Mark Chadbourn - The Scar-Crow Men

‘Hold,’ the spy called. ‘I would have words with you three.’

Before Will could break into a run, Tobias Strangewayes stepped on to the path from the shade of a sweet-scented lilac. ‘Stay your hand, Swyfte. There will be no trouble here,’ the red-headed rival spy insisted.

Enraged, Will thrust Essex’s man to one side. ‘No one will stop me reaching the truth, least of all you.’

Spinning round, Strangewayes drew his rapier and leapt back into Will’s path. ‘I was warned that you would lose control of your wits when you witnessed your friend’s pitiful end. Then it falls to me to restrain the man who was — once — England’s greatest spy.’

‘Is this more of the petty jostling for power that your master plays with my master,’ Will blazed, snatching out his own blade, ‘or are you too involved in Kit’s death?’

Steel clashed.

‘The Queen will see she can no longer place her trust in Cecil’s men when they disrupt an inquest into the tawdry murder of an atheist,’ Strangewayes said, grinning.

Will saw red. Slashing to the right, he almost knocked Strangewayes’ blade from his grip. As Essex’s man struggled to bring his rapier up to parry, Will slashed to left and right in quick succession and then thrust his sword through his opponent’s defences. The tip of the rapier stabbed into the man’s doublet over his breast. The rival spy looked scared, unsure if Will would follow through.

Before the answer came, Will was knocked roughly to one side. Strong arms clasped him in a bear-hug that forced him to lower his blade. Strangewayes danced backwards, flushed with relief.

‘Calm yourself now, or Sir Robert will have one less spy in his employ,’ a voice hissed in Will’s ear. It was Sinclair, Cecil’s towering bodyguard. Beside him, dressed in a black, old-fashioned velvet gown, the archivist Robert Rowland shifted from foot to foot and looked as if he would rather be anywhere but there. His crumpled face was the only one that showed a hint of sadness at that morning’s grim events.

Seething, Will saw the moment had passed. Frizer, Skeres and Poley had already departed. The spy ceased his struggles until Sinclair released his grip, and then threw off the former mercenary. Will rounded on the three men. ‘Something is rotten here,’ he said, pointing a finger at the gathered group, ‘and I will not rest until I discover who truly killed Kit Marlowe, and why. And when I uncover the names of those involved, the reckoning will be in blood.’

Storming away, Will fought to contain the tide of anger that threatened to engulf him. As he shielded his eyes against the sun, he noticed Danby watching him, the coroner’s saturnine features a pool of darkness in the bright garden. His head held at an aloof angle, the dour man came over and gave a curt bow. ‘I am aware of your reputation, Master Swyfte. You have served the Queen and our country honourably.’

‘And I am aware of your reputation, sir. But I have some matters of concern about this inquest,’ Will replied in as calm a voice as he could muster.

Danby’s eyes narrowed, but he continued to smile politely. ‘Master Marlowe was your friend, was he not?’

‘We shared good times together.’

‘The verdict has been reached, Master Swyfte. There is no going back from it.’ Danby shook his head in an attempt at sadness that did not ring true.

Fighting back another surge of anger, Will took a step towards the other man. ‘There is more to the evidence,’ he stressed.

Unused to being questioned, the coroner flinched. ‘But you heard the evidence, sir. There is no doubt Master Frizer acted in defence of his own person.’

‘Except that Master Poley is a spy, known to me and to Kit. Two of the men in that room were spies, and I would wager there may well have been more.’ Will’s hand unconsciously went to his rapier but he snapped his fingers shut at the last moment, and hid them behind his back.

‘You suggest this is a matter of subterfuge, then? Some business of spies? Plots and conspiracies?’ Danby gave a sly smile that only made Will’s anger burn hotter.

‘I suggest only that there is more to this than meets the eye, as there always is in the world I inhabit.’ The pulse of blood in Will’s head drowned out the song of a thrush and the soft music of the breeze in the elms. His vision closed in until all he could see was the coroner’s supercilious expression.

‘That is not enough, Master Swyfte. In matters of law, only facts can be considered, not suppositions.’ Danby gave a shrug and began to walk towards the path back to Deptford Strand and his waiting coach. ‘The matter is closed. Master Marlowe’s body will be consigned to the earth this afternoon.’

Will recoiled. ‘So soon? No pomp or ceremony?’ Marlowe’s fame as a playwright would have excited the interest of many. Even in the desperate atmosphere of the plague-ridden city there should at least have been an adequate announcement so the crowds could gather, not to mention an invitation to dignitaries, a procession and a full service.

‘He is just a man,’ the coroner said.

Will was stung by Danby’s dismissive tone, adding insult to the raw emotion he already felt at his friend’s passing. Kit was being discarded by the authorities, despite his years of sacrifice and service to the Crown.

‘This is to do with the accusations of atheism?’ Will grabbed the coroner’s shoulder. Danby recoiled at the outrageous lack of respect. The spy didn’t care.

‘I would not know. I do not make these decisions. I only investigate-’

‘You answer to the people who make such decisions. In the circles in which you move you are privy to knowledge that is denied to the rest of us.’

Scared, Danby backed away a step.

‘Who took the decision to bury Kit without ceremony?’ Will pressed.

‘I cannot say.’

‘You do not know? Or you refuse to tell me?’

‘I … I …’ the coroner stuttered, his eyes darting.

‘Tell me,’ Will snapped.

A tremor crossed Danby’s face, the muscles twitching as if they could not decide which expression to sport. To Will’s astonishment, the coroner broke into a broad grin and then began to laugh. At first it was just a chuckle, but it rapidly transformed into a breathless bark. Yet Will could hear no humour in that sound and the coroner’s eyes were still scared and flecked with tears. A shadow of confusion crossed the man’s face as if he couldn’t understand his own strange response, and then, still laughing, he turned and almost ran across the garden to the path.

Will had never seen anything like it before. The Queen’s foremost coroner had acted like a madman, caught up in inappropriate emotions beyond his control. Was it fear of discovery? Fear of his masters? A passing lunacy?

Concerned, the spy made his way across the now-deserted garden. Before he reached the path, he glimpsed movement, high up on the lodging house. Spinning round, he looked up, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare. Not even a bird flapped on the brown tiles, but Will was convinced he had caught sight of something large hunched on the edge of the roof, watching his passage.

Something inhuman.

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.’