cemetery, yelling for help as he did so. Gyves had already completed
his search; there was nothing in the pockets. As he clambered off
the pile, he saw a man from the house meet the grave-digger. They
came toward him. Their looks were menacing and the newcomer held a
blunderbuss in his hands. Gyves could not retreat, so he confronted
them.
“Give yourself up,” said the man with the blunderbuss. He was the
sexton and spoke authoritatively; and the man with the shovel supported
the order with the words: “It never misses fire.”
“What should I give myself up for?” asked Gyves.
“Trespassing.”
“And robbing the dead,” added the grave digger.
“Drop your gun,” commanded Gyves, “I’m an officer.”
He pulled open his doublet exposing his badge of authority.
“And, moreover,” he continued, “I have taken nothing.”
The sexton looked inquiringly at his companion.
“I saw him search the pockets of one of those corpses.”
“For my papers and to identify him,” responded Gyves, “and found
nothing. The paper I wanted was not there.”
The guardian of the place appeared satisfied. He lowered the muzzle
of his blunderbuss, and the three walked toward the entrance. Gyves
had been growing paler with every step taken by him. The result of his
search for the warrant had staggered him much more than had the leveled
shotgun. He feared that Bame had it. He had no idea of what prosecution
might be instituted against him, or what punishment might be inflicted;
but, knowing that thieves, found guilty of stealing above twelve pence,
were hung, he had reason to fear a similar fate for his more grievous
offense. By the time he reached the sexton’s house he was of the color
of chalk and his knees gave way. The two men assisted him to the steps
before the house.
“It is as I expected,” murmured the grave-digger.
“The plague?” queried the sexton, fixing his wide open eyes upon Gyves’
face.
“Why, yes,” answered the grave-digger.
“No,” panted Gyves in a low voice, “I’ll be better in a few minutes.”
Both men drew back and shook their heads. They waited, fearful of
seeing him lose consciousness, rave and die; but much to their surprise
his color came back; he staggered to his feet; he asked for water,
which he received and drank; he uttered his thanks, strode down the
road, and passed through the open gate.
When Gyves asserted his position as an officer to the two men in the
cemetery, he had felt that it was about the last time he could take
such a stand. Later, upon that day, he was removed from office at the
instance of Bame, the charge being that he had parted with official
papers; neglected his duties, and proved himself incompetent to perform
them. He could not produce the warrant. Bame produced the fragment
of the seal and portions of the caption and the body of the writ. It
closed Gyves’ public career. He was plunged into abject poverty; in the
wake of famine came the black destroyer, and his entire family was torn
from him in a few hours.
It was not strange that he attributed all his misfortune to Bame. If
at every curse he muttered against his accuser, he had drawn a poniard
across a whetstone, the blade would have been as narrow as a lancet. He
dogged Bame’s steps; he waited for him always with dark intentions; but
like Hamlet, he deferred action.
OVER THE BODY OF THE DEAD.
_What sight is this, my Lodovico slain!_
_These arms of mine shall be thy sepulchre._
--_Jew of Malta, iii, 2._
_These arms of mine shall be thy winding sheet;_
_My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre._
--_Third Part King Henry VI, ii, 5._
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.”
INTO THE LION’S MOUTH.
_And tell him that I labor all in vain,_
_To ease his grief and work his liberty;_
_And bear him this as witness of my love._
--_Edward II, v, 2._
_O! give thyself the thanks, if aught in me_
_Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;_
_For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee._
--_Sonnet, xxxviii._