by Peter Tonkin
There were more books piled there but after seeing what was in the library downstairs, Tom had no desire to look more closely at them. A mortar and pestle sat beside a pile of dried herbs, jars and cups full of other ingredients and a flask of crimson liquid beside them. Tom prayed that it was wine or vinegar but it looked for all the world like blood. There were phials that seemed to contain oil and water, each marked with a crucifix. A cross nearly three feet high leaned against the wall nearby. A massive pair of compasses with arms well over a yard in length leaned beside it. There was an orb of some kind - perhaps a globe, a long pointer, even bigger than the compasses. A sizeable box came next and, at the far end by the south-facing window, a wardrobe whose part-open door revealed dark folds of cloth hanging within it.
Fascinated to see what was in the box, Tom stepped further into the room. But then his progress was stopped by both his companions speaking at once.
‘Where’s the person who called out?’ wondered John, his voice trembling slightly - clearly fearing that the voice must belong to some invisible creature or occult power.
And Ugo said ‘Stop!’
iii
Tom glanced at the Dutchman. Ugo was pointing downwards with one of his pistols. Tom’s gaze followed the gesture to look down at the floor immediately in front of his feet. His black leather toecaps were standing on the outer edge of a circle that had been drawn across most of the floor. There was another circle a foot or so inside it. The space between the two was split into sections and each section contained what could only be a magic letter, sign or sigil. Tom counted eighteen. Then he realised there was a third circle inside the other two, the gap between them filled with words in a language he had never seen before. And within the third circle there was a man-sized five-pointed star whose apexes somehow fitted into the over-all pattern.
Tom shivered and stepped back at once. He knew nothing more about the occult than he had learned from Kit Marlowe and the plays he had written before Poley, Skeres and Frizer murdered him. But he knew what this was - a pentacle. An occult wall of magic force designed to keep demons away from anyone foolish enough to perform the rituals in the books downstairs. Either to keep them out while the diabolist who had summoned them stood safe within - or to keep them caged within while the thaumaturge who called them out of hell went abroad through the rest of the house, the city or the world.
John also followed Ugo’s gesture, and realised that he was standing much further within the magic circle even than Tom. Without thinking, he leaped back and as he did so he collided with the seven-foot shape near the western window. The whole thing juddered, rocking back and forth. Something within it gave an unearthly howl, a sound that would have suited a demon very well indeed, thought Tom as John jumped away from the snarling monster, colliding with Ugo who, having stepped back out of the magic circle himself nearly went backwards through the door and down the stairs. Only Tom’s speedy reactions saved him. Even so the pair of them wavered dangerously in the doorway for a moment, Tom looking over his friend’s shoulder down the rickety staircase. And just for that moment, all the little things that he had noticed on the way up seemed to fall into a pattern. It looked to The Master of Logic as though someone had recently done what he had just saved Ugo from doing: fallen headlong backwards down the stairs, splintering the sill with his boot-heels, breaking the banister as he clutched the balusters but failing to stop himself; denting the lower steps with the back of his head before spreading blood - and maybe brains - across the floor at the bottom. Then, he realised, whoever it was had been kept in the bath for some time as Forman cleaned up the mess and decided on how best to proceed.
‘Bedankt mijn vriende,’ said Ugo, breaking Tom’s train of thought as he stepped forward to steady himself and level his pistol at the growling monster.
‘Ugo! Stop!’ called Tom. He strode across the room, paying no more attention to the marks on the floor or those on the stairs and sheathing his rapier as he moved. He grabbed the cloth wrapped around the creature and pulled it clear revealing a tall stand with a large cage hanging from it. A shaft of sunlight stabbed in round the curtain he disturbed as he pulled the cloth aside to reveal the most garishly colourful bird he had ever seen. Its breast was dazzling yellow which darkened to orange on its head. The wings it flapped and the tail-feathers it spread were green. Its bill was black and powerfully hooked, gaping at the moment as it emitted growls and snarls like those of an enraged hound. Then, abruptly, it stilled, settled and glared at all of them. ‘Help me,’ it shouted clearly, in the voice of an impatient woman. ‘Help me unloose this shift or I shall be forced to tear it off! Help me quickly Simon or I shall expire with lust!’
