The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(103)

Nothing in the first one fitted the bill, being mainly soldiers' uniforms, shoes and belts. The second was more promising, however. In here were the faerie queen's gown and the doublets belonging to the three princes. The doublets had silver buttons down the front and silver-tipped points at the waist. A lost button or broken cord would be believable, but would take only minutes to replace from the spares in her sewing basket.

She turned her attention to the queen's gown of sapphireblue silk brocade. The outer skirt bore a matching strip of velvet all round the hem, to guard the more fragile silk from damage. It was already worn a little flat where it dragged on the floor, but not enough to be noticeable. And yet what was more natural than for a misstep by young Philip to catch on it and tear a section loose?

Hardly daring to breathe, she took out her knife and cut the velvet guard near the back of the skirt, then began to pull it away from the brocade. She cut the more reluctant stitches as well, to prevent tearing, and soon had a very convincing "accident" on her hands. It would take a good hour to sew it up again, even working quickly – and she was not minded to be too quick.

Ned picked up a Venetian lace ruff, and let it fall. No point in trying to tidy this place; Gabe would hate it, and in any case there was nowhere to put everything. He contented himself with straightening the bed and gathering their dirty linens in a basket to take to the laundress.

He was just peeling an embroidered stocking from its sticking-place on the headboard, when a knock came at the door. He froze. Who could it be at this hour? Gabe would be at the theatre by now, applying makeup and fussing over his costume, and Mal was on duty at the Tower. He cat-footed it over to the door. The rain-soaked, sun-dried wood had warped in its frame, leaving cracks wide enough to see through. A dark eye stared back at him.

"Faulkner?" the visitor asked.

"Who wants to know?"

Ned hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. The ancient timbers would not keep the stranger out for long, not if he were determined to come in. Ned could only hope that, if it came to a break-in, the draper in the shop below would send someone up to investigate the noise.

"I'm a friend of your friend Catlyn," the voice behind the eye said. "Now are you going to let me in or not?"

Ned recalled his jibe at Mal. You don't have any friends. So who was this man? If he was telling the truth, he was at least not one of Kemp's allies. Mal would not conspire to kidnap his own brother, of that he was certain.

"I'll let you in," Ned shouted, "if you can tell me the maker's mark on the blade of Mal's rapier."

"Christ's balls! This isn't a game."

"There are men out there who want me dead. You could be one of 'em."

"All right, all right. It says 'Me fecit Solingen' down the fuller. Not that you won't find that on half the rapiers in London."

"And?"

"There's a triple cross after the inscription, and the initials JM as well. Satisfied?"

Ned made an affirmative noise and shot back the bolts. The man entered the room, glancing round with disinterest.

"I need you to come with me." He picked up a broadbrimmed hat, considered it for a moment, then tossed it back on the pile. "Better if you're not recognised."

"By whom?"

"Now, that's the question."

Ned folded his arms. "You still haven't answered my question. Who are you?"

"Name's Baines. More than that, you don't need to know. Don't want to know, if you get my drift."

"You're one of Walsingham's lot."

Baines inclined his head.

"So what are you doing here?" Ned asked.

"You have intelligence that's of use to my masters."

Ned swallowed. He had feared all along it would come to this. As if reading his mind, Baines grinned.

"No need to shit your breeches." He held up a striped djellaba, a gift from a Moorish admirer of Gabriel's, and threw it at Ned. "No one's going to lay a finger on you. Not as long as you do what you're told."

Wrapped in the concealing garment, Ned followed Baines down Bermondsey Street and thence westwards through Southwark. Just before Battle Bridge they turned aside, down a narrow alley that led to the river. Before they reached the turbid waters of the Thames, however, Baines halted in front of a battered door.

"What is this place?" Ned asked in a low voice.

"A place."

Baines opened the door and went inside. Ned followed, the horrible feeling he was being watched growing despite their being out of public view.

"This place stinks like a charnel house," Ned complained, lifting a fold of the djellaba to his face. He thought he was used to the city's many foul odours, but the smell of death brought back too many memories.

Baines led him down a short passageway and opened another door. The room beyond was dimly lit by ripples of sunlight reflecting off the river and through the uneven shutters. Blowflies rose in a cloud as they entered, circling the men's heads in irritation at the disturbance of their feast. On a rough pine table in the centre of the room lay a corpse, bloated and greenish-grey, like a week-old oyster from the bottom of the barrel.

"Fished him out of the river," Baines said. "Know him?"

Ned stepped a little closer, trying not to gag.