air, or stifling in second-hand alcohol and the shrimp pie sold by an unscrupulous pieman on the corner of Slaughter Yard.
Full of new milk and stewed apple from the buttery, he went humming a catch under his breath, up the stair to his room. As he turned the second corner, he sensed rather than heard the presence of someone on the landing. For one of the other scholars to be abroad and moving would have been a miracle by St Bibiana of a high level. Foxe’s Book of Martyrs was no longer required reading, but Marlowe read by instinct anything no longer smiled upon by authority and was familiar with the saints’ areas of expertise from the toes to the top of the head. No one who knew the Parker boys would have come up so early.
He reached the landing in two more bounds and, as he turned the final bend, saw Benjamin Steane, standing quietly outside the door, a rough bag at his feet and, leaning against the wall, a swept-hilt rapier, looking somehow lonely without a belt and body to support it.
‘Dr Steane,’ Marlowe said. ‘What brings you here so early?’
The Fellow of King’s jumped and put a hand to his chest. ‘Master Marlowe,’ he said, gasping. ‘I didn’t hear you come up the stairs. You must walk like a cat.’
Marlowe lifted each foot in turn, showing Steane his hob nails. ‘I don’t think so, Dr Steane,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your mind was elsewhere.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps. But, to the reason I am here; I came to give you such things of Master Whitingside’s which I thought his friends might like to have. Some books, some clothes. His sword. It was all I could find worth removing. Except the bed, perhaps, which anyway is college property.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Marlowe said, opening the bag and peering in. ‘But, can we move away from the door? My friends are inside . . . sleeping.’ He looked at the man, still standing almost pressed against the door. ‘Dr Steane? Are you feeling quite well? I must have badly startled you – I am so sorry. I’m sure the lads wouldn’t mind if you come in and sit down for a while.’
The clergyman gave him a wan smile. ‘I do feel a little faint, Master Marlowe. If I could come and sit down, that would be kind.’
Marlowe took out his key and, turning it with a dry shriek that must have been torture to the ears and heads inside, pushed the door open, calling, ‘Lads, we have a visitor. Make yourselves decent, if you please.’
He looked back over his shoulder at Steane, who looked paler than ever in the effluvium that oozed round the door.
Marlowe sniffed and grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Steane. It’s the shrimp pie. We all know not to buy it, but somehow . . .’
‘I understand, Master Marlowe. It is a favourite with King’s scholars too, I fear. Early service can be very trying in the choir stalls.’ With another smile and a slight push with his foot at the sack on the floor, Steane turned for the stairs. ‘I will leave the scholars to their . . . to their . . .’ Try though he might, he remained completely lost for words and settled for changing the subject. ‘There didn’t seem to be much in Master Whitingside’s rooms.’
‘It was good of you to look,’ Marlowe said, from the doorway. ‘It can’t have been pleasant in there.’
‘Indeed not, Master Marlowe, as you know only too well. But his bedder, Mistress Laurence, did the job for me. A sterling woman.’
‘Indeed,’ Marlowe said, turning to go into the room, swinging the bag with some difficulty over one shoulder and picking up the sword by the hilt. ‘Nice sword, Dr Steane. Are you sure this –’ he shrugged the shoulder under the sack and lifted the sword higher – ‘should not be going back to his estate?’
From halfway down the stairs, Steane said, ‘His estate is big enough, Master Marlowe. As it is, I believe there is some confusion over who inherits. Master Whitingside was a ward himself before he was eighteen, I understand, and there is only a
Full of new milk and stewed apple from the buttery, he went humming a catch under his breath, up the stair to his room. As he turned the second corner, he sensed rather than heard the presence of someone on the landing. For one of the other scholars to be abroad and moving would have been a miracle by St Bibiana of a high level. Foxe’s Book of Martyrs was no longer required reading, but Marlowe read by instinct anything no longer smiled upon by authority and was familiar with the saints’ areas of expertise from the toes to the top of the head. No one who knew the Parker boys would have come up so early.
He reached the landing in two more bounds and, as he turned the final bend, saw Benjamin Steane, standing quietly outside the door, a rough bag at his feet and, leaning against the wall, a swept-hilt rapier, looking somehow lonely without a belt and body to support it.
‘Dr Steane,’ Marlowe said. ‘What brings you here so early?’
The Fellow of King’s jumped and put a hand to his chest. ‘Master Marlowe,’ he said, gasping. ‘I didn’t hear you come up the stairs. You must walk like a cat.’
Marlowe lifted each foot in turn, showing Steane his hob nails. ‘I don’t think so, Dr Steane,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your mind was elsewhere.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps. But, to the reason I am here; I came to give you such things of Master Whitingside’s which I thought his friends might like to have. Some books, some clothes. His sword. It was all I could find worth removing. Except the bed, perhaps, which anyway is college property.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Marlowe said, opening the bag and peering in. ‘But, can we move away from the door? My friends are inside . . . sleeping.’ He looked at the man, still standing almost pressed against the door. ‘Dr Steane? Are you feeling quite well? I must have badly startled you – I am so sorry. I’m sure the lads wouldn’t mind if you come in and sit down for a while.’
The clergyman gave him a wan smile. ‘I do feel a little faint, Master Marlowe. If I could come and sit down, that would be kind.’
Marlowe took out his key and, turning it with a dry shriek that must have been torture to the ears and heads inside, pushed the door open, calling, ‘Lads, we have a visitor. Make yourselves decent, if you please.’
He looked back over his shoulder at Steane, who looked paler than ever in the effluvium that oozed round the door.
Marlowe sniffed and grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Steane. It’s the shrimp pie. We all know not to buy it, but somehow . . .’
‘I understand, Master Marlowe. It is a favourite with King’s scholars too, I fear. Early service can be very trying in the choir stalls.’ With another smile and a slight push with his foot at the sack on the floor, Steane turned for the stairs. ‘I will leave the scholars to their . . . to their . . .’ Try though he might, he remained completely lost for words and settled for changing the subject. ‘There didn’t seem to be much in Master Whitingside’s rooms.’
‘It was good of you to look,’ Marlowe said, from the doorway. ‘It can’t have been pleasant in there.’
‘Indeed not, Master Marlowe, as you know only too well. But his bedder, Mistress Laurence, did the job for me. A sterling woman.’
‘Indeed,’ Marlowe said, turning to go into the room, swinging the bag with some difficulty over one shoulder and picking up the sword by the hilt. ‘Nice sword, Dr Steane. Are you sure this –’ he shrugged the shoulder under the sack and lifted the sword higher – ‘should not be going back to his estate?’
From halfway down the stairs, Steane said, ‘His estate is big enough, Master Marlowe. As it is, I believe there is some confusion over who inherits. Master Whitingside was a ward himself before he was eighteen, I understand, and there is only a
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