The Scar-Crow Men (12 page)

When the Earl had disappeared into the dark along the corridor, the cloaked man slipped into the oak-panelled chamber. With a sly smile, Derby nodded, once more the man Hasard recognized. ‘All is well,’ the newcomer said, still uneasy. His master was a man of propriety, restrained, sophisticated, aloof. He had never behaved in such a manner before.

‘Good,’ Derby replied, beckoning his assistant closer to the candle flame. ‘Our plans move apace. We now pull the strings of the Earl of Essex. In thrall to his ambition, he will do all that we wish.’

But who pulls your strings?
Hasard wondered.

‘Our numbers grow by the week,’ Derby continued, rubbing his hands eagerly. ‘Our influence reaches into all parts of the government, and soon, very soon, we will be ready
to make our move. For now, I have more work for you and your men.’

‘Another body to dispose of?’

‘Not yet. I fear Cecil’s spies are becoming aware. We must act quicker than we intended. Harry them at every turn. Seek out Swyfte – he is the most dangerous when roused. But his men, too, must be driven off course. Go to Bankside first, where they waste their days and nights in the stews and inns and gaming halls. Search all London. Do not allow them to rest for a moment. Capture them, if you can. Kill them, if you must. They are a threat to England’s future prosperity.’

‘Very well.’ Hasard bowed.

‘I will send someone to help you.’

‘Who?’

‘You will not see him, but he will be there.’ Derby looked past his assistant to the door where Danby the coroner had entered silently, with another, hooded man who clutched four fat candles to his chest. Hasard was disturbed to see a long trail of spittle hanging from the corner of the coroner’s mouth.

‘Go now, Master Hasard, and help us usher in a new age for England.’ Derby waved his hand to dismiss his assistant.

Hasard left, unnerved by the fire he saw burning in Danby’s eyes. As he passed the two new arrivals, he looked into the deep hood and was shocked to see the face of a devil. Only when he had stepped out of the door did he realize it was a mask, fiery red, with a jagged crack running across it.

Hurrying into the palace’s dark, Hasard discerned the faint words of Derby as he greeted the two other men: ‘Now we must listen carefully to the whispers of our masters in the shadows.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CARPENTER LISTENED TO THE TERRIFIED WHIMPERINGS, BUT HIS
mind was elsewhere. A dark foreboding had gripped him from the moment he left the deadhouse and even the light of day could not dispel it.

On the other side of the cramped room tucked away in the rafters of a timber-framed Bankside house, Launceston pressed his dagger to the neck of the kneeling landlord, his other hand dragging the man’s head back by his greasy hair. The landlord looked like a bullfrog, eyes bulging with fear above a flat, broad nose and fat lips, his filthy linen undershirt barely concealing his large belly and badly worn breeches.

Christopher Marlowe’s secret lodgings had been torn apart, the bed upended, loose boards ripped up to reveal the mouse droppings and straw beneath; the small table lay upturned, the chair in pieces. Shards of plaster had been torn from the walls in a search for hiding places and now lay in heaps everywhere. White dust coated all the surfaces, whipped into whirls by the breeze from the open door so that it appeared to be snowing in the shaft of sunlight breaking through the little window.

‘Who did this?’ the pallid man demanded as if he were asking the time of day.

‘Four men!’ his prisoner gulped. ‘They came in the night three days ago!’

‘And you have not yet cleaned and relet these premises? I have never known a landlord to leave a room sitting empty.’ The Earl surveyed the room’s detritus for anything important that he might have missed.

‘I was afraid. In case they came back.’ Spittle sprayed from the fat man’s mouth.

The room was barely ten foot square, cheap in an area where all rooms cost little rent, but it would have served Marlowe’s purpose, Carpenter knew. Few would have come looking for the famous playwright there among the cutpurses, and apprentices, and poor field labourers.

‘What did they look like?’ Launceston pressed.

‘I did not see their faces. When they forced their way in, I hid in my room until they had done their business,’ the terrified man babbled.

‘Rogues? Or gentlemen?’ Carpenter sifted through a bundle of papers scattered across the boards. It was the remnants of an unfinished play in Marlowe’s spidery scrawl. Nothing of importance, he thought.

The landlord rolled his wide eyes towards the scar-faced man. ‘Not rogues. I saw fine clothes.’

