by Peter Tonkin
ii
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream has no hidden meaning, and you know it!’ Tom snapped. ‘And you only raise the possibility as a diversion from considering Forman further as a suspect. Thus illustrating, indeed, the possible motive we have discussed for bringing Will into the situation in the first place - as a potent distraction!’
‘Perhaps; perhaps not.’ Poley shrugged. ‘I suspect it is all in how you look at the matter of his presence in the situation, his recent writings and his whereabouts before or after we all first met at the siege of Nijmagen and ultimately whether you believe he actually was the tutor at Hoghton Hall. But to return to Mother Hubberd and other powerful men apparently satirized within it… I do not think we need discuss The Ape and his acolytes - Poley gave a slight, ironic bow. ‘And I have to say that I am bored to death discussing Robert Devereux, his shortcomings, failings and fantasies. Whether or not it is the Ape or the Earl of Essex in some other guise who would wish to steal the crown and scepter from Spenser’s sleeping lion - to wit the Queen. Though I must admit his acolytes, Sir Anthony and Sir Francis Bacon would benefit from some close and detailed scrutiny, not to mention his ill-controlled Welsh roaring boy - Sir Gelly Meyrick.’
‘Which brings us to the fourth man who was represented at that table tonight,’ said Rosalind quietly, ‘as represented by Kate Shelton.’
Tom’s lips became a thin, pale line.
‘Sir Thomas Walsingham,’ nodded Poley, ‘and of course represented by his wife’s younger sister. Lady Audrey could hardly be seen here. The immediate alternative, the keeper of his accounts and general business, Ingram Frizer, is loaded with a little too much history, perhaps. As am I, but my master is more powerful still and cares less than Sir Thomas. Mistress Kate Shelton, however, may move more widely without too much impropriety.’
‘But, independently of how he was represented, how could Sir Thomas possibly be mixed up in this?’ asked Tom, much more concerned about Kate and her involvement than he was about her brother-in-law and his.
‘Well,’ answered Poley, ‘he is the closest living relative of the late Spymaster nonpareil Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s ‘Moor’ and master of dark secrets. Heir to all those secrets, contacts, and, come to that, to many of his agents - Ingram Frizer, whom we have just mentioned, works directly for Sir Thomas; while Nicholas Skeres is Essex’s man still. But…’ Poley held up one long hand and began to count his points on its fingers. ‘Primo, Sir Thomas, a master of subtle inactivity, is nowhere to be found in Mother Hubberd’s Tale - and believe me, I have looked. Secundo, he has no lands in Ireland, nor is he covetous of any as far as I know. He owns the great estate of Scadbury which comprises a fair portion of the county of Kent and he owns Nonsuch House, the best property on London Bridge if not in London as a whole, excepting one or two great houses and the royal palaces. Tertio, he has never dabbled in unnatural acts nor blasphemous beliefs. Quarto, he makes no great secret that he is content for the succession to run a natural course - Lady Audrey, being popular both in the Queen’s court here and King James’ court in Edinburgh and travels between the two courts regularly. With a freedom, I must observe, which is the envy of many men of my acquaintance. Thus, perorare, to sum up, it is plain that Sir Thomas has no reason to fear a Scottish succession while he can easily afford to spend the rest of his life as a protestant recusant should the Catholic contenders the Infanta or Lady Arbella take the throne. Though what I know of the man suggests he is of Le Roi Henri Quatre’s pragmatic stripe and would happily take Mass from the Pope himself if things came to a point.’
*
‘He has absolutely no reason I can see to be mixed up in the matter of Spenser’s death at all,’ said Tom, ‘though now you have mentioned King Henry of France, raised as a Huguenot but lately converted to the Old Faith, I should point out that he and Sir Anthony Bacon are reputed to be close friends.’
‘Almost brothers,’ nodded Poley. ‘But it is hard to see where that places either Sir Anthony or the Earl his master in any of this - unless there are poetry lovers in Paris murderously offended by Spenser’s English usurpation of French Fabliaux.’
‘Tempting,’ said Tom, ‘but unlikely.’
