The Intelligencer Page 9

  Slipping from the churchyard, he resisted his impulse to break into a run. It would not do to attract attention, but he desperately wanted to be at home in bed, far from this neighborhood, come sunup.

  GREENWICH—MORNING

  The cloud-capped towers of Greenwich Palace receded behind as Marlowe strolled west along the Thames to Deptford, the port town where soldiers, traders, explorers, and pirates converged. A brief but intense storm had just passed, and glistening raindrops clung to the new green buds of spring. With stray gusts of wind, slender tree branches shivered. Marlowe watched the lingering droplets plummet and merge with the puddles in the carriage ruts along the road.

  Crossing the wooden bridge over Deptford Creek, he headed past the green on his way to a familiar tavern. The normally rowdy town felt crammed beyond capacity. Greenwich overflow, Marlowe figured, along with Londoners fleeing the spring’s furious bout of plague. As he rounded a bend, the bawdily decorated sign for the Cardinal’s Hat appeared. On his way inside, a few French and Italian phrases drifted past Marlowe’s ears—probably voices of the foreign dancers and musicians who walked the Deptford streets by day and performed before the queen at Greenwich by night.

  In the back corner of the tavern, Marlowe spotted the friend he was looking for at his usual table. Not that he could see his friend’s face. On the contrary, the man’s head was obscured from view by a curvaceous woman with long flame-colored hair and a low-cut bodice. What Marlowe did recognize was the fleshy hand squeezing the woman’s bottom.

  Sixty-year-old Oliver Fitzwilliam was known to his friends as Fitz Fat because his father, William, had been enormous, too. The nickname literally meant “son of fat.” He was one of Her Majesty’s customs officials, though not her most loyal; he took more bribes than trips to the chamberpot and ran a book-smuggling operation on the side.

  The woman swatted his arm away from her, slammed a tankard down onto the table—so forcefully that amber liquid sloshed over the edges—then stormed off with a curse.

  “Kit! Come join me!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed before turning to catch another eyeful of the comely tavern hostess. “She’s new. Calls herself Ambrosia. Rightly so—by God, I’d sell my soul to the devil for a night with her.”

  “I think a few coins might do the trick,” Marlowe replied, sliding onto the opposite bench.

  Eyes mournful, Fitzwilliam sighed. “She said she wouldn’t climb this huge hill of flesh for all the silver in England.”

  Marlowe struggled to keep a straight face. “Could be a spell of madness. Perhaps the moon has taken possession of her wits.”

  Still despondent, Fitzwilliam nodded slowly. A moment later, however, he broke into a grin and bellowed out an order for another ale.

  Marlowe was not surprised. His friend’s moods shifted faster than England’s weather in springtime.

  “Great big trunk of vile beastliness, that one is,” Ambrosia declared, setting down Marlowe’s drink.

  Unfazed, Fitzwilliam took hold of his tankard and lowered his voice to an excited whisper. “To your dirty little ditties and their spectacular success!”

  “To Ovid,” Marlowe replied, raising his as well. “God praise his filthy mind. And you, for the safe journey.” Fitzwilliam had arranged the shipping for Marlowe’s newly printed translations of Ovid’sAmores as well as their passage through customs.

  The two tankards clinked.

  “ ‘What arms and shoulders did I touch and see? / How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me! / How smooth a belly under her waist saw I? / How large a leg, and what a…what a…’ Uh, ‘nice fat thigh’? No, what is it Kit? ‘Nice plump thigh’?”

  “Well, it’s ‘lusty’ thigh, but if you prefer ‘nice and plump,’ by all means…”

  “No, lusty. I like it. I’d advise you to keep it.”

  “Done. Now tell me, Fitz,” Marlowe said, leaning in. “What’s new? Come across any smugglers these two weeks past?”

  Fitzwilliam ran a finger along the soft flesh of his second chin. “Let’s see…a spy with messages from the Spanish court sewn into his doublet buttons.”

  “How’d you catch him?”

  “He was masquerading as a lute player. Claimed the Dutch sent him as a gift for the queen’s entertainment, but the rascal had a nervous look about him, so I asked him to play a tune, and…” Putting his hands over his ears, Fitzwilliam winced.

