Marbeck and the Privateers (13 page)

‘The Sea Locusts?'

But Mary simply shook her head and went.

He let her go out, hearing her soft steps on the stair. She was always barefoot, he thought; then he turned to look at the tray she had left, and realized he had no appetite.

Within the hour he left the Buck's house, retrieved Cobb from the King's Arms and walked him across the bridge out of Weymouth. Suspecting he was watched, he made no effort to hurry, leading the horse by the reins. Once in Melcombe he walked up St Thomas Street, among housewives and servants with baskets. Without pausing he continued to the northern edge of the town, where the road began to rise through sandy hills, then halted and turned round.

He was alone; rabbits bounded away, while larks sang above. To his left Weymouth Bay stretched eastwards, the sea a brilliant blue-green. While he'd been here, May had ended and June had begun; briefly he wondered how the peace talks progressed in London … then unbidden, a wave of anger swept over him. There by the dusty road he sat down, let Cobb's reins dangle and gave in to it.

The journey down here had not merely been a failure: it had been a disaster. He had blundered in, thinking he could ask questions with impunity, and now his life was in danger. He had alarmed people who feared he was at best a paid rummager, at worst a rival of some kind. Buck's words the night before had been no idle threat: he knew the man was capable of anything. And whether he'd arranged the beating for Marbeck the night before or not, it made little difference: the warning was stark. While he had ridden the Downs the previous afternoon, he reasoned, the Swann brothers had reported his appearance on the beach; likely that was enough. And again he had shown his hand, naming the Sea Locusts …

He looked down: the knuckles of his right hand were red, where he had connected with the jaw of one of his attackers. His ribs hurt in several places, including one where he had received a kick, back in the Black Horse in Cosin Lane. Meanwhile his ear lobe hung half-off; he muttered a curse – and the next moment was laughing at the absurdity of it. ‘Written my own death-warrant, have I?' Since there was no one else about, he said it to Cobb. ‘But it's not signed yet … so it's worthless.'

He drew a breath, touched his ear and saw fresh blood on his fingers. In one respect he had to agree with John Buck: he needed a surgeon. A ride would only hasten the bleeding, and hence he was obliged to retrace his steps into Melcombe. So after some enquiries in the town he presented himself at a house in Maiden Street, and was admitted.

‘Don't trouble yourself to say it – you slipped on the quay,' the barber-surgeon said brusquely. ‘If I had a crown for every man who told me that, I'd buy a coach and four horses. As if one like me doesn't know a knife-cut when he sees it.'

Marbeck didn't speak: he was concentrating on bearing the pain as the man sewed up his wound. He sat on a low stool, his teeth clenched. When the other at last stood back and signalled that he was done, he threw him a wry look.

‘And yet, you know not to ask how it was earned,' he said. ‘Best to keep a closed mouth hereabouts, I think.'

‘Not only hereabouts, but everywhere else I've been, for that matter,' the surgeon replied, raising his brows. ‘Discretion has been my watchword, sir. That's how I've lived beyond fifty years.' He turned to his table, put aside needle and suture and rinsed his hands in a basin. Then, when he offered a piece of linen to wipe the blood from his ear, Marbeck sensed an opportunity.

‘Would it be indiscreet to enquire about a dead man who was brought ashore yesterday?' he asked casually. ‘Carpenter of the
Amity
, I heard … a man called Gurran. I was in Weymouth when the body arrived.'

The barber-surgeon regarded him for a moment. ‘I know little of it,' he replied. ‘Likely some sickness he picked up, or poison from vile food. There are a hundred ways a seaman can perish – that one was lucky, in a way.'

‘Lucky?'

‘Indeed – for if he hadn't been close to home when he expired, they'd merely have thrown his body into the sea.'

‘Well, I suppose that's true.' Marbeck stood up, examined the cloth and found only a little blood. ‘You're a skilful man, master,' he said. ‘I thank you for your pains.'

‘The pain was all yours, sir,' the other said drily. ‘Shall we say one shilling?'

Marbeck dug out the coin … then paused. ‘Odd that the sickness only affected one man, in the close confines of a ship,' he said, almost to himself.

