as he sheathed his dagger. ‘Marlowe offended many people in his short life. But this smacks of careful planning and authority.’
The scar-faced man crossed to the small window and peered out over the thatch and clay tiles of the Bankside rooftops towards the river. ‘This is not good weather for any of us. Yet I cannot see a pattern here. In Marlowe’s murder the culprit is known, and no attempt was made to hide the body or the crime. But the attack on Will at the Rose was a different matter, as was the brutality inflicted on Gavell.’
‘If the Unseelie Court truly is eliminating spies who know of them, one by one, there may well be no pattern,’ the Earl mused. ‘Any means of dispatch would suffice.’
‘But this is a conspiracy of madness.’ Carpenter watched the men at work in the fields and dreamed of another life. ‘Men at court working alongside our traditional Enemy? That is like lambs lying down with wolves.’
He had a sense of the world closing in around him. It was bad enough that his only real friend was Launceston, who appeared to have no human feelings and lived only for killing.
‘Hurrm,’ the Earl grunted at his back.
‘What is it?’ Carpenter snapped.
‘The room has been torn apart. Whoever did it must have believed that Marlowe had information which could be of use to us.’ The pale-faced man continued to turn slowly, studying every aspect of his surroundings. ‘What did our playwright discover?’
Carpenter righted a stool and sat on it. ‘We might have got more information from the landlord if you hadn’t been overcome by your feverish desire to draw blood,’ he growled irritably.
‘And do you think it is pleasant for me to listen to your whining morning, noon and night?’ Kneeling, the Earl began to examine the upended table.
‘And that is the thanks I get? Where would you be without me? Your head on a pike at the bridge gates, I would wager.’ The surly Carpenter kicked a goblet across the room in anger. ‘What now? Are you ignoring me?’
Launceston traced his pale fingers across the tabletop and then righted it. With the back of his hand, he brushed off the dirt and then grabbed a fistful of plaster dust, spraying it across the wood. Carpenter watched him curiously. Leaning close to the surface, the Earl gently blew the surplus dust away. He studied what remained behind for a moment and then said, ‘Here.’
The scar-faced man came over and saw, first of all, an outline in white where the dust had filled the grooves carved by a knife. It formed a circle with a square within it, the same symbol that they had both witnessed at the deadhouse, carved into the back of the spy Gavell.
‘Marlowe knew of Gavell’s murderer,’ Carpenter said in a quiet, thoughtful voice.
‘Or he must have known this sign had some special significance.’ The Earl drew a finger around the outline. ‘I would say he carved it here one night, while ruminating over the meaning of what he had discovered.’
‘There.’ Carpenter pointed to letters carved into the wood near the symbol.
Launceston threw more plaster dust on the surface to make the words clearer. ‘Clement. Makepiece. Swyfte. Marlowe. Gavell. Shipwash. Pennebrygg. And here, further down, Devereux, with a question mark.’
‘Robert Devereux? The Earl of Essex?’
‘Perhaps. The family is old, with many branches.’
Carpenter’s eyes widened. ‘All spies. Swyfte, Marlowe, Gavell – in order. If this is a list of victims, then those poor bastards Clement and Makepiece are already dead. I have not seen either of them in recent weeks.’
‘Nor I.’
‘We must warn Shipwash and Pennebrygg—’
Launceston held up a hand to silence his companion. ‘Think clearly, you droning codpiece. Why are these spies listed out of all our fellow liars, cheats and murderers? How would Marlowe know these names in advance of the murders being committed, or some of them, at least?’
A noise at the door brought a flash of steel. In an instant, the two men were either side of the entrance, silent, poised, glinting daggers at the ready. At Carpenter’s nod, Launceston tore open the door and dragged in a figure in a grey-hooded cloak, poised on the threshold.
With a cry, the stranger turned, throwing off her hood, to reveal black hair and a pale, pretty face. ‘Wait. It is I.’
‘Alice? What are you doing here?’ Carpenter said, shocked. His eyes flickered towards the Earl, who studied the woman icily. Though the face gave nothing away, the scarred spy could read every