Crimson Rose (24 page)

‘Oh. Yes.’ Thynne remembered. ‘Under Constable, isn’t he? Pretty bright fellow, I understand.’

‘Bright, my arse,’ Harrison grumbled. ‘The man’s an idiot. Doesn’t understand how the world turns. Now you and I are men of the world, sir. We know a hawk from a handsaw.’

‘Indeed we do, Constable.’ Thynne was elsewhere, watching the smoke curling away to the plastered ceiling. ‘Indeed we do. Whatever that means – I’ve always wondered.’

‘Any news, sir,’ Harrison said after a while, ‘on the Bancroft case? Eleanor Merchant?’

Thynne sat up straight and he looked at the man. ‘Now, what makes you ask about them?’ he wondered.

‘Oh, just idly curious,’ the Constable said. ‘Just doing my job.’

‘I was a bit surprised, to be honest,’ Thynne commented.

‘What, about me asking about those murders?’

‘No. About how little, for a man going to start a New World, God’s Word Garrett had in his attic.’

Marlowe often spent the night other than in his own bed and in the last few years of his life had slept under wagons, in hayricks, standing up and in the saddle. But he had never spent a worse night than the one he had just spent at Walsingham’s house at Barn Elms. With the master of the house so often away, the staff had grown not just lax but downright disrespectful and once Faunt had left to make his way back to his own home upriver, Marlowe was left to the mercy of a footman and a maidservant who were so dismissive of their guest that he almost expected them to give him their boots to clean, rather than the other way about. Breakfast had been the same as supper, with the bitten bits cut away, and this was served by leaving a tray outside his room, in itself little more than a garret up in the eaves of the West Wing. In short, he was glad to find himself aboard a boat, heading for the Bancroft house at Queenshythe. No sailor, he was nevertheless happy to be going somewhere where there may be something worth eating and someone who would at least wish him the time of day without a sneer.

The boat bumped gently against the jetty at the bottom of the grounds of the Bancroft house and, while the waterman tied up, Marlowe took in the view. The lawns were not spacious and no deer cropped the grass, but the whole had been designed to give an impression of space and grandeur and Marlowe was impressed. It was almost unbelievable that this house was less than half a mile from St Paul’s, as the crow flew, and that wharves and jetties jostled its garden walls up and down stream. It could have been a country estate anywhere in the kingdom, in miniature. The house was so new that there was still a workman precariously balanced on a ladder and being berated by a foreman standing below on the ground. The man had one foot on a pediment below a window and he was putting a final touch to some elaborate strapwork on a gable end. Marlowe would have wished him good morning, but had a definite dislike of seeing men plummet from ladders, so crept quietly past and round to the front of the house.

At the front, the house was less countrified, but still quite distinct from its neighbours. The tobacco trade was clearly doing well. He knocked on the door with his knuckles; there was something about the huge Italianate lion’s head knocker that was quite off-putting and its pristine gloss suggested that most other callers felt the same. The sound of a lute, issuing from an open window above his head, stopped, but not until it had wound up the figure to a harmonious conclusion. The choirboy still inside the playwright gave thanks; without that courtesy, he would have had the threads of the tune in his head all day.

The door was pulled open on its stiff new hinges by an overdressed maidservant. She had a white cap on her head and a stuff gown, with a boned bodice which must surely have made any kind of housework all but impossible. She looked with wide eyes at Marlowe, but didn’t speak. He put her out of her misery. ‘Christopher Marlowe,’ he said. ‘Here to see Mistress Bancroft.’

The girl still stood as though turned to stone, but was relieved of her duty by a man’s voice from halfway up the curving stair. ‘Thank you, Lettice. I will see to the gentleman. You may get back to your work.’ Bobbing a curtsey, the girl disappeared through a door at the rear of the hall.

‘You must excuse Lettice,’ the man said, coming down the last few steps. ‘She’s new. We find it difficult to keep staff here, being out of town, as they see it. How can I help you? I am Thaddeus Bancroft … but, wait. You are Christopher Marlowe!’ He shook his visitor’s hand.

‘I am indeed,’ Marlowe said. ‘And I know your face from somewhere …’

‘I am an investor in the Rose!’ Bancroft told him. ‘How extraordinary you should be here. And, did I hear correctly, you want to speak to my cousin, Mistress Bancroft?’

