The Queen's Man (31 page)

‘If everyone knows of the events at Arden Lodge, Sir Thomas Lucy must know it, too.’

‘I am sure he does.’

‘Then why have the pursuivants not been in to tear it apart? Why have they not all been arrested and slung in the Tower?’

‘That is a good question – and one for which I have no answer.’

Just then Shakespeare and his brother heard a cry. They looked towards the doorway to see Anne standing there, cup in hand. But she was not alone. At one side stood Richard Topcliffe, white-haired and grinning with yellow teeth, his blackthorn stick idly tapping the floor. At the other, with his pale hand on her shoulder, stood Ruby Hungate, his harlequin doublet bringing unwelcome colour to a drab day.

Hungate pushed Anne forward. She stumbled. As she tried to regain her footing, Hungate’s sword flashed and swirled in a steel spiral of light. A thick lock of Anne’s hair flew from the back of her head and Hungate caught it. He kissed it elegantly, put it in the palm of his hand and blew so that the strands dispersed into the still air like a dandelion clock. ‘You see how simple that was? Next time I’ll prick the bastard from her belly.’

Will roared and tried to lunge at Hungate, but Shakespeare shot out a restraining arm. ‘No, Will.’

Anne turned and faced Hungate with contempt.

‘Well, well,’ Topcliffe said, ‘what do we have here? Hugger-mugger like conspirators. And who is this?’ He jutted his white grizzled head towards Will. ‘From the vague similarity, I would take him for your brother. Is this the dog that did the dirty deed with comely Miss Hathaway and got her with child?’ He slapped Anne’s arse, making her jolt.

Will tried to throw himself forward again, this time at Topcliffe, but again Shakespeare held him back.

‘Who is this man? I’ll kill him, John.’

‘He is a dog’s turd, Will, pay him no heed.’

Will lunged again. This time he came face to face with Topcliffe before Shakespeare managed to pull him back.

Topcliffe sneered. ‘Your brother is more man than you, Shakespeare.’

‘The trainband prizes him. He has a way with blades. Don’t test him, Topcliffe.’

‘He thinks himself a swordsman in more ways than one then. But he has met twice his match this day. I do think his whore would like a piece of Uncle Dick now she’s got a taste for it. Is that not so, my pretty little trug?’

‘Leave her be,’ said Shakespeare, indicating to Anne to get behind him. ‘Why are you here, Topcliffe?’

‘Why, paying a neighbourly visit, that is all. My very good copesmate Mr Hungate and I were wondering how your inquiries into papist conspiring were progressing. Sir Thomas Lucy is most anxious to have every last traitor in his county apprehended. And you know what I mean by the word “traitor”, Shakespeare. Perhaps we could be of some assistance.’

‘I need no assistance from the likes of you.’

‘Likes of me? There is no one like me, Mr Shakespeare. None at all, as you shall discover if you continue to try to cross me.’

Shakespeare looked from Topcliffe to Hungate and back again. They were two of a kind. ‘Do you have a purpose for being here, or are you merely come to irk us and insult a good woman?’ Shakespeare was standing now, his hand on the hilt of his sword, which remained stowed in its scabbard. He had no fear of Hungate, but knew that a wrong move could end in the spilling of the blood of his brother and Anne.

‘I have a purpose,’ Hungate growled. ‘Where is the bitch sister of the dead priest? I heard she had returned home, but now she is gone.’

‘If you mean Florence Angel, then I have no knowledge of her whereabouts.’

‘I mean the treacherous bitch sister of the dead priest. One dead Angel is not enough. My lord of Leicester will not be pleased to hear she is loose in his county, for she is up to her scrawny bird’s neck in all the evil goings-on of her brother. I will deliver her to the scaffold, where she will be despatched. Tell her that when you see her, Shakespeare. She will be despatched.’

Topcliffe clapped Hungate about the shoulder. ‘Well spoken, friend. Like a true Englishman.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Will you not offer us ale or beer, Miss Hathaway? Do I smell partridge pie?’

‘The only smell is your stink, Topcliffe,’ Shakespeare said. ‘One day you will discover the joys of bathing and the world will be a better place. And you, Hungate – why do you have such hatred in your heart for Florence Angel? How has she ever harmed you?’

‘She harms me by being alive. As do you, Shakespeare.’

