The morning was far advanced when Tamworth reached the bottom of the steps of the Old Swan. There, where the ebb and flow of the Thames had placed its mark upon the masonry, he embarked in a wherry and was soon passing under London Bridge. The hot rays of the June sun were for a few moments intercepted. The swift current bore them with the velocity of a mill-race under the arch beneath which the rower had directed the wherry’s prow. The stone-work and the thick road-bed of the bridge prevented him from hearing the rattle of carts and the movement of the tumultuous stream of foot passers overhead; but, as the boat issued into the sunshine, he could see the crowds approaching and pouring out of the north end. High overhead rose the close row of buildings which ran along the edge of the bridge, like a line of fortifications. There were but three breaks in this line from the London to the Southwark side. The great dingy buildings of four, five and six stories appeared as though hanging tremulously on the verge of a precipice. The sharp steeple of the chapel of St. Thomas, arising above the tenth or central pier, together with the towers of a great structure beside it, added to the weirdness of the mid-air city, motionless above restless waters.
Now moving into mid stream, at the urging of his passenger, the wherryman plied his oars with such vigor that the walls of the Tower soon rose far in the background and the sharp bend of the river at the lower pool hid the city itself from view. The peace of wide and unbroken waters pervaded here, for no vessels were moving against the current, and the low hills fronting either bank were still crowned with virgin forests. At the Deptford wharf, Tamworth left the boat and hurriedly walked through the town; by the Globe, by the parish church of St. Nicholas, within whose churchyard was soon to be laid the body of Francis Frazer, and onward to the wayside tavern of the Golden Hind.
When Tamworth reached the place last mentioned, it was high noon. There were enough horses before the tavern front to give him the idea of a crowded tap-room within; but when he entered the latter place he found it deserted, except for the wife of the landlord, who, with anything but a pleasant countenance, walked back and forth before the bar.
“Good day, Mistress Dodsman,” said Tamworth, and then with the intention of conveying the idea that he knew nothing of the murder, or the inquest, he continued: “A quiet house for this hour. Where are the riders of the horses that crowd this front?”
“The coroner’s inquest is being held,” she answered, and shaking her head excitedly, resumed: “Dodsman must needs be there, Tug and the serving man, and so I am left to hold and entertain the public.”
“What inquest?” inquired Tamworth.
“Over a murdered man.”
“Who?”
“I cannot swear who it is, for there is a question in my mind.”
“How so?”
“The murdered man and the murderer were alike as two peas, and I wouldn’t say whether the Count lies up there or the actor, until the Count’s wife speaks.”
“And what think others about this?”
“Well, the actor who encountered the Countess, says the dead man is Marlowe, and he ought to know something about it; but Tug says it is the Count, and as he has a keen eye for guests when living, some respect is due his opinion on a dead one.”
“And what says the coroner?”
“Well, I’ve heard him say nothing, but he talked first with the actor, and having got the impression from him that it was Marlowe who was killed, I heard that he impaneled his jury to hold an inquest over Marlowe.”
“Ah,” said Tamworth, with a sigh of relief, thinking that the scheme had not wholly miscarried.
“Yes,” said the woman, “and with all my interest in the poor lady, who must face the coroner and tell what she knows of the murder, I am compelled to remain here.”
“Is she here?” calmly asked the lawyer.
“I think that she is in the room where the inquest is being held, or if not, she soon will be.”
“As a witness?”
“Yes, so I suppose. Poor thing, when I left her an hour ago, locked in the room where they had carried her last night in a dead swoon, she was so much disturbed by my refusal to say one word about who had brought her there, about the murder, or what was to take place to-day, that I pitied her from the bottom of my heart.”
“Did she know Marlowe was killed?” asked Tamworth.
“His name was not mentioned.”
“Did she say nothing about her husband?”
“No; she saw that I would say nothing; and after a why is this, and a why is that, and a shake of my head, she stopped asking.”
“Which is the room of the inquest?”
“At the head of the stairs.”
Tamworth waited for no further words. The door into the hall was open, and a moment after he had entered the room to which he had been directed. A scene of peculiar interest was before him. The room was the one of the tragedy of the previous night. Its most conspicuous object was an antique bedstead with high oak head-board. It had been removed from the alcove, and now with its foot extended toward the center of the room, it stood before the red arras. On it was stretched the body of the dead man. It was still attired as Marlowe had left it, and in all its ghastly pallor, and unwashed of the blood which followed the fierce thrust of the rapier, it lay exposed to the morbid view of the vulgar. From where he stood Tamworth could not see the face of the corpse, but it was with a smile that he recognized the scarlet doublet and purple lower garments of his friend.
The sunlight coming from the direction of the Thames, streamed through the two windows. It fell upon the motley crowd of villagers packed close against them. The other portion of the intent audience held the space about the outer door. Across the center of the room from the bed’s foot was a table, along the further edge of which, with his back against the wall, was one whom it required no acuteness to single out as the coroner. He was a solemn looking man in a misfitting powdered periwig and damask cassock edged with fox-fur. The air of pomposity which he had assumed was apparent to the critical eye of Tamworth. The latter smiled, as he noticed an open book in law French, lying on the table and recognized the text of Plowden. It was evident to him that this book, like the great periwig and the rich cassock, was used with the idea of filling the assemblage with awe; and Tamworth wagered a hundred pounds with himself that the man, who looked occasionally at the lines, could no more interpret their meaning than the landlord could who sat close beside him. The red cheeks of the landlord were a trifle paler than usual, and the serious expression on his face denoted that he felt that a full discovery of all the facts connected with the death of his guest should be obtained for the good name of his house.
