Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - (30 page)

Andrew took a few sips, then thirstily downed the whole half-pint.

‘Better?’

The boy shook his head. Suddenly, he looked old beyond his years. ‘No. Not better. Empty. I had expected some kind of elation, but there was none. My hatred seeped away into nothingness.’

Shakespeare held the boy to him. ‘You are a man now,’ he said. ‘A good man. We will talk of your future, soon.’ As he spoke, there was a knock at the door, and he heard Jane’s soft-shod feet scuttling through the hall to answer it.

‘Will, it is good to see you.’

‘I would have come sooner. There were … difficulties.’

‘Well, you are here now. Welcome.’

‘I am lost for words.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘There is a first time for everything, Will. Say nothing. It has all been said.’ He embraced his brother, whose clothes were dusty and stained.

‘In truth, John, as well as bringing my condolences, I come with another purpose. I fear I was not wholly open with you the last time we met. I knew more about the death of Kit Marlowe than I told you. I thought it safer to avoid London for a while. I believe I am still in grave danger.’

Shakespeare stood back from his brother and looked into his eyes inquiringly. ‘You are safe here, Will. Come to my solar. Let us talk in comfort. You look as if you have been dragged here from Stratford. Jane will bring us refreshments.’

In the quiet of Shakespeare’s sunlit room, his brother unburdened himself.

‘John, I am sure you must know of the arrest and torture of Thomas Kyd before Marlowe’s death.’

‘Of course. He was one of those believed to be this
Tamburlaine
who wrote the attack on the strangers, which was posted outside the Dutch church. But I did not believe it for one moment. It was Francis Mills who ordered his arrest and hard questioning. Mills has a taste for torture, I fear. Perhaps it is revenge for the ill-treatment he has at the hands of his sluttish wife.’ Shakespeare could not help noticing that his brother’s hands were trembling and that his brow was deeply furrowed with concern.

‘You will know, too, John, that Tom Kyd had shared lodgings with Kit Marlowe.’

‘Yes, of course. It was much discussed.’

‘So when Kyd was arrested and the pursuivants searched his rooms, what were they looking for?’

‘Why, evidence linking him to the Dutch church tract. All they found, though, was some discourse on atheism, which is offence enough in the eyes of many. I believe he said it was not his paper, but Marlowe’s.’ Shakespeare snorted, without humour. He was bemused. ‘But Will, this was just one of many lines of inquiry into the Dutch church posters. A reward of a hundred marks was offered for information, and torture was sanctioned by the Privy Council. Few believed, however, that Marlowe was behind the posters, for why would he have named himself so clearly, knowing the penalty for such sedition?’

‘Perhaps the searchers were looking for something else when they tore apart Tom Kyd’s room and broke his body on the Bridewell engines of torment. Perhaps Poley, Frizer and Skeres were seeking the same thing when they took Kit Marlowe to a room in Deptford and killed him.’

‘What else could they have been looking for?’

‘I cannot tell you for the present. Suffice it to say that I know of it. I could add that there are some who do believe Poley, Frizer and Skeres were not the only ones present in that room when the killing occurred.’

‘Who else?’

‘I cannot tell you.’

‘Why did you not mention any of this before?’

‘You would have been compromised. It would have been your duty to seek out whatever Poley and the others were after, and then destroy it.’

‘You must at least tell me what manner of thing you mean. Is it written matter, some sedition?’

‘Not now. You will know soon enough.’

‘Coining, perhaps? Marlowe had much trouble with his counterfeiting activites when he was in Flushing. It was a weakness of his. Had he treasure hidden, false money, that they sought?’

‘Be patient.’

Shakespeare poured brandy for his brother from the jug left by Jane. ‘Will, beloved brother, if Marlowe was involved in counterfeiting the Queen’s coin or writing something of a seditious nature and you know what it is, you are already in peril. Nothing you can tell me will make your position more dangerous. You say they tortured Kyd and killed Marlowe because of it. Why would they stop there? The slightest suspicion that you know of its whereabouts could lead to your arrest, and worse.’

