by Neal Roberts
“Would I be correct in assuming you did not recognize the man who struck him?”
A smoldering cloud of anger drifts across her eyes. “That would be correct.”
“Can you think of anyone who would wish him harm?”
“You mean ‘murder’ him? No. He never cheated anyone in his life.”
“What was his occupation?”
“He and I are — were — partners in an import-export concern. Before you ask, we export English woven goods to Spain and Portugal, and import whatever happens to be in demand here.”
“And what is that, presently?” asks Lopez.
“Pretty much nothing. Our vessels return mostly empty now. Spain is still not one of your great manufacturing nations.” She considers for a moment. “Raw materials, sometimes, cotton, and so on. Oils. We have someone down there who assembles whatever cargo he may. We don’t track it very closely. Usually, it’s enough to make the return trips reasonably profitable.”
“Do you own these vessels?”
“Two or three. Three, right now. Sometimes we take space on the vessels of other merchants. Really depends on conditions.” She furrows her brow. “What’s this about? Are you going into export?”
Noah smiles privately. He likes the way this woman conducts herself. No nonsense.
Before Lopez can form a reply, Goodwife Rodriguez glances out of the window. “Tell your man to make a right turn at the next corner, go down one block, and stop in the drive.”
Lopez leans out of the window and speaks to the driver. He resumes his seat, and his inquiry. “Is your business successful?”
At that very moment, the hearse swings around into the drive of an imposing three-story stone house with torches ablaze at the front door, and lit candles in several windows. As it stops, a footman opens the front door, revealing a roaring blaze in a large-mouthed fireplace. Goodwife Rodriguez notices the astonished look of all three male passengers, and the corners of her mouth turn up in a mirthless smile. “What do you think?” She gestures to the footman to remain in place, declines the assistance of all three male passengers, and descends under her own power.
The doctor follows close behind, while Noah watches from the hearse. Lopez hands her his professional card, and apologizes for having to take the remains to the morgue for examination. She assures him that she understands, enters the house, and closes the door firmly behind.
Henry sighs. “Reminds me of my wife. If it weren’t for her accent, I’d say she too must be Cornish.”
Lopez climbs back into the hearse, plopping down on the bench with obvious fatigue. “Where shall I drop you gentlemen?”
Noah considers asking to be dropped off at Gray’s Inn, which is very nearby, but thinks that Henry’s wife, Mistress Anne, would deem it rude for him to fail to show up, even though it’s quite late.
“My wife’s place at Lothbury,” says Henry. “We’re already late for supper.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” says Lopez with great sincerity. He speaks to the driver, and the hearse starts up again. They begin their ride quietly, lost in the solemnity of the occasion.
“So,” says Henry, breaking the silence at last, “how is our mutual friend?”
For a moment, Lopez seems baffled. “Oh,” he says, apparently realizing whom Henry is asking about. “Her Majesty is quite well.”
“And Essex?”
Lopez shrugs. “He still has me on retainer, but has called upon me little since Secretary Walsingham died.”
The hearse pulls up to the Nevilles’ townhouse. As Henry and Noah step down and wave to the departing doctor, Henry seems lost in thought. “England shall miss Walsingham,” he says wistfully. “I already do, myself. It was quite a shock to recognize his handwriting today.”
“When did you see his handwriting today?”
“That note in Rodriguez’s pocket. It was in Walsingham’s hand. Not just the signature, either. The whole thing. I’m fairly certain that Essex’s man knew it, as well.”
Noah fumes. It was Henry who persuaded him to omit the note from his inventory of the deceased’s pockets. The only remaining record of the note’s existence now is the note itself. And that now resides in the pocket of a constable whom Noah has already seen accept two gratuities.
Noah makes no effort to disguise the irritation in his voice. “Henry, I would like to speak with you before we go inside.”
Henry turns, clearly bracing himself. “Very well.”
“Would you care to explain to me what happened today?”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”
“Please do not insult me. Tell me what happened.”
