Crimson Rose by M. J. Trow Page A

since his arrest by an eternally grateful Walter Hodgett, who had only ever had one line in his life before this. Hodgett had stood where Marlowe stood now, lining up an invisible arquebus, to shoot the dangling Governor. There was no more risk-taking with shot and charges, for all most of today’s crowd had turned up to see it. They may have hoped to see the Governor riddled with shot and jerking like a marionette at the end of his chains but all they got was a rattle of a thunder board and they had to imagine the rest.
    Marlowe cursed and shook his head. He couldn’t work out a damned thing without props. And the prop in question, the gun that had killed Eleanor Merchant, was now officially deemed the deodand, part of the estate of her murderer and no one except Sir William Danby was ever likely to see that again. Still, any gun would do and Marlowe went in search of one.
    ‘Kit?’ Thomas Sledd was in the Tiring Room, his mouth full of twine as he patched Zenocrate’s gown.
    ‘Thomas.’ Marlowe had assumed he was alone. ‘Got a gun?’
    ‘Yes,’ the stage manager said slowly. He and Kit Marlowe went back a while, and he knew this man. He was Machiavel; he was quicksilver – for all he knew, he was the Devil himself. What was he up to now?
    ‘Come with me.’ The two of them, the arquebus in Marlowe’s hand, strode back out on to the stage. ‘Get your ladder up there,’ Marlowe told him and Sledd obliged. ‘Up you go.’
    ‘What are you going to do?’ Sledd asked, hesitating on the first rung.
    ‘Keep Will Shakespeare out of gaol. He didn’t like the decor very much. Show me where the ledge is, the one where the Governor puts his feet. I can’t see it from down here.’
    ‘That’s the general idea,’ Sledd told him. ‘Tamburlaine’s not much of a scourge of God, is he, if he lets his enemies have a little rest before he has them shot?’
    ‘Clever, Thomas,’ Marlowe said. ‘I knew there had to
be
a reason Henslowe kept you on.’
    ‘Oh, ha.’ Sledd was halfway up the ladder now. ‘Ow. Shit.’
    ‘Problem?’ Marlowe called.
    ‘Splinter.’ Sledd winced. ‘Right down the quick of my nail.’ He sucked at his thumb. ‘Never mind, all in a day’s work. Now what?’
    ‘Your feet are at the level of the ledge are they?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Stop there, then.’ Marlowe brought the arquebus up to the level, the ornate butt hard against his shoulder and his eyes narrowing along the barrel to the sight. ‘I’ve never fired one of these. What happens, to the shot, I mean?’
    ‘All depends,’ Sledd said. ‘They’re all different, of course. Some dip, others rise. Still others skew right or left.’
    ‘Don’t any of them actually hit their target?’
    Sledd laughed. ‘That’s where the skill of the shooter comes in,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to make allowances, see. Even note the wind if you’re shooting in the open, as you usually would be. One thing’s certain, though, they’ve all got a kick like a bloody ass. No wonder Will’s shot went wide.’
    ‘But did it, Thomas?’ Marlowe was half talking to himself. ‘Did it?’ He lowered the gun. ‘Run your fingers over the wall. There, about shoulder height. No, to the right.’
    Sledd did as he was told, wondering what the point was in … ‘Hello?’
    ‘Something?’ Marlowe crossed to the ladder. He saw Sledd rubbing the flat with his fingers, then reach for his knife and start attacking the woodwork.
    ‘Bugger me!’ Sledd said. ‘It’s a lead ball.’
    ‘Show me.’ Marlowe caught it as Sledd let go and he held it up to the little light he had. ‘Dented to one side,’ he murmured.
    ‘Where it hit the frame,’ Sledd said, slapping the timber to show its sturdy construction.
    ‘Where it came from Shaxsper’s gun,’ Marlowe said.
    ‘What?’ Sledd did the old stage manager’s trick and slid down the ladder’s uprights as though the rungs weren’t there. He took the lead ball. ‘But it can’t be, Kit.’ He