‘Well, it depends on many things.' A frown creased the surgeon's brow. ‘The
Amity
's a vessel that rarely comes here. Sails far, even to the Americas they say. There are many strange diseases in distant lands – and besides, the crew changes. They're a shiftless lot.'

With interest Marbeck absorbed the information: and all at once, he realized he wasn't inclined to ride back to London. There was something here, in the invisible fog that seemed to hang over the twin towns, that he wanted to uncover. And there was Mary Kellett too … He drew a breath, and took a chance.

‘Do you happen to know who owns the
Amity
?'

The barber-surgeon hesitated, and an expression appeared that Marbeck thought he recognized. For a moment they eyed each other, then the man gave a sigh.

‘Does the name Roger Daunt mean anything to you?' he asked.

Slowly, Marbeck relaxed. ‘By heaven … I might have known.'

‘As should I …' The older man surveyed him, then glanced towards the closed door. But when he faced Marbeck again, there was strain about his eyes. ‘I knew the look,' he said. ‘Though it's been a long time … you're one of Cecil's men?'

‘I'm Giles Blunt, just now,' Marbeck told him.

‘I'm Thomas Woollard. I was one of Walsingham's brood …' The other wore a look of resignation. ‘I put it all behind me, after the Armada year. Came down here, and …'

‘Became Thomas Woollard.'

‘It serves well enough.'

A moment passed. Marbeck waited, until finally the other said: ‘Well, Giles Blunt – is there some way I can help you further?'

‘I need somewhere to stay for a day or so … somewhere I won't attract the sort of attention I did in Weymouth.' Marbeck raised an eyebrow and waited, until Woollard heaved a sigh.

‘Then you may as well stay here – I live alone but for a servant, and she's almost deaf.' Before Marbeck could speak, he half-raised a hand. ‘I ask that you tell me nothing of what you do – and that you don't speak of me after you leave. This is just between us … you understand?'

‘I do,' Marbeck replied, with relief. ‘Anything you say is mere gossip betwixt myself and another, whose name I'll forget. Though your local knowledge would be invaluable …'

But at that, Woollard's brusque manner returned. ‘Perhaps we may talk at suppertime,' he said. ‘Now, I have patients.'

That evening however, Marbeck talked long with him – longer, it seemed, than his new host had intended. As they shared a supper and a pint of claret, the man thawed somewhat. Though unwilling to recall past times when he had served Sir Francis Walsingham as an intelligencer, he was amused to learn that Marbeck had been a Cambridge scholar too.

‘So you're a St John's man. I was at St Benet's … a long while before you, of course.'

‘I was a raw recruit in eighty-eight,' Marbeck said with a smile. ‘The same year you put it all behind you …' He raised an eyebrow. ‘I confess I'm surprised they let you leave.'

‘Once and for always, eh?' Woollard gave a shrug. ‘Well, my case was somewhat particular …' He lowered his gaze, as if the memory troubled him. ‘In short, dour Sir Francis was relieved to see the back of me.'

‘There are times when I believe my lord Cecil – for by such a title he's now addressed – feels the same about me,' Marbeck said. But the other looked up sharply.

‘You misunderstand. I was a danger to the service, if through no fault of my own. It's delicate …' He searched for the words, until Marbeck thought he understood.

‘They imprisoned you?'

‘Not exactly …' Woollard took a breath, then: ‘They locked me up in Bedlam.'

He looked away, but had no need to tell more. This man had seen – and probably done – terrible things, Marbeck sensed. And if his nerve had failed him at the last, he was not alone in that. A current of understanding passed between them.

‘So … now you heal people instead,' Marbeck said quietly. ‘Your atonement, perhaps?'

‘My penance.' The older man threw him a bleak look, then added: ‘What's done is done. We make our own destinies …' Seeming to shrug off his melancholy, he took a drink. ‘Well now, what can I tell you of these warring little towns, Melcombe and Weymouth? If it's tales of plain roguery you want, we'll be here all night. But if it's a matter of probing murkier waters, I fear I'll be small help. In short, I try to close my ears to anything that might be treasonous.'

‘Can you tell me of John Buck?' Marbeck asked.

A frown creased Woollard's brow. ‘You've encountered him, have you? A very devil, up to his neck in all manner of things. Thievery, running illegal cargoes … he isn't particular. Beats his wife and servant as fancy takes him.'