  Marlowe laughed.

  “Nothing else out of the ordinary. Several priests tried to sneak in, of course, Latin Bibles strapped beneath their clothes.”

  “Keeping Bibles out and bringing erotic verses in…Fitz, you’re a national treasure.”

  The fat man blushed. “Now, Kit, is this mere curiosity, or are you here on some of yourspecial business?”

  Fitzwilliam was one of the few people who knew about Marlowe’s secret government work and the unusual way in which he carried out his assignments. They’d met years before when Francis Walsingham—who suspected that there was a book-smuggling network operating out of Deptford—sent Marlowe to crack it. Marlowe quickly identified Fitzwilliam as the network’s ringleader, but instead of his informing Walsingham, they reached a private agreement. Marlowe wouldn’t turn him in; on the contrary, he’d pacify Walsingham by confiscating several crates of banned books and claim that the chief smuggler had fled England for a life of piracy. Fitzwilliam, in turn, would allow Marlowe to use his smuggling network whenever he wanted, though it would, of course, have to operate far more discreetly.

  “As a matter of fact,” Marlowe said, “I’ve a few questions for you.”

  “Have that wanton wench fetch me a cup of Canary, and whatever it is, I’ll spill my guts.”

  “Figuratively, I hope?”

  After ordering the wine Fitzwilliam had requested, Marlowe began, “You’ve mentioned that your father once owned shares in the Muscovy Company. What can you tell me about it?”

  “Satan’s minions, the lot of them,” the fat man said, as if the words tasted like river sludge. “Should all be hanged.”

  “Mere merchants?”

  “They swindled my father out of his fortune. Ruined his reputation.”

  “How so?”

  “He was one of the original investors, helped finance that first doomed voyage to Moscow so many years ago. Three ships set out, but only one reached the Russian court. The others got trapped in the ice. Everyone aboard froze to death.” Fitzwilliam shivered. “The northern journey was too difficult for real profits, but my father kept investing anyway. Then one disaster after another—fires in the warehouses, more ships lost, bloody Turks cutting off the land route to Persia—but the merchants shared a dream.”

  “Of a Northeast Passage?”

  “What else? Imagine it, a secret route to the Orient! But a number of years ago, the directors decided to have done with their debt and reissue the company’s stock, leaving the original shareholders with no chance of recovering their silver. My father took the matter to court, but the solicitor general was a Muscovy man himself, so…” He slammed his fist on the table. “Then they accused him of embezzlement.”

  “Bastards.”

  “No hole in hell is hot enough for them. Good thing I could feed the family myself by then. Got my start smuggling English Bibles in by the crateload when Bloody Mary was on the throne. Her people kept burning them, so…” Fitzwilliam shook his head sadly. “My poor father never took to my business, though. Always wanted to play by the rules. Being branded a cheat broke his heart. He was as sad as Orpheus’s lute till the day he died.”

  They were quiet for a moment, then Marlowe asked, “What about rumors of Muscovy merchants, or anyone else, smuggling in goods from the Orient?”

  “Nothing of note. But if those rogues are sneaking something in without giving me a share of the profits…”

  “When do Muscovy ships next leave Deptford?”

  “Month’s end a few sail for Russia.”

  “Just before, if you could check them for anything sus
picious—weaponry, perhaps…”

  “Gladly. Now, Kit, I don’t know if this will help, but a young Muscovy sailor passed through customs yesterday. Stepped off one of their ships just in from Rouen.Said he was coming ashore to visit his family…”

  “Rouen?”

  “The company exchanges English cloth for paper in France, then ships the paper to Russia.”

  “You remember his name? His looks?”

  “Lee Anderson. A memorable one, he was. Had the face of an angel, looked too young for a sailor. Short marigold hair, thin mustache, leather doublet, I think…black, no, tobacco-colored hose, and…small gold loops hanging from each ear.

  “I found nothing illicit on him,” Fitzwilliam continued, “but something about that sailor did not sit right with me. Not that he was fidgety—in fact, that was the problem. Too calm.”

