The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER NINE




THE FUNERAL PROCESSION ARRIVED AT DEPTFORD GREEN TO A chorus of hungry gulls sweeping low overhead. While the coffin rested at the lychgate, a young man stepped up to Will, glancing around, a sack clutched to his side. The spy recognized the red, tear-stained face.

‘Tom, I am sorry we meet again under these circumstances. We have both lost a good friend.’ Will went to shake the hand of Marlowe’s companion, but the man was racked by a silent, juddering sob of grief.

When he had recovered, Tom thrust the sack into Will’s hands. ‘Kit bid me give you this,’ he hissed. ‘I have spent two days searching for you, but you are hard to find.’

‘By design,’ the spy replied.

‘The last I saw of Kit, on the banks of the river near Baynard’s Castle at dawn, he … he was not in the best of humour. He feared for himself … feared that to be with me would bring about my death. I should … I should have known. Helped.’ The young man swallowed noisily.

‘Do not punish yourself. We can never know what is to be.’

In one tearful look, Tom communicated more than words could ever express and then he hurried away along the street.

Puzzled, Will peered into the sack. A sheaf of dog-eared papers lay at the bottom. He shrugged, and found his attention drawn back to the coffin as the pall-bearers shouldered it once more.

‘Will?’ In her black mourning dress, Grace gently touched his sleeve, her eyes still red from crying. ‘We both loved Kit. He was a kind and gentle man, for all his troubles. But now I worry for you. His death has burned into your heart, and I can see you change by the moment. Do not let it harden you.’

Although her face was flushed with grief, Will could see elements of her sister, Jenny, in her stance, and once again he was transported back to that summer’s day when his love was cruelly snatched from his life. He put the thought from his mind.

‘Kit deserves justice,’ he responded, his expression grim. ‘I do not believe he received it at the inquest this morning, and this poor excuse for a funeral only adds insult. He deserved better. If those who used him while he was alive cannot find it within them to give him justice, then that duty falls to me. And I will seek it out in a much harsher manner than they ever would.’

The procession wound its way into the graveyard. The parish church of St Nicholas was solid and unremarkable. The final resting place of one of England’s greatest playwrights was an unmarked grave near the church’s north tower, and there a small group of men waited. Will was puzzled to see Thomas Walsingham, the second cousin of Sir Francis, stylish in black and gold, his lithe, powerful build that of a fencer. How could he have arrived from his home in Chislehurst so quickly, when the funeral had been announced only that morning? Will wondered.

He knew Thomas, a year older than the playwright, and wealthy, had been one of Marlowe’s patrons. He had also been a longstanding friend of Kit’s through their service in the spy network, and Kit had been staying on and off at Thomas’s house for most of the last month.

Walsingham nodded to Will and gave a sad smile.

As they gathered around the hastily dug grave, Will left Grace to be comforted by Nathaniel and joined Carpenter and Launceston.

‘There are too many spies in this affair for my liking,’ he whispered to the other two men. ‘Poley, who was there at Kit’s death. Now Walsingham.’

Launceston stared deep into the hole as though he were considering jumping in. ‘We are a loathsome breed. Worse than snakes,’ he replied in a bloodless tone.

Once the funeral was over, Will sent Carpenter and Launceston on their way and then paused by the grave to throw in a handful of the rich Deptford soil. Thomas Walsingham broke away from the small group of Marlowe’s acquaintances to join him.

‘This is a harsh accident,’ the patron said as he stared at the cheap coffin.

‘An accident? You believe it is so?’ Will replied in a cold voice.

‘Ingram Frizer did not mean to strike the killing blow. I have spoken to him at length, beyond the evidence he gave at the inquest. Poor Kit was like a wild thing, driven momentarily mad by the pressures of his double life.’

‘That seems like an easy answer.’

‘Frizer would not lie to me.’

‘You know him well?’

‘I am his master.’

Will flashed a look towards Walsingham, but the man’s expression was emotionless, his gaze fixed on the grave. The spy felt cold at the revelation of yet another hidden connection. ‘Do you know what business they gathered here in Deptford to discuss?’

Walsingham folded his hands behind his back and raised his face to the sun. ‘Not in the detail. Frizer told me it was mundane matters, of loans and debts, and some dealings in the unpleasant world they were all forced to inhabit. Nothing of import. This is more about Kit’s state of mind than what transpired in that room.’ His tone was reasonable, but something about it did not ring true to Will.

‘I have my doubts.’