Near these two personages were crowded together six men in the rough garb of husbandmen. They constituted the jury, and had been sworn for a true verdict. The actor was being examined when Tamworth entered. Closed in by the crowd, Tamworth was not noticed by the chief actors in the drama, and with interest he listened to the actor’s testimony. He gave a vivid picture of his encountering the woman in the dark hall and her fainting at the foot of the stairs. He told how he and the tapster had carried her into the tap-room, and attempted to revive her; of how she was dressed as though to leave the tavern; of how they had heard footsteps, and, passing along the hall before them, had seen Francis Frazer, who, although seeing his wife, had not paused. That his face was deathly pale, as he disappeared through the door to the innyard. That, alarmed that the woman did not revive, and impatient over Frazer’s failure to return as they had anticipated, they carried the unconscious woman to her room. That there they had stumbled against the dead body, which he identified as Christopher Marlowe.
Then the witness went further. He had not been an intimate acquaintance of Marlowe, but he had long known him by repute as a prince of good-fellows. With such feeling had he mentioned this characteristic of the man, and discoursed on his genius as an actor, and writer, that the unlettered crowd, whose model for a hero conformed to these proportions, was ready to weep at the further mention of his name, or give its united efforts to the apprehension of the murderer. Already the vow was on all lips to join in the hue and cry until the pursued was run to earth. Each one in his imagination had noted some dark nook in wayside forest where possibly the murderer lay concealed; and still with breathless interest they hung upon the words of the tragic speaker.
In honest desire to see the deed avenged, the actor testified to what had transpired before the tragedy, and in vivid manner narrated the episode of the tap-room, from where the drawn sword had been first displayed, to the point where the Count had suddenly begged to be excused, and had quit the game of hazard. Did the Count know of Marlowe’s coming to the tavern? he asked dramatically. Had he formulated the murderous intent at an hour long in advance of its execution? Had he cut him down in the dark and then dragged his body into this room?
A smothered cry of anguish arose from the crowd at the last fierce question of the speaker, and then, as in anticipation of further moving utterances, the silence that fell was oppressive. In it, the coroner glanced for the twentieth time at the blood-stained rapier that lay upon the table. He had noticed that it was from the scabbard belted to the waist of the dead man. Before the actor could resume he asked:
“Was that the sword drawn in the tap-room?”
The actor grasped it by the hilt and raised it before his face. A shudder went through the crowd; but no answer came from his lips. He looked at the blade in amazement, then said:
“This is not the sword.”
“Then,” said the coroner, “the Count must have been wounded.”
“Or,” suggested Dodsman, “Marlowe was killed with his own weapon.”
“Possibly,” said the actor, and with this evident refutation of his theory of an unforwarned attack in a dark passage, he closed his argumentative testimony. At the close of the actor’s examination, Tug was called. His testimony corroborated the actor’s, except that he insisted that the man who had passed through the hall and into the innyard was Marlowe. This statement created a sensation, but the witness being weak and vacillating, under a fire of questions, lost his positive manner, and at length said that he might have been mistaken. However, his statement had raised the question of identity, and it required the testimony of at least another to clear the minds of the jury.
There was a movement near Tamworth, as some one in response to an order passed into the hall; and a moment later a lady entered the door and passed close beside him through the crowd. Her face was downcast and partially concealed in her handkerchief. She averted her face from the direction of the bedstead, and as hurriedly as it was possible to move, with so many pressing on all sides, she reached the chair opposite to and facing the coroner. Under his instruction she sat down. Her back was toward the bedstead. Its occupant could not be seen by her except by turning her head.
All information concerning the inquest to be held that day had been sedulously kept from her. The landlord, with no knowledge as to his duties either to his guest or to the Crown, and apprehensive that any move on his part might involve him in trouble, had determined to keep the wife in ignorance of all proceedings, and on no condition to allow the seal on her lips to be broken by any one except the coroner. Upon the discovery of the crime and while she still remained unconscious, she had been carried to an apartment adjoining her own, where, with the wife of the landlord, she had been held awaiting the investigation by the authorities.
It was in this uncertainty as to what was required of her, and as to what had become of Marlowe, that she entered the room of the inquest. She at once recognized the judicial character of the proceeding, and concluded that it was the inquest being held over her husband. It was then her mental comment that Marlowe had failed in the concealment of the deed.
The coroner asked:
“Your name is—?”
“Anne Frazer.”
“The Countess,” came the whisper of a third voice.
“How long have you been at this tavern?”
“Four days.”
“Were you in this room at any time before twelve o’clock last night?”
“I was.”
“For how long?”
“From early in the day until near that hour.”
“Did you witness the death of this man?”
“I did.”
“Was any one else present?”
“There was.”
“Who?”
There was a prolonged silence after this question. When no answer came, the nervousness of the landlord displayed itself by the drumming of his fingers on the table, and in a score of rapid glances, first at the witness and then at the coroner. In striking contrast with Dodsman’s anxiety was the witness. She sat directly before the coroner on the opposite side of the table. She had answered clearly and to the point, until the direct question came as to who was present besides herself. Then she sat mute.
