Scorpions' Nest (A Kit Marlowe Mystery)
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mean to pay me, Monsieur Greene, you must find me where you can. Good night,’ she said, and she walked away into the pearly morning. Suddenly, Marlowe felt desperately sleepy. He went back to the room he would never feel at home in now and dropped fully clothed onto the bed and slept until almost noon, the clanging bells of Prime and Terce that called the faithful to prayer just a distant rumour in his head. SIX The amber sun of the autumn had climbed high by the time Marlowe found Solomon
‘No,’ muttered Phelippes, lying back down and pulling the bedclothes around his ears, ‘no one ever does.’ SEVEN Achill October wind rippled the surface of the lake below the chateau. Christopher Marlowe checked the purse at his hip to make sure he still had the ring there, the one he’d appropriated from Gerald Skelton’s study. The pale sun shone on the whitewashed circular towers and glinted on the fleurs-de-lys wrought in gold-flecked iron above the roof. No one challenged him at the gate and
the projectioner, a man who might one day wear the chain of office that he himself wore. ‘Nicholas,’ he said softly, ‘we are a conspirator short. I thought I made that clear.’ ‘Indeed, Sir Francis, but . . .’ ‘And where would a Catholic conspirator run, Nicholas, knowing the hounds of Hell were after him?’ ‘Anywhere out of England,’ Faunt said. He knew as he said it that he had left the options rather wide. Walsingham was obviously looking for an answer smaller than the rest of the world.
it?’ He checked his books. Allen’s treatise was open to the page at which he’d last read it. The level in his wine decanter seemed the same. His colleyweston cloak still hung behind the door. He crossed to his cupboard and checked the corner. His sword was still there, oiled and ready in its scabbard. ‘Master Greene, I’ll come to the point. I’m worried.’ ‘You are?’ Marlowe closed the door. ‘There are priests a-plenty here to hear your confession, Master Salter.’ ‘Hah!’ Salter scoffed. ‘You’d
a tinker’s damn about all this.’ ‘So . . . you weren’t on your way to see Sylvie?’ Aldred felt he had to check. ‘Who?’ Shaw frowned. ‘No, I wasn’t.’ And he glanced at the de la Grange. ‘Unless, François, there’s something about you I may have missed.’ ‘Nothing that you need worry about, Thomas,’ de la Grange said, chuckling. ‘And of course, Monsieur Aldred didn’t miss a single pane of my window. No doubt he intends to pay for the damage before he leaves.’ Aldred stepped over the sill, turning