A Fine Madness Alan Judd (beach read book txt) 📖

He was lucky to survive Essex’s eventual downfall, though as I think I’ve said already he spent much of the rest of his life in prison for his cozening.

Since we had no natural way of meeting – because of the way my earlier work for Lord Essex had ended I was reluctant to remind him or his circle of my existence – it took time to devise an encounter. Eventually I contrived to run into him on the street after one of his court appearances. I feigned delight and surprise, which should have alerted him since we were never close. He seemed preoccupied and distracted and I took advantage of his state to offer him sustenance in an inn. He was never one to refuse free fodder.

For a while we discussed mutual acquaintances and the progress of the case against him, which of course I agreed was monstrously unjust and unreasonable. I compared it with a former and equally monstrous case against both him and Frizer which I knew about. Having mentioned Frizer, I was then able to ask after him.

‘He does well enough for himself,’ he said with a hint of resentment. ‘He manages properties for Thomas Walsingham and his wife. He is trusted with the rents.’ He rubbed his forrid with the back of his hand, a regular habit.

More than you would be, I thought. ‘He did well to come out of the Kit Marlowe affair with no stain upon him.’

His pale blue eyes looked out at me from beneath his hand. ‘He deserved to, it was not his fault. Marlowe fell upon him of a sudden.’

‘Why? What provoked it?’

‘The reckoning. They argued about the reckoning.’

‘Is that all? Nothing else?’

‘It was enough. Marlowe was close with money.’

‘I had heard there was something else, some disagreement.’

He shrugged. ‘They goaded each other. They always did.’

‘But Frizer had invited him that day, had he not?’

‘So far as I know. I didn’t know he would be there. They came from Scadbury where they stayed with Thomas Walsingham. I came from London.’

‘What was it about, the meeting?’

Until that point he had answered carelessly, as if the whole episode was of little concern and he was weary of it. But now the vacancy of his pale eyes became a deliberate, sullen blankness. ‘Property matters.’

‘I didn’t know Marlowe had an interest in property. He didn’t own any, did he?’

‘He could’ve if he hadn’t lost his temper.’

‘That was ever his fault.’ We sat in silence. I sensed that he was about to leave, having had his fill. ‘Of course, he was reporting to the Court at this time, wasn’t he? An investigation into heresies?’

‘Something like that.’

‘He was associated with Sir Walter Ralegh, I heard.’

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘There wasn’t much blood. Considering it killed him, there wasn’t much.’

‘Frizer must’ve stabbed hard.’

‘He didn’t stab at all. He grabbed his arm and Marlowe’s momentum carried him onto the knife.’

‘The blade was pointing backwards at him, was it?’

‘Couldn’t see clearly from where I was. But it must’ve been because he was pommelling him. It was over so quickly, over before it started.’

‘There was bad blood between them, wasn’t there? Ingram and Marlowe?’

‘They niggled each other, as I said. Marlowe especially. He had a way of getting under Ingram’s skin. Walsingham kept the peace.’

‘What was it that got under Marlowe’s skin that day?’

‘Didn’t like hearing the truth about himself.’

‘Which was?’

The blankness returned to his eyes. ‘What d’you want to know for? He’s dead. It was self-defence, no question about it, the law says. His own fault. What’s your interest?’

‘He was a friend, I liked him.’

‘No one else misses him. Cocky bastard.’ He yawned.

I offered more ale but he was tired, he said, had had enough talk for one day. We parted with the simulacrum of fellowship, never to meet again. That would have troubled neither of us, had we known it.

Robert Poley was another matter but I didn’t have to seek him out: he came to me, knocking on the door of our house in Leadenhall Street one morning. It was my late father’s house, Mary’s being then let to another play-maker and poet who shared it with a doctor. Poley was smiling and breezy, an honest man of the world going cheerfully about his business. We sat at my table with ale, bread and cheese. He asked what I did to keep body and soul together. I had actually been doing a small piece of French deciphering for Sir Robert but couldn’t talk about that so I talked about the family business I had inherited, the collection of duties on behalf of the custom house. It was flourishing although hard to keep track of it all, even with Mary’s help. In the past my secret work had been a great distraction and I knew the business owed the Queen considerable sums going back to my father’s time, but it was a problem to estimate them. With some of the money I had enlarged my lands in Yorkshire and Essex, intending to pay what I owed from the earnings, but that had not always proved possible. Also, I never had payment for my work for Mr Secretary, only occasional favours, as was the custom then. It was a great favour that he had secured for me a pension from the Queen of 100 guineas a year for delivering Babington.

Poley broke his bread and cheese into little pieces – he had few teeth left – and asked how the collection of duties worked. He obviously had some scheme afoot, since I had never known him so amiable, but I knew better than to ask. If he wanted me to know he would tell me; if he didn’t he would mislead me, no matter how I asked.

Eventually, he said, ‘You must wonder why I ask these questions, Thomas.’

‘You have your eye on a similar position for yourself?’

‘No, but I wonder whether the money you collect could be put to better use, whether it could be made to work harder.’

‘For me?’

‘For us both.’

The scheme