‘I want to speak to Mistress Bancroft. I didn’t know she was your cousin.’

‘Well, to be more precise, the relict of my cousin Simon. Simon Bancroft. He has recently …’ He dropped his voice. ‘He has recently died. More than that, I fear. I believe he –’ and here he dispensed with sound altogether and mouthed – ‘took his own life.’

Marlowe feigned astonishment. ‘My condolences. I am very sorry for your loss and in such circumstances.’

‘Thank you, Master Marlowe,’ the tobacconist said. ‘His widow is still prostrate and also, naturally, protesting that he would have done no such thing. But of course, a death is in itself hard to bear, without that added stigma. No funeral or what have you to assuage the pain.’

‘I understand. She is lucky to have you to comfort her.’

Bancroft lowered his head and coloured slightly. ‘I do what I can,’ he said. ‘Mary and I have always been … close, and I hope to make her closer still. When she is out of mourning, I intend to make her my wife.’

Marlowe, the man of the world, was stuck for what to say. With her husband hardly cold and by his own hand, any kind of congratulations seemed a little out of place. He settled for a smile.

‘Yes, indeed. My wife. I look forward to it. I have never married, Master Marlowe. The Bancrofts are not emotional by nature. We have all, my brothers, my cousins and I, been brought up to live in the world of money. We have not all been fortunate. My brother Thomas, for example … But I digress. It was not until I saw how Simon’s coldness distressed Mary that I realized how little money means, in the end. Then, there he lay, dead and cold on that slab in that horrible little room, consigned to the worms in some unconsecrated corner of a churchyard who knows where. And there was Mary, crying for him anyway … I realized then …’ He seemed to come to his senses and coughed to cover his confusion. ‘Well, anyway, Master Marlowe, as a playwright you are obviously a man of some emotion. You know how I felt. How I feel.’

Marlowe was still mulling over what kind of man would be lying in wait for his cousin’s widow, but he managed to nod.

‘And now, you are here to see Mary. May I ask why?’

‘I can tell you something of why I need to speak to her, but if you have lived here for some time, you may be able to tell me yourself. If she is still upset, that is.’

‘I have always lived with Simon and Mary. It is cheaper to live together if one can.’

‘Yes, indeed. Then you can help me. I believe your cousin may have purchased a snaphaunce …’

‘A what?’ Bancroft looked puzzled.

‘A snaphaunce. A kind of gun. A pair was given to the Queen. One is in the Tower. Your cousin may have purchased the other. We know it was purchased by a tobacconist, and, as your cousin has recently been found dead … well, it is a chance I thought it was worth following up.’

‘I am also a tobacconist.’ Bancroft made the statement with no inflection.

Marlowe opened his eyes wide and stared at the man. ‘You are
also
a tobacconist?’ Was there no limit to what these cousins shared?

‘Yes. But I didn’t purchase the sn … what did you say?’

‘Snaphaunce.’

‘I did not purchase it. I have no interest in firearms and I am not as free with my money as Simon was. He may have bought it. If so, it will be in his ledger.’

‘Simon Bancroft kept a ledger? Of his personal purchases?’

Bancroft looked at him as though he were mad. ‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone?’

Marlowe shrugged. The Bancroft house was not just out of town. It was in a different world. ‘May I see it?’

‘Of course,’ Bancroft said. ‘Follow me.’ He took Marlowe upstairs and showed him in to a beautiful room with a wide window overlooking the river. A book lay on a desk in front of the glass. Marlowe suspected that should he ever have such a room, with such a desk in it, he would not write quite so fast; most of his time would be spent on the view.

‘I will leave you to look through it,’ Bancroft said. ‘Just come downstairs when you have finished. I would love to discuss
Tamburlaine
with you.’

Marlowe opened the book and started looking through, backwards, to save time. He had not gone many pages, wading through details of loaves of bread, maids’ wages and pounds of raisins – Bancroft had annotated the raisins in a crabbed hand ‘3d a lb; ruinous’ – before he found the entry he was looking for. ‘Snaphaunce. Bought from the Queen’s Wardrobe.’ It was there, clearly enough, but someone had scored through it neatly with a quill, taking extra care to erase the cost. Now, what could that mean? Marlowe raised his head and looked out down to the river. The boats flickered up and down stream like dragonflies and the shouts of the foreman in the garden came up as a distant hum. The door opened behind him and he turned, to be enveloped in the naked embrace of a woman, who clamped her lips to his as her breasts pressed against his chest. Without looking into his face, she put her cheek to his and whispered in his ear, ‘Oh, Thaddy. Come back to bed. Who was that at the … Oh!’ She pulled away and gave a little scream. ‘You’re not Thaddy!’