*
‘The bird is possessed!’ said John, staggering back in genuine terror. Only Ugo’s steady hand saved him from pitching headlong back down the stairs as Ugo himself had so nearly done. ‘Asmodeus the spirit of salacity has entered it!’ whispered John, still tensed to take that one fatal step backwards.
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘I have heard of birds such as this. Sir Humphrey Gilbert gave one to William Cecil Lord Burghley nearly fifteen years ago. It could mimic many sounds including human speech. And, now I think of it, this creature fits in with the crocodile and the monstrous snake hanging above us which are both also from far distant places, especially those explored by men such as Gilbert, Raleigh and Drake. It is not this creature that is possessed by the naked lust of Asmodeus, it is whichever woman said these words so forcefully or so regularly that the bird learned to imitate them!’
‘However that may be,’ said John, beginning to recover his equanimity as he stepped forward out of the doorway, ‘Hal’s not here.’
‘I agree,’ said Tom. ‘Let’s cover the cage once again and make our way out of this place.’
‘Leaving no trace of our visit,’ said Ugo. ‘Just in case he can send the beast that watches after us.’
‘Good idea,’ said John.
Tom forbore to remark that if the beast was real then it had been watching them all along and would have no trouble hunting them no matter how few clues they left. He just shook his head at their superstitious gullibility, replaced the cover over the cage and its strange, colourful occupant then he followed them, reaching out to close the door, planning to creep down the rickety stairs immediately behind them. Before he did so, however, he turned and scanned the room one more time. The light struck across the floor, illuminating the pentacle at the heart of the double circle. The floor itself was layered with dust - clearly not the sort of chamber that would welcome much in the way of cleaning, a matter further compounded by powdery filth drifting down from the crocodile and the snake. The slanting light revealled patterns in the dust filling the pentacle and it seemed to him that the patterns showed the outlines of bodies that had lain there, arms, legs and heads straining towards the points of the star itself. Thoughtfully, he stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. They all tip-toed down the main staircase and arrived in the corridor that led to the shop on the one hand and the laboratory, kitchen and back door on the other. As they reached the kitchen door, the grey birds in the cage hanging there flapped and croaked but made nothing like the commotion they had caused when the three housebreakers first entered. It was almost enough noise, however, to cover the grating of a key turning in the front door’s lock and the grinding of the handle turning. The door into the shop from the corridor stood wide. Anyone entering was bound to see them.
iv
As the front door began to swing inwards, Tom bundled his two companions into the kitchen and pulled the door to behind him. His immediate thought was to lead them through the back door past the crucified cat - with a prayer that the hinges would not shriek again - and escape down the garden. However, the conversation between the newcomers made him hesitate.
‘Tuesday,’ the first man was saying - Tom recognised Forman’s voice.
‘So soon?’ asked a second - who sounded like Chapman.
‘The Ear
l was adamant. The passing bells have pealed at his command. He has sent notification to the court. He will put everything in motion for Tuesday. The sooner, he said, the better. He, Gelly Meyrick and the Bacon brothers were all there and bursting with ideas.’
‘Well! Things are moving even faster than I anticipated.’
‘Just so.’
The voices lingered as the newcomers removed their cloaks, then moved away but remained easily audible as they went through into the shop. Chair-feet scraped on the floor and there was a rattle as the fire was stoked. Tom imagined the two men sitting beside the table before the fire there, as the conversation continued with Foreman still speaking. ‘The Earl has a task for each of us to move matters to that planned end. I will arrange for the body to be cleaned, coffined and hearsed. It must be done at Essex house, apparently, so I will be hither and thither over the Sabbath and Monday. The Earl will clear matters with the Dean and with any other authorities in the Abbey. He is to be buried as close to Chaucer as can be arranged.’
