Shakespeare said nothing. Was there any truth in this? It had the symmetry of an old wives’ tale or a myth of the ancients. And yet . . .
‘And so I bid you good day.’ Slide bowed low, with a sweep of his arm, then sprinted like a hare for the cover of the woods. Shakespeare found himself laughing at the man’s temerity, but let him go. He had other, more important matters to deal with than to chase after the slippery Mr Slide.
At the White Lion, he found Boltfoot about to depart in search of him. Shakespeare shook his assistant by the hand. ‘I am mighty pleased to see you. Does this mean you have news of the missing Buchan Ord?’
‘I believe so, master. I trust so.’
‘Have you found him? Is he apprehended?’
‘No. I am told he is here, in the shire of Warwick. There is a meeting place . . .’
Shakespeare’s eyes narrowed. ‘A meeting place. Where? When? With whom?’
‘With the Frenchie. They are to meet here. Somewhere. That is what I was told by Kat.’
‘Continue, Boltfoot. Tell me everything. I have heard some fanciful talk that Miss Whetstone has accompanied you here. Put my mind at ease if you please.’
Boltfoot shifted uneasily. ‘Aye, it is true enough. I brought her here with me. She made me bring her. I had discovered that Mr Ord was betrothed to her, but that he had cast her off. Before he disappeared, she had overheard him telling the Frenchman to meet him at a secret place. As I was later to learn, the appointed place for their meeting is in this county.’
Shakespeare wondered if the whole world was not going mad. What manner of fool would ride a hundred miles through England in the company of a strange – if beautiful – young woman? ‘Boltfoot, you will have to explain this to me more clearly. How did she make you ride with her? Did she hold a pistol to your head?’
‘I did not want to bring her and did all I could to dissuade her, for I feared you would be greatly displeased. But she would not tell me where Mr Ord had gone unless I pledged to accompany her. What was I to do, master? I was charged by you with discovering the whereabouts of the Scotsman, and Kat offered me a way.’
‘And has she told you about this proposed meeting place?’
‘Not precisely, only that it is in this town or close by. She refused to tell me more. When we arrived, I demanded the information of her, but she said she would reveal all to you.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She has taken a chamber here in this inn. She must be there now.’
Shakespeare tried to soften the hardness evident in his tone and face. Boltfoot had done what he believed to be correct. And who could tell, perhaps it would turn out that way. ‘Thank you, Boltfoot, you have done well.’
‘It was not easy, master. I have used up all the coin you left me, and I have discovered that Kat Whetstone has a wayward spirit.’
Shakespeare raised an eyebrow. ‘Boltfoot?’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind, you can tell me in due course. I must go to her now. If she can reveal to me where Buchan Ord is, then all our problems may be solved. And, Boltfoot, stay here and get some rest. I will have a task for you this night.’
‘Yes, master.’
Kat Whetstone was not in her chamber, but the innkeeper told Shakespeare where she had gone. ‘You’ll find her in the meadows by the river at Tiddington Lane. She asked me for somewhere that she might wash away the mud and grime of her travels. I gave her towels and soap.’
Shakespeare thanked him and walked out. The rain had ceased, but the day was still grey and cool. He crossed the bridge and strode as briskly as he could along the churned-up riverside path, past the osier beds, catching his hose and netherstocks on brambles and thistles. It was a path he knew well from his childhood, where his father brought him to learn angling and where he, later, brought Will for the same purpose. He recalled the day they landed a ten-pound pike and Will almost lost a finger in its vicious jaws.
A quarter of a mile on, there was still no sign of her. He wondered whether she had misunderstood the innkeeper’s directions. The path entered thick woodland, with trees that overhung the water’s edge. A little way on, he heard splashing and smiled to himself. The thought of her kneeling at the water’s edge, washing her face, perhaps scrubbing at her riding habit, was enough to entice any man.
But she wasn’t kneeling at the water’s edge. She was in the water, and she was clearly wearing little or nothing, for Shakespeare spotted a pile of women’s garments on a dry patch of grass beneath the trees. And he could see that her shoulders were bare. She was swimming slowly against the gentle flow, so that she seemed almost motionless.
She was facing upriver, away from him. He turned away and prepared to walk back to the inn. He would talk with her on her return.
‘Mr Shakespeare, is that you?’
He stopped, but he did not look around.
‘Forgive me, Miss Whetstone. I did not expect to find you unrobed. You realise there is more than a little river traffic at this time of year . . .’
‘I am sure there is nothing about me that they have not seen before. And, Mr Shakespeare, I would consider it mannerly if you were to turn around, for I do not like talking to your back. Fear not, I am not about to die of shame if you should see my shoulders.’
Slowly, he turned. She was in the centre of the stream, with only her head above water. Beneath the surface, he could not fail to see the motion of her breasts, light and swaying in the clear, green waters, and he could imagine her arms and legs moving in the way swimmers do when they wish to stay in the same place.
‘Mr Cooper tells me that you have important information for me.’
‘Does he? Oh, he is a strange man your Boltfoot Cooper, but a sound travelling companion. I always felt delightfully safe with him.’