‘Mistress Bancroft, I presume,’ Marlowe said, dropping his gaze politely, then, realizing it could be misconstrued, up at a bookcase in a distant corner. He didn’t look round until he heard the door slam and running feet go down the landing. He turned his gaze to the window to meet the startled eyes of the plasterer and watched in horror as he lost his grip on the window moulding. It had obviously been in his fate today to see a man fall off a ladder, but at least he knew who had bought the snaphaunce. And also, he suspected, he now knew why Simon Bancroft had thrown himself in the river.

Marlowe could do with a lie down in his own bed and something half decent to eat. Delicious though it was, he wasn’t sure that Pine Apple on a stomach full of Rhenish was a good idea. But he had to get on and there was also the issue of Shaxsper. He was beginning to dread going home; what with Windlass on one side complaining about Shaxsper and Shaxsper on the other complaining about Windlass he felt like a parent saddled with two squabbling toddlers, but without the cuteness to offset the irritation. So he decided to go to the Rose instead. He had been meaning to speak to the orchestra but simply hadn’t had the time. Today would be as good a day as any and if he knew his musicians they would have various eatables disposed about their persons, for snacking on between scenes.

Arriving at the theatre, he had to battle his way through the line of people who had arrived early to be sure of a seat. Sellers of various sweet meats and drinks were patrolling, selling from trays around their necks. Most of them worked for Philip Henslowe and had been pulled in to do extra shifts to cater to the queue. They usually sold food at the bear and dog fights, so this was much more pleasant, as well as being in daylight, a nice change for once. He paused to buy a pie from a seller who looked marginally cleaner than the others. He hoped the pie was younger than the stories he had heard backstage at the Rose had implied. It tasted all right, so he trusted to luck.

He was licking his fingers to clean up the gravy when he arrived at the orchestra gallery. The musicians were there, tuning up their instruments and arguing about what to practise. The tambour player, never as exercised over the music as the rest, was sitting at the back staring into space, hitting himself on the head now and again with his instrument. He was chewing on an empty pipe and looked as though he hadn’t a brain in his head. The theorbo player was trying to restring his instrument single-handedly and was failing miserably. Without a second person to keep the tension on the incredibly thick strings, he couldn’t get them wound around the peg properly and although he kept tutting and looking around hopefully, no one was taking any notice of him. Marlowe thought that this may be a way to start the conversation.

‘Can I help you, er … Barnaby, isn’t it?’

The man stopped his tutting and smiled with pleasure. ‘It is, Master Marlowe. Fancy you remembering.’ He pulled a triumphant face at the crumhorn player, which said,
Look at me. The playwright knows my name
.

‘What do I have to do?’

‘If you could just hold this end, Master Marlowe, sir, while I wrap the string round the peg. If
no one helps me
–’ he looked pointedly at the tambour player who remained oblivious – ‘I won’t be done when the play starts.’

Marlowe held the end of the string in place and watched while the theorbo player deftly threaded and tensioned his string.

‘Thank you,’ Barnaby said. ‘I just have to tune it now.’

There was a snort from the shawm player. ‘Tune! Hark at him. He wouldn’t know a tune if it bit him in the leg.’

Barnaby, who by carting his enormous instrument around had developed rather startling muscles, feinted a step forward, causing the crumhorn player to hide behind Marlowe. ‘At least I always turn up, for rehearsals
and
performances,’ he said, peering round Marlowe to catch the woodwind player’s eye.

‘
I
always turn up,’ the man retorted. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘You are
now
,’ sneered Barnaby. ‘But where were you on the first performance? The one where the woman got shot. The one where Miles here swallowed that fly.’

A snort from the drummer let them know that he was not dead, but merely on another plane. ‘That was funny, Miles,’ he said. ‘I dropped my clapper, I was laughing that hard.’

Miles grinned. There was no point denying it. Once he had coughed up the fly, he had seen the funny side. But he could have died.