Marbeck and the Privateers (6 page)

He was in the wide hallway, a foot on the bottom stair, when a voice sounded from behind. Groaning inwardly, he turned to face Langton's frosty stare. ‘That was a long walk you took, Blunt,' the steward said. ‘You should look in the study – more of my lord's papers have been sent over from Burleigh House. No doubt you'll wish to peruse them.'

‘I will, of course …' Marbeck managed a prim expression, then seized the opportunity. ‘I heard there was some mishap at Somerset House,' he said. ‘Have you any news?'

‘It seems an attempt was made on the life of one of the Spaniards,' Langton told him, with some distaste. ‘A servant was hurt, but he will recover.'

‘That's well …' Marbeck nodded sagely. ‘History is being made on our doorstep, is it not?' he ventured. ‘This time may prove to be my Lord Secretary's finest hour. I speak of the peace negotiations, with the Spaniards and Hollanders.'

The steward raised his brows. ‘My master's a great man. The King himself has admitted how much he owes him, for preparing the way to a peaceful accession to the throne.'

‘And has rewarded him handsomely for it,' Marbeck muttered under his breath, but Langton had already turned away. Stiffly he mounted the stairs and walked to the study, where he stopped in his tracks. Papers were stacked everywhere, in towering columns. He stared … was Cecil having a joke with him?

He closed the door, went to the casement and threw it wide, then slumped on the window seat. Perhaps it was well, he thought: none of the household would disturb him, with all the work he was presumed to be doing. In fact most wouldn't know, or care, whether he was in the house or not …

From somewhere, an unwelcome thought sprang up. All at once, the mission that Monk had charged him with looked odd. How could he watch the Spanish ambassador's back, as the spymaster had put it, from two doors away? Others were keeping an eye on Somerset House, Monk had said … what then was Marbeck supposed to do? He could no more prevent an attempt on the Count de Tassis's life than he could have prevented the shot being fired from Strand Lane this morning … He frowned, as a suspicion formed. Was he simply being under-used again – given something trivial to do, to keep him occupied? In which case, he wondered, why take him away from the undemanding task of watching a Papist family in Crutched Friars?

Staring out at the Thames, he reviewed the events of the past days, sifting them rapidly. Something, he thought, lay just beyond his knowledge. There was the sighting of Tye at the theatre, and that of Simon Jewkes arriving at the house, only for Langton to deny knowledge of it. Then had come the shot into the garden of Somerset House, and finally the presence of both Tye and Jewkes at the Black Horse …

He stood up and paced the room, wandering around the stacks of mouldering documents. What should he do? He could send a message to Monk via Matthew Herle, but there was little to say. Tye had fled, and was unlikely to be found. Which left Jewkes … at least Peter Mayne's information had been true. But would the man return to the tavern, after what happened? There was the drawer, who could perhaps be made to talk …

He stopped, and made his decision. For the moment he saw only one course of action: go back to Cosin Lane that same evening and try to get some answers. So a few hours later, having rested and eaten a light supper, he made his way outside, found John Miller and asked to be taken downriver to the Steelyard. And though the man glowered at him, he could not refuse. A half-hour later, on an outgoing tide, he was drawing his skiff up to the stairs, and Marbeck was clambering ashore. His determined look made even the boatman uneasy.

The tavern was rowdy now, lit by candles, the air thick with smoke and beer fumes. He pushed his way through the drinkers, and the trulls who had wandered in looking for business. The drawer was busy serving customers, helped by a blowsy, perspiring wench. Glancing at the stairway in the corner, Marbeck thought he could reach it before they noticed him … whereupon another possibility presented itself.

At the back of the room was a door, ajar to let in the evening breeze. Marbeck moved towards it, waiting for the moment – then as the drawer passed by with a jug of foaming ale he seized his elbow, causing the man to jerk round in alarm. ‘You! What do you—' But the words stuck in his throat, as for the second time that day something sharp was pressed to his side.

‘A word, if you please,' Marbeck said, smiling, and placed his other arm around the man's shoulder in comradely fashion. ‘We'll take some air – I won't keep you long.' And with that he steered his captive outside, into a tiny yard filled with refuse.