Carpenter glanced over in time to see Launceston’s dagger wavering over the pulsing artery in the landlord’s neck. The Earl had the familiar hungry gleam in his eye.

‘Robert,’ Carpenter cautioned. His voice was understated, but the pale man knew the meaning by now. Reluctantly, the Earl removed the blade and thrust the landlord roughly across the boards.

The fat man clutched his hands together and insisted, ‘I speak the truth! Marlowe only wrote his plays here. He kept nothing of value.’

‘Then why would gentlemen be searching his room?’ Carpenter continued.

The landlord gaped stupidly. Knowing any more questions would be futile, the scarred spy grabbed the neck of the landlord’s shirt and dragged him to the open door. A loud crashing echoed as the man half fell, half threw himself down the winding stairs.

Carpenter kicked the door shut. ‘Our suspicions are proving correct. Marlowe’s room searched on the night of his death. Sweeping up any filthy trail left in the wake of a murder. And no lone killer, either. A plot, then.’

Launceston’s hand was trembling as he sheathed his dagger. ‘Marlowe offended many people in his short life. But this smacks of careful planning and authority.’

The scar-faced man crossed to the small window and peered out over the thatch and clay tiles of the Bankside rooftops towards the river. ‘This is not good weather for any of us. Yet I cannot see a pattern here. In Marlowe’s murder the culprit is known, and no attempt was made to hide the body or the crime. But the attack on Will at the Rose was a different matter, as was the brutality inflicted on Gavell.’

‘If the Unseelie Court truly is eliminating spies who know of them, one by one, there may well be no pattern,’ the Earl mused. ‘Any means of dispatch would suffice.’

‘But this is a conspiracy of madness.’ Carpenter watched the men at work in the fields and dreamed of another life. ‘Men at court working alongside our traditional Enemy? That is like lambs lying down with wolves.’

He had a sense of the world closing in around him. It was bad enough that his only real friend was Launceston, who appeared to have no human feelings and lived only for killing.

‘Hurrm,’ the Earl grunted at his back.

‘What is it?’ Carpenter snapped.

‘The room has been torn apart. Whoever did it must have believed that Marlowe had information which could be of use to us.’ The pale-faced man continued to turn slowly, studying every aspect of his surroundings. ‘What did our playwright discover?’

Carpenter righted a stool and sat on it. ‘We might have got more information from the landlord if you hadn’t been overcome by your feverish desire to draw blood,’ he growled irritably.

‘And do you think it is pleasant for me to listen to your whining morning, noon and night?’ Kneeling, the Earl began to examine the upended table.

‘And that is the thanks I get? Where would you be without me? Your head on a pike at the bridge gates, I would wager.’ The surly Carpenter kicked a goblet across the room in anger. ‘What now? Are you ignoring me?’

Launceston traced his pale fingers across the tabletop and then righted it. With the back of his hand, he brushed off the dirt and then grabbed a fistful of plaster dust, spraying it across the wood. Carpenter watched him curiously. Leaning close to the surface, the Earl gently blew the surplus dust away. He studied what remained behind for a moment and then said, ‘Here.’

The scar-faced man came over and saw, first of all, an outline in white where the dust had filled the grooves carved by a knife. It formed a circle with a square within it, the same symbol that they had both witnessed at the deadhouse, carved into the back of the spy Gavell.

‘Marlowe knew of Gavell’s murderer,’ Carpenter said in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

‘Or he must have known this sign had some special significance.’ The Earl drew a finger around the outline. ‘I would say he carved it here one night, while ruminating over the meaning of what he had discovered.’

‘There.’ Carpenter pointed to letters carved into the wood near the symbol.

Launceston threw more plaster dust on the surface to make the words clearer. ‘Clement. Makepiece. Swyfte. Marlowe. Gavell. Shipwash. Pennebrygg. And here, further down, Devereux, with a question mark.’

‘Robert Devereux? The Earl of Essex?’

‘Perhaps. The family is old, with many branches.’

Carpenter’s eyes widened. ‘All spies. Swyfte, Marlowe, Gavell – in order. If this is a list of victims, then those poor bastards Clement and Makepiece are already dead. I have not seen either of them in recent weeks.’

‘Nor I.’

‘We must warn Shipwash and Pennebrygg—’

Launceston held up a hand to silence his companion. ‘Think clearly, you droning codpiece. Why are
these
spies listed out of all our fellow liars, cheats and murderers? How would Marlowe know these names in advance of the murders being committed, or some of them, at least?’

