Boltfoot slammed his cutlass blade down on the table. ‘No. You are here with me for one reason. To lead me to Mr Buchan Ord. You will obey me, or I shall go now and leave you to go where you will – alone.’
‘Your master will have you flogged if you leave me. But do as you wish. Do you think I will not find another traveller to take me onwards from here?’ She tilted her chin and gave Boltfoot a sweet, defiant smile, then turned her attention back to the singer. She took his hand, clasped it once more to her breast and kissed him full on the mouth.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, the Earl of Shrewsbury smoothed down his nightgown, allowed his breathing to subside, then turned and gave a graceful little bow to Elinor Britten. ‘Madam,’ he said. ‘I am indebted to you, as ever.’
‘It was my pleasure, George . . . as ever.’ She dabbed at her moist lips with a corner of the bedsheet.
‘Best remedy for melancholy that ever God devised. If only it worked for the gout. And so, I will leave you, my dear, until morning.’ He stood up and seemed about to bow again when there was a discreet knocking at the bedchamber door.
He hesitated a few moments, frowned towards his mistress, and then the knocking came again. ‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘It is Gilbert Curle, my lord.’
Gilbert Curle? Why was one of Mary’s secretaries here at this time of night? Shrewsbury adjusted his dress once more. ‘Enter, man.’
The door opened and Curle stepped into the room tentatively. He gave the impression of timidity, but Shrewsbury knew that his heart was steely enough. It would have to be to put up with the incessant demands of the Scots Queen these long years.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord.’ He averted his eyes from the large tester bed on which Elinor Britten lay, her hair spread across the pillows, her pink breasts exposed like a pair of delicious pastries.
‘Well? What is it, damn you?’
‘You desired to know what had become of Buchan Ord, my lord. Well, I fear we have had word from his home in Scotland. He has been found dead close to his father’s estates. Murdered. His father’s ghillie found him. It seems his horse had been shot from under him and he had been choked with a cord.’
Shrewsbury stared at Curle incredulously. ‘And you thought fit to come to me here, at this time of night, just to tell me this?’
‘I had thought you desired to know, my lord. And, in truth, I very much desired to tell you.’
‘Well, it is shocking news, of course, but at least we now know the truth. Has the Queen of Scots been informed?’
‘Indeed, but there is more, which is the reason I am here. It has now become clear that our Mr Ord was not at all what he seemed.’
Chapter Eighteen
SHAKESPEARE STOOD IN the rubble-strewn chamber of the Angel house. The room was lit by a dozen tallow candles. Audrey was at his side. She had not wept yet; it had always been her way to show strength and stoicism, but her tears would come soon enough, when she was alone. Their eyes were both fixed on the serene face of her son, Benedict, whose body had been laid out on the only surviving piece of furniture, a bed, broken but pieced together as well as could be managed.
‘Do you think he is in heaven, John? With his father?’
‘We must pray it is so.’
A picture entered his head of a boy of thirteen, back in the year fifteen seventy-one, soon after the widow and her children came to Shottery. Benedict’s hair had been lighter then. All the boys were outside the schoolhouse, enjoying a warm summer’s day, eating the bread and cheese their parents had given them to get through the long dawn-to-dusk school day. The sun had came out from behind a cloud and framed Benedict’s head like a halo.
Because of his name – but also because of his fervour – the other boys called him Archangel or, sometimes, Gabriel. The names were used in jest, but there was an edge of unpleasant mockery in them, too. In truth, they did not like him, partly because he was an incomer, but also because of his stern religion. While they played, he prayed.
He had always been too devout, too close to Mr Hunt, the new schoolmaster. Hunt was indiscreet in his defiant Catholicism and did not disguise his preference for the boys whom he knew to share his faith. Benedict Angel and Robert Dibdale, a year his senior, were chief among them. At times, they stayed in school at the end of the day for extra tuition with Hunt. It was said, too, that the pair of them had gone to a secret mass with Mr Hunt on more than one occasion.
