He changed the subject and began to talk casually about troubles with Spain. I listened, offering no comment. He seemed to be merely thinking aloud but I had a suspicion he was trying to lead me into some comment that would give him a hint or two about me. For some reason I disturbed him and offended his sense of order.
Why was he interested? How had I disturbed him?
And then, like a sudden shaft of light into a darkened room, it came to me.
He—this man here—must be Rafe Leckenbie’s protector!
Many men in high places, or climbing to high places, had utilized the services of such. It would be very convenient to have thieves at one’s beck and call, to steal papers, to frighten, to murder.
Now, at least, I had a theory, an inkling of what might be the truth. He needed Leckenbie, and I therefore represented a threat. Or perhaps he felt Leckenbie was growing too independent and he wished to know more…
John entered with a tray bearing two plates of cold meat, cheese, and bread, and two glasses of wine. One plate, one glass, were placed before me, the others before my host.
Suddenly of one thing I was sure. I was not going to drink that wine.
21
My host lifted his glass. “Your health!” he said, cheerfully enough. I picked up the remnants of my malmsey and drank, then put the glass down. There was some irritation in his glance as he watched me but he said nothing. I made up my mind to leave as soon as chance offered.
This man I did not like, despite the fact that he had befriended me long since. What was on his mind I did not know but I suspected he wanted to see what might be among my clothes, and if I had any message that would tell him more of me or what I was about.
“I have come at your summons,” I said at last. “I do not know what you wish. I thank you for the food, but I shall be going now.”
“Sit,” he spoke sharply, commanding me. “You have written a piece about Rafe Leckenbie. I believe that you conspire with him, but whatever you do, I wish no more of this.”
At a stir behind me, I arose so that none could come at my back. “I have nothing to do with Leckenbie or any other. I am my own man,” said I. Then I thought to warn him off. “Although I have friends enough who wish me well. I shall write what I please.”
“He will see you dead!”
I laughed. “Once he has tried to kill me, and several times he has promised it. Think you that another warning will matter?”
My hand rested on my sword. “I bear you no ill will, whoever you are, or whatever you do. I shall go now. Do not send for me again.”
“You do not trust me?” he asked, smiling.
“I will trust you,” I said, “if you will drink that wine.”
His eyes were not pleasant to see. “That wine? I drank my wine. I want no more. What has wine to do with it?”
“Then let your man drink it.”
“There is no need for that,” my host protested.
“Very well then. I shall go.” Then I spoke to John, who barred the door. “Do you stand aside.”
John made no move. “He seems a good, trusting man, this John of yours.” I spoke quietly. “If you wish not to lose him, have him stand aside.”
“Bother him,” said John. “Let him come at me.”
“I do not wish to kill your man,” I said, “but I fought more than half an hour with Leckenbie.”
John looked at his master.
“Stand aside then, John,” said the man. “This can be done another time.”
John stood aside, and I walked past him, ready to turn upon them if need be, but neither moved. When I was outside upon the dark street I ran a dozen steps quickly and dodged into a lane. Within minutes I was far away, still puzzling over it all but sure of one thing. The man was somehow allied to Leckenbie, and probably his protector.
If I had enemies I wished to know them and from what corner they might strike. So it behooved me well that I find out this man, and know his name and strength.
Tosti Padget was nowhere about when I entered the inn, but Jacob Binns was. I went to him at once and recounted my experiences. Binns himself had changed. He had filled out somewhat, his eyes were clearer, and for all his years, he was much more agile. He was rested now, of course, and eating with more regularity.
He listened without question until my story was complete, then asked several questions. Finally he said, “I know the man.”
“There is always,” he began, “a struggle for power, for a place close to the center. In England Queen Elizabeth is the power, make no mistake about it. There are some who believe it is this minister or that, or some favorite or would-be favorite, but such is not the case. The good Queen Bess has things very much in hand. Any who wish to use her had best examine their position with care.
“There is much pulling and pushing for power. There are some who believe that no woman can be strong, that if close enough they could manage her. They delude themselves. She is an uncommonly shrewd woman.
“The man we speak of is one of those reaching for power. Leckenbie is a convenient tool. Four persons who would have blocked that man’s reach for the throne have had accidents. One, a woman, was struck by a horse racing through a lane and killed. A man fell into the Thames and drowned. At least two others have been killed in duels.”
“Duels?”
“Aye, this man of whom we speak has several swordsmen who are in his pay or who owe him service. One of these is a Captain Charles Tankard. He has killed five men in duels in England, another one or two in France and Italy. He is a skilled swordsman.”
“Better than Leckenbie?”
“Who knows? They have not fought, nor met each other, I think, although they serve the same master.”
He changed the subject suddenly. “You spoke once of wishing to make a small venture in trade. Are you still of such a mind?”
“I am.”
“There is a vessel being prepared for a trading voyage to the north coast of America. They are not looking for gold but for something more simple. They seek to trade for furs and will bring back a few ship’s timbers, also. The master is a solid man, the vessel a good one.”
“I have only a few pounds.”
“It is a start.”
“Very well. Whom do I see?”
He wrote a name on a slip of paper. “This woman.”
“Woman?”
“Aye, lad, and a shrewd one she is. Her husband was a ship’s captain who set himself up in trade, and when he passed on, becoming ill after a surfeit of pickled herring and Rhenish wine, she took up the trade herself. Go to her. She has a number of small ventures and will take yours. I have spoken to her.”
“Her name?”
“Delahay. Emma Delahay.”
It was not until after I left that I realized I had not learned the name of the white-haired man.
Emma Delahay lived in Southwark and had a place of business there. She was a handsome woman of perhaps forty years, with large dark eyes and a lovely skin.
At a desk near her sat a man whom she presented as Mr. Digby, who was her keeper of accounts, runner, and general helper. He was a small man with a dry, wrinkled skin and bright, birdlike eyes.
She gave me a receipt for my money, and when I commented that two pounds was very little, she shrugged. “I know some who are now rich who began with less.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “You are young. Would you consider going upon a venture yourself?”
“Not at present, but I have given thought to it.”
“Give more,” she said. She was studying me as we talked. “You did the piece on Leckenbie, did you not?”
“And some others.”
“It was good. We have had no trouble of him yet, but it will come.”
“Delahay,” I said. “It is an uncommon name.”
Her features bore no expression, but her eyes were cool. “So is Chantry.” She frowned suddenly. “I have heard the name but once … it was something told me by my husband.” She continued to frown, trying to remember. “Ah, yes! I do recall! It was something about a man lost at sea, some inquiries about him. But,” she gestured, “that was long ago.”
When I returned to the inn, I learned that Jacob Binns had gone. In the months that followed I saw no more of him, nor of Rafe Leckenbie, although his name was spoken abroad now and again. All went quietly with me. I wrote several small pieces and attempted a play, which came to nothing.