‘I agree,’ said Poley. ‘The only other association with Sir Thomas that I can think of is that he is a great sponsor of poets. Shakespeare, Spenser, Donne, Chapman, all may be found somewhere in the weave of this like flies in a web, as well as half a dozen of the others that recited their dross at Spenser’s funeral. And, as we are considering acolytes no matter how painfully, the Lady Kate Shelton seems to have a thoroughly unhealthy fascination with Simon Forman. And who knows where something like that might lead?’
‘So,’ said Rosalind after a moment or two more of silence as Tom, for one, fought to calculate the answer to that burning question, ‘Apart from yourself, Master Poley, the two acolytes closest to the centre of this would seem to be Sir Anthony Bacon and Simon Forman. And Simon Forman appears to be not only involved in the political background but also in the practicalities of the murder: the first among suspects. He is an acolyte of one of the men most offended by the poem - Sir Walter Raleigh The Fox - but he is also possibly the man who supplied the distillation of hemlock used in the murder and played some part in the scheme to put the blame on poor Will through the use of Hal, Gerard’s apprentice - for reasons as yet unclear unless Tom is right and it’s all just a distraction. And it is certain that Hal died in his Billingsgate house, was hidden in his privy and - logic suggests - was placed in Spenser’s grave by Forman and his associates, with the forged poem that put yet more blame on Will. George Chapman being one of the most likely men for that.’
‘Of the men, yes,’ said Tom. The emphasis on that one word showing his continuing disquiet at the part Kate seemed to be playing in the mystery.
iii
‘Where does that get us?’ wondered Poley. ‘Sir Antony Bacon is far beyond our reach and would be even were he up and about as opposed to near bed-ridden as he is.’
‘But Kate is not,’ said Tom forcefully. ‘I can sound Kate out one way or another.’
‘And as Master Forman has no knowledge of who I am nor who my friends might be,’ said Rosalind, ‘it should be easy enough for me to become one of his most assiduous clients. As you know, I am adept at securing secrets from men.’
‘Most especially men,’ said Tom. ‘However I would caution against using any of your particular wiles against Forman. I have seen his bedchamber and the room above it.’
‘I’m sure the risk is smaller than you imagine,’ said Rosalind. ‘But the sooner we discover the truth underlying all this, the sooner we’ll all be safe.’
‘Besides,’ suggested Poley, ‘It would be a good idea for you to have something to occupy you while I hold Master Shakespeare in protective custody. The Lord only knows what mischief you might get up to in idleness.’
‘How long will that protective custody last for?’ asked Rosalind.
‘I have not decided yet.’
‘As long, perhaps, as unsubstantiated rumors as to the purchase of distilled hemlock and the possibility of its application to Spencer’s ear are circulating,’ said Tom. ‘Rumors that remain unsubstantiated because of the lack of a witness, living or dead, and the disappearance of the accusatory verse. Meanwhile, in case further ways to ensnare Will might be generated, it is better to hold the potential culprit - whether he turns out to be the guilty man or not - than to leave him loose for others to take up and thereby do themselves and their masters some credit. Not to mention the risk that they might torture a confession out of him and let the real murderer walk free as Will goes to the gallows.’
‘If you are right, young Tom,’ said Poley, ‘then your poetic friend is certainly safer where he is, no matter how long he might have to remain there. Besides, there is the other matter that my unfortunate predecessor Pursuivant Marshal Roe was looking into, concerning the tutor Shakeshaft at Hoghton Hall.’
‘Master Poley
,’ Rosalind turned her most beseeching gaze upon the spymaster. ‘Is there no way we can get paper, pen and ink to Will in the mean-time? He will run distracted if he cannot continue with his play of Henry Fifth.’
‘The Marshalsea is not the most conducive location for creative writing,’ said Poley. ‘But I will see what I can do.’
‘Will does not need a special place or situation,’ said Tom. ‘He never stops working on his imaginary forces.’
‘Well,’ said Poley, ‘I will tell him you said so when I see him.’