‘Put that on the ground, if you like.' He indicated the jug, which the other still gripped as if for comfort. With a baleful look the drawer complied, then straightened up, sweat sheening his brow. ‘By the Christ,' he breathed, ‘I should have floored you when I had the chance—'

‘Your tenant – Master Goodenough,' Marbeck broke in. ‘I mean the well-dressed fellow, not the other … though I'm now uncertain which one you meant. Is he here?'

‘He's not,' the other threw back. ‘He paid up and left – thanks to you! Not safe here, he said. If he owes you money, why don't you swear out a warrant? Your fight's naught to me …'

‘Where did he go?'

‘How would I know?' The drawer's anger was rising. ‘And you won't dare use that whoreson blade …'

‘What, this?' With an innocent expression, Marbeck showed him the tailor's bodkin he had employed instead of his dagger. ‘The matter is,' he went on, ‘I think you know his name's Jewkes. He's no stranger to the waterfront. And I wonder why he uses a shambles like this for a bolthole, when he could afford a room in a proper inn. I'm a curious man, you see.'

The other was breathing hard, his neck swelling like a bullock's. He threw a glance at the door: he would be missed at any moment, they both knew; he had only to call, and help would be forthcoming … it was time to increase the pressure.

‘Aid me, and none shall know you did so.' Stowing the bodkin away, Marbeck patted his purse. ‘I paid you before, did I not?'

The drawer remained silent, but he was debating with himself. Marbeck paused, then: ‘Shall we say another tester …'

‘Limehouse,' the man snapped. ‘Try the Grapes.'

He glared and held out his hand, but Marbeck hesitated. He knew of the waterfront tavern by Limehouse Reach, the seamen's haunt … With a glance at the inn door, he leaned closer.

‘You mean I'll find Jewkes there?' he said in a sceptical tone. ‘That's somewhat hard to believe …'

‘Did I say so?' the other retorted. ‘I merely said ask at the Grapes. Some might know where he can be found – that's all I'll say.' Defiantly he waited, and would tell no more; digging in his purse, Marbeck found the promised coin.

‘And don't come here again,' the drawer growled, snatching his payment. ‘Else you might find yourself cracking your pate on the quay, and fetching up in the river!' The man was not only giving vent to his anger, but salvaging his dignity. Backing away, he picked up the jug, then gestured to the door; but Marbeck was already leaving.

At the Steelyard stairs he found Miller sitting in his boat, smoking. When Marbeck appeared the man seized an oar impatiently … but on receiving the instruction his mouth fell open, releasing his pipe. With difficulty he caught it, a look of annoyance on his features.

‘Limehouse, at this hour? It's almost dark – and I'd have to shoot the Bridge. You can go to Hades!'

‘Limehouse Reach,' Marbeck told him, clambering into the skiff. ‘You'll be paid … and I won't mention your whoring sideline to Langton. I doubt he'd approve of it any more than Lord Cecil would.'

‘The devil take you, Blunt,' Miller snarled. ‘I wish I'd never set eyes on you!'

But he shoved the oar against the stair and launched his boat. It turned with the current, and soon they were making headway: past Coldharbour, then the Old Swan Stairs, with the Bridge looming ahead. Finally, calling to Marbeck to hold on tight, the boatman steered his boat under one of the arches, drew in his oars and let it glide between the starlings. With the echoing roar of the Thames around them they shot through, dropping several feet to the water below. They were in the calmer reaches of the Pool of London, and Miller was plying his oars again. Marbeck set his face to the gathering dusk and stared ahead.

On his left Billingsgate passed by, then the great forbidding mass of the Tower, torchlight showing at some of the windows. He glanced at the ominous opening to Traitor's Gate, half of it below water level. Soon they were past the Iron Gate Stair, and beyond the city's border. The crowded tenements of St Katherine's followed, then riverside cottages, thinning the further east they went. To Marbeck's right, on the south bank, the lights of Southwark had fallen behind, and those of Bermondsey were visible. Ahead, the view darkened. Muttering under his breath, Miller stopped to light his stern lantern. Then they were moving downriver again, further into open countryside.