A noise at the door brought a flash of steel. In an instant, the two men were either side of the entrance, silent, poised, glinting daggers at the ready. At Carpenter’s nod, Launceston tore open the door and dragged in a figure in a grey-hooded cloak, poised on the threshold.

With a cry, the stranger turned, throwing off her hood, to reveal black hair and a pale, pretty face. ‘Wait. It is I.’

‘Alice? What are you doing here?’ Carpenter said, shocked. His eyes flickered towards the Earl, who studied the woman icily. Though the face gave nothing away, the scarred spy could read every critical thought in his companion’s head. ‘You should not be here,’ he continued, flushing.

When Alice drew closer, Carpenter saw deep concern in her features. ‘I went to the stew you frequent,’ she whispered with only a hint of embarrassment, ‘and Will Swyfte’s man directed me here. I was lucky to catch him before he left to meet his master.’

‘Enough prattle. Speak your message and then be off,’ Launceston snapped.

Carpenter glared at his companion.

‘In the kitchens last night, one of the other girls said that she’d heard a rumour that all Kit Marlowe’s closest friends were to be questioned, on the orders of the Privy Council,’ the woman said, clasping her hands together. ‘They fear Master Marlowe has infected you all with his atheist views. John, you know what that means. The Tower …’ Her voice tailed away, unspoken fears of torture and execution clear in her face.

‘Rumours,’ the Earl snorted.

‘I understand your doubts,’ Alice continued. ‘There is fear and suspicion throughout the court these days, but I could take no risk. And when I arrived here in Bankside, I saw strange men everywhere, questioning apprentices and merchants, stopping carts. John, they are watching this very house. Four men across the street—’

‘What? And you still came here?’ Carpenter exclaimed, worried now.

‘For you.’ Concerned, the woman pressed her palms together as though she were praying for his soul. ‘Oh,’ she said, puzzled, her hand going to her nose. When she examined her finger, a droplet of blood glistened. ‘I feel unwell … an ache in my belly …’

‘Now see what you have done,’ the Earl hissed.

Easing open the door, Carpenter stepped to the top of the dusty wooden stairs. He could feel the familiar sensations himself now as his body rebelled against the presence of something unnatural: the dull thump deep in his head, the churning in the pit of his stomach, as if he had eaten sour apples. ‘Not now,’ he muttered, the panic rising, ‘with Alice here. Please God, let it not be so.’

His hands trembling, the spy squatted on the top step and tried to peer around the turn in the stairs. From below came the faint creak of a foot upon a step. The rest of the house was still.

Carpenter glanced back into the room where a baffled Alice waited. He felt his chest tighten.

His head was filled with a sound like a dagger drawn across glass. It was only a man slowly climbing the stairs, the spy told himself. Mere flesh that could be torn with a blade. A life that could be extinguished without another thought.

Another long, low creak.

Carpenter gripped the banister until his knuckles turned white. ‘Just a man,’ he breathed, readying his dagger.

The soft tread continued up the stairs.

Carpenter felt the pressure in his head grow until he thought he would faint. Blood trickled on to his upper lip. Desperation gripped him and he leaned out over the banister to try to see what was coming, although he knew, God help him, and he could deny it no longer.

A grey shadow fell across the cracked plaster of the wall.

Turning, Carpenter waved his hand frantically at Alice and Launceston, but they only stood like statues. In frustration, he almost cried out. But what could they do? His gaze was drawn back by the terrible pull of that rising shadow. A drop of his blood spattered on the boards.

All he could think was:
It should not be here, not now, in Bankside in broad daylight
.

For a moment the spy thought he saw two shadows, the one on the wall and the thing that cast it. The figure climbing the stairs took on more substance, as if it was emerging from autumn mist. Carpenter glimpsed bloodless skin, a head marked with black and blue interconnecting circles. It wore a black cloak with a hood thrown back, that swirled around it like a storm cloud. Rooted, the spy felt the ringing in his head grow so loud he thought his skull would burst.

As though it could sense Carpenter’s presence, the thing turned its head slowly up to him. The pale figure’s gaze fell upon the scar-faced spy like a shroud. Thin, pale lips pulled back from yellowing teeth in what could have been a wolfish grin, or a predatory snarl, but meant the same thing.