Tamworth could not but gaze in admiration at this witness. Her face showed traces of a night of unrest and intense thought and worry. If there was any disturbance of mind from the ordeal, it did not prevent the manifestation of a resolution that was almost heroic. She steadily returned the gaze of the coroner and remained as silent as a sphinx. It was this attitude of determination and self reliance, that, even more than her beauty, awakened the admiration of the lawyer. He was not a man with heart wholly unresponsive to the magnetism of brilliant eyes; but his natural susceptibility had been so toned by years of experience, that it was the exhibition of strength of soul in another that set the strings of his being in vibration.
“What is your answer?”
“I can not answer,” said the witness, decidedly.
It was her tone that caused the coroner to forbear pressing the question; and with the idea of reverting to it, he started on a new tack.
“Was any one injured except the dead man?” he inquired, casting his eyes upon the rapier.
“No,” she answered.
He nodded significantly to the actor, and at the same time Dodsman touched his shoulder, whispering, “My theory is right; Marlowe was slain with his own weapon.”
“Was there a combat?”
“There was.”
“But wait,” said the coroner, “I forgot to ask if you were legally—I mean when were you married?”
“On last All Saints’ day at the church of St. Peter’s on Cornhill in London.”
“To the man with whom you came to this tavern?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Now you say there was a combat. Did both contestants draw their swords?”
“They did.”
“How was it that this man was killed with his own weapon?”
“I do not think that I understand your question,” answered the witness, looking at the coroner with a surprised expression on her face.
The curtain that hid the truth trembled; the slightest breath would have raised it, and Tamworth alone grasped the whole situation. It came to him like a flash. The woman as yet evidently knew nothing of the change that had been made in the apparel of the two men. As she knew that it was her husband that had been slain, she had no reason to think that this fact was not known to every one present. She was testifying, as she supposed, at an inquiry over the death of Francis Frazer. The situation was critical; for under a skillful examination, incited by her answer that the dead man was not slain by his own sword, suspicions might be aroused and the true facts revealed. But the suddenness with which the lawyer had apprehended the situation, had not shaken his keen wit. The means to avert such a catastrophe occurred to him, and before the coroner could repeat the question, he said in clear tones which rang through the room:
“You can not ask her further concerning this matter. The law in no case alloweth the wife to testify against her husband.”
The entrance of the murderer himself would have created little more excitement. All eyes were turned in the direction from which the voice came. They saw a man standing prominent amid the crowd near the door. He was of distinguished appearance. His soft black hat, with high crown, had the wide rim at its front upturned so that the broad forehead of the owner was fully revealed. Below this feature of the face, penetrating eyes looked forth with an expression of unconquerable will power. His thick luxuriant short beard was trimmed in the style then worn by lawyers. The latter adornment of his face, and the flowing locks which concealed his ears, rested on a high ruff which turned broadly outward with lace-fringed edge. His richly embroidered doublet, with full sleeves corded with white silk, was of black lustrous taffeta.
He raised neither his hat nor his hand, as the coroner glanced at him; but returned the latter’s gaze with so steady a look, that no words of remonstrance for the interruption came forth. That he was a person of weight and authority required no announcement. The coroner’s expression softened; and in the way cleared for him by the wondering crowd, he pushed forward.
“I am Tamworth, of Gray’s Inn,” he said, in lower voice, “and appear as a friend of the court.”
He was standing beside the table, as these words were spoken; and the obsequious Dodsman arose from his chair, and waved his hand for him to be seated beside the coroner, who could not refrain from bowing as graciously as he knew how.
“As the proceeding is in behalf of the Crown,” continued the lawyer, before taking the proffered chair, “it should be conducted in strict accordance with law.”
“Is it not being so conducted?” asked the coroner, in a voice which was soft and low with respect.
“Yes; except where the answers of the witness may tend to criminate her husband.”
“True,” returned the coroner, assuming an air of wisdom; then after a moment’s thought, he said: “But as we have not learned how many persons were present, and as the sword is evidently not the Count’s, I am certainly at liberty to exhaust that line of examination.”
“Undoubtedly,” returned Tamworth.
“How many persons were present when this deed occurred?” asked the coroner.
“Three,” said the witness.
“Your husband was one?”
Before Tamworth could interpose an objection, the witness answered by a question, “Why ask so foolish a question?”
Tamworth smiled, and although he knew the occasion of the witness’ inquiry, he looked at the coroner and said: “See, she knoweth the rights of a wife and will not answer. There is no law to compel her.”
Anne looked thankfully at her champion; and, although she could not perceive how any answers could in any way affect her dead husband, she could see that the coroner considered the lawyer’s admonitions seriously. To know that she was not wholly alone in her extremity, gave her additional strength. The words of Marlowe, “Canst thou keep this secret?” rang in her ears. They had steeled her against disclosure of his name and the account of the combat.
Now came the question, “Do you know the dead man, Christopher Marlowe?”
The witness started at the name. It was the first time it had been mentioned. But it was not so much that fact as the way in which it was coupled. Marlowe! the dead man! She stared at the coroner with curious expression. It was one of wonder growing into terror.
“I do not understand you,” she said, with trembling voice. “The dead man, Christopher Marlowe?”
“Yes, he who was murdered by—”
“Dead, murdered, when?” she interrupted, grasping the arms of the chair and leaning forward.
“’Tis well acted,” whispered the landlord.
“Madam, this ill becomes you,” sternly said the coroner. “This inquest is over Marlowe. Your husband, as we suspect, killed him. The law in its wisdom prevents you testifying against the murderer, but there is no occasion for this display on your part. Answer me.”
