St Paul's and its crowds, he passed by Bowyer Row through Ludgate and out into Fleet Street, fetching up at last in the Strand before the gates of Salisbury House. He gave his new name to the porter, and having seen his horse stabled, entered the great marbled hallway. Here, Giles Blunt presented himself to the steward.

‘You'll be aware my master's not yet in residence,' the steward murmured, looking the newcomer up and down. He was aged, white-haired and clad in dusty black. ‘But his private room is unlocked … I'll have one show you.' He paused, then: ‘I trust you do not take tobacco – my lord forbids it.'

Politely Marbeck reassured him, and was soon following a liveried servant up an ornate staircase, into a small but pleasant chamber overlooking the river.

‘So you're secretary to the Lord Secretary –
sir
,' the servant said. ‘You'll have naught to do, will you? Some folk have it easy, right enough.'

Marbeck turned to the fellow, but in his new role as the scholarly Giles Blunt, merely put on a prim smile. ‘My lord's papers will no doubt arrive in due course,' he said. ‘And I have letters to write …'

The other sniffed and turned away. ‘You're to sleep here too,' he muttered over his shoulder. ‘They'll put a pallet down … aught else, ask in the kitchens.'

He went out, whereupon Marbeck closed the door on him and looked around. The room was empty save for a small table with writing materials on it, a stool and a chest which, when opened, proved to contain old books. Going to the window where there was an oak seat, he threw the casement wide to let in the sounds and smell of the Thames. The river was busy as always, craft of various sizes moving about while gulls flew above. He gazed across to Lambeth Marsh, and the distant towers of Lambeth House. The shouts of watermen rose in the still air:
Eastward Ho! Eastward for a penny!

He glanced down at the waterfront with its wooden jetty, which looked newly built. The garden was yet to be landscaped: he recalled that Cecil's new house was unfinished. There was no boat tied up. Leaning out as far as he could, he looked downriver towards the city, but the great bulk of the Savoy blocked his view of Somerset House: one of the royal residences, destined for Queen Anne's use but now made ready as a venue for the treaty talks. He would, however, be able to see boats that came and went. Since he could hardly do both at once, he decided to watch the river rather than the entrance on the Strand. The Spaniards, he knew, generally used the water to get about rather than the streets, where hostile looks and even threats greeted them. The ambassador's visit to the Fortune, which had meant a coach ride through the crowded suburbs of Holborn and Clerkenwell, was a rare exception. Perhaps de Tassis had merely wanted to see
The Jew of Malta …

At a sound from behind, he turned to see a boy stagger in bearing a stack of documents. Dropping them on the floor, he looked breathlessly at Marbeck. ‘Master Langton ordered these sent up, sir. They were in the cellar … it's damp there – look at the mildew.'

‘Langton … is that the steward's name?' Marbeck enquired.

‘It is,' the boy answered. ‘And you're Blunt?'

‘On occasion,' he answered, but the jest fell flat.

‘There's a stair in the turret, along the hallway,' the boy went on. ‘You can get down to the gardens that way. The boatman will take you where you want – his name's Miller.'

‘And what's yours, young man?' Marbeck enquired in an offhand tone. A pair of spectacles perched on his nose, he decided, might have helped him in his new role.

‘I'm Miller too – Daniel,' the boy answered. ‘The boatman's my father …' He grinned. ‘I'll fetch and carry for a halfpenny, sir – bring whatever you need. Even, you know …' He gave a broad wink that would have done justice to a player at the Fortune. ‘Company of a night, if you wish?'

‘I beg your pardon?' Marbeck assumed a frosty stare. ‘I hope you're not referring to harlots, boy! I'm a scholar and a man of clean habits – you'd do well to remember that.'

‘Ah … then 'tis I should beg pardon –
sir
.' Daniel Miller's grin disappeared. He hurried out, whereupon Marbeck set about examining the material he had brought. It didn't take him long to ascertain that it was of no substance: copies of old letters and out-of-date reports, some black with mould. Cecil, he realized, could have ordered any loose papers sent to him merely to give his role more credence. Straightening up, he moved back to the window and sat, musing on the boy's bold offer to provide women of the streets. The Secretary of State, he knew, would dismiss him in an instant if he learned of it.