“Noah,” Henry says indulgently, “Essex is the man of the hour in England. You saw the audience’s reaction to him. Just two years ago, he helped Drake lead the English Armada in its attack on Spain, after the Spanish Armada was defeated off the English shoreline.”
“The English Armada?” scoffs Noah. “‘Fiasco’ would be nearer the mark. That expedition failed to destroy the Spanish king’s ability to reconstitute his armada, and also failed to gain the Portuguese throne for the Queen’s favored contender. And, which is worse, of more than twenty thousand warriors who departed on the expedition, only about five thousand returned alive.”
“But Essex risked his own life, as well,” says Henry. “When a leader takes the same risks as his men and suffers defeat, he becomes godlike, an earthly dream reminding people of those who, once in his service, are now in heaven.”
“Perhaps if Daniel of the Bible were to interpret their dream, he might show them that their god has feet of clay.”
“Let the people have their favorite, Noah.”
“Their favorite, Henry? Or yours? And what shall be justified in the name of promoting the people’s favorite? Why, Essex told that idiot constable — ”
“Constable Barnstable!” Henry laughs aloud.
“Be that as it may. Essex told him that he’d seen the altercation.”
Henry’s smile drops away. He avoids Noah’s gaze and shakes his head. “He didn’t see it.” He glances at Noah’s face. “You noticed that, too.”
“Of course I did. But think what that means. He had foreknowledge of the murder, which means he was complicit in it.”
Henry nods gravely. “I suppose it’s at least possible that Essex had no foreknowledge of the crime, but took advantage of an auspicious — ”
“Murder?” interjects Noah. “Seems unlikely. And what effect might his misleading the constable have on the estate of that poor widow?”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “That ‘poor widow,’ as you call her, is rich! She probably has more money than we do. I wouldn’t be too worried about her. Besides, that constable — ”
“Don’t say it!”
“ — couldn’t solve a crime if it were a fish that leapt onto a platter for him.”
“And then you told me to leave Walsingham’s note off the inventory. Why the devil would you do that? To protect Essex?”
Henry seems incredulous. “Now it is you who are not thinking clearly. That wasn’t an inventory. It was a receipt to protect the constable from any accusation of theft. If you’d listed the note on there, then the constable would have had to give Walsingham’s note to the widow, and Essex would have learned it, through his man.”
“So?”
“So … we know it wasn’t a daylight robbery. What if the assailant was demanding Walsingham’s note, because it could be produced at a later time, say, to show that Rodriguez had once worked for Walsingham? Would that not make the note a dangerous thing to have? I wasn’t protecting Essex. I was protecting the widow.”
The townhouse door swings open, and a gray-haired footman emerges into the night, blinking as his eyes adjust to the darkness.
“Yes, Walker?” says Henry.
“Oh, there you are, Master Henry. Mistress Anne wished me to ask you whether you intend to join your wife and your guests,” he pauses and looks heavenward, “who hav
e been here more than an hour.” Henry looks at him askance. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mistress Anne pointedly told me to add that last.”
Henry nods impatiently. “Please tell Mistress Anne that I shall be in by and by.”
“I shall say so,” replies Walker.
“‘By and by’ is easily said.”
“Will the lawyer gentleman be joining us?” asks Walker.
Henry raises his eyebrows, as if to ask whether Noah would like to come in.
“Oh, I couldn’t, Henry,” says Noah. “But thank you all the same, and please extend my regrets to Mistress Anne.”
“You’re going to have to do that yourself. If I know her, she won’t let a little thing like a murder excuse missing supper.”
Noah smiles. “Perhaps I’d better come in for a moment, to serve as your alibi.”
“Yes, let’s have a spot of sack!”
“Perhaps, but then I really must go.”
Walker holds open the door for Henry and Noah. The most exquisite scent of roast goose and turnips wafts through the door as they enter. To Noah’s left, about fifteen adult guests occupy a well-lit, well-heated room, and seem well-oiled by drink.