‘I gathered as much,' Marbeck said. ‘And it's the servant who troubles me. A mere eleven years old, yet …' He fell silent: Woollard was staring down at the table. Finally he looked up, his face grave.

‘I know of the girl, though I've not seen her. She's kept indoors for her own good – or that's what John Buck tells people.' When Marbeck stiffened, his host eyed him and added: ‘She was given to Buck, to deal with her as he pleased: a payment for services rendered, I believe. Her tale is no doubt familiar enough to you: she was got on a servant, by a man who didn't want the trouble of raising her.'

So that was it; Marbeck drew a breath. ‘The girl needs help,' he said, with some anger. ‘They use her cruelly, as a—'

‘I can imagine it well enough.' Abruptly Woollard cut him off. ‘But if you'll take my advice, you should leave it alone – Master Giles Blunt.' He used the cover name deliberately. ‘Whatever your business here, it's unlikely to have much to do with Buck. He's as bad as they come, yet he's, well …'

But a servant …
Mary Kellett's phrase sprang to Marbeck's mind. Woollard had trailed off, as if letting him know he had said enough. But in spite of the warning look on his face, Marbeck had to ask.

‘The Sea Locusts,' he said. ‘Will you tell me of them, or not? I need to know.'

Woollard looked away, and was silent.

T
he silence grew longer. Darkness was falling, and through the casement the distant sound of waves drifted in; the house was close to the bay. Finally Woollard rose to light candles, and when he returned to the table his expression was severe.

‘I'll tell you what I know,' he said at last. ‘Though it's precious little …' He eyed Marbeck grimly. ‘And you didn't learn it from me. I hope to live a little longer, to set bones and stitch wounds.'

Though his pulse had quickened, Marbeck fell into his habit of appearing unconcerned; but his host sensed his eagerness. ‘When you first appeared at my door I saw you walk stiffly, from hurts you carry,' he said with a frown. ‘Was the cut to your ear a part of it – a warning, not to meddle?' When Marbeck said nothing, he went on: ‘In which case, my advice to you is to heed the warning and leave. Concoct a story for your masters, say the trail went cold. Whatever Cecil pays you nowadays, it isn't worth a violent death, for a man of your years.'

‘Very well …' Marbeck lifted his cup and took a fortifying drink. ‘Your advice is noted. Let this be the only conversation we have on the matter, for I'll not put you in danger. Tomorrow I'll leave, and none shall know I was here …'

‘Oh, they know – be clear about that.'

Woollard gazed steadily at him. ‘Likely you were followed all the way – they have eyes in every street. But as for putting me in danger …' A tight smile appeared. ‘I can bluff well enough – and besides, I've been useful to them at times. They can buy my compliance whenever they like.'

Marbeck considered his words, gazing at the candle on the table. It flickered in the draught … and suddenly he was in the Grapes in Limehouse, and a wizened man with three fingers was telling him of danger ahead, and of a
djinn
following him. He met his host's eye. ‘Perhaps you shouldn't say more,' he said finally. ‘For when I return to London, I must report anything that threatens the peace of our nation. And I'll not be the cause of your arrest.'

But his answer was a short laugh. ‘Arrest? There are worse things, believe me …' Woollard took a drink too, and set his cup down carefully. ‘What have you discovered thus far?'

‘Not a great deal,' Marbeck replied, and told him of the man in the Customs House who'd said the Sea Locusts were a fable.

‘Yes, that's how the tale goes,' Woollard said. ‘But it's no myth. Your informant is probably one of those in their pay …' He gave a snort. ‘In brief, Giles Blunt, the Sea Locusts are two ships that sail together: a tight – and dangerous – pairing. One of them you've already heard of: the
Amity
, captained by a murderous fellow named Reuben Beck. The other is the
Lion's Whelp
, and her master's a local man named Swann.'

‘Gideon Swann?' Marbeck sat up. ‘I encountered his sons on Chesil Beach, up to something unlawful, I'm certain.'

‘Then you're already in more danger than you know,' Woollard said. ‘And fortunate to have earned nothing worse than a cut to your ear.'

‘But what is it they do?' Marbeck demanded. ‘Are they pirates, or …?'