Witch Hammer by M. J. Trow Read Free Book Online

your beer, your wine, your coney, your chicken. Lawyers of course cost more, but no one in the Clink could afford a lawyer and they never came near the place.
    He couldn’t tell, then, how much time had passed before he heard the rattle of locks and the squeal as his cell door opened on protesting hinges. The turnkey thudded in first, a man with shoulders like linen presses who had banged Alleyn’s bracelet into place an eternity before. But it was the man behind him who grabbed the player’s attention. He was tall and elegant with a plumed cap and a Colleyweston cloak. Alleyn noticed he carried no sword but wore a baldric, so perhaps he had left his weapon at the door. The man looked down at him.
    ‘Stand up!’ The turnkey kicked Alleyn viciously in his outstretched leg.
    ‘It’s all right,’ the dandy said. ‘I can squat. Leave us, Master Gaoler.’
    The turnkey hesitated. He’d guided gentlemen through the Clink before, pointing out the immense attractions of the place and the dubious celebrities who lived there. Some of them would pay good money to jab a stick into the vitals of Mad Will Udall just to see him react. Others were more interested in just what was under the skirts of Mistress Earthworm, who had breasts but the pocky of a boy. One or two Puritans came to bring bread and hot soup, but most of them were repelled by the oaths and curses and left in a hurry. But no one, ever, asked to be left alone in a place like this.
    ‘
Now
, Master Gaoler.’ The tone was insistent and the dandy looked as though he could take care of himself, so the turnkey shrugged and left.
    The dandy squatted in front of Alleyn. ‘I am Nicholas Faunt,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Who I am not,’ Alleyn told him, ‘is Christopher Marlowe, whoever he is.’
    ‘I know you’re not,’ Faunt said.
    ‘You do?’ This was the first sound of sanity Alleyn had heard in several hours. Or was it days?
    ‘Of course. A case of mistaken identity, I’m afraid. The lads who brought you here are a little long on overzealousness and a little short on brains. But then –’ he produced a sheaf of paper from beneath his cloak – ‘you were carrying Kit Marlowe’s play.’
    ‘You know it?’ Alleyn blinked, preparing all sorts of subterfuges in his head.
    ‘I know his hand,’ Faunt said. ‘And, in case that sounds over-clever, his name is on the page at the beginning and end of every scene. Perhaps he had reason to mistrust people; I wonder why.’ He fixed Alleyn with a gimlet stare. ‘How did you come by it?’
    ‘I found it,’ Alleyn said.
    ‘Liar.’ Faunt smiled. ‘Try again.’
    ‘All right.’ Alleyn changed tack. ‘I bought it.’
    ‘Liar.’ Faunt was still smiling and although Alleyn didn’t know it, it was a good sign Faunt was still smiling. He should have been more grateful than he was.
    ‘Very well.’ The player decided to brazen it out. ‘I stole it.’
    ‘Ah.’ Faunt’s smile had vanished and Alleyn didn’t know what to make of that. ‘From Marlowe?’
    Alleyn nodded. ‘The same. Tell me, Master Faunt, is this play so important?’
    Faunt stood up. ‘Not in the slightest, any more than you are. Where is Marlowe?’
    Alleyn began to breathe easier. If the play was nothing, then there would be no charges for its theft. If Marlowe was Faunt’s target, he, Edward Alleyn, player and Master of the King’s Bears, was in the clear. ‘When I last saw him, he was in a travelling players’ camp. Somewhere outside Ware.’
    ‘Which troupe?’ Faunt asked.
    ‘Lord Strange’s Men,’ Alleyn said.
    ‘Where are they bound?’
    ‘Oxford, as far as I know. With the plague here . . .’
    ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Master Alleyn. If there is plague here, I am the Queen of Scots. It’s just a ruse to get you strolling charlatans out of town and give us all a rest.’
    ‘Who are you?’ Alleyn frowned up at the man. ‘Why this interest in Marlowe?’
    ‘That’s my business,’