Marbeck and the Double Dealer Read Free

Marbeck looked around for his shoes. As he sat on the bed to put them on, he found the messenger’s eyes upon him.
    â€˜I heard about Moore – a bad business,’ Prout said stiffly. Receiving no reply, he added: ‘I’ve heard other things too, of late.’ He was in full Puritan humour; Marbeck waited for the sermon.
    â€˜Your name’s been linked to someone of substance – a married lady, whose husband is serving the Crown in Holland,’ the messenger went on. ‘Master Secretary dislikes scandal. It’s . . .’
    â€˜Bad for business?’ Marbeck eyed him. ‘And do you know what I think, Prout?’
    The other indicated that he didn’t.
    â€˜I think you’ve become a tedious man. A decade ago you risked your life for Lord Burleigh – as many of us did. Now his son treats you like a lackey, and you’re content to let him.’
    Prout’s expression hardened. ‘And it looks as if he’s treating you in the same manner.’
    Having fastened one shoe, Marbeck turned his attention to the other. ‘But, unlike you, I don’t care a fig for gossip,’ he said. ‘I take my pleasures where and when I can. You haven’t forgotten how it is, I think?’
    â€˜Nay . . . I haven’t forgotten,’ Prout said, after a moment.
    â€˜That’s well.’ Marbeck stood up and met his eye. ‘Stuffy in here, isn’t it? I believe I’ll take the morning air, before I make my way to Southwark. Will you join me, or do you have further business elsewhere?’
    â€˜I don’t,’ came the reply. ‘Yet I’ll not walk with you, Marbeck. I fear you may outpace a man of my years. Though I’ll offer another word of advice, which you may heed or not: I’d take care which way you step, if I were you.’
    â€˜I’m always careful, Prout,’ Marbeck said.
    He saw the messenger out, waiting until his footfalls faded on the stairs. Then he moved to the bed, reached under it and drew out his basket-hilt sword in its scabbard. As he buckled it on, a feeling stole over him: one of anticipation. At least this time of inaction was over, even if, for the moment, his role seemed to have been reduced to one of despatch carrier.
    But an hour or so later, when he had crossed London Bridge and arrived at the gates of the Marshalsea prison, the matter took on a different aspect.
    Having been passed through various doors, he was finally admitted to a square chamber, where a short, squat figure in a leather jerkin stood. The room was dank and windowless, and hung with irons whose purpose Marbeck knew well enough. Noises assailed him through the walls, as he stayed by the open door; the prison reek almost made his stomach turn.
    â€˜Master Sangers,’ he said, and the man rotated his body towards him. ‘I’m John Sands, sent by order of the Crown. Do you have information for me?’
    The inquisitor squinted at him, an unpleasant grin appearing above his unkempt beard. ‘That I do, friend,’ he replied. ‘It cost me a day’s and a night’s labour to get it, but I won through in the end. Then, I always do. I’ve uncovered a matter of grave import – worth a reward, I’d say. Mayhap you’ll tell Master Secretary that when you see him.’
    He waited, but Marbeck merely eyed the man.
    â€˜Aye – a grave business,’ Sangers repeated, his grin fading. ‘The subject’s a Portugee: a physician – but I knew he was something more. Now he’s made full confession.’
    â€˜Then I’ll hear it, too – from him,’ Marbeck said.
    The other shook his head. ‘That won’t do. He’s spent – you’ll get naught out of him.’
    â€˜Nevertheless, I would speak with him.’
    â€˜But he’s my prisoner, and I say not.’ Sangers tensed like a wrestler, his shoulders swelling. ‘There’s only one piece of