‘Oh?’ The other man glanced at him askance.

‘Come. We are all taught to accept nothing is ever as it appears in our world.’ Will paced around the grave to face the other man across the dark hole.

‘True. But it is wise never to delve beneath the surface too publicly,’ Walsingham said with a dismissive shrug. ‘None of us knows who can be trusted. And that is worse now than it ever was when my cousin Sir Francis was spymaster. His poor replacement, Sir Robert Cecil, has ambitions, as does his rival, the Earl of Essex. Why, I would not be surprised if there were a civil war. Fought quietly and behind the scenes, in the manner of spies, of course.’

‘And which side would you be on?’ Will asked with a cold smile.

Walsingham’s own smile was a mask. ‘I am loyal to the Queen, as always.’

‘Perhaps the war has already begun.’ Will glanced towards the gravediggers waiting impatiently to fill in the hole.

‘Spies die all the time. No one cares.’ The other man plucked a piece of lint off his fine doublet. ‘Their work is all that is important, and it is noted in files and stored away, paid for in blood and often forgotten before the blood is dry. Do you not find that our work is all like one of Kit’s plays?’

‘How so?’

‘Declamatory statements, blood and thunder, words and images.’ Walsingham threw an arm into the air as if he were on stage. ‘Then the play ends and the audience goes home and life continues, and all that went before is forgotten. Do we pretend to ourselves that what we do has some meaning, when it is really just entertainment?’

Will pointed into the grave. ‘In entertainment, men do not end there.’

‘True. But Kit, like all who love art, knew that there is more to this world than the games we set for ourselves. We lose sight of what truly matters.’

‘Spoken like an educated man. Some do not have the luxury of such reflection, when their life is a daily struggle to stay one step ahead of the reaper,’ Will replied.

Walsingham laughed. ‘You have me there, Master Swyfte. I am fortunate, I know that. Still, I would think you miss the easy certainties of the time when Sir Francis oversaw these great affairs.’

‘He is gone, and we have all moved on. There is nothing to be gained by looking back.’ Will felt a brief pang at the irony of his statement.

‘There are some who may not agree with you. Sir Francis’ grave was defaced only the other day.’ The other man pursed his lips to show his distaste.

‘Oh? When?’

‘On the night before Kit’s death. Who would do such a thing?’

The question was rhetorical, but Will’s thoughts raced. Who would deface the grave of Sir Francis Walsingham, and several years after his death? Someone who knew him and the work he did, perhaps? That was a small group.

‘I must return home to Chislehurst,’ Walsingham continued. ‘Important matters call to me, and a clear head is required. This business saddens me, though. I will miss Kit greatly.’ He walked around the grave to shake Will’s hand. ‘I know he was important to you too. Kit always spoke of his good friend warmly. Do not let his death lie on you. He is in a better place now, and finally at peace.’

Will watched him walk through the gravestones to where his companions waited by the lychgate. Walsingham clapped his fellows across the shoulders as if he were on a jaunt to the nearest inn. There was no sign of the grief he professed.

‘Will?’ Grace questioned, taking his arm.

‘I would have one moment alone with Kit and then I will join you,’ Will replied gently. Her eyes moist, the woman nodded and made her way towards the lychgate.

A sudden breeze brought with it the stink of the Isle of Dogs and the sound of hammers from the shipyards. Will felt eyes upon him again. The gravediggers were already collecting their shovels and inspecting the pile of soil.

‘Leave me alone,’ Will snapped, looking into the dark hole in the ground. His grief felt like a rock on his back, his impotent anger a fire in his heart. As he tried to make sense of all that had happened, a faint movement in the heavy shadow along the church’s western wall caught his eye. A figure was watching the grave from beyond two ancient yews, carefully positioned to avoid being seen.

Slipping away from the graveside, Will circled the church along the eastern wall. Darting around the back of the squat stone building, he approached the watcher from behind. It was a woman in mourning dress, and from her flame-red hair he guessed it was the one Nathaniel had encountered outside the Rose.

Will approached silently until he was close enough to prevent her fleeing and then he said, ‘Do not be shy. If you wish to pay your respects, come closer.’

The woman let out a small cry and whirled, pressing herself back against the corbelled flint wall of the church. Her eyes flashed with recognition when she saw who had startled her.

‘You know me?’ The agent stepped closer so she could not slip by him.

