The day’s market was almost over and Henry Skirrow had places to be. He hurried up the rope ladder, his pattens clattering on the swaying boards, and disappeared below decks to where Master Vaughan sat with his companions. Skirrow took off his hat, passed the letter to Vaughan and waited. The man slit the seal carefully and read the contents. He passed it to Thomas Page who in turn passed it to Edmund Denny. Both men shrugged. ‘It’s all about a play,’ Page said, helping himself to another goblet of Rhenish. ‘No mystery there.’ ‘All that’s on top,’ Vaughan muttered. ‘What’s he really after?’ ‘John, you’re dreaming,’ Denny said. ‘You’d swear your bloody anchor chain was out to get you. Some people have other fish to fry. I’ve heard of this Marlowe. He’s a scribbler, poet, playwright, university wit, pain in the arse. He’s no threat to us.’ ‘That’s as may be,’ Vaughan said. ‘But I’ve met the man.