  “So…”

  “He had half a dozen gold pieces. I let him in—I just made sure he can’t get very far.” Fitzwilliam’s bland expression shifted into a wolfish grin. “You see, I confiscated his papers. Yes, sir, that little fellow is stuck here like a mouse in a trap.”

  A few minutes later, Marlowe walked back across the green to Deptford Strand, the riverfront area jammed with warehouses, shipyards, and docks. A buzzing hub of exploration, trade, piracy, and war. Across the river lay the nadir of the Elizabethan underworld, the murky Isle of Dogs, swampy forested terrain with criminals lurking in its shadows and London’s sewage lazily licking its shores. The treacherous isle was a stark contrast to the royal luxury of Greenwich Palace twinkling to Marlowe’s right, less than a mile downriver.

  Standing near the base of the commercial dock, he watched sailors in tassled Monmouth caps unloading bolts of shiny cloth—satin, velvet, gold, and silver lace—and heading toward the clusters of warehouses. Others moved in the opposite direction, hauling crates of what smelled like wool and coal.

  Then, a sudden sharp movement. Two young sailors grappling with each other.

  The common sight was ignored by everyone else in the vicinity, but it was exactly what Marlowe had been hoping for. He approached them. Standing a few feet away, he cleared his throat loudly.

  Surprised, they paused.

  “Lads, I have a proposition for you.”

  They looked at him with confusion.

  “I’m guessing it is money you’re fighting over, and I will give each of you the offending amount if you will give me a few minutes of your time.”

  Their eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “You will exchange ten, maybe twenty words with a man up the road, then walk on.”

  “In truth?”

  “Have we an understanding?”

  They nodded.

  “Tell me, then, you’ve heard of theMadre de Dios? ”

  They shook their heads.

  “About a year ago, English privateers captured a Portuguese carrack, theMadre de Dios, as it was returning from the East Indies. Heaped with riches said to be worth three hundred thousand pounds. As the ship docked, everyone who got word went to Dartmouth harbor and pinched what they could. Clouds of pepper, cloves, nutmeg, and Java cinnamon filled the streets. Perfumed people’s hair for weeks. And that, my friends, has given me an idea.”

  Thirty minutes and a dozen rehearsals later, the two formerly belligerent sailors ran toward the Muscovy Company’s warehouse and rapped loudly upon the door.

  No answer.

  They rapped again. A heavyset man appeared, his upper lip curled in a half-snarl.

  A napping guard, Marlowe thought to himself.Perfect…appears he is the only one inside. Marlowe was standing just out of sight, silently coaching his makeshift players.

  “Mate, have you a spare bag, an empty box, or—”

  “You bloody pains in the backside! Be off!” the guard spat.

  Marlowe bit his lip as the guard began to push the door shut.Stay strong, lads, stay strong.

  One of the sailors grabbed the door and held it open. “Haven’t you heard? Jesu, a half-mile downriver—it’s like a secondMadre de Dios! Guarded by a mere two men. If we don’t hurry, all its riches will be gone!”

  The guard’s eyes were sparkling, but he had yet to budge.

  It was Marlowe’s cue. He raced up wearing a touch of a costume—a sprinkle of pepper in his hair—and asked with urgency, “Did you get the boxes?”

  The sailors appeared frantic. “Sir, we were—”

  At that moment the guard’s nose twitched. He sneezed, then grinned. Flinging the door open, he raced back inside. “We’re crammed with inventory, but…”

  Breathing heavily, the guard reappeared moments later. With a sly smile, he pulled the door shut, then raced off with the lone canvas sack, leaving Marlowe and the sailors to struggle with two heavy wooden boxes.

  Or so he thought. Marlowe had something else in mind.

  While the sailors departed with their coins, he unlocked the warehouse door with a pair of wooden picks. Twenty minutes until the buffoon of a guard would return, he figured. Stepping into the small office, he knelt before a bookshelf and leafed through a few dozen ledgers. Nothing.

  Rummaging through the desk drawers, he found seven scrolls, all sealed. After lighting the office’s lone candle, he took a strand of wire from his pocket, held it in the flame, then brought it to the edge of each seal and slipped it through.