The witness had arisen from her chair and turned her head. She saw the figure on the bed, and started, for at the first glimpse she thought the coroner’s words were true. She recognized the scarlet doublet, vest of the same color, and the rest of the attire as that in which Marlowe had appeared. The face—yes, that was also his, but—no, it was not. She sank back in her chair, and, in full flood, light burst upon her. Marlowe had concealed the crime.
“I know the dead man,” she said firmly, “It is Christopher Marlowe.”
At the close of Anne’s testimony and while the coroner’s jury was in deliberation, Tamworth had had an opportunity to speak to her. He stated that Marlowe was secreted in the heart of London, but where he would not disclose; that an early meeting was devoutly prayed for, and that the main purpose of his presence at the inquest was to arrange for it; that the church of St. Olave in the Old Jewry was deemed the most convenient place; that she was to be at its entrance upon the following Sabbath night at ten o’clock. This was as much as could be communicated in the short space of time allowed. A ready assent was given by her, and with this, Tamworth left the tavern and returned to London. His departure had been too hasty; for with a delay of a few moments he would have discovered the frustration of his plans for the meeting. By the light of such discovery another tryst might have been arranged but it was darkness that ensued. Anne never appeared before the church of St. Olave.
Tamworth had been careful to avoid raising suspicions that he had anything more than a passing interest in the wife of Francis Frazer. It was this that caused him to leave before the hour which he thought would mark her departure. If he had at any moment entertained the idea that the coroner would bind her over to attend before the Grand Jury, or in Court, he had dismissed such idea with the thought that sureties for her attendance would be readily secured. The coroner did bind her over despite Tamworth’s recent exposition of the law concerning the wife’s incompetency to testify against her husband. She was unable to secure bail.
While Anne was testifying before the coroner in such manner as to secure the peace of Marlowe, Bame was as zealously working for an exactly contrary object. If we should here announce that at length the efforts of Anne became perverted and joined those of the man who worked for destruction, it would seem that this narration was descending to a travesty of life; but such a concatenation of events followed, and it arose as a natural sequence. While Tabbard, with only temporary concern and that mainly of pecuniary character, had brought about the meeting of the lovers, and circumvented the police to his own destruction, she, whose heartstrings were interlaced with those of the man whom the rustic Tabbard had aided, had involved him in an affair which was to eclipse his ascending star, and was to place him in the hands of his arch enemy. When, in the Windmill tavern, Bame had recognized Tabbard and imagined evil from the hobnobbing of the latter with the constable, his fear of a miscarriage of his plot of destruction had been increased by seeing the exultant expression on Tabbard’s face as he destroyed the warrant. At that moment the character of the scattered paper was unknown to him. All that had transpired in the Windmill forced him to the conclusion that he had been outwitted. He had only reached this stage of mind when Tabbard’s glass fell from his hand and the stricken man rolled to the floor. Bame was the first one to reach the victim. He heard his words, and then picked up the largest pieces of the warrant. His apprehensions were verified; Marlowe had escaped him.
That night he held a vigil over the dying Tabbard, who had been removed to a bed chamber of the tavern, a cramped room in a corner of the building, with a round window looking down in the Old Jewry. Until the end came, Bame remained beside the dying man, not in the spirit of a ministering angel, but to gain information of the whereabouts of Marlowe. Tabbard’s disconnected utterances about Deptford and some one whose interest he held at heart, conveyed no absolute assurance that Marlowe could be found in the locality mentioned; but it was a straw at which the hearer grasped. The armorial device of the house of Surrey upon the hilt of Tabbard’s short sword proclaimed the wearer’s dependency upon the Duke of that name. Bame knew of Sayes Court, the country place of the Duke at Deptford, and at once in mind he placed the actor there. Had not the theaters closed for the season? Had not the Duke withdrawn to Sayes Court during the prevalence of the plague in London? Was it not more than probable that the company of actors, of which Marlowe was a member, was gathering at Deptford for the entertainment of royalty? These were the mental questions of the Brownist, and carried affirmative answers with them.
After taking the corpse of Tabbard to the death-cart, Bame, first taking care to see that no member of his sect was within sight, had re-entered the tavern, braced himself up with a glass of charnico, and fallen asleep at one of the lap-room tables. It was but a short doze, for the morning stir began early. He partook of breakfast where he sat, then full of his intent to see Gyves punished, and Marlowe apprehended, he passed into the street. Shop blinds were being taken down, and the street criers beginning their day-long noise. The latter shook him uncomfortably, for the night had given him no rest, and there was naught that appealed to his wants in the cries of “rushes green” and “hot sheep’s feet.” He required no rushes for the floors of his dwelling and his hunger had been appeased. The citterns played by some barbers close at the corner, where he paused to consider whether he should go first to his home or to the Justice, was not unpleasant music, but it grated harshly on his Puritanical ears; and reviving his thoughts of playhouses and their orchestras, it started him toward the Justice’s office. Tabbard’s horse, still standing at the corner of St. Olave, attracted his attention as he waited for the Justice to dress himself and come below. It was a strange place for a horse to be tied. The church was closed and there were no open windows near at hand into which the rider could have vanished. Tabbard’s spurs had raised the query as to where the dead man had left his horse, and in this forlorn-looking steed he read the answer. He determined to put him to use as soon as a proper lapse of time gave additional assurance that he was right in attributing ownership to Tabbard.
In the stuffy den of the Justice, he spread the proof of Gyves’ offense upon the table, and swore to a complaint against him for a misdemeanor in allowing an accused person to escape. Then he applied for an alias warrant on the old charge of blasphemy against Marlowe, but as it appeared that the latter had fled the country, the Justice declined to act further until he had assurance that the accused was within reach of his process. Bame insisted, but the Justice shook his whole heavy body with the violence of his negatives.