‘But I understood,’ said jealous Chapman, ‘that Chaucer earned his place there by being Clerk to the King’s Works leasing a garden beside the abbey - not because of his reputation as a poet.’
‘That’s as may be,’ answered Forman. ‘The Earl has decreed that, as Spenser is the New Chaucer, they must lie together, cheek by jowl, as comparable poets.’
There was a brief silence and Tom could almost have sworn he heard Chapman grinding his teeth with jealousy.
‘And me?’ demanded Chapman at last. ‘What is my part in this grand scheme? What does the Earl want me to do?’
‘You are to rouse all the greatest poets in London,’ explained Forman. ‘They will carry the coffin and lay it to rest.’
‘That should present no problem,’ agreed Chapman. ‘There will be many, both known and unknown, who will see a fine chance for advancement in this. Spencer’s death will do a good number of men a great deal of benefit.’
You among them, thought Tom cynically.
‘If you call more than are needed for that purpose,’ Forman continued, ‘they may follow as mourners.’
‘I will get them each to write an elegy to be read over the grave,’ enthused the poet, his suddenly cheerful tone and ready planning bringing a frown of distaste to Tom’s face. ‘With quills all of black. And they will cast the quills and the papers themselves into the grave along with him in place of kerchiefs or flowers. It will be an act that garners fame for those who participate - and those who arranged it. I will call on John Weever, Nicholas Breton, Francis Thynne, Charles Fitzgeoffrey, William Alabaster...’
‘None of whom are your equal - as poet, playwright or translator,’ Tom murmured to himself. Perhaps only Will and Ben Johnson were. But Chapman was going to garner the greatest part of the glory by the sound of things.
‘Ha!’ Forman interrupted the poet’s cheerful flow and the master of Logic’s cynical thoughts. ‘For a moment there I supposed you were about to say “William Shagsberd”!’
‘No. I will call everyone except him - whose absence will strike everyone as strange, suspicious...’ The tone seemed to Tom to reflect a knowing wink.
*
‘A good thought, and convenient to what is planned!’ Forman agreed. ‘However, take care not to over-extend yourself, George. It must all be ready by Tuesday.’
‘And the other matter?’ asked Chapman, his tone darkening once more.
‘The fates were against us there. What did Ben Jonson say in the play of Every Man in his Humour? “Care killed the cat?” well in this case we may fairly say that “curiosity killed the cat”. Either way, the cat is dead. But I believe we can still make use of him. As a mute witness if as nothing more. But we will need to move him soon - I cannot have all the servants away for much longer. Still, in the mean-time, I believe I can manage to make us a hot posset...’
Footsteps approached the kitchen door. Tom gestured to the others and they ran silently to the back door and the crucified cat.
‘No,’ called Chapman. ‘If I may impose on your generosity, have you no aqua vitae?’
‘I have both French brandy and Holland gin,’ answered Foreman, his footsteps hesitating then retreating once more. ‘From the look of you it is Dutch courage that you need...’
Tom eased the back door open. Thankfully the hinges did not scream.
‘No, old friend. Brandy,’ said Chapman distantly. ‘I gained a taste for it following Sir Francis Vere in the Low Countries. Give me a good measure of brandy if you would be so kind...’
‘Well, we will share a measure. I have it in my laboratorium with all my other spirituous liquors, medicinal and cordial.’ The footsteps faded as Forman turned aside into his laboratory. Tom ushered his companions out, exited himself, turned and eased the door shut.
Then they were off at full pelt down the garden, Tom’s one lingering regret was that he dared not allow himself time for even the quickest glance into the garden privy. For by the sound of things there was more than one dead cat in Foreman’s house - and this was the final place where the body might be concealed.
As they leaned against the outer panels of that tall garden gate, catching their breath while an icy evening gathered around them, John said, ‘Well, at least there was no sign of Hal there!’
Nor of your Elizabeth, thought Tom, though I’d hazard that was her birth chart being drawn. One part at least of the secret you are trying to hide from The Master of Logic.