‘That is why I left London so hurriedly after the inquest. I had only stayed as long as I did to discover what came out in the testimony of Poley, Skeres and Frizer. I went home to Stratford, but I soon realised I could not stay there; I had to face up to this matter. These past days I have been in Shoreditch, for I had much to organise. I fear I did not hear of Catherine’s terrible death until now. My coming here to your home has had to be most quiet, and I must keep it that way.’

‘Someone is after you?’

‘It is possible.’

‘And is there some link to Catherine’s death?’

‘No, none that I know. John, come with me on the morrow and you shall discover all that I know.’

‘This disturbs me greatly.’

‘Yes, but I must ask you to trust me on this.’

Chapter 39

T
HE KEEPER OF
the Marshalsea shook his head and rubbed his long, grease-streaked beard. ‘I am sorry, Mr Shakespeare. Ingram Frizer is no longer here. Got his pardon from the Queen yesterday and so I had to let him out.’

Shakespeare uttered a low oath. ‘Where did he go?’

‘I have his place of abode. I did write it in the black book. You are welcome to consult it, though whether he went there I could not say.’

The keys on the keeper’s belt clanged with every step through the echoing halls of the old prison as he led Shakespeare to his little room. ‘Here we are, master,’ he said at last as he opened the door, letting Shakespeare in first.

Shakespeare held a kerchief to his nose in disgust. There was a foul smell in here of cooking fat, which added a nauseous quality to the common gaol scents of ordure and sweat.

The keeper brought down the black book and opened it flat on the crooked table, where, judging from the stains, scraps and crumbs, he took his daily food.

‘There we go, sir. Admitted the second of June, killed a man in self-defence. Following inquest, to be held on remand awaiting decision of court in Chancery. Now he has had his formal pardon. Let me see, where did he abide?’ The keeper scratched his dirty, fat forefinger across the page. ‘Ah, there it is – not far from here, master. By the river, St Augustine Inn, my old father always knew it as. Now, though it is called Sentlegar House. Tenement building. Many of the worst sort live there, sir. You will find it hard by the Bridge House.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And I wish you fortune of Mr Frizer, sir, for I cannot say I liked him much. A sly fellow, I would say. Not one to turn your back on, lest you wish a poniard in the kidney.’

Shakespeare was relieved to step out into the comparatively fresh air of Southwark. The streets were thronged with stalls selling goods from the world over, brought back by the great trading carracks. Spanish gold and fruits could be had here, wine from France, printed books from the German lands, furs from the Russias and spices from the Moluccas. Looking down Long Southwark to the bridge, he saw nothing but people, wains and farm beasts, packed tight in an endless stream. He shuddered at the thought of what might have been, had the hellburner done its foul work.

St Augustine Inn was less than a furlong from the gaol. Shakespeare walked straight in, for the door was open. A family of ten huddled in the first room he saw, a drab band of whores in the next. He asked after Ingram Frizer. No one would admit to knowing him. He looked in all the tenements. There were only poor families, whores and rats. Not a clue as to his whereabouts.

The windows were shuttered at Robert Poley’s splendid, timbered townhouse in Birchin Lane, just north of Lombard Street. Yet it was not entirely empty, for a housekeeper answered the door to Shakespeare.

‘I would speak with Mr Poley,’ Shakespeare demanded.

‘I fear he is not here, master,’ the woman said. She was an honest-looking woman in her thirties. Shakespeare looked at her questioningly and wondered why any decent goodwife would wish to work for a villain such as Poley.

‘When will he be back?’

‘He has left for the summer, master. Gone to the country to escape the pestilence. I just come here to dust and look out for the place while he’s away.’

‘Did he say which part of the country?’

‘Norfolk, I do believe. He said he would be travelling for a few weeks and that he might go to the Low Countries for a while. He has a friend with him, sir, one Nicholas Skeres.’

Shakespeare looked at the woman’s eyes yet more closely and could see no dissembling in them. So Poley and Skeres had left town, and Frizer was gone, too. Well, that was most convenient for them. Shakespeare cursed beneath his breath, then smiled at the woman and thanked her for her assistance. There was only one more place to try: Deptford.

