The Man in the Snow (Ebook) (5 page)

 
Shakespeare sighed. The countess was right. But there would be no sleep for him now. He had already sent Boltfoot to the servants’ quarters with orders that they all be brought from their beds to the kitchen for questioning. He needed to know whether any of them was missing. And he was interested to hear the testimony of Curly Marot.

Within the hour, Shakespeare had ordered Boltfoot to saddle up. ‘I have a task for you,’ he said.

 
‘There is a great deal of snow, master.’

 
‘I am sure the weather was worse than this when you sailed the world under Drake.’

 
Boltfoot accepted the mission without further demur.

 
Shakespeare went to the kitchen where the servants were ranged before him. They were all present. He looked them over. There was little about them to arouse curiosity, let alone suspicion.

 
‘Who has something to tell me regarding this morning’s incident?’ he demanded.

 
No one spoke.

 
‘What of the death of Giovanni Jesu? Do you have any thoughts on that? I know he spent a great deal of time among you all. Who might have wished him harm?’

 
The group stood sullenly and in silence.

 
‘I tell you this,’ Shakespeare persisted, ‘if you know anything, it would be better for you to come to me than I find information some other way.’ He dismissed them with an impatient wave of his arm, all except for the steward, Stickley, whom he asked about the sleeping arrangements in the manor house.

 
‘Four maidservants share one room and the men are split between two other rooms. Only Dorcas has a small room to herself, and that is because she has a baby.’

 
‘Well, leave her there with Agnes for the moment. I may wish to search her chamber later, when she is rested.’

 
‘Yes, sir.’

 
‘And you are certain that all members of the earl’s retinue are accounted for?’

 
‘I am, sir. None went missing in the night.’

 
‘Very well, Mr Stickley. Bring back Monsieur Marot if you would.’

 
Stickley bowed and departed. Shakespeare was worried. It was clear that Dorcas Catton was in grave danger – but did the threat come from this house or outside?

 
When Stickley and Marot returned, Shakespeare was sitting back on a chair at the kitchen table. He studied them both as they entered the room.

 
‘You stay, too, Mr Stickley.’

 
They stood side by side. Stickley was stiff, his grey face a mask of solemnity, as befitted a nobleman’s senior man. Not so Curly Marot; he had the prickly aspect of a servant who considered himself well above his allotted station and had no inclination to be questioned.

 
Shakespeare allowed them to stew for a few moments, then spoke, his voice languid, his intent lethal. ‘Tell me, Monsieur Marot, why did you dislike Giovanni Jesu so much?’

 
The question seemed to take the cook by surprise. His eyes darkened with puzzlement and something like fear.

 
‘It is a simple enough question, Monsieur Marot. I believe you bore Giovanni Jesu malice. Had he done you some injury?’

 
Marot’s eyes flicked to the thin, impassive figure of Stickley.

 
‘You will find no answers there,’ Shakespeare said.

 
Marot turned his shoulder and glared at Stickley. ‘Must I answer this man?’ His voice was thickly accented.

 
‘I think it would behove you well to do so, Monsieur Marot.’

 
‘Very well. Damn your eyes.’ He spoke without looking at Shakespeare. ‘He was a heathen, a necromancer, a dealer with devils. He had a black hide and a blacker heart.’ At last he looked at his interrogator and stabbed a finger at him. ‘He
deserved
to die. Satan has taken his own.’

 
‘Did you kill him?’

 
‘No, but I would to God it
had
been me.’

 
‘Who did then?’

 
‘I know not, but if I learn his name I will shake his hand and give him my last penny as a token of my thanks.’

 
‘Where do you come from, Monsieur Marot?’

 
‘Paris. My father cooked for Catherine de Medici. I came to England to work for Oxford because I believed him your premier earl with palaces and estates. Look at this.’ He snorted and indicated his surroundings. ‘Now I must cook in a cattle byre and consort with peasants.’

 
‘Perhaps it is your proper place.’

 
‘What?’ Marot raised his hand into a fist.

 
Shakespeare did not flinch. He had seen the instinct for violence in the man.

 
Stickley took Marot’s fist and lowered it. ‘Don’t make things worse, Curly.’

 
Shakespeare addressed himself to the steward. ‘Is this an honest man?’

 
‘He is a hard worker. Earns his bread.’

 
‘That was not what I asked.’

 
‘I would like to think him honest. He has given me no cause to doubt him. A jury can decide on a man’s guilt or innocence, but only God knows what is in his heart.’

 
Dawn was almost upon them. Shakespeare was tired and these two men were making him irritable. The last thing he needed was the dull, rustic sermonising of an over-cautious steward and the prickly complaints of a disappointed French cook. ‘I did not give you leave to play the hedge-priest, Mr Stickley. Step down from your pulpit. What I want is your
opinion
: did Monsieur Marot here kill Mr Jesu?’

 
‘I think not.’

 
‘Good. That is a start. Now tell me this: why was there bad blood between these two men?’

 
Stickley hesitated.

 
‘These questions can be asked here, in the comfort of this kitchen, or you can be removed to Bridewell and be questioned there. The choice is yours, Mr Stickley. And the same applies to you, Monsieur Marot.’

 
‘I think he did not like the colour of Giovanni’s skin.’

 
‘No. That will not do. There was something else. And I think it involved Dorcas Catton, did it not?’

