'Be on your best behaviour, Sir Henry!' he warned Gresham with a twinkle in his eye.*No less a person than the Bishop of Ely has asked to come to tonight's dinner.'
'Asked?' said Gresham.
'Indeed,' replied Sidesmith. 'He was preaching at Great St Mary's some weeks ago, and I went to listen, as one does. We were admiring the new tower. If I remember, his words were that if the college would see fit to invite him, he would see fit to accept. Oh, and by the way, he asked explicitly if you would be dining.'
The instinct for survival had placed tiny trip wires in Gresham's mind, trip wires that rang a jangle of bells inside his head when they were disturbed. Suddenly the noise was deafening, audible only to Gresham. One of the greatest theologians Cambridge had ever produced and the ex-Master of Pembroke Hall was entitled to invite himself for a dinner, wasn't he? And Gresham's dark reputation might be an added lure for a stately prelate, might it not? Whether or not he would appreciate the company of Gresham's guest was another matter. Bishop Lancelot Andrewes and Sir Edward Coke as bosom friends? Gresham rather doubted it. Yet such strange meetings were at the heart of college life — the clash of ideologies, the spur of debate and the strange conjoinings of people united only by their intelligence.
It had amused Gresham to invite Coke as his guest. It gave Gresham an edge, forced Coke to conform to the rituals of being an invitee. It was also time they met on home ground. Coke was a Trinity man, and Gresham guessed that curiosity about the torrent of novelty that was Granville College would override suspicion on Coke's part. He also guessed that under the carapace that hid Coke's real feelings from the world lay the fierce, burning fascination with university felt by all men who had left it.
'Are your rooms to your satisfaction?' enquired Gresham solicitously as Coke sidled in to the Combination Room. Coke never walked, Gresham had noted. He either paraded or sidled. The rooms in question had been built to receive James I on his visit to Granville College.
'Quite satisfactory, thank you, Sir Henry,' replied Coke drily. His eyes flickered over Gresham's face, forever seeking advantage, weakness, a loophole. 'Fit for a king, even.' A sense of humour, noted Gresham. A very limited sense of humour, dry almost to despair, but a sense of humour nonetheless and therefore very interesting. Was Coke offering an olive branch? More likely it was poison ivy. Gresham motioned Coke aside and into one of the bay windows that flanked the room, unaware of the natural courtesy with which he treated one of his bitterest enemies.
'Let's make this a university night, if you agree. But there is business. It can be disposed of quickly, if you're willing,' said Gresham.
It was as if he were on holiday, Gresham thought, sensing the lightness in his own soul. The college did this to him. Its backbiting and its petty rivalries followed known and even agreed rules. The backbiting and petty rivalries of Court knew no rules, nor any limit on the damage they might cause. By comparison life in a Cambridge college was heaven on earth to the hell of the Court.
That hooded look came over Coke's eyes, and he could not resist glancing over his shoulder, but he nodded. You would be no spy, thought Gresham. That look over your shoulder tells any interested party that you are worried about what we are going to discuss. It screams guilt to the careful watcher.
'Firstly, I know it's Marlowe who has possession of these papers.'
A tic started in Coke's left eye.
'He's already tried to kill me in the theatre incident you know about.'
Coke's face went red. Interesting. Most men went white when shocked with sudden news. Was the red the red of anger? Did Coke become angry when shocked, seeing everything as a personal attack? i've a host of men out searching for'him, here and in London. He'll be found, eventually, though he's gone to ground.'
'How long before Marlowe is found?' Coke's voice was grating, sharp. He did not challenge the identification of Marlowe. It was as if his mind ticked an issue off, like a clerk with a list of household goods up for sale. Once ticked, however threatening or revelatory, it was gone, merely a piece of information.
So you knew, thought Gresham, who this Cambridge bookseller was, as did Cecil. Yet you did not think it important to tell me.
Coke's eyes were dark pinpricks. Gresham decided to answer his question.
'Tonight. Three months on. Who knows? Patience is crucial to this game we play, Sir Edward. Without it, the tension eats us up from within, burns our soul. And another concern who's gone to ground is Shakespeare. Vanished from London and from Stratford.'
'Shakespeare was always the lesser concern,' said Coke, a little too hurriedly. 'Could Marlowe have killed him?' Coke was uncertain, hiding it beneath a face that might now have been carved out of plaster. Clinical. That was the word. He was driven by huge self-esteem and vast pride, but at the point of contact with his conscious mind all that emotion, all that energy, became focused into something as hard and cold as steel. His own ambition. Does this man have the capacity to love another human being? thought Gresham.
'Marlowe's made one very theatrical attempt to kill him already. Equally, with that knowledge in mind, Shakespeare may have simply gone into hiding.'
The real cause of Old Ben's death had been known to very few people. One of them had been willing to talk to Gresham for a purse that could have doubled as ballast for a big ship by its weight.
'Your answer on Overbury?' Gresham asked. He had written to Coke detailing the bare outline of the attack, and been unequivocal in his demand. Find out if Overbury was behind the attack on Gresham and Jane.
Coke sighed. It was a theatrical gesture, but for the briefest of moments, his age — he was sixty — showed through the veneer of his face.
'As best as I can judge, Overbury knew nothing of the attack on you. He is an impossible man.' There was venom in Coke's voice. 'The only certainty about him is his arrogance. I base my conclusion on the vehemence with which he expressed the wish that you and your kin had been slaughtered, while denying setting up the assault. If it had been his idea, he would have bragged about it.'
Coke had the capacity to be glaringly honest when he so chose. It was an excellent ploy, thought Gresham. The brief moments of sincerity served to validate the months of lies.
'We must join the assembly,' said Gresham. 'Before we do, tell me about the atmosphere in Court. Is the King troubled by the loss of these letters? Indeed, does he know the letters are lost?'
'The King? I have told him. After much agonising on my part. It seemed best,' said Coke.
Best? thought Gresham. The theft of the letters shows Carr and Overbury to be fools, it tells the King that Robert Cecil trusted Coke above all others and makes it clear that Coke is a man of discretion, not one to blab secrets to the whole world. Best, therefore, for Sir Edward Coke. 'He is troubled, certainly,' Coke carried on smoothly. 'The letters are, by the way, in his own hand, so I believe.' And therefore infinitely more damning and damaging. What prompted men to put things in writing? Or women, for that matter? It had killed Mary, Queen of Scots, and could have done the same for Elizabeth. 'Yet His Majesty… seems more fickle by the moment.'
Fickle? Drunk, more likely, and settling in to an ever-increasing lassitude. Nor had he appointed a successor to Cecil, though it was believed to be only a matter of time before the job went to the beautiful Robert Carr. Which meant, of course, that the real power would be in the hands of Sir Thomas Overbury.