  Damn. Sloppily written letters from someone—the guard, he supposed—to a woman named Moll. Using the candle flame once more, he warmed both sides of each seal and pressed them back together. No need to leave a trace.

  Out amidst the inventory shelves, Marlowe could smell most of the goods destined for Russia—woolen cloth, wine, and currants—while others he could see. Salt and sugar granules dusted the floor, and a few sheets of French paper lay crumpled in the corners. Remembering Fitz Fat’s words that a Muscovy ship bearing paper had come into Deptford recently, he began untying the boxes. Each contained two stacks of smooth gleaming paper, positioned side by side. For Marlowe it was a mouth-watering sight. The quality was unlike any he’d ever used.

  Halfway through the task, he had yet to find something unusual. One more, perhaps. Again only paper. Intent on making the morning worth his trouble, he reached in and took a sheaf, then stared in surprise at what he had uncovered. A rectangular hole about seven inches deep, the length and width of two men’s feet, had been cut into the stack. It was empty, but…just big enough.

  Leaving the warehouse, Marlowe headed for the nearby stables to hire a horse. He was going to Scadbury House, his closest friend’s estate, about ten miles away in the lush Kentish countryside.

  WESTMINSTER, ENGLAND—LATE MORNING

  Around a table in a stuffy windowless room adjacent to the Star Chamber, five frustrated men sat reading the most recent anti-immigrant threat. It was the sixth they had seen that month and the most malicious by far. The Privy Council had given them the task of apprehending the unknown authors. Quickly.

  “Every tradesman and apprentice in town is a suspect,” one member of the commission grumbled. “They all despise the foreigners.”

  “I say we offer a reward for information. One hundred crowns,” another said.

  His colleagues nodded.

  “Perhaps it would be wise to probe the Marlowe connection,” a third man suggested. “Search his lodgings, those of his associates…”

  Another agreed, “We should dispatch constables to find him and bring him in for questioning at once.”

  At that moment, a young messenger walked in with an official-looking document. He handed it to the head of the commission.

  “Gentlemen,” the man said, looking up. “This is to be easier than we thought. Should any suspect refuse to share with us what he knows, the Privy Council has granted us free rein to change his mind using any means we see fit.”

  9

  NEWYORKCITY—8:26A.M., THE PRESENT DAY

  Kate stood just inside the entrance of Doma in the West Village, scanning the café for a fam
iliar face. A flamboyantly dressed silver-haired man in the far corner, seated alone with an espresso and a sugared brioche, was staring at the backside of a teenage boy on his way out the door.

  Noticing Kate, he smiled shamelessly. “How’d ya find me, darlin’?”

  “Slipped a tracking device in your briefcase last month,” Kate said, sliding into the chair across from him. She ordered a mochaccino, then added, “Well, not really. You’ve just gotten a little, uh…”

  “Predictable? Oh, howboring,” he lamented in a lazy Georgia drawl. “On the other hand, it did bring me anenchanting surprise.”

  Edward Cherry, a top executive at Sotheby’s and a self-proclaimed southern belle, was a charmer. Also sleazy and unethical, but Kate found him useful from time to time, so she had built a relationship with him. She’d gained his trust through flattery, friendliness, and the false impression that her ethics were as elastic as his.

  “So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, dabbing his napkin at the corners of his mouth.

  “There’s a favor I could use, if you have the time.” Leaning in, Kate lowered her voice. “A client of mine has a few pieces in his collection he’d like to sell, but discreetly, if you know what I mean. The items are not exactly suitable for public auction.”

  “I see,” Edward said, a conspiratorial smile lighting up his face.

  Continuing with her fabricated story, Kate’s eyes darted to either side. “My client wants to approach a Rome-based dealer named Luca de Tolomei and asked me to check him out. De Tolomei’s rumored to specialize in this sort of situation. My client wants to make sure of that and also get a sense of his taste. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not much beyond the rumors, but I’ll make some inquiries for you. I can check our sales logs in Europe to see what he likes. Maybe even call one of those impish little bastards over at Christie’s.”