Benedict Angel had the reckless abandon of youth. As he became ever more zealous, he told some of the other boys that their families would burn in hellfire for conforming to the new Church. His classmates were appalled and, in the end, they shunned him. Dibdale had been much more discreet, and he never lost the other boys’ friendship. It was a curious thing that Benedict and Robert had never seemed close to each other.
No one was surprised, least of all Shakespeare, when a few weeks before Angel’s seventeenth birthday, word reached Stratford that he had gone away to join the Catholic seminary for young Englishmen in Douai. It was rumoured that he had been lured there by Simon Hunt, who had left Stratford and had fled into exile some months earlier. Dibdale followed them a few months later.
The question that Shakespeare could not answer adequately was this: had Benedict Angel been a saint-in-the-making – or a treacherous dupe? Shakespeare was happy to admit he had found him difficult to like; he had the unbending self-assurance of many men of the cloth and could not accept the smallest possibility that his version of the Gospels could be open to doubt or misinterpretation. Benedict Angel was the sort of zealot who would die for his beliefs or kill for them.
But that gave no man the right to murder him.
So who had killed him, and why? One possibility had to be Lucy’s band of pursuivants, perhaps with the connivance of higher authorities.
But Shakespeare could not put out of mind the thought that there could be some connection to the events at Sheffield and the mission he had been ordered to undertake by Walsingham and Leicester. In the brief time he had worked for the Principal Secretary he had learnt enough to know that there was no such thing as a coincidence in his war of secrets.
Or did the motive lie closer to home? What, indeed, was the meaning of the brief conversation he had overheard suggesting that farmer Rench might not be distressed by the killing? Another poke of the stick . . .
‘There is no word of Florence,’ Audrey said at last, as though she had forgotten until this moment that her daughter was still missing.
‘Perhaps that is a good sign. It means there is hope.’
‘I will not think it good until she is home safe.’
François Leloup stopped at the edge of the town and pulled his threadbare copy of La Guide des Chemins d’Angleterre from his packsaddle. His eye traced the course that had been set for him and then looked up at the spire and chimneys of the town. Yes, he was certain: this was Warwick. He stowed the map, kicked his spurs into the horse’s flanks and managed to persuade the obstinate animal to limp on into the town.
Around his shoulders, he wore a capacious cloak, so that none should notice his missing arm. At the inn, he dismounted, handed the reins to a groom, and then ordered an ostler to bring in his heavy saddlebags.
Making his way into the well-appointed hostelry, he spent a few minutes talking amiably to the landlord about his life as a travelling merchant in French wines, haggled perfunctorily over the price of a decent – though not the most opulent – chamber, and ordered a splendid meal of English roasts to be brought to his room. He was about to go there when he held back.
‘It is possible there is a letter for me, innkeeper.’
‘Ah yes, Monsieur Seguin. I recall a courier brought it two days since. Let me fetch it for you, sir.’
‘Instructions from my masters in Paris. Have I found buyers for next year’s vintage? Can I acquire English woollen stuffs rather than silver? Have I bargained a good price? How they drive an old man in their quest for profit! I
tell you, innkeeper, they are harder taskmasters than any wife could be. Should they not give me a pension and allow me to live out my days in peace among my vines and books?’
The landlord produced the letter. The Frenchman glanced at it casually to see the seal was unbroken, then bestowed a little bow upon his host and placed it within his doublet. ‘I shall take it to my chamber to read in mine own good time. My body is not what it was and I must take my rest.’
His hand curled around the silver pomander of musk and ambergris that he wore on a chain about his neck, and he breathed deeply of its exquisite scents.
‘And, innkeper, have my meats served properly rare. It pleases me to see and taste the blood.’
Joshua Peace arrived at the farm shortly before midnight. Audrey Angel had fallen asleep on her knees, her tears still unwept. Shakespeare had had no supper and no rest, and yet he could not leave this place, not yet. At last Thomas Hathaway appeared in the doorway with a young man, bright-eyed, with short, thinning hair.