 
Stickley sighed. ‘It is my belief that Monsieur Marot holds some affection in his heart for Mistress Catton. He felt aggrieved by the attention Mr Jesu paid her.’

 
‘And so when she came with child by Giovanni, he was jealous?’

 
‘I believe that to be true, though these are questions he must answer for himself.’

 
Shakespeare did not bother to look towards Marot. He could feel the heat of his grey, basilisk eyes.

Chapter 6

The Earl of Oxford sat alone at the long table in the dining parlour. He held his head in his hands. In front of him were platters of food: eggs, bacon, bread, butter and beef. A tankard of ale stood close to his right elbow. He had consumed none of it.

 
‘Good day to you, my lord,’ Shakespeare said as he entered the room. ‘I trust you slept well.’

 
Slowly, the earl raised his eyes. They were bleary and revealed the pain within his skull. ‘God’s blood and thunder, are you still here?’ His voice was barely above a whisper and trailed off into a groan.

 
‘Has anyone told you of the disturbance in the night?’

 
‘
What
disturbance?
You
are the disturbance here, Mr Shakespeare—’

 
‘There was an intruder. The maidservant Dorcas Catton was attacked.’

 
‘Dorcas attacked?’

 
‘A man dragged her, screaming, to the front of the house. He cut her nightdress from her and threw her into the snow.’

 
‘Someone did this to Dorcas? Why?’

 
‘That is what I must discover. She is terrified and will say nothing. It is possible that worse would have occurred had the assailant not been disturbed. We must deduce that the attack is linked to the death of Signor Jesu.’

 
The earl picked up his tankard of ale and drank deeply, then spluttered and coughed.

 
‘My lord?’

 
He pushed away the plates of food. ‘And so this foul world disintegrates. How can a man eat when old friends are food for worms? If you are hoping to question me, Mr Shakespeare, you will be disappointed. I have nothing to say to you about Giovanni save that I mourn his passing. More than you can imagine. If you are able to discover the murderer, then I will be delighted to attend the hanging and applaud when he dances his jig.’

 
‘You can at least tell me a little about his origins, my lord. This is a murder inquiry. I need information.’

 
‘His origins? He came from the fetid gutters of Venice. His mother was a whore, his father unknown. I gave her ten gold ducats and he was mine. It brightened my day simply to behold him. He was my trinket and my boon companion. But now he is dead and no grieving by me will bring him back. And that is all you need to know.’

 
‘My lord, if you will talk to me, it may assist me in finding his killer. His relationship with Dorcas interests me greatly. Were you distressed when he brought her with child?’

 
‘Mr Shakespeare, do you think I am a country girl swooning over a penny romance?’

 
‘It merely occurred to me that such an event might have made things difficult in this house. I am trying to divine whether anyone in your employ might have had cause to do Giovanni harm. For instance, it seems Marot the cook bore hatred for him.’

 
‘This is kitchen tittle-tattle. I will not listen to it. If you believe you have evidence against one of my retinue, arrest him and have him arraigned in a court of law. Now, will you please leave me and let me tend to my head, which is filled with exploding gunpowder.’

 
‘There is one last matter, then I will leave you in peace.’

 
The earl emitted a long sigh that metamorphosed into a low howl of genuine pain and anguish.

 
Shakespeare put his purse on the table and loosened the tie. He tipped the contents into his left hand and removed the sliver of metal that he had found in Giovanni’s chamber. He held it out to the Earl of Oxford. ‘Do you know what this is?’

 
‘You are overstepping the mark, Shakespeare. I may be a shipwreck, but I still have influence – and I will use it if necessary.’

 
‘Please, bear with me. For the sake of Giovanni ...’

 
‘Very well. It looks exceedingly like a little slice of silver. And if this is some riddle, then I swear I
will
run you through.’

 
‘This is the clipped edge of a coin. Your good friend Giovanni Jesu had been clipping. In his chamber, I found a pair of strong scissors that would serve such a purpose. He was committing this crime under your roof.’

 
‘Giovanni was clipping?’ The earl’s voice was incredulous.

 
‘Cutting the edges from coins, then melting down the accumulated silver and either selling it as bullion to jewellers or counterfeiting coins himself.’

 
‘God’s holy blood, Shakespeare, I know what clipping and coining is! Do you think me a sheep-wit? I will not be talked down to by a menial assistant to little, common-born Robert Cecil. Do you understand me?’

 
Shakespeare was undeterred. He knew all about the earl’s mercurial humours. ‘These are points I must put to you.’

 
‘You think me diminished, but I tell you this: I could have been a god among men: a sun poet to your paltry brother’s half-moon; a warrior lion to Drake’s braggart mouse; a Caesar of state to Cecil’s gong farmer.’

 
Shakespeare was losing patience. Subservience could only be feigned so long. He gave the nobleman a hard, cold look. He could have said: ‘
I know you and what you are. You might have been a poet, a warrior or a statesman but you are none of those things and never will be
.
You are mocked by your peers, regarded with disdain and dismissed with disgust.
’ These words would have been true. But he kept his silence.

 
What he
did
say stung almost as hard. ‘These are serious crimes: murder, abduction, clipping of coins. All are felonies. Each one could take a man to the rope, and so I will not be deterred from my inquiries. I have letters patent from Sir Robert Cecil and if need be I will take
you
in for questioning.’