‘Will Swyfte. England’s greatest spy. Who does not know you?’ Will heard clear Gaelic notes in her voice, but he couldn’t read the emotion behind her words. She raised her chin defiantly and brushed a stray wisp of hair from her pale forehead.

‘And yet you appear to know more than most. Like the time and place of my intended death.’ He leaned in close so their faces were only a hand’s-width apart. He could smell her heady fragrance, the notes of orange and cloves.

‘I came to the theatre to warn you. Would you have preferred I made no attempt to save your life?’ The woman seemed unthreatened by his forthright behaviour.

Will stared deep into her eyes, but couldn’t see any deception. She held his gaze with confidence; there was no pretence of coyness. He realized she was used to sustaining the attention of men. ‘You must think highly of me if you would go out of your way to save me,’ he said.

‘You think highly of yourself,’ she sniffed. ‘I would have done it for anyone.’

‘A charitable woman. How charitable would that be?’

‘My charity is only dispensed to needful cases. I sense you are never in want, Master Swyfte.’ Her shoulders relaxed against the hard wall, and a faint smile flickered on her lips.

‘We all find ourselves at a loss from time to time.’

She cocked her head wryly as if she saw something in his face that he hadn’t realized was there. ‘Then I would suggest you work on your swordplay in the privacy of your room, Master Swyfte,’ she breathed. ‘I hear you are regularly called upon to use your weapon, and it would not do to be found lacking in that area. Self-improvement is a virtue.’

Will grew tired of the game and said firmly, ‘Perhaps we should leave discussion of virtue to a later time. Will you give me your name?’

‘Margaret Penteney,’ she replied, so confidently that Will was convinced it was a lie.

‘You are here tending the grave of a family member perhaps?’

‘My business is my own, Master Swyfte.’

The spy took a step back. ‘Of course. But I am concerned for your safety. A woman abroad in Bankside, outside a theatre at night? That is not a safe place. Does your father or husband allow you to put yourself in such danger?’

‘You should thank me for so endangering myself to try to help you.’

‘And it is a happy accident that I am in a position to thank you, here in Deptford, so far from London,’ Will said sardonically.

‘We are not to know God’s plan, Master Swyfte.’

‘Not God’s, no. However, the plots and plans of men are of great interest to me. And women. How did you uncover the threat against my life?’ He allowed a hard tone to enter his voice, but the flame-haired woman still did not flinch.

‘I see and hear many things in my business.’

‘Which is?’

‘Will?’ Grace was standing at the corner of the tower with a hurt expression. She looked from Will to the woman who stood so close, they could have been involved in a lovers’ tryst.

‘Return to the graveside, Grace. I will be back soon,’ he said with a sharpness that he instantly regretted.

With a cold expression, Grace held Margaret’s gaze for a moment. The Irish woman gave her a smile that Will only ever saw women share among themselves; it circumscribed a position of strength.

Once Grace had gone, Will hardened. ‘Now. Your business.’

With a skip in her step, the flame-haired woman moved away from the wall into the warm sun. ‘I am a wife and I tend my home well, Master Swyfte. I only meant that as I go about my chores I keep my eyes and ears open to the gossip of my neighbours.’

‘And one of your neighbours threatened to kill me?’ Will mocked. The woman still gave no sign of lying, but he didn’t believe her. He had started to accept that she was as skilled at deceit as he was.

Will was puzzled to see her come to a sudden halt and the blood drain from her face. ‘I am innocent,’ she said in a whispery voice. The spy realized her widening eyes were looking past him to the yews.

A figure stood in the stark interplay of shadow and sunlight beneath the swaying trees, framed by ragged gravestones. The spy’s stomach knotted when he saw it was Jenny, followed by a moment of excruciating dislocation when he realized it wasn’t Jenny at all. Those same black, hateful eyes fell upon him as they had in the Rose Theatre.

Will sensed Margaret hurry away, but his attention was locked on the cruel imitation. He felt a sudden attraction, a part of him desperately trying to make up for the years of grief and yearning. But another part of him was repulsed, and the point where the two sides met left him sickened.

‘Is this it, then? I have my own devil now to torment me?’ the spy whispered to himself.

Drawing his rapier, Will ran into the dense copse of yews only to find that whatever had waited there was gone. Only a wisp of brimstone remained in the air to show it had ever been. But he could feel its black eyes on him even then, and a deep, chilling dread that was so tightly wound around him he was afraid it would never leave.

Will already understood what Marlowe was describing in the play he had half heard the other night at the Rose: to want and never gain was a special and very personal hell.