‘This is Mr Joshua Peace,’ Thomas said.
‘Thank you, Tom. Go home now. You have done more than enough this evening.’ Shakespeare turned towards the newcomer and shook his hand. ‘Mr Peace, thank you for coming this far. It is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘And you, Mr Shakespeare. I am told you are an officer of the crown.’
‘Indeed.’ He indicated the inner room. ‘The corpse is through there, in the chamber.’
‘Then let us get to work.’
‘I can tell you this: at first sight it appeared to me that he had been choked.’
‘I will look at him myself, if it please you, sir. I prefer not to have preconceptions when I view a cadaver.’
Shakespeare looked at Peace with surprise. He was taken aback by his brisk manner. Such an attitude was rare in the countryside, where time tended to drift by with the indolence of the stars in the heavens.
‘And shall I have beer brought to you, Mr Peace?’
‘I would prefer wine, but beer will do if it is all you have.’
‘I shall see what Mistress Angel can provide.’
‘There is no haste. I will wait until after I have made my initial examination.’
Peace stood back from his work, stretched his narrow shoulders and breathed deeply, as though stifling a yawn. He had been studying the body for more than an hour, sniffing and prodding it. ‘I will have that wine now.’
Shakespeare handed him the goblet with the dregs of the wine that the pursuivants had not succeeded in drinking or pouring away. Joshua Peace took a sip, grimaced, shrugged, then sipped again.
‘You will see, Mr Shakespeare, that the rigor of death is at its most intense. Try to move an arm. It is stiff as though it had been frozen solid in ice.’
‘Which means he has been dead how long?’
‘Some time between twenty hours and twelve hours past. It is one o’clock in the morning now, so I would suggest he died last night, an hour or two before dawn. I make that calculation on the assumption that he was murdered somewhere else then left in the place you found him. I doubt many murderers would go about their business in the open air on a bright morning. Especially a murderer such as this one, who had time to place the body just so, fold the arms across the chest and tie a rosary around the neck.’
‘Are you suggesting the rosary was placed there after death? Was it not the murder weapon?’
Joshua Peace picked up the black-beaded rosary, gripped it between both his hands and tugged sharply. The cord split and beads flew across the floor. Peace laughed. ‘That answers that one, I think. You would not be able to strangle a kitten with it. Anyway, look at the neck.’
Shakespeare held a candle close to the dead man and gazed at the neck. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘Do you see any indentations that might have been caused by rosary beads?’
‘I see marks, certainly.’
‘But not bead marks. What you see is the unmistakable spiralling of good English hemp. Any hangman in the land will tell you that this man was choked to death with a narrow rope.’
‘So he was hanged? Was that the other cord? The one attached to the rosary.’
‘No, no. Look under the jaw, beneath the right ear. You see the bruising and discoloration there? The rope was wound tight around a stick – a garrotte as the Spaniards call it. They use it much in their executions and assassinations.’
‘Are you suggesting a Spaniard did this?’
Peace laughed, but not unkindly. ‘You range far ahead of the facts, Mr Shakespeare. Though this method of killing is common in Spain, that certainly does not mean they have a monopoly on its use.’
‘Forgive me. You must think me a fool.’
‘Not at all, sir. It is late at night and we are both tired. What I think is that you were very wise to have called me out so promptly. The more a body is allowed to decay, the more the evidence disappears. You might be astounded to know how often I – and my mother before me – have been called to view a body two or three days after the discovery of a carcass. Sometimes longer.’
‘Well, I am pleased you came.’
Peace put his hand into his apron pocket and produced a portion of some sort of paste. He held it up to show Shakespeare.
‘What is it?’
‘I found it in the mouth. I rather suspect it is unleavened bread, the host, as used in the Roman mass, for I also smelt wine. And as every attentive schoolboy knows, the word “host” is derived from the Latin hostia – which can be translated as sacrificial victim. I found that rather interesting. What about you, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘I think I probably agree, Mr Peace. But that does not get me any closer to finding a motive for his death, nor the murderer.’