She sounded a little out of breath from the effort of paddling her arms and legs. ‘And the information, Miss Whetstone?’
‘You are to call me Kat. Do you not remember?’ Her hair was dripping wet about her face. Her right arm rose from the river, slender and pale gold, and she ran her fingers through the tresses.
‘Indeed I do, Kat.’ He coughed awkwardly. ‘I think it best if I leave you to your ablution now and return to the White Lion, where we can discuss these matters a little more easily.’
‘And I shall call you John, for we are practically wed now that you have promised to show me the lion-cats in the Tower.’
Shakespeare closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had almost managed to forget about the lions in the Tower.
‘How long did you say their teeth were? Four inches? Five inches? No, I do believe it was six. It makes me tremble with terror just to think of them.’
He bowed awkwardly. ‘I shall see you in two hours’ time, in the hall at the inn.’
‘You cannot leave me here, John. I had thought this place would offer me some privacy. But if you have found me, so may others. And what of the wherries bringing the harvest to market? You must look after me and bring my towels and underthings to the water’s edge, that I may not be espied in my naked shame.’
As she spoke, she struck out for the river bank and within a few seconds was stepping from the water, uncovered and showing very little in the way of shame.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SHAKESPEARE STOOD AND looked at her because he could not take his eyes away. He knew there was nothing perfect under the heavens, for only God was immaculate, but Kat Whetstone’s body came very close.
‘My towels, John, if you please.’ She smiled with too much knowing and made no attempt to cover herself with her hands, nor move towards her garments. She was no more than five feet from him.
Suddenly, he scurried for the clothes and picked up two large linen towels, which he handed to her at arm’s length, looking away.
She wrapped one of the towels around her waist, and then used the other to dry herself. ‘For a moment, John, it seemed you had quite forgot yourself.’
‘My apologies. I should not have stared so.’
‘Did you not like what you saw?’
‘I shall go now.’
‘Will you not accompany me back to the inn? I would feel much safer with you. What if someone were to chance upon me in these woods?’
‘Two hours’ time. In the main hall.’ With an immense effort of will, he began walking back along the path through the meadows to the town. He had a curious feeling that she was laughing at him, behind his back.
Leloup’s purse was heavy with gold sovereigns. He tied it closely inside his doublet, then walked down to the hall of the coaching inn. He raised his proud wolf’s nose in greeting to the innkeeper, and then to his visitor. He clasped him by the shoulder and ushered him away from the innkeeper and his staff.
‘Mr Ord, I received your letter. This is the day, is it not?’
‘Indeed, Monsieur Leloup.’
‘Then I am ready.’
‘And the gold?’
‘The gold, too. Safely stowed. But more importantly, are our friends ready?’
‘I believe so.’
‘But that is for me to decide, yes?’
‘Indeed, Monsieur Leloup.’
‘Then take me to them without delay. The sooner all is organised and we have freed Mary, the safer she will be.’
At the White Lion, Shakespeare took quill and paper and wrote a careful letter to Sir Francis Walsingham giving news of the death of Benedict Angel and explaining the enclosed document.
Mr Angel was found murdered, as I thought, a judgement that was readily agreed by the Searcher of the Dead, Mr Peace. The coroner and jury disputed this finding and a verdict was returned that the deceased took his own life by hanging or self-strangulation. I shall, however, continue to investigate the death for I fear he was part of some disturbing activity in this county, which is connected in some way to recent events at Sheffield. This is reinforced by the letter herewith enclosed, which was found by Mr Peace among the dead man’s apparel. By its hand, seal and mark, this missive appears to be from the Scots Queen. The cipher, however, is beyond my wit, so therefore I commend it to you for the attention of Mr Phelippes.
Shakespeare sealed his letter with the cipher letter enclosed and handed it to the innkeeper, whom he trusted of old, to be sent to Oatlands by special courier.
‘My boy will take it, Mr Shakespeare. He is the best there is.’
‘He will have a mark on departure and another on his return. He is to give it to no one but Walsingham or his steward, Mr Whey.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Then have him ride at speed.’
In the early evening, Shakespeare woke Boltfoot. Like any sailor roused for his watch, he was instantly alert.
‘I know you are still fatigued, as am I, but I would have you follow after me. We must walk through the town, a little way north to a village. Walk a good distance behind me so that no one can tell that we are known to each other. Be inconspicuous. Do you understand?’
Boltfoot grunted.
Shakespeare clapped him on the shoulder. ‘This is important. You are to keep watch on a house. In that house is a young woman named Florence Angel and her mother, Audrey Angel. You will hide yourself in the spinney to the north of the house. After I have gone, you will stay there and observe everything that happens. If the younger of the two women goes out, you will follow her, unseen. I want to know exactly where she goes and I want a description of whoever she sees. You will then report back to me. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, master. How long shall I watch her?’
‘Until dawn. And you will leave your cutlass and caliver here, otherwise I think you will attract too much attention as you walk through town.’
