The Flushing Incident

Set in Elizabethan England, The Flushing Incident follows gullible goldsmith Gifford Gilbert and his adventure with Christopher Marlowe that has every chance of turning deadly. This extract is a 12 minute read.

Rain pummelled down from the heavens, washing away a little of the stink of London. Gifford Gilbert reflected that it had never rained quite like this the entire time he had been in Holland. But then again, the Dutch city of Flushing was such a clean place perhaps it didn’t need it. Perhaps this tumult of water soaking into his already wet stocking and permeating his leather jerkin was a sign from God that England simply needed a bloody good regular washing. He was inclined to agree with the Almighty, but as his feet squelched down Gracechurch Street he decided that it would definitely be preferable if the downpour would hold off when he needed to get out of his cramped lodgings for an evening.

He was the only tenant of his room at the moment, something which luckily he could afford, being a Goldsmith. But it was a terribly lonely affair for a man who had shared his bedchamber all his life. In the past, on a night like tonight, he would have stayed in and played cards or dice with his fellow boarders, the rain only featuring as background noise. In Flushing he had never wanted for company. He had passed many nights watching the sun set behind the stone towers of the walled city, sketching designs for his next day of work and listening with pleasure to the banter and bickering of his two dynamic and ambitious roommates. And then there were the other nights. The nights when Baines had been away and it was just him and the charismatic Marlowe… But perhaps he should be learning from that experience rather than covering it in nostalgia. Perhaps by living on his own, living a quiet life, he would not have to worry about his gullibility getting him into dangerous situations.

Through the grey, grisly sheet of rain Gifford could just about make out the dripping sign of the Cross-Keys Inn. It was a grand building, it had to be admitted. Old Jim had done a real nice job of doing up the place, a real nice job. The fresh coat of whitewash made all the difference. “If we’re clean on the outside, you can be sure Sir Cecil – bless his boots – will be more likely to overlook the occasional bit of muck on the inside.” He had his work cut out for him keeping an eye on the levels of dirt inside the old pub. It was only just outside of Cheapside, so it had a tendency to attract a certain type of colourful character – who may have been involved in a dubious act or two in their time. In fact, Old Jim saw this as the reason for the prosperity of the place, seeing as it offered the only decent pint within walking distance for whose “whose business I don’t rightly want to know and what I don’t know anything about cos I don’t go around like an idiot asking”. His policy for good business was that he didn’t care if you Protestant or Catholic, spy or Satanist as long as he couldn’t bloody well tell. In light of recent events, Gifford had decided that the old landlord was probably the wisest man this side of the River Thames. He had told him so himself when he had returned to London the week before. Jim’s response had been that as thanks Gifford should start running up a bigger tab. He had been happy to oblige.

As Gifford entered the courtyard of the Inn his nose was assaulted with the sweet and musky smell of wet horses. The hope of a place near a fire made him speed across the cobbled floor to the front door of the tavern. He noticed has he passed through that in the corner of the courtyard a makeshift wooden stage had been set up. There must have been a performance scheduled before the rain had put the audience off. Gifford’s stomach lurched. As he placed a hand on the polished grain of the front door he seriously contemplated returning to his lodgings. It was certainly a much safer option – why take the risk? He had already proved to himself that he was no match against any man with an agenda and a persuasive argument. But, then again, how long is it possible to keep one’s head down? He could hear chatter and laughter coming from inside. It was a busy night; many people had been driven in from the rain. There was no reason to second-guess who they might be.

He hadn’t had an encounter with Kit since The Flushing Incident. They were unlikely to meet by accident in London; they frequented very different areas of the city. Marlowe lived in Shoreditch, a suburb which sat beyond the laws of the city. It suited Marlowe and his liberal habits. He could never abide by the cautious rules employed by someone like Old Jim for very long. Gifford closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The pressure of the rain increased. Rivulets of cold water ran down his face, chilling his nose and lips. There was no way he was going home in this weather without something warm in his belly. He heaved the door open and stepped in to the tavern. A blast of warm air, smelling of charcoal, beer and men, hit Gifford in the face.

“Gifford Gilbert!” exclaimed a loud voice over the considerable racket of the other customers. The mention of his name sent a shivering jolt down Gifford’s spine. But it was not the sultry, softly booming voice that he had prepared himself to hear. It was Old Jim’s lad Tom who beckoned Gifford over. Tom worked for his father, sourcing and looking after the various beers, meads and ciders on offer at the Cross-Keys. It was a line of work well suited to this burly, black-haired man. It gave him a chance to travel around the country, make connections and get in influential pockets – all while having a valid excuse to drink extensively. Gifford made his way through to the corner by the fireplace where Tom was sat alone.