It was a journey of no more than half an hour by tilt-boat. Shakespeare paid the watermen, then strode across the green to the fine house of Ellie Bull. He hammered at the door, with more than a hint of impatience. He was well aware that Cecil would be in a fury if he had any idea what he was about and would damn him for not devoting his time to the Scots prince or the Spanish woman. But since the arrival of his brother, there was this matter of Marlowe again, this
murder
; he was convinced of it. It had lain unquestioned too long.

Mrs Bull eyed him warily. ‘Yes, master, how may I help you?’

‘I am John Shakespeare, an officer of Sir Robert Cecil.’

‘Yes, sir, I know that.’

‘You are well informed, mistress.’

‘You were here at the inquest on poor Mr Marlowe, here in my humble house.’

Shakespeare looked up at the facade of the building. There was nothing at all humble about it. Ellie Bull had clearly been left a widow of some means, for the house had a large frontage, all in a single wood frame, and a pleasant aspect with views across Deptford Green and the river. It was well away from all the other housing in the village.

‘I would come in and talk with you.’

‘And why would that be, sir?’ Ellie Bull stood her ground and crossed her plump arms across her ample bosom. She would have been a comely girl in her younger days, and still had an attractive blush to her cheeks. But there was a hint of hardness about her, too, the hardness of a woman of business who liked gold and would not give an inch in the getting and keeping of it. ‘I have no knowledge of the sad events in my house. I had let the room to the gentlemen for their afternoon of gaming and drinking, and the next thing I knew, there was a brabble and an accidental death. That is all I know or can tell you, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Did you hear the fight?’

Mrs Bull hesitated.

‘It is a simple enough question, mistress. There was a violent quarrel. You must have heard something, for you were in the house, bringing them refreshments of ale and sweetmeats from time to time. Yes?’

‘I may have heard something … but I paid it no heed. Young gentlemen will fight and brawl now and then. It is their nature. No concern of mine.’

‘But you heard something?’

‘I suppose I did. Yes, now that I come to think of it.’

‘What time was that?’

‘As I recall, the inquest was told it was six of the clock.’

‘That is not what I asked, mistress.’

‘If the inquest said six, then six it was.’

‘Who was in the room that day? Did men come and go?’

Mrs Bull began ticking off names on her fingers. ‘Well, there was Mr Marlowe, of course, and Mr Poley. Oh, and the poor lad who killed him in the terrible accident, Mr Frizer. And I believe there was one other, a jolly, red-bearded fat fellow – that’s him, Nicholas Skeres. Fine gentlemen all.’

‘Do you know where they are now? Where is Frizer?’

‘The only one I know of is Mr Frizer. I do believe him to be in the Marshalsea.’

‘No, he has had his pardon.’

‘Well, then, I am mighty pleased for the lad, for he did not deserve to be incarcerated for defending himself. Any man must have the right of self-defence.’

‘Where might he have gone?’

‘Home?’

‘No. He is not there.’

‘Well, he is certain not here, so I could not say.’

‘What of the fifth man? There was a fifth man in the room.’

Mrs Bull looked puzzled and began counting off names on her fingers again, then shook her head. ‘No, sir, four was the number.’

‘What manner of house is this, Mrs Bull? For it is surely no tavern, nor inn – yet these men – these five men – treated it as a taproom that day. Or if not a taproom, they had some other purpose. So I say again, what manner of house is this?’

‘It is my dwelling-house, sir, and respectable. My late husband and I did bring up twelve children within these walls, though none survived, God rest their poor little souls.’

‘If it is nothing but a dwelling, why were Poley, Marlowe and the others here that day?’

‘It was a favour, sir, a favour for a friend. Now, if you have learned all you require, I must be about my chores.’

‘I am not finished with you. This matter is Council business, ordered by Sir Robert Cecil. I will have answers from you, for I believe there were five men here that day and that Marlowe died earlier, more like three or four of the clock, and that one man had to slip away unobserved. I believe you all conspired to lie about the time of death in case anyone in the vicinity saw this fifth man leave. It would not have done to link him with the death.’