A movement caught his eye from the waterfront: a skiff was pulling in. He saw the boatman ship oars, grasp the post and heave his little craft to the stairs. A slight figure, well dressed and hatted against the sunlight, got up and clambered onto the jetty. He stood there for a moment looking about, then walked up the path towards the house. As he did so he glanced upwards; there was something familiar about him, Marbeck thought … then instinctively, he ducked away from the window.

Simon Jewkes? With a frown, Marbeck stood up and moved across the room. Jewkes …
the merchant with three hands,
as he'd heard him described: two to do business with you, while the other rifled your pockets. What on earth could such a man be doing here?

He decided he had better find out.

At noon he took dinner in the kitchen with the servants, who paid him little attention. He was an outsider: a bookish fellow with a privileged position, and not one of their station. Daniel Miller avoided his eye, while Langton the steward, though an educated man, remained aloof. But after he had eaten, Marbeck made it his business to bump into him in the hallway. When he asked casually after the visitor who had arrived by boat, however, he was met by a blank stare.

‘No such man has been here,' Langton said.

Meeting the other's watery gaze, Marbeck raised his eyebrows. ‘Your pardon, master steward, but I saw him walk towards the house … He would have come in by those doors, I believe.' He pointed to the main entrance, twenty feet away.

‘The riverfront doors are locked,' Langton said, with growing severity. ‘And I hold the means of entry.' He indicated a ring of keys at his belt. ‘Perhaps you'd care to confirm it for yourself?'

He gestured towards the doors, but Marbeck's mind was already busy. He had dealt with too many experienced deceivers, among them those who lied for a living. Langton was good, but his denial rang hollow. The question was, why should he lie? Yet now, Marbeck's instinct told him, was not the time for confrontation, and he must keep to his role. He knew the doors would be locked, but nevertheless went through the motions of going over and trying them. He even rattled the handles, then walked back to the steward with a sheepish expression.

‘Perhaps I was mistaken,' he murmured.

Langton made no answer.

‘And besides … it's none of my concern.'

‘That is so.' The man cleared his throat and made as if to move away. Then as an afterthought, he said: ‘My lord has made it known that you should have whatever you need – I trust all is to your liking?'

‘It will serve. I thank you,' Marbeck said.

He watched the old man walk off … and a suspicion arose: that a little piece of theatre had just been played for his benefit. He had been allowed to see Simon Jewkes arrive, and to have his curiosity aroused. Was the Lord Secretary playing one of his games? And if so, to what end?

Thoughtfully he climbed the stairs and made his way towards the study, then remembered Daniel Miller telling him of the turret. He walked past his own door to another one at the end of the passage, which opened on to a spiral stairway. Descending quickly, Marbeck found himself emerging from a narrow doorway at the south-east corner of the house, with the Savoy towering above him to his left. He walked through the garden, which was cluttered with barrows and builders' rubble, to the waterfront. The skiff was still there, and sitting in it was the boatman, puffing on a blackened pipe. The tide was in, the boat rocking gently with the swell. When Marbeck suddenly appeared above him, the man almost jumped out of his skin.

‘Mercy, master …' Removing his pipe, he touched his cap. ‘Do you wish to go somewhere? I was, er …'

Adopting a brusque manner, Marbeck peered at him. ‘You're Miller?' When the other gave a nod, he went on: ‘I saw you land a visitor earlier today. As it happens he's one of my acquaintance – do you know if he's still here?'

A moment passed; he watched Miller carefully, and was not surprised when the other put on a puzzled look. ‘Visitor?' he echoed. ‘Nay, master, I've been here all morning – you must have been mistook …'

But he broke off, uncertain what to make of Marbeck's expression. For in that moment he had taken a decision: Daniel Miller's offer to provide him with women of the streets, he guessed, could only have been made with the connivance of his father, who no doubt provided the transport. Here was a man open to persuasion. Dropping to one knee so that he and the boatman were close, he put on a conspiratorial expression.

‘Save your tale – you may speak freely with me,' he said. ‘I know you brought that man here in your boat. He's a city dealer, the sort who'd skin his own mother and sell the flayed hide back to her. So – if I name a price, might we not do business?'

But Miller was uneasy. He trusted no one, Marbeck saw, and rapidly considered his options. The man hesitated, apparently considering his too. Finally he said: ‘I may have brought a passenger, but I don't know who he was.'