Death and the Arrow Read Free Page A

.”
    “It’s not funny, Will. You’ll be picking the hangman’s pocket one day.”
    “Well, you’re in a cheery mood today,” said Will a little crossly. “You know what I am—what I does. Don’t come the parson with me, Tom.”
    They both looked down at the ground in front of them and waited for the other to speak. As usual in these situations, it was Will who broke the silence.
    “Well, as it happens, Master Marlowe, I happen to have gone and got meself a job.”
    “You?”
gasped Tom.
    “Yes, me, you cheeky rogue,” said Will, sounding a little hurt.
    “Sorry, Will. That’s great news, really it is. I was just a little, well,
surprised,
is all.”
    “Yeah, well. I got feelings too, Tom. Lots of ’em.”
    “I know, Will, honest I do. Tell me about it. What is the work exactly?”
    “Well,” said Will, puffing himself up a little, “I happen to be in the employ of a certain gent I know who has paid me to perform certain very delicate duties.”
    “Hmm,” said Tom, raising an eyebrow. “It is
honest
work, isn’t it, Will?”
    Will grinned broadly and slapped Tom on the chest with the back of his hand. “Listen to you. You are such a worrier, Tom. But I can’t talk about it, not even to you. Sworn to secrecy and all that.”
    “Will . . .”
    “I’ve got to go, Tom. We’ll talk later.” And with that Will set off toward the City.
    “Will!” called Tom. “Is it honest?”
    Will had all but melted into the fog and was a vague and pale sketch when he turned to call back to Tom. “You could say it’s the
opposite
of what I normally do!” Then he turned and, with a little hacking laugh, disappeared like a ghost at dawn.
    Tom was trying to make some kind of sense of what Will had said when a breeze blew in from the Thames and cleared a patch of fog, allowing the houses on the other side of the street to come briefly into view.
    Within an instant, the fog had closed back in, but in that instant Tom could have sworn he saw someone running along the roof ridge of one of the buildings. He waited to see if the fog would shift again, but it seemed set. Tom shook his head. Maybe he was starting to imagine things.

SURGEONS’ HALL
    A few days later, Tom’s father gave him a parcel to deliver to Dr. Harker. As Tom was leaving, his father called out to him without looking up from his work, “And I’d be obliged if you went straight there and came straight back.”
    “Father?” said Tom.
    “You were seen, Tom. Talking to that—that article.” Mr. Marlowe banged his fist on a pile of paper, sending the top five sheets to the floor. “Why must you go against me, Tom? What is a fine lad like you doing with someone of that sort?”
    Tom could think of nothing to say that he had not said before, and so he remained silent, knowing that nothing angered his father more.
    “Blast it, Tom! I’m glad your mother’s not alive to see what company you keep!” Mr. Marlowe regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but it was too late. Tom stood for a moment, frozen by the force of rage and hurt, and then turned and made for the street.
    Tom walked briskly, his eyes stinging with unshed tears, until he reached Dr. Harker’s house, which was in a small courtyard off Fleet Street. He climbed the three stone steps up to the deep-green door and rapped the brass knocker. A maidservant let him in and showed him into the study.
    “Ah, Tom!” said Dr. Harker, looking up from a huge leather-bound book. “Good to see you! Come and sit yourself down. May I?” Tom handed him the parcel of printed pamphlets.
    Dr. Harker picked up the Arabian dagger he always used to open parcels, cut through the string, and, as usual, jabbed his thumb. “Bother and beeswax!” He searched for a handkerchief and knocked a candlestick to the floor. “Oh, never mind, never mind,” he said, sucking his thumb and eagerly tearing off the wrapping paper with his other hand. “Excellent! Wonderful! Your father is an artist,