‘But much talk of Will Shakespeare,’ mused Ugo. ‘Almost as though someone in this coil wants him blamed for Spenser’s death - and it was murder, you say? Murder. Tell me, Tom, does Will have the slightest idea of the dark forces that are being secretly ranged against him?’
Chapter 4: Dead Man’s Place
i
‘Dead Man’s Place?’ said Rosalind Fletcher, her breath clouding on the late afternoon air. ‘You want me to live in Dead Man’s Place? Will Shakespeare have you run mad? I would rather live in a Bankside brothel. There are a good number close at hand you must admit!’
Will looked at her in horror. She was tall enough so that her face was level with his but her profile was hidden by a tumble of chestnut hair, all except for the point of her turned-up nose and the thrust of her determined chin. He needed to read her eyes and see the set of her lips to be certain whether she spoke seriously or in jest. He hadn’t loved her for long enough to read her tone of voice with any accuracy. So he took her at her word. ‘No! No, I promise! We but cross Dead Man’s Place on our way to view a property I have found on Maiden Lane.’ He gave a sweeping gesture that covered both Dead Man’s Place on either hand of them and the opening of Maiden Lane a little further on.
But she did not relent. ‘Hum. Well, Maiden Lane sounds somewhat more suitable I’ll allow, though the way down here from the Mary Overie Steps seems deep enough in mire both physical and moral.’
‘The house is clean and the rooms much larger than my lodging in St Helen’s,’ he offered, too well aware that he was beginning to sound like an anxious schoolboy.
‘At least this one does not overlook a graveyard like your rooms behind St Helen’s church, you say…’
‘It overlooks the Globe - or will do so when the Globe is finished. It overlooks Sir Nicholas Brend’s field and a promising partial erection at the moment. It is owned by an honest widow…’
‘Not that honest if she is happy to accept couples moving in together outside the banns of wedlock…’
He was almost certain her tone was teasing now. However… ‘She is happy to believe that you are my cousin come up from the country and recently orphaned,’ he said. Then he could have bitten his tongue for she was indeed recently and brutally orphaned. She turned towards him, delicately arched eyebrows raised. He focused on the dimple in that determined chin because he saw the look on her face and floundered into silence.
‘That is a truth which has got me safe haven in my cousin Martin Fletcher the carter’s home,’ she agree
d, her tone darkened by sadness. ‘But cousin Martin has a wife and family so I share a room with his daughters - unutterably cramped but entirely respectable. Until I come visiting wayward poets and playwrights in St Helen’s that is, which is likely to get the pair of us whipped or pilloried for concupiscence.’
‘But things are different south of the River,’ he persisted desperately. ‘And besides, like most property owners near here, she actually lives in Winchester and lets her agent look after things. And he is, what shall I say? Amenable.’
‘And the law? What does the law say about such things? Is the law also amenable?’ She was being serious now - and he realized that most of their earlier conversation had been teasing after all. Or it had been until he mentioned her father’s murder.
‘As I said, things are different south of the River,’ he repeated.
*
The pair of them continued side by side westward along the muddy pathway that ran parallel to the Thames, behind the backs of the inns, brothels, theatres and baiting pits that lined the South Bank. ‘There seem to be fewer churches, certainly,’ Rosalind allowed after a moment. ‘And fewer parish constables I suppose; fewer pillories, stocks or whipping posts despite the fact that you seem to have The Clink, the Borough Counter and the Marshalsea in which to house felons, financial, legal, religious and moral. So no fewer sinners I’d wager; a goodly sum more than in the City if the quantity of taverns and brothels is any measure.’
‘And you would not be happy to find a bed amongst them? Why, Tom told me that you…’
‘Let us leave master Musgrave and what he may have told you out of this - and Robert Poley for that matter, for it was Poley who was my master in such matters when I worked for him and his intelligencers at my father’s inn The Crown in Saffron Walden teasing secrets out of those on their way north to Edinburgh via Cambridge and south with word from the Scottish court and Mary Queen of Scots’ son King James.’