The warm cheeks of Ellie Bull suddenly took on the sharp-edged aspect of the business woman that she was. ‘You can name your names, Mr Shakespeare, and speak of Sir Robert Cecil and the Council, but I tell you this – I am kin of Cecil and old Burghley and I will not be intimidated by you, nor have words put in my mouth. The tale was told at the inquest, and that is that. The matter is at an end. Good day.’ She stepped back into the spacious innards of the house, and slammed the door shut in Shakespeare’s face.

‘If you were going to murder a man, Joshua, why go to the bother of luring him to a house in daylight? Why share a few cups of ale and then stab him through the eye? Why not, instead, wear a cowl, slide up to your intended victim in a side-street by night and cut his throat? Or run the man through with a sword?’

Joshua Peace was examining the lacerated tongue of a woman found dead, probably murdered, near the archbishop’s palace in Lambeth. ‘You have a very good point, John.’

‘Which means that Poley and the others did not take Marlowe to Widow Bull’s house to murder him. Why, then, was he there? If they had wanted to play at cards and take ale together, why not go to a tavern or inn? There are plenty of those in Deptford.’

‘Perhaps the widow offered them a good price for ale … or a fair sirloin of beef?’

‘The widow Bull does not need the money. There is something else: she is well connected, claiming some kinship to the Cecils.’

‘Hold this, John.’ Peace handed Shakespeare a steel implement for the widening of orifices. ‘The Cecils, you say? You are entering dangerous territory there, I think.’

Shakespeare took the tool absent-mindedly. His thoughts were not here in this chilly crypt beneath St Paul’s, but in the room where he had seen the corpse of Christopher Marlowe. ‘I think it a distant thing, through marriage. I cannot pay such things heed.’

Peace said nothing. He had his nose close to the dead woman’s mouth, sniffing.

‘But I have developed a theory, Joshua, one not entirely based on wild surmise. It is this: Marlowe was taken there to be tortured. They wanted to obtain some information from him. It was the perfect place for that. Widow Bull’s house stands apart. A man’s screams might be muffled there. You recall the injury to his hand? You speculated that it could have been caused by some sharp edge of iron. Could that injury have been caused by an attempt to apply a thumbscrew?’

‘Yes, it could.’

‘You noted, too, that he stank of ale. One could not miss it. It seems to me possible that they might have plied him with drink elsewhere, so that they could lure him, drunk, to the widow’s house with promises of more ale or other pleasures. I believe that would explain their presence there. But then things went wrong. He was a strong man. They overestimated his inebriation. And when they tried to bind him and apply the instrument of torture, he fought back with great force. In the fracas, he was killed, perhaps with his own knife, perhaps with Frizer’s. It doesn’t matter which.’

Peace put out his hand and Shakespeare returned the implement to him. ‘Everything you say fits, John. Except one thing: why would anyone wish to torture a fellow like Marlowe? What could he possibly have that Poley and his friends would want?’

‘I am not sure, Joshua. But I am hoping that I will soon find out.’

‘John, before you go, there was the other body you sent me, one Christopher Morley, found hanged in Wood Street Counter.’

‘What did you discover?’

Peace shrugged his lean shoulders. ‘That he died by hanging, nothing more. I think you know he had weals about his wrists, as though tied, but you had bound him yourself, I believe. There was nothing to say he was hanged by others. On balance I would say it was self-destruction, for most men set upon in such a way would put up a fight and suffer injuries to their hands and nails. But I am afraid there is no certainty in my judgement.’

Shakespeare nodded. Perhaps they would never know. ‘There was one other thing, Joshua. There were letters writ in blood on the dungeon floor.
RB
or
RP
I could not discern which.’

‘That is something I cannot help you with.’

‘No. But I find myself believing it was
RB
– Rick Baines. And there were two other lines, which could have been
LL
Morley was trying to tell me that Luke Laveroke was Baines. He left that message because he knew he was going to die. He was certainly afraid.’

‘Then that is for you to discover. I wish you well, John.’