“What can be done?” demanded Bame.
“See the public prosecutor.”
“Can you not advise for the sake of the church?”
“Lay the charge before the higher authorities.”
“What, before the Queen? That has been done.”
“For what purpose, when your charge was made here?”
“To give it greater publicity.”
“Was it made strong?” questioned the Justice.
“All that was necessary was to quote from his writings, and to pound into the ears of the Queen the quotation from Marlowe’s ‘Jew of Malta’:
“Good,” said the Justice, “you were equal to your task, but you should have made it even more bitter; for if the Queen is not moved by your first accusation, she will not be by anything later.”
“It showed that he reviled religion; that he persuaded one man to become an atheist; that he meant to utter false money of the kingdom.”
“’Tis the same charge you made and swore to here. Is it wholly true?”
“Can any crime be too heinous to attribute to an atheist?” asked Bame with a vicious expression on his face.
“Then such judicial process may issue from the King’s Bench to bring him in from any county in England wherever he may be found. You must await the action of that higher court.”
“’Tis a grave public duty,” said Bame, solemnly, “and I now go to Deptford to locate him in case the Queen should move the King’s Bench to action.”
Bame met with many delays before he rode Tabbard’s horse across London Bridge. The verdict of the coroner’s jury had been returned, and the body of the slain man was being followed to its resting place in the churchyard of St. Nicholas when Bame overtook the small funeral cortege just beyond the Golden Hind. The majority of the train were actors and they bore the rough board coffin on their shoulders. In answer to his query, they had honestly but not correctly stated that the deceased was Marlowe, and Bame, feeling that the object of his wrath had forever escaped him, abruptly reined in his horse.
“Where are you taking the body?” he asked.
“To St. Nicholas,” came the answer.
“’Tis unfit for Christian burial,” he exclaimed.
He was about to say more, but glances from several members of the group froze his utterance. The glances meant violence. They came from the eyes of men who recognized him as a member of the sect which not only cursed their profession but was endeavoring to crush them out of existence. He swung his horse’s head around and dug his heels in the animal’s flanks. For his own good, his flight had been well timed, for all that reached him were their merited execrations.
At the Golden Hind he learned of the events of the past twenty-four hours, and as he talked in the tap-room, through the center came the coroner. Anne was with him. She was to accompany the officer to the house of the sheriff. The meeting between uncle and niece was not without an exhibition on her part of something approaching filial affection. In his own household he had ever presented himself as devoid of all the sterner and harsher traits which made him an object of dislike and hatred in the outer world, and great sympathy and love had existed between them. Her elopement had shaken these sentiments in him, but this meeting had revived them. They conferred apart while the good natured coroner attempted to drown the heat of his late exciting session by many deep bowls with Dodsman and several obsequious and admiring loungers.
Many were the questions with which Bame plied his niece. Whom had she married? How came she here? Where had her husband fled? All were answered except the last, she maintaining even with Bame that Marlowe was the dead man.
At the conference between Bame and Anne, it was decided that he should journey at once to Canterbury and inform her father of her unfortunate situation. There appeared no other plan by which she could be released. Bame and Crossford should stand as sureties for her future appearance. The former agreed to bring about a reconciliation. But then there was a matter which to her seemed of more pressing importance. She required a courier for the opposite direction, that is, toward London. It took some deliberation to formulate her story and as much more to determine whether it were safe to convey even this story to Bame. The question of safety concerned Marlowe only. Her road for the meeting on the following Sunday evening at the church of St. Olave was blocked as effectually as though prison bars held her in. The promise for her appearance there had gone from her freely. Neither she, nor Tamworth, had suggested any means or method for further communication between herself and Marlowe, should their meeting, as proposed, be prevented. The thought of his being a fugitive from justice had appalled her as to its far reaching consequences to herself. It was only in some foreign country, unknown to herself, that she had pictured him. Tamworth’s communication had scattered her fears. The order of the coroner for her detention had again plunged her into a deeper pit of despair. Here was the opportunity to convey the reason of her inability to meet him as promised, and to post him of her future. She realized that it was a dangerous matter to run anyone into contact with Marlowe, but here she apprehended no danger. Up to the time of her departure from Bame’s house, she knew that Bame was a stranger to the man in question. It was not only unlikely but highly improbable that he, a devout Brownist, should know the licensed player, and unlicensed writer. Thus reasoning, she placed the man she loved into the hands of his most implacable enemy.
It was one of her husband’s friends, she said, who would be at the entrance of the parish church of St. Olave at ten o’clock on the evening of June —. The meeting had been arranged before the duel at the tavern. It concerned his departure from England. His flight, she continued, would prevent the meeting. It was a matter of great concern, and at the moment of the separation between herself and husband she had promised to meet the man who would be in waiting for him. Would Bame act in her behalf? The statement was plausible, but Bame saw more in it than her words conveyed. However, whether the meeting was of her own concertion, with a nameless man or with her husband, whom Bame had never seen, did not seem of importance. What message was he to bear?
