Dark Entry by M. J. Trow Page B

very distant cousin who is still to be contacted. So, please –’ Steane pointed to the sack – ‘divide the books, read and enjoy them and wear the clothes. I am sure that is what Master Whitingside would have wanted.’ And he disappeared around the turn in the stairs and was gone.
    Marlowe was in the buttery again later that day. It was between lectures and he was still wrestling with the intricacies of Ralph Whitingside’s journal. Against that the Civil Law as droned about by Dr Lyler had few attractions. But if Marlowe would not go to the law, the law would come to him.
    He heard the clatter of hoofs in The Court and saw through the wobbling distortion of the glass two horses, lathered with sweat, one rider helping the other out of the saddle. He recognized them at once and throwing his buttered crust to Henry Bromerick, who looked at it with still-queasy distaste, he dashed outside.
    ‘Sir Roger!’ he shouted, bowing extravagantly in front of the older of the riders. Roger Manwood was a great bear of a man with heavy jowls and a broken nose – no one dared ask him how he got it.
    ‘Christopher, my boy!’ Roger Manwood held out his arms and clasped the scholar to him. ‘Let me look at you.’ He held him at arms’ length. ‘You’ve lost weight.’ He patted Marlowe’s chest. ‘They’re not feeding you properly.’
    ‘I get by, sir.’ Marlowe laughed.
    ‘You know Nicholson.’ It was a statement of fact.
    Marlowe nodded to Manwood’s servant. ‘William,’ he said.
    ‘Master Marlowe.’ Nicholson grinned. He had the surly scowl of many Kentishmen, but he’d go to the rack for Sir Roger Manwood. He liked the lad well enough, but he liked his sister Ann even better and wasn’t sure how young Christopher would take to that bit of information. Better keep it under his codpiece for the moment.
    ‘Have you ridden through the day?’ Marlowe asked Manwood.
    ‘And half the bloody night,’ Manwood said. ‘The roads up here are appalling, Christopher.’
    Marlowe laughed. ‘Wait till you try the beer.’
    ‘I’m staying with Francis Hynde at Madingley Hall tonight, and perhaps for a day or two. Unless he’s lost his impeccable taste since I saw him last, his cellar’s the best in Cambridge, if not all the Fenlands.’ he looked around him, struggling to adjust his belt and rapier. ‘So, this is Bene’t College.’
    ‘We call it Corpus Christi nowadays, sir,’ Marlowe said. ‘I’d show you my room, but it’s probably full of people like Colwell and Parker by now and I fear we won’t all get in.’
    Manwood had vague memories of the boys from back home, but, seen one Parker scholar, seen them all, really. ‘Is there an ordinary nearby? I’m famished.’
    ‘The Copper Kettle does a very good pastry, Sir Roger. Unfortunately . . .’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Well, it’s quite expensive. We poor scholars . . .’
    ‘Nonsense. This is on me. Er . . .’ he felt his purse. ‘Well, not me exactly. I seem to have left my other purse at home. Nicholson?’
    The servant sighed. He’d been here before.
    ‘Hoo-hoo, Sir Roger!’ A voice called from the buttery doorway.
    Manwood dipped his head away from the sound and scowled. ‘Oh, Lord. Tell me that’s not the Bromerick boy.’ Not all Parker scholars looked the same, he suddenly realized.
    ‘Henry, sir,’ Marlowe said. ‘Salt of the earth.’
    ‘Sod of the earth,’ Manwood muttered. ‘How he ever got a Parker scholarship, I’ll never know. Get me out of here, Christopher. I feel my old trouble coming on.’ He waved to Bromerick with as much bonhomie as he could muster. ‘Hello. Must dash, Henry. I’m sure I will see you later.’
    Bromerick nodded, waving enthusiastically.
    ‘And hopefully, that will be a full ten minutes before you see me,’ Manwood muttered, hurrying for the main gate with Marlowe. ‘So,’ he said, as they strode through the archway and on to the High Ward, ‘you call it Corpus Christi, eh? Bit Papist, isn’t