The Chapel bell called the Scholars to luncheon and they heard the kerfuffle on the stairs outside as dozens of feet made for the Great Hall. None of the three was in a mood to eat, but Marlowe made for the door.
‘I couldn’t eat a damned thing,’ Parker said, surprised by his friend’s speed.
‘Neither could I,’ Marlowe told him and Colwell and Parker looked at each other as they watched Marlowe tuck his dagger under his college robe before he nodded at them both and left.
Sir Edward Winterton’s carriage was creaking through the busy throng over Magdalene Bridge that afternoon. Marlowe had not spoken to the coroner at Bromerick’s inquest earlier in the day. He had expressed no surprise that Colwell and Parker had not been called because that was not how the law ran. A grubby stallholder, reeking of tallow, had been the First Finder and he mumbled his evidence with constant prodding to speak up from the coroner’s clerk. Constable Fludd told the court what he had found and Winterton had told the jury to deliver their verdict of accidental death. Justice, along with Marlowe, had already left the building at a trot.
Marlowe estimated it would take time for Winterton to leave the inquest. He had papers to read over and sign and a jury to dismiss and thank in time-honoured tradition before he wound his way home and Marlowe knew that his home was across Magdalene Bridge. The traffic was always heavy here, with the carriers’ carts rumbling south over the Cam on their way to London and the skiffs bumping each other as the river folk got on with their precarious existence. A man on foot, especially a man with a knife and a mission, could easily see what the hold-up was and could outpace the fastest wagon on the road.
Edward Winterton was just letting his eyelids droop to begin a short nap before luncheon when he felt a thud alongside him and a Corpus Christi Scholar sat there, staring at him. Winterton sat bolt upright and opened his mouth to cry out but Marlowe was faster and his dagger-blade tickled the roots of the man’s beard.
‘One thing I’ve noticed about gentlemen’s carriages like yours, Sir Edward, is that the driver has no view of the interior. Your man is no doubt efficient with the reins and whip but crafty devil that I am, I nipped in on his blind side. He doesn’t know I’m here. So if I were to slit your throat and hop off just over the bridge, nobody would be any the wiser, would they? Least of all Trumpy Joe Fludd. And some other idiot of a coroner would probably say it was an “Act of God”. Poor old Sir Edward! He was trimming his beard in his carriage one day when he slipped. What a calamity!’
Winterton turned his head as best he could. ‘I can only conclude, Master Machiavel, that you are mad.’
‘Depend upon it.’ Marlowe nodded. ‘But only nor’ by nor’west!’ He slipped the knife back in its sheath in his sleeve. ‘Tell me, in the name of all that’s holy, how you can instruct the jury to record the death of Henry Bromerick as accidental.’
‘Are you saying I don’t know my job, sir? You have just pulled a dagger on one of Her Majesty’s coroners, threatened his life. For that alone I could have you thrown out of the university and into a cell from which I doubt even one with your barefaced gall would ever escape.’
‘Henry Bromerick had bright green vomit,’ Marlowe said, ignoring the threat.
‘Of course,’ Winterton agreed. ‘The man was clearly ill.’
‘The man was clearly poisoned, Sir Edward. As was Ralph Whitingside.’
‘Whitingside?’
‘The King’s man at whose inquest we first met. You remembered me as Machiavel. Why can’t you remember the name of my friend?’
‘I remember it perfectly well, but why does everyone always think that the inquest in which they are interested is the only inquest in the world. I have sat on more than a few since your friend’s, Master Marlowe. A sad case of a drowned woman affected me deeply. Her sister was distraught. Crying. I hate a woman crying, it influences the jury. That family also were intent that it must be foul play. But I was merciful,’ Winterton said smoothly. ‘I decided to instruct the jury for a “found drowned”. Suicide would have unhinged the poor woman entirely. But, tell me, Master Marlowe; people have a habit of dying around you. Why is that, I wonder?’
‘So do I, Sir Edward. Both of these men were my friends. And both were given draughts of tincture of foxglove to drink.’
‘Foxglove?’ Winterton blinked. ‘I heard nothing of foxgloves. How the Devil do you come up with that?’
Now was not the time to involve Dee or the Devil, so Marlowe said, ‘Never mind. The fact is that that is what killed them both.’
‘Whitingside was different,’ Winterton said.
‘In what way?’ Marlowe asked as the carriage lurched forward to edge a few more paces before coming to a standstill.
‘I received a . . . deputation, shall we call it, on the morning of the inquest.’
‘A deputation?’ Marlowe frowned. ‘From whom?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Sir Edward . . .’ Marlowe straightened up, his hand going to his sleeve.
‘Don’t try to frighten me, sir, with your all-too-ready dagger. I fought at Pinkie. Had a halberd in my ribs that still gives me gyp all these years later.’
‘I am not trying to frighten you, Sir Edward,’ Marlowe said softly. ‘Just to remind you of your office. You speak for the Queen here, sir. And I’d like to think you speak for justice.’
Winterton paused for a moment, trying once again to see what lay behind the calm, unruffled, unfathomable face. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I had a deputation from King’s College. Dr Benjamin Steane, to be exact. Do you know him?’
Marlowe nodded. ‘I do. What did he want?’
‘He wanted to retain the honour of the college,’ the coroner told him.
‘He wanted you to lie for him.’
‘That’s rather strong,’ Winterton protested. ‘And he made no such request. He merely wondered whether it was possible to play the whole thing down, brush as much as possible under the rushes, as it were.’
‘Which led to the suicide verdict and a burial in unhallowed ground.’
Winterton looked at him. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of man who cares where anyone is buried.’
‘You may be right, Sir Edward,’ Marlowe said. ‘All places are alike and every earth is fit for burial. But I owe Ralph Whitingside more than that.’ He tipped his cap. ‘Many thanks for the lift, but I fear I am going in the wrong direction. Good day.’ And he jumped down from the carriage, vanishing instantly into the throng of scholars and tradesmen over Magdalene Bridge.
It was a little after two on a cloudless Cambridge day that Christopher Marlowe found Benjamin Steane. He was on his way via the St Catherine’s entrance, striding across the quad at King’s with his robes billowing out on the breeze.
‘Dr Steane?’ Marlowe hailed. ‘A word?’ And he doffed his hat.
‘Dominus Marlowe.’ Steane nodded back. ‘Will this take long? I have Discourses to deliver.’
‘Sir Edward Winterton,’ Marlowe said.
‘Ah.’ Steane looked a little shamefaced. ‘What did he tell you?’ The quad of King’s College was hardly the place for a private conversation, but Marlowe was in no mood to wait for a better time or place.
‘That you came to see him,’ the Corpus man said. ‘That you leaned on him in the case of Ralph Whitingside.’
‘Leaned . . .’ Steane was outraged. ‘That’s rather strong, Marlowe.’
‘Is it, sir? If you preferred something weaker, you should not have gone to the coroner.’
Steane stood for a moment, gnawing his lip. Then he clapped Marlowe on the shoulder. ‘Look around you, lad,’ he said, beaming. ‘What do you see?’
Marlowe looked, as he had so often, at the huge Gothic chapel of King’s, dwarfing every building in sight. He saw the midday sun dancing on the warm grey stone and the shadows of the gargoyles short on the trampled grass. ‘King’s,’ he said.
Steane smiled. ‘Ah, Master Marlowe. Where is the poet in you? I see an idea, a dream. The finest – and, saving your own dear college – the best in Cambridge. Ever been to Oxford?’