‘What most interests me, though, Mr Shakespeare, is that I believe the murderer must have put the bread and wine in Mr Angel’s mouth, post mortem. For if it had been taken voluntarily during the Eucharist, it would surely have been swallowed almost instantly.’
Chapter Nineteen
SHAKESPEARE BEAT ON the front door of the large farmhouse that was home to Rafe Rench. Within a minute, the heavy door creaked open. Rench’s wife stood there and looked at Shakespeare.
‘You know me, Goody Rench. I want to speak with your husband.’
Shakespeare had had no more than three hours’ sleep but he had freshened himself with a splash of cold water and a good breakfast at the White Lion.
‘He’s in the yard with the swine. Go around the back.’ She was a short, pinched woman with no trace of a smile or kindness in her eyes. In fact, no expression in her eyes at all. She shut the door.
Goodwife Rench. None of them had ever thought much to her. She was not the sort of woman to hand hot tarts or pies to the neighbourhood boys and girls at baking time.
The Searcher of the Dead had found nothing more of interest on the body. The cause of death was garrotting; there could be no doubt. Shakespeare asked Peace to stay in Stratford so that he might be a witness at the inquest. He also offered to take Audrey Angel to his parents’ house so that she could be cared for at this time of great loss. She would have none of it. ‘Many folk do not understand grief,’ she said. ‘They think you need company. But we must all face our grief alone, as we must face our own death alone. The presence of another person does not alter that.’
Shakespeare understood and bade her farewell. ‘I will return soon enough,’ he said, ‘and I hope to hear good news of Florence.’ Then he and Joshua Peace had walked the short distance into Stratford, where they managed to raise the innkeeper from his slumbers. He knew Shakespeare of old and could offer them one spare room with a feather bed. If Mr Peace wanted to share the room, he would have to use the truckle bed. Another room would come free for him later in the day if he required it. Shakespeare had slept as best he could and now, two hours after dawn, he was fed and watered and back at Shottery, at the Rench farm.
With the help of his pigman, Rench was holding down a young male porker, which
had been bound and tied to a post for castration. Rench sliced at the ball bag with a sharp blade, then thrust his hand into the sack, ripped out a testicle and held it up in his bloody hand. The panic-stricken pig squealed and writhed. Rench threw the ball into a pail a couple of feet away, then attended to the other one. Finally he spotted Shakespeare.
‘Never seen a hog being gelded before, Shakespeare?’
‘Now and then. There are more pleasant ways to pass the day.’
Rench lifted himself off the maddened pig. ‘Put him in the pen, Joseph,’ he told his pigman. ‘So, why are you here, Shakespeare? Everyone thought you were long gone from these parts.’
‘I saw you yesterday when the body of Benedict Angel was found.’
‘You saw me and every man in the village.’
‘Someone said something that made me wonder about you.’
‘Is that so?’
‘They implied that you would be glad Benedict Angel was dead.’
‘Well, I’m not unhappy. Why should I be? He was a papist, outlaw and traitor. Good riddance to him. Cousin of yours, wasn’t he?’
‘But then another man said something else, something most strange. He said, “Another poke of the stick”. Now what could he have meant by that?’
‘Did you ask him?’
‘No, I’m asking you.’
‘Well, my reply to you is, go and geld yourself with a rusty blade before I do it for you.’
Shakespeare stepped forward as though he would grab Rafe Rench by the lapels of his grubby wool jerkin, but immediately restrained himself.
Rench laughed. He was twice as broad as Shakespeare with the strength of a working farmer to go with his size. ‘Take me on, will you?’ He was like a rock. ‘You need to do some honest work, Shakespeare, build up some muscle before you come here trying to throw your weight around. You always were above yourself. Now, get off my land before I have you in court for trespass and common assault.’
Shakespeare didn’t move. ‘Bad blood between you, is there? Between you and the widow Angel? What’s this about Badger? Your boy’s one of the pursuivants making her life hell. What are you after?’
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 15