*
‘It is too late for me to get back to Blackfriars now,’ said Tom as Rosalind and he walked out of the Castel into the bitter darkness of Bankside. Typically, Poley had disappeared into the shadows without a warning or a farewell as the three of them came out of the tavern’s door. The weather was so wintery that neither the brightness nor the bustle seemed to alleviate it much. The southerly wind had developed such an edge that the pair of them gathered their cloaks around themselves as they walked back towards London Bridge.
‘Besides, there is still much to discuss,’ said Tom, ‘particularly if you are serious about bearding Forman in his den. Will your reputation stand a night visitor if I come home to you?’
‘In Maiden Lane? A night visitor will probably enhance it.’
Neither one of them mentioned the night they had spent together in her father’s inn before it was burned to the ground by Gelly Meyrick and his roaring boys under the Earl of Essex’ orders. There was no need to do so. It was a pleasant experience which neither had the slightest intention of repeating.
‘You trust Poley,’ said Tom. His tone made it plain that this was a statement and not a question.
‘I do.’ She peered at him, her eyes wide and dark in the pale glimmer of her face within her hood. ‘I worked for him for long enough and he never used any double-dealing on me or my parents.’
‘Just so.’ Tom forbore to point out that this - if it was true - made Rosalind unique in the world of modern spycraft. ‘Then we can stop worrying about Will. He will be treated well and may even be supplied with sufficient paper, ink and quills to enjoy the peace and quiet enforced by the jail’s routine. Now I think of it, a prison cell might indeed prove an inspirational place for a would-be writer to spend some time. I must ask Will, and get Ben Jonson’s view on the matter too.’
Rosalind gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Stone walls and iron bars may limit the movement of Will’s body but there is no chaining down his imagination. His arse may be going numb on the cold floor of his cell, but his mind will be away in the vasty fields of France, marching with Good King Harry to Agincourt.’
‘So, you’re not worried about him?’
‘If Master Poley says he is safe then he is safe.’
‘Very well. It will be doubly convenient for me to remain at your side when you visit the Marshalsea in the morning, however, so that we may test this faith and Humiliation Gauge’s verisimilitude in passing Will the food you left.’
‘But my gain, it seems, will be Mistress Shelton’s loss. Were you not to start sounding her out tonight? Deeply and repeatedly, I would guess.’
‘Tomorrow will do for that,’ chuckled Tom. ‘To be forthright, I am glad of the time and distance so that I can think matters through before I plunge in.’ He paused, then added, ‘willy-nilly as you might say.’
This conversation was enough to take them through the bustle down to Bank End where they turned right into Dead Man’s Lane. This, like Maiden Lane which turned off it, was little more than a rutted mud track, but at least the chill had turned the puddles to ice and the ruts to solid little ridges. They had to walk carefully, but their footwear and the hems of their cloaks remained relatively clean. The noise they made as they proceeded reminded Tom of his childhood on the Scottish borders for it was the sound his boots had made walking across the fields immediately after harvest, crunching the brittle close-cropped corn-stalks. It was a sound that seemed to echo.
iv
Until, as he whirled into action, Tom registered that it was not an echo at all but the sound of footsteps following their own. His laggard mind caught up with his body as his rapier hissed out. Beyond the arc of his sword-blade, three figures hulked, featureless black against the dim brightness of Bank End behind them. About the only things that were clear were the clubs that they each carried. ‘Ho!’ called Tom, ‘welcome, masters. What’s your business with us?’
There was no reply. The three spread out so that Tom could not engage them all together, and came on.
‘So,’ hissed Tom, his tone as cold as his icy blade. ‘Who dies first?’
‘The one in the middle dies first!’ said Rosalind, and shot him in the chest. At least Tom, dazed by the explosion and flash of the shot as well as by simple surprise, assumed he was shot in the chest, for he went flat on his back as though clubbed in the throat.
‘Who next?’ Tom shouted leaping forward.
But it seemed that Rosalind had won the day for the two club-wielders still standing, stooped and grabbed their supine companion before staggering away down the alley towards the brightness of Bankside.