‘Come, Mr Hungate,’ Topcliffe said. ‘Let us leave these maggots to their squalor.’

Hungate shrugged. ‘And what of the other matter we came for, Mr Topcliffe?’

Topcliffe thrust his stick in the air. ‘Ah yes, the body. Truly, I had almost forgotten. Indeed, yes, a body has been found this morning, Mr Shakespeare. And as justice of the peace, Sir Thomas Lucy instructs you to inquire into the matter. He says that the investigation of unexplained deaths is your line of work.’

A
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OPCLIFFE AND
Hungate departed, Shakespeare looked at his brother and Anne. Their mouths had dropped open, their eyes wide in shared horror.

Will shook himself, as though to shed the soldier that resides in every man when his blood is up. He looked at Anne. ‘What are we to do? Should we depart this place?’

‘No, for that will paint you as guilty as your mark scratched on a confession. They have told us nothing. Where is this body now? Is it still at the field or has it been taken to the Rench farm for laying out? No one but cousin Edward and his household can know you were at Arden Lodge last night, so we have time to think and plan our move.’

‘But, John, they are playing with us. If we stay, we will be climbing the scaffold ladder by week’s end.’

‘Did anyone see you return home with your garments all muddy?’

‘No. It was before daylight.’

‘Then Will, Anne, you will both listen to me. You will go about your daily business until you hear otherwise from me. Do you have tutoring this day?’

‘Yes, Whateley’s daughters again.’

‘And you, Anne?’

‘I have children to care for and farm work to be done. There is hay to be stored—’ Shakespeare silenced her with a brisk wave of the hand. ‘Will, go to Alderman Whateley’s, do your work as best you can. Anne, stay here and keep the farm going and the children fed. We will confer again later. Say nothing to anyone. Smile, frown, pass the time of day, talk of the apple harvest, of the weather and your wedding plans. If someone mentions the death of Badger Rench shake your head, and ask what has become of the world. Do you understand all this?’

They hesitated, then both nodded, unconvinced.

‘Good. Then I must go.’

W
alking briskly along Meer Street, Shakespeare spotted his father and hailed him.

‘Where are you off to at such a pace, John?’

‘I’m looking for a body.’

‘Yes, I had heard. What is happening to this town? And what has any of it to do with you? Your mother is sick with worry and fear and your fool of a brother seems out of sorts, too. I have never known him so taciturn. And why did he not come home until dawn? There are certain standards of behaviour to be upheld. I still have a position in this town.’

Shakespeare gripped his father’s arm a little too hard. He lowered his voice. ‘Do not say that Will came home at dawn to anyone. Say nothing.’

‘John, what is this? You are frightening me.’ The fear in his father’s eyes was all too obvious. A body found . . . Will out all night. How could he not draw conclusions and be afraid?

‘I will explain all in due course. Now is not the time or place. Just make sure that neither you, nor Mother, nor the younger ones discuss Will or his whereabouts with anyone.’ He offered his father a reassuring smile. ‘Now – this body. Where was it found?’

His father shook his head. He was clearly disturbed. ‘I don’t know, but I do know it was being taken to the White Lion. Please, John, tell me—’

Shakespeare embraced his father. ‘All is well. I promise you. But say nothing. Nothing at all. There are those who wish us ill – and we must not give them arrows to shoot at us.’ He only wished he possessed the confidence his words were intended to convey.

I
t seemed to Shakespeare that the whole town was going down Henley Street towards the White Lion. Enveloped by a throng of townsfolk, he had to push his way through the swelling ranks.

A man tugged his arm. ‘What’s going on, John Shakespeare? What are you doing to our fair town?’

Shakespeare shrugged him off.

‘You bring naught but bad luck and trouble,’ another said, pointing an accusing finger.

Shakespeare pressed on. The crowd murmured. Someone pushed him.

‘The necromancer’s in there. He should be hanged as a witch. And his crone of a mother.’

‘The moon turned red last night, I saw it. Blood red. Been like that since John Shakespeare came home.’

‘One of my ewes collapsed and died this morning. Not a mark on her.’

Finally, Shakespeare managed to force his way into the stableyard at the back of the inn. The Searcher of the Dead was walking towards the storehouses.

‘Thank God you are still here, Mr Peace.’