She wrote, in few words, of her predicament and prospects; she sealed it, and delivered it to Bame. The missive ran thus: “I have word of thy present safety and rejoice; for my situation had made me fearful of thine own. To thy request for me to meet thee, I returned my promise; but now the hope of compliance hath vanished. I am held as a witness. If the termination of my imprisonment is dependent upon thy arrest, I pray that I may never be at liberty. However, I have hope of an early release, and of going to my father’s house in Canterbury. In the meantime be content, I pray thee, with the assurance of my love. The bearer is to be trusted. He is my uncle and will return here with thy answer. Let it be of where I can find thee later. Sealed with my love. Anne.”
It has taken many pages to narrate events covering only a full day in space of time; but in comparison with the vast harvests of literature that have been gleaned from the sowing of the night of June 1, 1593, this sole noting of the steps of the husbandmen who scattered the seed, is but a single sheaf. And now with the coroner’s verdict in, Francis Frazer buried under the name of Christopher Marlowe, the latter darkly brooding in obscure safety, and the world so cony-catched that only after an interval of 300 years doth it see clearly, we will trace the dark events leading up to the darker ending of Bame.
Richard Bame was hung at Tyburn on the 6th of December, 1594. That event is historical, and it is well to fix it in the mind of the reader before drawing his attention to a narration of what may have been the reasons for this tragedy. In this connection it is also well to emphasize a few other historical facts. The accusation against Marlowe for blasphemy was actually placed before the Queen [note 31]. If Marlowe’s death followed so closely on the heels of this proposed vigorous prosecution of him for that ecclesiastical crime, it was a remarkable coincidence. Conviction would have been certain. It required no reading between the lines of Faustus and the Jew of Malta. Flight, or concealment, was the only escape for him. What was better calculated to stay a search and avert apprehension, than a report of death? The reports, many and contradictory, appeared [notes 9-13].
But why was his accuser hung? Was it due to revengeful influences working for Marlowe, that Bame, wearing the cockade of the condemned, passed through crowds down Tyburn-road on his last earthly ride? Or was this horrible culmination of his days due wholly to his own misapplied zeal and a catastrophe of criminal character?
A storm of almost unprecedented fury had prevailed in London from early evening on June —, 1593. The wind, coming strong from the northeast, increased in violence as the hours passed, and out of heavy black clouds the rain fell in torrents. It was a night for everyone in Middlesex to be well housed and forgetful of the sea. Again and again, the sole inmate of the oratory in the Prince’s Wardrobe had looked out into the night. He could not see beyond the flying buttresses at the edges of the window, except when an occasional flash of lightning seared the darkness. Under these flashes the near churchyard appeared as fleeting and as sorrowful as the face of the fallen angel in our dreams; and the venerable walls of St. Olave looked even more venerable and gloomy as they stood forth with startling distinctness. Every cranny became a marked feature of its visible side and the long windows from their deep setting showed the thickness of the masonry and the rankness of the century-growth of vines that clustered around them.
It was the night on which Marlowe expected meeting Anne, and the storm made him apprehensive that their plans might be frustrated. This uneasiness caused him to leave the oratory long before the appointed hour. Tamworth was not in his apartment as Marlowe entered it, and with lighted candle descended the stairs into the underground passage leading to the church. He reached its end with hasty steps, and having on a previous night succeeded in putting in working order the hinges on the slab that had blocked further passage, he entered the chancel of the church. A darkness as absolute as that of the night prevailed in the church, except where, at the distance of a hundred feet, the lights from the chantry shone across a strip of benches or rude pews. He crept cautiously to the open door of this chantry to see that no one was in it and then retraced his steps to the chancel where he lowered the raised slab to its place, taking care to feel its distance from the rail near at hand. He then passed through the body of the church, and having reached the middle door at the front, he unbolted it and stepped without. He felt across every step of the wide entrance, and finding that he was alone, he took up his station near the door which he had loosely closed.
It was about this time that Bame left his house and started for St. Olave. Before doing so he had taken off his conventional garb and donned his shabbiest suit. Bame was not accustomed to carry any weapon, but the storm and the darkness prompted him to belt a sword to his waist. It was with difficulty that he made any progress in the storm, and at length reached the steps of the church. Here he stood for a moment in the meager shelter afforded by one of the columns of the portico, and then began moving with extended hands toward the entrance. He could see nothing, and for some time in his measured progress he encountered nothing but open space or the stone wall. Suddenly a flash of lightning illuminated the portico. In it he saw a man in loose cloak standing beside him. Neither had realized the presence of the other until the flash revealed it; but in it Bame caught no glimpse of Marlowe’s face.
“Hold!” he said, as the cloaked figure stepped backward and again was entirely enveloped by the darkness. If there were any answer to this command, it was drowned by the roll of thunder which followed the lightning.
“You await a lady here, do you not?” continued Bame, proceeding on the theory that the man was Francis Frazer, “Well, I come with word from her.”
Still no answer came. Bame reached forward and touched the shoulder of the silent figure, saying as he did so, “I come from Anne.”
“So, what is the message?”
“She is held in custody by the coroner.”
“For what purpose?”
“As a witness before the grand jury.”
“When did you see her?”
“On the day of the inquest.”
“Who are you?”
There was something in the voice that struck Bame peculiarly. He had heard it before, but somehow it created a feeling of awe, and an involuntary shudder passed through him. The reason of this feeling was not apparent. He was anxious to determine its cause. He answered the last question by one like it.
“Who are you?”
“What is the purpose of your query? Are you not satisfied that I am the person whom you seek? You came from one at Deptford. Is that not sufficient to assure you? If she did not tell you who I am, there is no occasion for your knowing.”