Walking at an easy pace, Shakespeare once again traversed the streets of Stratford towards the village of Shottery, ensuring that Boltfoot could keep within distance.
When he arrived, Audrey Angel came to the door.
‘I would speak with Florence, Aunt. I must give her one more chance to help me. You must persuade her of the danger she faces if she will not cooperate.’
‘She is not here, John.’
‘Where is she?’
The widow wiped her eye. ‘If I knew, I swear I would tell you – for I am afraid for her also.’ She had clearly been weeping. ‘This is all my fault. After their father died, I brought them up in the old faith. It would have been so much easier to conform. But how could I betray him, having sworn to him that I would raise them in the Roman Church?’
‘You have no need to explain your religion to me, Aunt.’ Shakespeare reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘I seek out traitors, not Catholics. But I beg you, be wary, for there are many who would spill the blood of you all. Now tell me, how long has Florence been gone?’
‘An hour, no more.’
‘Did she walk out on her own, or did someone come for her?’
‘No, she went alone. She is going to die, John, I am certain of it. She is bent on her own destruction, and there is nothing I can do to save her.’
Shakespeare found Boltfoot in the woods. ‘All has changed,’ he said shortly. ‘There is another house I want you to watch. In it, there is a woman named Anne Hathaway. As before, you will observe her carefully. And likewise, if she goes out, you will follow her. If she meets another young woman – a woman of slightly broader girth with golden hair – you will tell me precisely where they are. Do not disturb them or reveal your presence to them in any way. Can you do that? Will you remember the route?’
‘Yes, master.’ Boltfoot nodded without enthusiasm.
‘I will go into this house and bring Anne Hathaway to the door so that you will know what she looks like, for there are others within.’
Shakespeare left his assistant once again in an area of woodland, near enough to see the door, and walked up to Hewlands Farm. There were more ways than one to accomplish his ends. If Florence was not there to be followed, there was someone else who might lead him to her.
As he approached the door, he felt deceitful and dishonest. This was what he had feared at Oatlands when Mr Secretary had given him this task: here he was, spying on his own. And yet what was he to do? Anne was already up to her delicate neck in the mire. So was his brother. They needed protection and he was the only one to give it. By whatever means available – even by spying on them.
Anne was serving food to the younger children in the hall. She invited him to sit down with them and eat.
‘A beaker of ale will serve me well enough, Anne. Where is Will? Is he not with you?’
‘He has been tutoring Alderman Whateley’s young children. We will need the money soon enough.’ Her hand went to her belly.
‘Well, it was you I wished to talk with. Florence has gone again. Her mother is distraught and fears she will come to harm.’
‘I wish I were surprised.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘No, John.’ She looked at him askance.
‘I ask, of course, because no one is closer to her. Because she entrusted that letter to you.’ He watched Anne’s face closely, noted the strain in her wide eyes and taut forehead. He still could not fathom why she had agreed to hold the Mary of Scots letter for Florence. ‘I want to enlist your aid. Come outside, away from the earshot of the little ones.’ He picked up his cup of ale and they went out into the damp air and stood by the bread oven. Chickens and geese scattered across the muddy yard. A cock crowed incessantly. Ahead of them were the barns and byres and sties. To their right the fields and the woods. Shakespeare stared hard into the fern and brambles but could not spot Boltfoot. He made sure Anne was in a position just beyond the door where she would be clearly visible to him.
‘What can I do to help, John?’
‘You must have heard what happened at the inquest. It was a grotesque injustice, but Florence refused to help me. I am certain she knows more than she will reveal, but she will not talk to me. She said Benedict had come to her in her sleep and that he had said I was not to be trusted.’
‘And is that not true? I had thought you boys felt nothing but scorn for him in your younger days.’
‘There is a world of difference between disliking someone and wishing them harm. He was fervent in his faith and stood apart from us. But that is all long gone. I am telling you no secrets when I say that the Privy Council considered him a traitor. That, too, need no longer concern us. Whatever he did in his life is now between him and God.’
‘Then, John, what do you want from Florence?’
‘A solution to a murder.’ But also, I desire to know the source of the Mary Stuart letter, and I want to discover those with whom Benedict was involved. But that was not what he said. ‘I desire justice for her brother in this world. Florence does not – or will not – understand that. I also want to protect her. Her innocence does not come untainted. I cannot help wondering whether she has any idea what is involved here. Does she know that I could have her arrested for hard questioning on the suspicion that she is withholding evidence?’
‘But you will not do that.’
‘No, I will not. But there are others who might. My lord of Leicester has it in mind to clear the county of papists, as does his creature Sir Thomas Lucy. I fear the work of the pursuivants has barely begun. And so I would ask you to make inquiries on my behalf. She trusts you, Anne. You are perhaps the only person she trusts apart from her mother. Find out where she went when she disappeared. And where is she now? With whom is she involved? This letter – this missive from the Queen of Scots – tells us that she is delving into dangerous and murky waters. Find out who she believes killed her brother – and the motive. I know she is your friend, but Anne, I must tell you . . . I have suspicions. I am not sure I trust her. Help me on this.’
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 21