“Gifford Gilbert – how are you my fine Sir?” He slurred slightly on the word ‘sir’. There were three empty glasses in front of Tom and one in his hand, the brown liquid swirling up in the glass and catching the bright glow of the fire behind him as he gestured.

“I’m well,” Gifford replied, feeling the pleasant warmth of the fire pulsating over his numbed face. “Although, I could definitely use a drink.”

“Say no more!” Tom immediately stood and began shouting at a small dish boy to get two more pints of stout and clear away the used glasses that were cluttering up the place.

There were a large number of players surrounding a table close to the bar. They were in varying degrees of costume and undress, some still dressed as (and affecting the airs of) aristocrats as they heckled passers-by. A young actor in drag was challenging other members of the company to arm wrestling, which he was doing quite well at – the losers responding that they had gone easy on him because they were true gents and could never hurt the feelings of a woman, them being softies and all. Gifford didn’t especially recognize any of them. He ran his fingers through his tangled brown hair and beard, wringing out a substantial trickle of water which splattered onto the smooth wooden floor. No. It didn’t seem that Marlowe was amongst them…

“No Jim tonight?” Gifford asked, missing the familiar presence of the gnarled face behind the bar.

Tom shook his head. “Na. Dad always tries to take the evening off if there’s a performance on. He says they take too many liberties what he’d rather not see.” Tom rolled his eyes. “I think he’d do away with having them altogether if it warn’t for me, you know. He ain’t a cultured creature like us.”

Gifford shrugged. “To each their own.” Was Tom staring at him? He looked down into his pint and pretended to be absorbed by the residue slowly sinking to the bottom. He thought he could feel Tom’s eyes searching over him.

“What have you been up to lately?” Tom asked. “I haven’t seen you around here in a while.”

“Oh… Not much…I’ve just been busy at work. Had a lot of orders.”

“Right.” Tom sat up and cocked an eyebrow towards Gifford. “Didn’t you go out to Flushing, not so long ago?”

I shouldn’t have come here, Gifford thought desperately. “No. That wasn’t me.” His heart beat remained steady but each pulse seemed to pound in his chest. He willed himself to meet Tom’s eyes. Tom was smiling. A sly smile.

So, he had heard something.

Gifford couldn’t be surprised. Word travelled around London faster than plague in a hot summer. And he had just told a stupid and very obvious lie.

“Really?” Tom asked, running his tongue over his teeth. “Because… come to think of it, I haven’t seen you here in a couple of months.”

Gifford forced a laugh to try and cover his cover. “Oh! No, I did go to Flushing… I just… wish I hadn’t. It really was a very dull few months.” That was a truly terrible effort, he thought. He was always catastrophic with words when it counted. He should have taken those acting lessons of Kit’s more seriously. He was already well on his way to convincing Tom that whatever rumour he had heard was true. He swallowed convulsively and tried to stay still. He needed to tread very carefully.

“All work and no play, eh? He winked. “It’s a small city isn’t it? Flushing? I bet you bumped into the infamous Christopher Marlowe while he was out there. There must be a story in that?” Tom was leaning across the table now, a conspiratorial glint in his eye.

Had Kit advised him to lie close to the truth because it was easier to stay consistent, or to stick to a story that was completely different to avoid getting burned? He had been a given a while whispered and insistent lecture on the subject at one point when he had asked about the risks of getting caught. But he had been distracted by the rhythm of his potent words tumbling over each other in such urgency; those whispers which somehow seemed to punch you in the soul with their boom. And ice blue eyes, piercing deep into his own late at night until he’d follow that enigmatically dangerous man blindly into the deep of the dragon’s den. Then, as now, he had a 50/50 chance of making the right decision.

“Well, I did see him once. But we didn’t really talk…What would the infamous Marlowe be interested in me for?” It had certainly seemed implausible at the time.

“All I know,’ Tom began slowly, implying he knew far more – which may or may not have been the case, “is that Marlowe got involved in a right scandal with the law, and that him and certain Goldsmith were sent directly to the Privy Council themselves no less, in order to sort out the terrible mess.” He shook his head slowly in condemnation, but he had the twitches of a mile curling at the edges of his lips.

Gifford’s damp clothes felt hot and sticky in the stifling atmosphere of the pub. At the words ‘Privy Council’ a number of other people had started to look over. He didn’t know what to say. He wished bitterly he was still outside in the cold winter rain. “Those are just rumours.” He said quietly, hoping to hell that everyone would just stop looking at him.

“Oh yes.” Tom said. “I’m well aware of that.” He took a long sip from his drink. “But I also know that where Christopher Marlowe is concerned the rumour is usually only the thin end of the wedge, so to speak.”