Bame felt impelled to say that the reason of his asking was because he thought he knew the speaker, or at least the voice was familiar; but his natural caution restrained him. He said with ill reason:
“Before I delivered the message I wished to be assured that you were the one for whom it was intended.”
“Out upon you,” said the other, “If she gave you no name, my telling it could give you no assurance; but this talk is idle while gusts of rain blow in upon us. You have found me. Have done with words. What is the message?”
“It is written,” said Bame.
“Well, give it me,” exclaimed the other impatiently.
“There is an answer expected.”
“And you are to bear it?”
“Yes; where can you read while I wait?”
“Within the church. A light burns in the chantry.”
Bame fumbled in the pocket of his doublet, and then he said: “I can not distinguish it from other papers. I require a light to find it. Let us step to the nearest tavern.”
“Nay, ’twould be a waste of time. Follow me.”
He pushed on the door behind him, and Bame heard hinges creak, but all about him was still wrapped in darkness.
“Into the church?” he faltered.
“Aye. Not a word.”
His hand was grasped and he followed. He felt his entrance to be a sacrilege and his awe concerning his companion increased his trepidation. When at length the entrance to the body of the church was reached, a faint glow of light could be seen from a narrow space in one wall. Toward this they moved up the dark aisle, feeling the unseen pews as they passed. Upon facing this glowing space, they perceived the chantry. It was so small that it hardly merited the name; but, rising from the marble floor, was the low, richly-carved tomb of the founder of the church, with raised font before it, and, in niches in the wall behind it, six blazing candles. Its walls were of solid stone and no other door or windows opened from it. The arched ceiling rose scarcely eight feet overhead and bore no tracery nor stucco work upon its surface. Into this chantry they entered. Bame, forgetting to make a pretended search in his pocket for the message, hastily handed it to Marlowe. And now the lights were near and strong enough to show clearly the faces of the two men. Bame’s eyes and mouth bespoke an astonishment that almost robbed him of the power of speech. He recognized the man beside him, but the latter without even a glance at his companion, nervously broke the seal of the letter, and passing around the tomb, held it so that the rays from the candles fell upon it. Bame had noticed that Marlowe was without a sword, and before the second line of the message had been read he interrupted the reading with the words:
“I thought thou wast dead.”
Marlowe raised his eyes and glared in wonder at the speaker, who continued:
“Thou art Christopher Marlowe.”
Marlowe leaned back against the wall with his hands so tightly clenched that their nails almost entered his palms. The scowl grew deep on his face, but no words came from his lips. It seemed no occasion for speech, and action on his part was forestalled; for Bame had drawn his short sword.
“I am Richard Bame. You have undoubtedly heard of me as the uncle of Anne.”
“And as the swearer of false and vile charges against the man of whom you speak,” said Marlowe, his voice impetuously breaking forth.
“Against yourself,” interrupted Bame, “but not as a false accuser. Listen to me.”
“But why should I; and why have you drawn a weapon? You see that I am defenseless. You came in the character of a bearer of good tidings; why do you now assume a violent front? Is it not enough that I am the friend of the one from whom you come—your niece? Have I ever wronged you? Put down your sword! even though the time were opportune for murder, the sanctity of the place should stay your hand. Doth not its holiness appeal to thee?”
Bame began with the echo of the last word:
“You speak well, but to no purpose. You have rendered me no personal injury, but you have attacked not only my church, but all churches, all faith, all religions. No,” he continued, shaking his sword in his fervor as Marlowe was about to reply, “Let me go on. Nothing is sacred in thine eyes——”
“Cease,” exclaimed Marlowe, “You know little of what you speak. Blinded by a fanaticism, narrow, violent and perverted, you can see nothing good in aught that promotes pleasure and breaks the chrysalis of joy. You would tear down the playhouses, and on the spot where laughter has chased the gloom from the face of grief and apathy, and where new generations are being educated in the history of the past and in the polished manners of the higher classes, a school, wide, noble and elevating, you would erect houses for wailing and for the blind worship of an unknown God. And I, whom you deem the head and front of atheism, you wished burned at the stake, and now would take upon thyself what your religion deems an unpardonable crime, that of sending my soul unprepared before its Maker.”
“Maker!”, sneered Bame, “Maker, Thou hast denied the existence of the Trinity.”
“Such denial,” began Marlowe, undisturbed by the accusation, “is not inconsistent with the belief in the existence of a supreme intellectual force of which my soul is part. Thy mind is too narrow to comprehend the impersonal and omniscient intellect that rules by unswerving laws. Clinging to the disgusting belief of a resurrection of the body, you bury it with pomp and lamentation; waste over it your tears, and dream of its reinhabitation as the temple of the soul. Out upon thee. The tenure of thy faith is most precarious. Under the dark wings of death, nought but the longing for eternal rest will pervade thee, like it has pervaded and ever will pervade all manner of men, whether with or without creed or belief. But such longing contains no assurance of its attainment, but is only the reconcilement of the soul to its coming change of existence without the trammels of the flesh. And this, I tell thee, blind apostle of a worn-out creed, this world is governed by a force that worketh ever toward perfection; the perfection of the material is in beauty; of the spiritual, in wisdom. And both matter and spirit are eternal. Immortality is not a dream but a demonstrable fact. Do not the waters of the stream break in silver spray, or become mirrors for the face of nature, or, being lifted by the sun, form the clouds whose glorious colors flame and fade at twilight? Do not even the dull boulders at length present glassy faces, or, crumbling, form the powdered soil on which flourishes and, aye, is part of, the wild flowers? Do not the brilliant stars rise from the nebula that strews the floor of heaven; thus struggling through a thousand changes toward ideal beauty in form, never losing one atom of substance? And now what of the mind of man? It grows with years and attains its utmost perfection as the bodily forces fail. Then comes the disintegration of the body for new forms as the ages roll. If the material cannot be lost, how can the spirit, the ego that knows, and is as superior to the clay as the living face of woman is to the clod under foot? It must continue under the force that raised it, and in its just line of aspiration. It is against the nature of all things, material and spiritual, that the mind with its accumulated knowledge from years of life should pass into oblivion.”
