Free Marbeck and the Double Dealer by John Pilkington Page B

moment, Marbeck seized it.
    â€˜Ordnance, madame,’ he said. ‘More precisely, cannons that once saw service on English ships – the same ships that vanquished the late King of Spain’s fleet, a dozen years ago. I’m a peddler, if you like – a dealer in instruments of destruction.’
    â€˜That is a dangerous activity,’ the lady observed.
    â€˜It is,’ Marbeck allowed. ‘Yet as long as men wage war upon one another, it remains profitable. It has taken me to many places: to the fringes of Europe . . . even to the Palace of the Grand Sultan, in Constantinople.’
    â€˜And was that visit profitable?’
    Perhaps she wasn’t flirting after all, he thought, but testing him. It was time to produce some cover.
    â€˜Not as much as I’d hoped,’ he answered amiably. ‘The Turks are fierce bargainers. The Spanish, on the other hand, can be generous. Ten years ago they were paying twenty English pounds a ton for our cannons – cast-iron, of course. Now I’m asking twenty-five for culverins – eighteen-pounders, splendid guns cast in the Forest of Dean. I can also lay my hands upon demi-cannon – thirty-pounders.’ He smiled. ‘But I’m sure you’ve no wish to hear such petty details.’
    â€˜On the contrary, it’s most interesting.’ La Comtesse gazed steadily at him, and it was then that Marbeck made a slip. It was unlike him, but he was weary and the wine was strong, and though he had tried to drink little, it had taken its effect.
    â€˜Our friend Cyp—’
    Quickly, he turned it into a cough. ‘Forgive me, madame.’ He patted his chest and made a gesture of self-deprecation. ‘I’ve ridden far, and your table is so fine . . . I grow sluggish. Perhaps we may speak further tomorrow?’ Then, feeling he should mention her husband, he added: ‘I would naturally wish to pay my respects to Monsieur le Comte.’
    There was no reply. Marbeck waited – then gambled.
    â€˜Although . . . Louis Orme did suggest it was you I should confide in,’ he went on. ‘You are, he said, close to the Spanish. Forgive me, but those were his words.’
    â€˜Were they indeed?’ The lady gazed at him. ‘And what, Monsieur Wilders, did you take them to mean?’
    â€˜Merely that you were acquainted with men of rank and status, during the Spanish occupation,’ Marbeck answered. ‘Their ships were downriver, I understand?’
    â€˜At Blavet.’ The Comtesse gave a nod. ‘The town was returned to French control two years ago. Did you not know that?’
    â€˜Of course.’ Marbeck nodded, too. ‘Yet a man who conducts my sort of business must look beyond the obvious, madame. I seek a market for my wares – nothing more. I deal where I can, and judge no man provided he pays. Do I make myself clear?’
    There was another silence. The fire had sunk low, and several candles had gone out. He looked round, expecting a servant to replenish them, and only now realized that he and the Comtesse were alone. Then he felt a hand on his, and turned sharply.
    â€˜It grows late . . . I must go to my bed.’
    The lady had leaned forward and laid her bejewelled hand upon his wrist. When Marbeck met her eye, she added: ‘On nights when my husband returns this late, his custom is to go straight to his chamber and have a supper brought there. He will fall asleep at once, and not rise before midday.’ She allowed the words to sink in, then: ‘You will be conducted to the Cerise room. It is small, but it has a unique feature: a hidden panel in one wall. If this should open during the night, would you be alarmed?’
    â€˜It would depend on what – or I should say who – came through the panel, madame,’ Marbeck said, after a moment.
    â€˜Who would you hope might come through it?’
    â€˜I hesitate to voice it.’ He appeared flattered,