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

tight-arse and next thing we knew he had Frizer’s dagger from his belt and was knocking him about the head with the pommel.’

‘What about his own dagger?’

‘He’d taken his sword and buckle off when we sat and put them in the corner with his belt. He was lying down, you see, on the bench at the side.’

‘And Frizer’s blade got pushed into Marlowe’s eye?’

‘So he says, Frizer. I didn’t see it until after it happened. It was all so quick. They both fell against me, almost knocked me off my chair. Then Marlowe went down, taking Frizer with him, nearly. He was cursing and holding his face and there was blood running down the backs of his hands.’

‘He died quick, then?’

‘Pretty quick.’

He spoke more freely now, whether because he was describing something still vivid or because he was rehearsing an agreed account I couldn’t say. The three accounts matched, as the coroner had found, but you’d expect that, whether true or false. ‘Some say his death was planned,’ I ventured.

His surprise looked genuine, although it would, of course, with Poley. ‘Who says? Who by and for what?’

‘Rumours, gossip, loose talk in taverns. Don’t credit it myself but it’s what people say.’

Poley shook his head. ‘If anyone wanted Kit Marlowe dead there were easier ways of doing it than staging a fight you have to justify in court. A walk by the river after dark and a shove off the jetty would’ve done for him, the amount he’d drunk. Went for a piss and must have fell in, was all you’d need to say. I’ve known it done.’

I didn’t doubt it.

I rode out to Scadbury again a few weeks after I had talked to Frizer there, bearing another contrived message from Sir Robert. I had high hopes that Thomas Walsingham might be more forthcoming than the others because he appreciated drama and poetry and had evidently been fond of Christopher. He might have known him more personally rather than merely as a possible business partner. And Christopher must have admired and felt something for him because his long poem Hero and Leander, although not published until about five years after his death, was dedicated to Thomas Walsingham. It is a very great poem, I understand.

He received me most cordially, entertaining me for the night as a great storm came on which would have made my journey home treacherous. After we had dined his wife retired and Thomas and I sat by the fire in the hall. Frizer, happily, was away in nearby Eltham on some business or other. I have heard he lives there still, a respectable family man, churchwarden and tax assessor. Other than myself, he is the only one still living who was involved in that business. Yet he, the man who killed Christopher, who felt his last breath and his blood hot on his hands, is not questioned about this matter. So why am I? Can you at least tell me that, sir?

Ah, is that so? You have? His mind wanders. Thought you were the King, did he? And has no memory of Christopher? Or so he says. Well, it comes to us all if we live long enough.

Back to Thomas Walsingham, yes. He wished he had known Christopher better, he said. Every day he wished that. Until Christopher was gone he did not realise how often he thought of him, how frequently his words came into his head, how much more he would have asked him. I told him I felt the same. As we spoke his brown eyes became soft and melancholy and his beard took on a reddish tinge in the firelight. ‘You are familiar with his verses?’

‘No, to my sorrow, I am not.’

‘You should be.’

‘How did Frizer kill him?’

He sighed. ‘They argued, I understand, and Christopher attacked him. They were never friends, always sparks between them. Christopher was drunk, they told me. I can believe that. He was becoming too fond of his drink and he was prone to – to passions, drunk or sober. Did you find that? Did you know him in his passion?’

‘I knew him for a fighter when roused.’

He looked at me as if expecting me to go on, then turned back to the fire. ‘I was more than sad when I heard. I had hoped that we – he and I – but I cannot blame Ingram. It was not his fault. And Christopher was fiery in his passions.’

‘There was nothing behind his death? No one who wanted him dead or quietened?’

‘Why should anyone want that? He was no threat to anyone.’ He continued staring into the fire, then added quietly, ‘There was some jealousy between them, I suppose. Him and Ingram.’

‘Jealousy of what?’

‘Personal, merely personal.’

I never did discover what he meant. I asked about Ralegh and free-thinking and Christopher’s work for us, which Thomas knew all about, but neither of us could think of any plausible plot or motive for a conspiracy to kill him. I mentioned Essex, too, saying that Skeres had become a servant of Essex. Had Frizer?

Thomas shook his head. ‘Ingram is not a political animal. He is a practical down-to-earth man. Any talk of Court affairs frightens him. It’s the only thing that does, I think.’

‘And Poley? He is a very political animal.’

‘And a very cautious one. That is how he survives. He serves Robert Cecil, does he not? He wouldn’t jump from that ship unless he knew it was sinking. Which it plainly isn’t, from what I see. Father and son have their hands on the tiller. The Queen heeds them, not Essex, not Ralegh, nor anyone else.’

I mentioned tavern rumours to the effect that Christopher’s death might have been intended or willed by free-thinkers around Ralegh in order to protect themselves. He was as unpersuaded as I was.

‘It doesn’t make any sense. Ralegh is keeping his head down in Devon. If anyone worried about what Christopher might say they’d get him to flee abroad. As he could have done himself if he