As Henry doffs his outer coat and hands it to the servant, he mutters to Noah: “Mostly Killigrews here. My wife’s family. Speak no politics, and, for God’s sake, no religion. Oh,” he engages Noah’s direct gaze, “you can talk about the play, but don’t mention the murder.”
Noah nods. “A lot to remember,” he mutters.
A flamboyantly dressed young man with dark hair and a receding hairline approaches them. “Henry!” he says in a pleasant voice. “Who’s your lawyer friend?”
“Oh, him!” Henry shakes his head dolefully. “This is no friend. I’ve known this scoundrel for thirty years. He’s more of an old shoe, really. Gets me out of scrapes from time to time. Noah, this is William Shakespeare of Stratford. He’s distantly related, don’t you know, through the Arden side.”
Noah bows merrily. “Mostly, I just pay Master Neville’s fines out of my own pocket, and bury them in the bill.”
“Indeed,” says Goodman Shakespeare. “He deserves no less!”
Something suddenly occurs to Noah. He asks hesitantly, “Are you the same William Shakespeare who wrote that excellent play last year about the Wars of the Roses? It was at that theater … ” He searches his memory in vain. “Oh, what’s the name of it?”
“The play?” asks Shakespeare.
“No, the theater.”
“The theater,” repeats Shakespeare.
“Yes,” replies Noah. “What’s the name of it?”
“The Theater,” Shakespeare declares, and waits for a change in Noah’s expression. “That’s the name of it: ‘The Theater.’” They share a laugh.
“This could go on all night,” mutters Henry. “I need a drink.” He raises his hand and beckons Walker. “Fetch me a sack,” his eyes dart around the room, “before Mistress Anne sees you.” Walker nods and walks stiffly away.
Noah shakes Shakespeare’s hand warmly, holding onto it far longer than he is wont to do, and looks awestruck into the playwright’s eyes. “That play was … wonderful.”
Shakespeare draws his hand firmly away, though his smile never wavers. “Thank you so much.” He looks at Henry. “I still have some things to learn from Marlowe … and Kyd.”
Henry arches an eyebrow at him, but Shakespeare continues. “And Lyly … and Greene, as well as a host of others.” He smiles broadly.
“Really, William.” Henry sniffs. “Your humility is most unbecoming.”
“Oh!” laughs Noah. “That’s why the play has so many mentions of ‘the Nevilles’ noble race’! You’re a Neville!”
“Well, Henry might disagree about my being a Neville,” says Shakespeare. “But perhaps you have it. Won’t you come and join us?”
“I’m afraid I cannot. Marlowe’s play ran a bit late, and I had an appointment at sunset for which I’m badly behind schedule, I’m afraid.”
Mistress Anne appears, as out of nowhere, her red hair framing her pretty face perfectly, the unmistakable intelligence in her expression intensified by the darkening makeup applied to her eyebrows. “Are you quite sure you cannot stay for supper, Master Ames?”
“Mistress Anne, if anyone could persuade me, it would be you. But, alas,” he winks, “I cannot break this appointment.”
Mistress Anne leans into him intimately. “I’m sure she’s lovely,” she whispers, winking in return.
“I hope she is!” he whispers.
She arches an eyebrow in feigned shock, and purses her lips. “Sir, you are a scandal!” She kisses him lightly on the cheek. “Leave my house at once.”
He bows to her and Henry, then turns to Shakespeare. “I hope to be seeing more of you and your plays.”
Shakespeare nods. “I hope so, too.”
Outside, Walker waits by the carriage. “Mistress Anne told me to take you home. Gray’s Inn, over by Chancery Lane, sir?”
“Yes, thank you!” says Noah, and loses himself in thought all the way home.
As they pull up to Gray’s Inn, Walker dismounts and opens the carriage door.
“Need any help up the stairs, sir?”
“No, I don’t think so, as I have no bags.” Noah reaches into his pocket and pulls out a coin. “But please take this.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, sir.”
“You can, and you shall!” Noah says, smiling insistently. “Let me ask you something. Does Goodman Shakespeare come to the Neville home often?”
