Marlowe had not and shook his head.
‘An average place,’ Steane said, scowling. ‘A tradesman’s town, full of meanness of spirit. Here in the Fens we are at the cutting edge of scholarship – and of religion. Mark my words, Marlowe, what happens in Cambridge today happens in the rest of the world tomorrow.’
‘And what has this to do with Ralph Whitingside?’ Marlowe was unimpressed.
Steane checked that no one was in earshot and he led Marlowe into the corner of the quad, far enough away from any staircase entrance for no one to be able to hear them. ‘In this great country of ours,’ he murmured, ‘we are all bought and paid for. All – every one of us – somebody’s man. At the moment, I am the Provost’s.’
‘Go on.’
‘Dr Goad has lived most of his life in these hallowed halls,’ he said. ‘Not, like you and me, a handful of years. It would kill him if the honour of King’s were to be impugned.’
‘So he sent you to Winterton?’ Marlowe asked.
‘Let’s just say, he made a . . . suggestion.’ Steane groped for his words. ‘And before you go haring off to the Provost like the bull at a gate you are, hear me out.’
Marlowe stayed put.
‘Bad enough that Whitingside died in the college. But that murder should be involved . . . Better the world thinks it is self-slaughter. Less fuss. Less finger-pointing at King’s and all it stands for. Everyone looking at everyone else, looking for the skull beneath the skin.’
Marlowe was still unimpressed and Steane knew that he was. ‘For what it’s worth,’ the King’s man said, ‘I happen to think you’re right.’
Marlowe looked at him. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked.
‘Whitingside was murdered. But I have no idea how or by whom.’
‘I have an idea how, Dr Steane,’ Marlowe said. ‘As to by whom . . .’
They were both suddenly aware of a figure hovering near them, on the flagstones to Steane’s left. Marlowe glanced across and recognized Will Latimer, Whitingside’s servant, standing there, cap in hand.
‘Beg pardon, Masters.’ Latimer bowed as though to royalty.
‘What is it?’ Steane and Marlowe chorused.
‘May I have a word with Master Marlowe, sirs?’ Latimer could grovel for England when the mood took him.
Steane waved the pair aside but he had not finished with Marlowe and waited a few paces away.
‘Er . . . this is a little awkward, sir.’ Latimer was scrunching his cap in both hands. ‘Only since . . . what happened to the Master . . . I’ve been by way of being unemployed, so to speak.’
‘Yes,’ said Marlowe curtly. ‘It’s the way of the world.’
‘Yes.’ Latimer hopped from foot to foot. ‘Yes, it may be, sir. But . . . well, I have debts.’
Marlowe smiled a wintry smile. ‘Ah yes, the card school at the Devil. Or was it your father’s funeral? But in either of those situations, Will, as I’ve told you before, never lead with the king. Play the knave next time – it’s more you, if you won’t mind my speaking bluntly.’ And he turned back to Steane.
‘Sir!’ Latimer blurted out. ‘I am a masterless man, sir. Without my income I will have to leave Cambridge.’
Marlowe turned back to him. ‘Will, I am a Parker scholar. I have four pounds a year on which to live. There are the college fees, my board and lodging. I don’t know whether you realize it but the Corpus buttery is the most expensive in Cambridge.’ He closed to the man. ‘It’s tough all over,’ he said.
‘Latimer,’ Steane interrupted. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear. Come to see me at cock-shut time. There are various college funds – nothing huge, mind – but I won’t see a former college servant starve.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Latimer blurted out, grabbing the man’s hand and kissing it. ‘Thank you.’
Steane laughed, pulling his hand away. ‘Wait until you see what I can do for you before you are so grateful, Latimer.’ He waved the man away and the servant ran in a humble crouch round the side of the building and was gone.
‘That’s very generous of you, sir,’ said Marlowe. ‘He wasn’t what I would call a loyal servant to Ralph.’
Steane shrugged. ‘I wonder if Dr Falconer and Dr Thirling have spoken with you yet, Marlowe?’
‘They are always civil if we meet in the street,’ Marlowe said. ‘But if, as I assume you do, you mean about something specific, then, no, they haven’t.’
Steane coughed and shuffled his feet. ‘I am to be married soon, Dominus Marlowe and need a choir for the service. With Whitingside . . . er . . .’
Marlowe inclined his head in understanding and also to hide the surprise on his face at the news of a wedding.
‘And a couple of choristers rusticated for . . . er . . .’
This time, the head was raised. ‘. . . being boys?’ Marlowe asked.
‘We need some extra singers.’ Steane chose to ignore the question. ‘Your name was mentioned first, of course, as it is the length and breadth of Cambridge when any deputizing is required.’ Steane smiled ingratiatingly. ‘And then we wondered if a couple of the other Parker scholars would make up the numbers as well.’
Marlowe gave a bark of humourless laughter. ‘A couple is all you can have, Dr Steane. Colwell and Parker are all that are left.’
Steane looked puzzled. ‘But surely . . . What has happened to . . . umm, Bromwick, is it?’
‘Bromerick, sir. Bromerick is dead. You haven’t got a monopoly on murder at King’s – it’s happened at Corpus too.’
The afternoon drowsed along, and Kit Marlowe with it. Seated in his customary place at the back, feet up on the back of the chair in front, cap firmly over his eyes, he let Dr Lyler’s golden words sink in to his brain as they may. He often infuriated his fellow scholars by appearing to sleep but then, when suddenly asked by a Fellow what the subject of the Discourse might be, through which he was apparently snoozing he would, with no discernible effort, not only repeat the last ten minutes verbatim, but also rationalize and comment on the content. It would be easy, some said, to hate Kit Marlowe. And many did.
Gabriel Harvey occasionally carried a pomander with him as he strode through Cambridge. It was not strictly necessary around the colleges, but it was around the colleges he normally strode, attracting as much attention as he could. He hobnobbed that Wednesday afternoon with a couple of his old colleagues from Pembroke Hall and was just cutting through Trinity Street when he heard his name, hissed and secret.
‘Dr Harvey!’
He spun to allow his robes to billow wide and took a vicious sniff of the pomander.
‘I am he,’ he said.
‘Robert Greene, Doctor,’ the man said.
Nothing. Harvey continued walking.
‘Dr Harvey.’ Greene scrabbled alongside him, trying to keep up with the man’s great strides. ‘Don’t you remember? We spoke the other day. Of Kit Marlowe.’
Suddenly Harvey was all ears. He stood still and looked the man in the face. He wore no college robes, but a roisterer’s jerkin and Spanish ruff. His hair was the colour of overcooked carrots and the afternoon sun bounced off the brilliant in his left ear. Harvey’s eyes narrowed. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘You told me he read Machiavelli, which I knew. That he paid his buttery bills with the proceeds of tavern gambling, at which I had guessed. That he translates Ovid in the most obscene way possible – all right, I didn’t know that, but I wasn’t too surprised. What new libel have you come up with?’
Greene was hurt. ‘Forgive me, Dr Harvey,’ he said. ‘I was under the impression that any of those offences would cost Master Marlowe his degree.’
‘Remind me, sir,’ Harvey snapped. ‘Are you of this university?’
‘I am, sir,’ Greene told him, standing taller. ‘A graduate of St John’s.’
Harvey snorted. ‘Then who are you to tell me what constitutes a sending down?’ And he spun on his heel.
‘There is one crime,’ Greene called out, ‘for which a man can be hanged in this great country of ours.’
Harvey stopped, the pomander halfway to his nose. He turned slowly. ‘Name it,’ he said.