Don’t say anything more, he counselled himself. Anything you say will only make the connection plainer and draw more interest to yourself. He should have left London and waited for the storm to blow over in a place where no one knew his name. If he wasn’t careful Marlowe’s enemies might end up being informed that there was a weak link in the chain - a certain Goldsmith who could be tugged for information. His imagination had already been widened as to what such activities could be performed on him for such a task.

His brief encounter with the man known as Bolt at Sir Cecil’s house had given his mind plenty of materials for nightmares. Upon their arrival at the Lord Treasurer’s London home, Marlowe had been taken to have a private meeting in Cecil’s study and he had been left in the care of the Lord’s ‘groom’. But it was clear that Bolt had more skills than brushing down horses, oiling tack and hacking the mud out of the horses’ hooves. He had sat down in front of him, inspecting and cleaning his immaculately white and oddly long fingernails – a task which seemed to absorb him quite fully – whilst he told a number of anecdotes in a deep voice that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.

Had he heard about the vagrant in Southwark who had been found with his thumbs nailed to the door of a public house?

No…

He had screamed all night for help, but no one had wanted to disturb Walsingham’s men in their work.

Had he heard about the merchant from Cambridgeshire who had been lamed by having boiling water poured over his feet?

No…

It was rumoured he had been seen with tears in his eyes whilst looking over the tomb of the executed Scottish Queen…

Bolt had spoken quietly but his deep voice had carried clearly across the flagstone floor of the kitchen as he had laboriously brushed and polished his ten shiny nails. Gifford had suspected his nerves were being tested and did his best to remain calm. But, already being nauseous from the cramped carriage journey, and inflamed by the smell of the peppermint unguent Bolt rubbed into his fingertips, Gifford had not been able to stop from gagging. Luckily his evident weakness had not been exploited. Cecil had been content with Kit’s explanation of events – whatever that had been. But he couldn’t rule out the possibility of being dragged back if he let any unofficial information slip.

“Come now, Gifford – you’re among friends here.” Tom nodded to his growing audience. “Don’t be afraid to speak plainly. Tell us what you know!” But Gifford knew what Tom was up to. He was not as shrewd as his father. Tom played dangerous games. Old Jim had it right – once your appearance was gone in this city you were nothing; ripe to be plucked, fucked and exploited. He had only survived his last error by the smallest of margins.

“You know Tom, I’d forgotten, but… I said I’d call on a friend on my way here. I should probably fetch him – he only lives around the corner.” Gifford stood quickly. He’s leave now even if he had to run and create a scene.

“Is that the Mister Richard Baines?” Tom asked casually. He knew far too much, that was clear. A couple of the players had begun whispering to each other and glancing over towards Gifford and Tom.

“What? No… no. It’s … someone else – someone you don’t know.” He stumbled towards the door aware of more and more eyes turning unashamedly towards him.

“He cursed you, you know” Tom shouted, as Gifford opened the door. “Marlowe came in here – drunker than a Scot – cursing you for being such an idiot to tell that infidel Baines a single drop of your plans!” Gifford slammed the door shut behind him, not wanting to hear any more of those sharp, sharp words.

Gifford’s heart pounded in his ribs as the rain pelted down onto his head. He told himself not to be surprised. His hopes had been foolish that Kit would not blame him for what had happened in Flushing. Yet, Kit’s public vitriol was worse than any repercussions he had imagined. The rain no longer felt like a cleansing shower. Instead this was God pissing directly on his life. He thought he had survived that mistake. Kit had saved him, saved them all, thanks to his sweet words with the Lords of the council. But it had been far too close. The stakes had been too high. God knows what Marlowe had offered them to barter a pardon; something, no doubt, he had not wished to part with. Gifford had been a fool to suppose that he could walk back into his old life. He should never have trusted the rugged charisma of a man who had revealed himself that he was a spy. He wondered if Kit knew, even then, that the glamour of that statement was enough to draw him in to his devilish plans. And now, even if he had been saved from the twisting agonies of the Privy Council’s experiments that did not mean he was safe. No man could curse like Christopher Marlowe. He was a dangerous man to have betrayed, even accidentally.

Gifford slipped in the wet mud beneath hum and crashed to the fetid London earth. Shuddering and shivering, he lay there and cried as God pissed on him. Except God had really become Marlow for him quite some time ago. Sweet Kit who had shown him a world beyond fear. A new way of living, truly living, if only he dared to reach out and take the chance. He had reached out with both hands to the doctrine of the man with the velvet voice and the sharp, sharp tongue. He had ignored the possibility than he might have been worshipping the devil. But deep down he had always known. Marlowe – ever the hypocrite – had one reaction to betrayal. Satan has no scripture on forgiveness; he was in the damning business.