Walker snickers. “I don’t know as you’d call it ‘often,’ suh. But I wish I had a few relatives like him meself. Brings a bagful of coins every time he comes to supper, he does. My relatives come to supper, too, but they forget the coins. Goodman Shakespeare owns a share of one of them players’ companies. Does all right for himself, too, by what I hear.”
Noah watches the carriage roll away. He goes up to his rooms, collapses into his accustomed chair, removes his boots, and rubs his aching feet. Resting his eyes for a moment, he breathes deeply in his newfound solitude.
At last, he goes to the cabinet and draws out a golden candlestick, the candle already in place. This is the night of the year when he lights a mourner’s candle for Rachel. It was to have been lit at sunset, but he supposes she would forgive his tardiness in light of the circumstances.
He dons the skullcap that he keeps concealed in a compartment in the cabinet, and recites the mourner’s prayer almost silently. In the stillness of the room, looking at the solitary flame, the tears come, as they always do.
“I’m doing the best I can, my beloved,” he says to the woman in his heart.
Chapter 4
BY THE TIME Noah awakens next morning, the sun that shone the previous day has hidden itself above a thick billow of gray clouds. A one-eyed glimpse through the window reveals that, although the rain has not yet begun, the darkened sky is fraught with its unspent weight. Thankfully, it’s Sunday, so there’s no court session this morning. He lolls in bed an extra few minutes, mulling over yesterday’s varied events until he hears a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” he grumbles, sounding even groggier than he feels.
No answer. In a moment, a letter slips under the door, and a muffled young voice on the other side says, “Courier from Master Henry, sir. I’m to await an answer.”
He grabs a robe from his closet, puts it on, and cinches the cloth belt about his waist. He rubs his eyes and opens the door. The young messenger looks to be about eleven years old, and as crisp as Noah feels rumpled.
“Morning, sir! Master Henry says he’d like to come ’round about ten o’clock, if that’s all right with you. What shall I tell him?” The boy waits expectantly, cap in hand.
“Well, Master Cheerful, do you suppose it might be a good idea for me to read the note before replying?”
The boy smiles all the harder. “If ye like, sir!”
Noah waves him in. His cheer is quite conta
gious. “Take a seat.”
The boy chooses the nearest chair, and perches on its very edge, as though to sit comfortably would unacceptably dampen his boundless energy.
Noah slits open the letter. Although Henry prides himself on his ability to write in different hands, Noah knows that this particular style of court italic is Henry’s favorite when speed is of concern. In any of his handwritings, the ease and flow of his script is as unmistakable as his playful choice of language.
Dear Counselor Slugabed:
I sent the boy mostly to ensure that you would be awake upon my arrival. He is as sunny in the morning as you are taciturn. If you are dying of some dreadful illness, please give him a note to that effect and send it back with him. Otherwise, I shall be there by ten to accompany you to Doctor Lopez. It troubles me that I have been unable to imagine how Rodriguez was killed.
Neville
P.S. If the boy does not return promptly, I shall conclude that you have murdered him for his cheerful disposition, and every smuggler in Cornwall will descend upon you in a flash. He is one of Mistress Anne’s kin, a Killigrew, and had better be in excellent condition upon his return.
Noah rises, gives the boy twice the gratuity he would have given another messenger, and tousles his blond hair. The boy makes no demure pretense, but examines the coins with eyes wide. “Thank you, sir! What shall I tell Uncle Henry?”
Noah considers for a moment. “Tell him you found me singing … and practicing the dance.”
The boy’s ingenuous face falls. “Oh, but I didn’t, sir.”
“How much did I give you there?” Noah looks at the coins in the boy’s open palm, and extends his thumb and index finger as though to take some back.
The boy’s fist snaps shut, and he smiles. “Song and dance. Yes, sir!” he says, and patters down the stairs as lightly as an elf. Noah closes the door, scratching his head.
He relieves himself, washes his hands, brushes his teeth hard with salt, and rinses his mouth with tinny water from the pewter pitcher by the basin. Quite by accident, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. “Oh, this won’t do,” he says to his reflection.