A quarter of an hour later, lights appeared on the northern bank: the Town of Ramsgate Inn, named for the Kent fishermen who gathered there. Then a grimmer sight followed: the gallows of Execution Dock, where those unlucky enough to be condemned for piracy were hanged at low water, and left until three tides had washed over their bodies. Beyond it a few dim lights showed from the hamlet of Wapping, and further off Shadwell by the marsh. But Stepney, which they now approached, was busier and livelier. Buildings crowded the water's edge: the shops of chandlers and victuallers, the cottages of seafaring men. The long ferry to Gravesend would call here on its way downriver: the gateway to the open sea beyond.

‘See the old stone stairs? I'll drop you there. You'll find yourself in Narrow Street at Ratcliff. Limehouse is beyond.' Miller was eying Marbeck grimly from under his cap. ‘Though why you want to go there at night, I can't fathom,' he added. ‘Best keep your sword-arm free.'

‘Is that the Grapes tavern?' Marbeck pointed to a light some hundred yards further. The river was wider here, a sweep to the left which gave on to the shingle of Limehouse Reach, before it took its great southward bend. Beyond that, there was only the desolate marsh of the Isle of Dogs.

‘It is,' Miller grunted. ‘I'll go to the stone stairs and no further … it's but a short walk.' He hesitated, then added: ‘I'll wait a half-hour for you – after that you're alone.' And with a look that brooked no argument, he guided the skiff to the bank, where several boats were already moored.

So a short time later Marbeck stepped on to a set of well-worn stairs, dark and slippery with weed, and grasped a handrail that shook alarmingly. He climbed to the narrow roadway above, which was lined with tumbledown tenements. Then he was walking unmade streets, with sounds of revelry floating from a nearby tavern. There were people about, though in the poor light he could barely see them. He quickened his pace, crossed a wider street, then quite soon he was in Limehouse, gazing up at the sign: a bunch of grapes, lit faintly by a glow from the windows below. Cautiously he entered the tavern – and caused a lull in the conversation.

Those within regarded the stranger with frank curiosity. Most were sailors, of many nations: Scots, Frenchmen and Dutch, and others from far further off: dark-skinned, keen-eyed men in dyed toques and canvas shirts. There was room at a table by the wall, so he moved over and took it. Those sitting near eyed him … whereupon a hand suddenly appeared, to be placed on Marbeck's. He looked round sharply, into the face of a wizened, brown-skinned man with a blotched, hairless skull.

‘Are you come to have your fortune told, master?' he croaked. ‘Then you're at the right berth. I'm Fahz, the Three-fingered.' For evidence he held up a mangled hand, which lacked both thumb and forefinger.

Marbeck blinked, but when the other favoured him with a toothless smile, he could only return it. He signalled to the drawer, and asked the three-fingered man his pleasure.

F
ahz claimed to be Portuguese, but Marbeck knew that he wasn't. He formed that opinion quite quickly, after the two of them had sat for a while. His shabbily dressed companion drank a mixture of strong water thickened with sugar, which the drawer brought without comment. Marbeck drank ale, watered but passable. Having accepted his presence, the tavern's customers turned aside and left the two to their business.

‘I see a quest before you,' Fahz said. He had peered into Marbeck's face and looked at his palm. ‘You're seeking someone … do I hit the mark?'

In silence Marbeck waited. This man could not know that he had been acquainted with several mountebanks in his time, all of them skilled at drawing information from customers before telling them what they wanted to hear.

‘And more …' Fahz gazed past him, seemingly into the distance. ‘There are several paths … you are uncertain which one to take.' When Marbeck did not react he hesitated, then said: ‘You've no cause to think ill of me, master. You bought me a drink of your free will, and that is enough.'

But Marbeck leaned forward, causing him to blink. ‘It's true I came here seeking someone,' he said gently. ‘His name is Simon Jewkes – do you know him?'

To his surprise, the other nodded at once. ‘I know of him. He's a man with many interests on the river …' A puzzled look appeared. ‘Why do you look for him here?'

Marbeck gave a shrug. ‘You're the soothsayer, master Fahz. Can you not tell?'

Fahz appeared uncertain. He took a gulp from his mug, wiped his mouth with a frayed sleeve, then lowered his eyes. But when he looked up again, he wore an expression Marbeck found difficult to read. ‘I fear I cannot aid you, master,' he said suddenly. ‘Other than to bid you go carefully. I offer this counsel as to a friend … as any man who sees danger on the road ahead would warn a fellow-traveller.'