Marbeck and the Privateers by John Pilkington Page A

me out now?’
    Before answering Marbeck glanced at the window, saw shadows flicker past. Fitch was a valuable asset here, and if he called for aid it would follow. Facing him, he said: ‘I heard from a friend that you made a wondrous weapon recently. I’d like you to make me one too … Its purpose must be a secret. The shilling is but a part-payment. My people would reward you well, after the success of the first device.’
    â€˜Your people?’ Fitch eyed him uneasily, but the greedy look in his eyes gave Marbeck encouragement. Pressing his advantage, he said: ‘I needn’t spell out the nature of this cunning machine, save to say that it was made with a mathematical precision that only you, I think, could have accomplished. The one who opened it has learned that to his cost.’ When the other made no reply he added: ‘I speak of needles, cleverly placed so that—’
    â€˜No, don’t!’ Fitch shook his head quickly. ‘It’s not part of my craft – to make such a thing would risk the gallows.’
    But he wore another expression now: one of disappointment. Marbeck had expected the man to deny knowledge of the needle-bomb, but now doubts arose. Was Fitch regretting the loss of potential business? ‘Then you couldn’t contrive such a device?’ he asked. ‘Or you could, but you didn’t make the one I speak of?’ When the other hesitated, he added: ‘Well … perhaps we might do business anyway.’
    The other’s greedy look returned at once. ‘How so?’
    â€˜I mean, if you knew of another who might have constructed such a weapon,’ Marbeck replied. ‘And if you were to point me to him, another shilling could be yours.’
    At that Fitch began a struggle with himself, of a sort not unfamiliar. Fear and greed did battle: fear of informing on another rogue like himself, which might have grave consequences, vied with the risk of losing a shilling – a day’s wage for a craftsman. Finally, to Marbeck’s silent relief, greed won the day.
    â€˜You leave here without having seen me,’ Fitch said.
    Marbeck’s silence served for assent.
    â€˜And were you to tell anyone I’d named the man – one I know only by reputation, you understand – I’d deny it on oath.’
    A further assent.
    â€˜More, you don’t return here. And the price is not shillings, but a half-angel.’
    Slowly, Marbeck reached in his purse. But having found the coin, he kept it in his fist until the other stepped closer, and with the air of a stage conspirator, said: ‘Seek out Richard Gurran – a needle-maker, turned joiner.’
    But the name was unknown to him; and frowning, he withheld the coin. ‘Where might he be found, this Gurran?’ he demanded. ‘For in a city of two hundred thousand souls, one might speak of other needles …’
    â€˜I cannot say with certainty,’ Fitch said quickly. ‘I spoke the name truthfully, and you must seek him for yourself.’
    â€˜Where?’ Marbeck demanded. ‘I need more than that.’ He moved towards Fitch, who shrank away.
    â€˜Well … he’s probably at sea by now.’
    â€˜You mean he’s fled the country already?’ Marbeck loomed over his informant, who took a step back. His old poniard reappeared – then he gave a yelp. With a rapid movement Marbeck seized his wrist and twisted it, forcing him to drop the weapon. As it clattered to the floor, he pulled the man close.
    â€˜By the Christ, let go of me!’ Fitch cried. ‘I spoke truly: he’s a seaman, the sort you’d do well to steer clear of. If ’twas he made the device, he’ll have gone back to his ship. It’s called the Amity … that’s all I know. Now release me!’
    Frowning, Marbeck let go of him. A seaman … With a curse on his lips, he thought suddenly of Limehouse. He might even have