The eloquence of the poet in the delivery of his sermon of the soul had stilled the voluble Bame. Marlowe appeared, for the moment, in Bame’s mind as a martyr of persecution. He could have chewed the accusation and swallowed it if he had had it. In the transport of these friendly feelings he felt tempted to sheath his sword, but at that moment the sounds of footsteps attracted their attention, and they became intent auditors. Low voices reached their ears, and the noise created by the stumbling movements of many persons in the darkness came with shocking distinctness. Bame stood nearest the folding doors of the chantry.
“Close them,” whispered Marlowe, pointing.
Bame turned in instant response, and pushed to the narrow doors, bolting them. But circular openings were in their fronts, and seeing this, Marlowe hastily extinguished the burning candles. The voices came nearer, and the footsteps now sounded in the aisles.
“It cannot be the watchmen, for they are many.”
“And bear no lanterns.”
“It may be a band of thieves.”
“Did you not bar the entrance door?”
“No, I did not even close it.”
“Hush!” murmured Bame, “and see——”
A faint light flared up in one of the aisles, and then another and another. Each increased in volume of flame until several torches were blazing here and there in the body of the church. They were borne aloft over moving heads, and the two men in the chantry saw villainous faces and ragged forms. It was a score of the most desperate thieves of the Straits, who, having found the loosely closed door of the church opened wide by a furious blast of the storm, had entered like water into the broken hold of a vessel. The fierce desire for plunder had robbed them of caution, and they had become emboldened by their numbers. Possibly they had not thought that the exterior appearance of the lighted church would cause alarm, and it is questionable whether such thought would have stayed them. Then began a scene of spoliation which, in splendor of setting and fierceness of its moving figures, beggars description.
Seldom, if ever, had a house of worship blazed with like illumination. Black smoke arose from the wavering torches, but it was lost in the great space intervening between the spots where it took flight and the groined ceiling, so that nothing obscured the painted windows, the flamboyant tracery above them, and the great arch over the chancel and the altar, except the shadows thrown by intercepting columns. The brilliant colored faces of the saints upon the lancet windows appeared to look down in wonder upon the vandals, whose glances in turn directed upward to these rows of costly panes were the extreme of covetousness. It was only the insurmountable space that kept these pictured saints inviolate. But there were other treasures which held no positions of safety against unholy and unlawful onslaught, and it was toward them that the robbers now directed attention. They began stripping the gilt trappings from the altar and the pulpit, tearing down the purple tapestry before the sacristry, gathering up the chalices, books and vestments, and even wrenching the brass balusters from the winding rood stair to the choir. It may have been their intense action or the awfulness of the surroundings, that closed all lips from the moment that, with eyes feasting on the splendors of the church, they began its desecration. However that may have been, no sound of human voice accompanied the furious workings of the robbers. Still, silence did not prevail. There were blows of solid substances together, rasping of metals, tearings of cloth, and their echoes prolonged by a construction of dome, walls and galleries calculated to keep every sound alive.
Toward the closed chantry, two robbers at length turned. One thrust his torch through a circular window of the door, and the two men within sunk on the marble floor close by the tomb of the founder. The eyes of the thief should have followed the torch, but at that moment a cry attracted his attention, and he saw the tapestry hanging against the wall behind the pulpit wrapped in fierce flames.
It had been kindled by the careless handling of one of the torches, and bid fair to supplement the night’s work with total destruction. While that sight first drew attention, another sight and the sound of shrill voices immediately caused diversion. New figures had suddenly appeared at the wide entrances to the body of the church, and a new fear ran like wildfire through the scattered mob of thieves. There was no outlet except where the alarmed and hastily gathered watchmen were standing. The blazing tapestry forced the robbers forward. None of their spoils were dropped. Having grouped together for an instant, they rushed recklessly toward the entrances held by the watchmen, who could not repel the onslaught. Excepting three who stumbled and fell, the thieves poured forth into the street.
Marlowe was first upon his feet after the withdrawal of the searching torch. He saw the blazing tapestry and the mad rush of the cornered robbers. He unbolted the door, flung it open and without a glance behind him, ran down the aisle and entered the chancel. The light aided him in his rapid survey. He recognized the tomb by which he had ascended, and, lifting the slab, he crawled under into the passage made for the king. In the oratory, a few moments later, he searched his clothes nervously for the still unread message from Anne. It was not to be found, and the meeting of the night had resulted in nought but perplexity and misfortune.
It was not until Marlowe had mysteriously disappeared, that Bame gathered himself for action. He thought of no chance for escape except through the way he had entered. He attempted it, and, having traversed with expedition the aisles and narthex of the church now brilliantly lighted by the flames of the burning tapestry and its supports, he ran into the arms of the watchman in the portico to which the latter had withdrawn. His protestations were of no avail. In vain he pleaded that he had just come up from the sidewalk. Three officers had seen him issue from the church entrance. As one of the thieves he was taken into custody.