‘Damnation!’ swore Rosalind. ‘Will said this would fire two shots. Now we have let them get away!’
‘Probably just as well,’ said Tom. ‘What would we have done with two corpses and a prisoner?’
‘I’d have got some answers!’ snapped Rosalind.
‘Easier said than done,’ said Tom. ‘Particularly half way down Dead Man’s Place in the middle of the night.’
‘Perhaps. But now we have two enemies with reason to come after us again.’
‘Let us hope that they were simple highlawyers then, set on nothing more than robbery.’
‘Let us barricade the doors when we get home nevertheless. In case they have more than robbery on their minds. And, come to that, in case they have friends and associates ready to help them.’
Tom sheathed his sword. ‘Let me see the pistol,’ he said. ‘I have learned enough from Ugo to have some expertise in the matter of guns. If you were expecting a second shot that did not come, then the thing might still be dangerous. Might fire without warning when you least expected it.’
‘I have been keeping it tucked into the waist of my kirtle,’ she admitted. ‘So the Lord only knows what might get damaged were it to fire without warning.’
This conversation took them to the corner of Maiden Lane where a guttering torch in a sconce just above head-height gave some extra light. Tom took the pistol and examined it. It was a double-barreled affair and one barrel had fired while the cock on the second had wedged, its mechanism stilled by a fragment of cloth clearly torn from Rosalind’s skirt-waist. Within a moment, he was certain that it was safe, and he turned to return it to her, only to see her hurrying into the shadows outside her door - made impatient no doubt by the cutting wind. He shrugged and followed her. Both were so preoccupied with the pistol and the biting wind that neither of them thought to look up.
Rosalind vanished into the door of her lodging and paused to light a lamp just inside it. By the time he caught up, she was half way up the stairs to her rooms with the lamp held high to illuminate the way. He ran nimbly up behind her, hurrying in the hope that he would reach the top of the stairs before she - and the light - disappeared into her rooms. But the moment she opened the door, light flooded out. Tom froze and gasped a breath to call to her.
*
Too late. In spite of her experience in the intelligencers’ world, she went straight in. Tom checked behind him, all too well aware that the three who failed to stop them on Dead Man’s Place might well be confederates of whoever was waiting in Rosalind’s room. There was no-one there. He took the stairs two at a time and arrived in the open doorway with his right hand on the pommel of his rapier and his left clutching Rosalind’s pistol.
‘So,’ Gelly Meyrick was saying, the Welsh lilt of his accent identifying him even before Tom saw his all-too familiar face. ‘I see you missed m
y little welcoming committee.’
‘If you mean the three ruffians with clubs that followed us into Dead Man’s Place, I didn’t miss them at all,’ snapped Rosalind in return. ‘As at least one will tell you - if he’s still alive.’
‘Us…’ hissed Meyrick. ‘And where is your partner?’
‘Will is safe from the likes of you,’ said Tom stepping into the room, pistol leveled, one barrel primed with the cock now free. Swinging round as he did so to cover the rest of the room and put the solid doorframe at his back; just as though he were still on the battlefields of Holland.
‘Ah. I was expecting a Shakespeare but I seem to have a swordmaster,’ said Meyrick. He was leaning nonchalantly against the table, his buttocks just on the edge of it - ready to spring into action at any moment, but in the meantime alone and caught off-guard, his rapier safely sheathed and his arms folded across his chest.
Tom said nothing. He had bested Meyrick once in a hard-fought rapier bout and had no desire to repeat the experience.
‘And,’ continued Meyrick smoothly, ‘from what I recall of your reputation, as dexterous with the left hand as with the right. Certainly the fist holding that pretty snaphaunce seems steady enough.’
‘What do you want, Sir Gelly?’ asked Tom.
‘I had planned to extend an invitation to the lady here and her pet poet to visit Essex House with me. But I see I am no longer in a position to enforce my wishes. For the moment, at least.’
‘What does the Earl of Essex want with Will and Rosalind?’ asked Tom.
‘Especially as he has entertained me already,’ added Rosalind. ‘At least his acolyte Sir Francis Bacon entertained me.’