Joshua Peace smiled grimly. ‘Perhaps I should take up permanent residence. There are enough cadavers to keep me busy. But listen to that . . .’ The hubbub, occasional whistles and shouts of the mass of people outside in the street provided an unwelcome background noise. ‘I confess I feel under siege in here.’

‘Where is this new body?’

Peace tilted his head. ‘Back there in an empty storeroom.’

‘Who summoned you to look at it? Was it Sir Thomas Lucy?’

‘No, Mr Shakespeare, Alderman Whateley asked me to look at it. He seems to think kindly of you and your judgement, unlike that crew out there.’

‘They are scared, that is all. Two unexplained deaths within days will unnerve any man or woman. They begin to look at their neighbours askance. They lock their doors at night when such a thing was never done before. Come, show me what we have.’

The body was laid out on a pile of empty crates. Shakespeare looked upon it with relief and the blood flowed back into his veins. It was not Badger Rench.

His first reaction lasted all of two seconds. His next reaction was one of astonishment. The corpse had only one arm and a hole where its nose should be.

‘Shot in the face at close range,’ Peace said. ‘No doubt at all what the cause of death is here. The arm was long gone. Even that dirty-dealing coroner could not dispute a finding that this man was shot dead with a bullet to the brain. As no weapon was in evidence, and as the muzzle must have been no more than six inches from his face, I suggest that murder is more likely than suicide.’

Shakespeare wasn’t really listening. He was trying to make sense of this. Surely this was the body of the Frenchman, Leloup or Seguin or whatever he called himself these days? He gazed down at the figure. Naked and pale, the body was that of a man in late middle years, perhaps fifty or so. The legs and arm were still muscled, but the belly, hairy and speckled with blemishes, was expanding. The prick hung sad and forlorn in a forest of grey.

‘Cover him, Mr Peace. Allow him some decency.’

Peace draped a linen sheet across the body’s nether regions.

‘Was he like this, naked?’

‘No.’ Peace pointed towards a stone shelf at the back of the store. ‘His garments and other accoutrements are over there. It occurred to me this man was not of common stock, for his clothes are good and he wore a silver pomander around his neck – something I have not seen since I was in Italy. People in these parts cope well enough without such things.’

‘I believe I know who he is. If I am correct – and I have a way of checking – then he is a Frenchman named François Leloup, an associate of the Duke of Guise.’

Peace raised his eyebrows, and then emitted a laugh of astonishment. ‘You are full of surprises, Mr Shakespeare. These are deep waters.’

‘It was said he had a nose like a wolf’s snout.’

‘No more.’

They both gazed at the bloody wound. Shreds of flesh and gristle hung loose where once there had been a proud nose.

‘Where was the body found?’

‘In the river, by the bridge. The constable, Nason, had it brought here. When I came out this morning, it was lying in a handcart in the yard out there. No one seemed to know who it was or what to do with it. I think it fair to say that no one wanted to make any decisions. Nason scurried off. I rather think he wished to carry the news to his master at Charlecote.’

As Peace spoke, Shakespeare rifled through the dead man’s possessions. A capacious riding cape, doublet of black and gold, shirt of fine white cambric with lace cuffs, fine knee-length hose, netherstocks and riding boots. Nothing too lavish or gaudy, nothing to draw the attention of strangers. He might have been a government officer, a lawyer or merchant. Such men usually travelled with servants to guard them and do their bidding, but at the Cutler’s Rest in Sheffield they had insisted Leloup had no lackey. He felt all the seams for hidden coins or papers, but there was nothing.

Beside the clothes, on a platter, there was a dagger with a jewelled hilt and the silver pomander that Peace had mentioned. Shakespeare picked up both items and studied them. They were fine artefacts, expensive. He returned to the body and examined the hand. No rings or other jewels.

‘Was there no purse?’

‘No. Nor any sort of baggage.’

‘Curious that the murderer took his other possessions, but not this dagger and pomander. They are items of considerable value.’

‘There was one other thing that interested me, Mr Shakespeare.’ Peace pointed his index finger at the chest of the man, and traced a line around the front and side of the body. ‘You see this line like a thin surcingle? And here, halfway up the ribcage, a small indentation in the flesh. No bigger than a farthing coin. It is clear he has kept something tied close to his body. Whatever it was, it has gone.’

‘It must have been something of extreme value. Will you wait here, Mr Peace? I want someone else to see the body.’