Shakespeare stepped forward and examined Marlowe’s fingers himself, then turned back. He held up the limp hand. ‘Well, Mr Poley – how do you explain this injury?’
‘Take a look at Mr Frizer’s head. That’s how Marlowe hurt himself.’
Shakespeare turned away and clapped Peace about the shoulder. ‘I want you here at the inquest, Joshua.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I’ll write you a report. That’ll be enough for Danby. It’s straightforward.’
‘Put in the time of death as you estimate it.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll do that. But Danby will pay it no heed.’
The witnesses did not leave the premises for a day and two nights. An obliging Mrs Bull, owner of the house, bustled about bringing them food and ale, and provided a bed for them in another room. Two of the men slept on the outer sides of the bed, heads against the wall, while the third, Skeres, slept in between them, his booted feet against their ears, his farting, snoring bulk hogging much of the mattress.
The body of Marlowe was as cold as earth by the time the sixteen-man jury of local Deptford yeomen was assembled in the room where he had died. The jurors stood along one wall, heads bowed and fearful, clutching their caps and looking anywhere but at the body. Then the coroner appeared, a dark and formal cape about his shoulders and a fur hat under his arm. He sat at the table and called the room to order for the Lord’s Prayer. At the coroner’s side, Richard Topcliffe, the Queen’s servant, took a seat, his white hair and dread face caught in the morning light from the little window.
John Shakespeare stood close to the doorway. He glared at Topcliffe, who smirked back. What was Topcliffe doing here, close-coupled with the coroner? This inquest could be none of his concern.
The proceedings were as Shakespeare expected; there was no one to gainsay the testimony of Poley, Skeres and Frizer, who all knew their lines well. William Danby, coroner to the royal court, then attending on the Queen less than a mile away in Greenwich, listened impassively. His manner was grave. He read Joshua Peace’s report, which had been placed on the table in front of him, then set it aside without commenting on it to the jury.
For a moment, Shakespeare considered interrupting the inquest to point out the discrepancy over the time of the killing. But it would have been a waste of breath. Danby would merely have instructed the jurors to discount the testimony of Mr Peace, as he himself had done, and might well have thrown Shakespeare out of the hearing. And anyway, the hour of death, in itself, proved nothing. It was the manner of the killing that counted for all in this room.
The verdict was a foregone conclusion: self-defence. The jurors – each of whom had been required to step forward in turn to view the body and the fatal wound at close quarters – had done the job required of them. Ingram Frizer was to be taken to the Marshalsea prison to see whether he should be charged or no. That was the prerogative of the Queen and her ministers.
It was not the verdict which caused Shakespeare most consternation, it was the presence of the man who had sat at the coroner’s side: Richard Topcliffe – killer, torturer, rapist, blood-lusting dog with the ear of the Queen.
The loathing between Shakespeare and Topcliffe ran deep. Their paths had crossed too many times over the years. Shakespeare had married a Catholic and Topcliffe wanted his blood. He wanted the blood of every Catholic in England. And who was to stop him when he had Elizabeth’s licence to act as priest hunter and persecutor? No man could oppose him, not even the Privy Council, because he was answerable only to her.
As the jury shuffled out, Shakespeare approached the table. Danby was collecting up his papers.
‘You know, of course, Mr Danby, that they were all lying.’
The coroner looked up, eyes wide, as if he had not seen Shakespeare before. ‘Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Frizer, Poley, Skeres. They concocted that story. And the time of the killing. You had Mr Peace’s note in front of you, yet you paid it no heed.’
Danby bridled, though his indignation would not have alarmed a mole. Indeed, he was much like a burrowing creature with his dark cape, nervous eyes and twitching whiskers. ‘You presume much to speak to a royal officer so, Mr Shakespeare. In truth I would go further, sir; you presume a great deal to call in the Searcher of the Dead without my authority.’
‘If I had waited on your pleasure, Mr Danby, it might have been too late. The body would have been as cold as winter. Mr Peace might not have been able to determine the time of death with such accuracy.’
‘It is for me to say how accurate Mr Peace’s conclusions are. And I say that he is a diabolical dabbler. He plays with dead bodies in a most unchristian way. I will have none of Mr Peace.’ Danby swept past Shakespeare, then paused at the door. ‘And mark me well: I will have words with my lord Burghley regarding your part in this.’ With a final, puffed-up flourish, he departed.
Topcliffe bared his yellow teeth and chuckled. He prodded Shakespeare’s chest with his silver-tipped blackthorn stick. ‘That’s told you, Shakespeare.’
Shakespeare brushed the stick aside with a sweep of his arm and glared into Topcliffe’s gloating face. ‘God blind you,’ he said. ‘You are a malign presence.’ This whole business was putting Shakespeare in an ill humour. He had not liked it from the start, when Cecil had ordered him to inquire into Marlowe’s dealings. Anyone could have written those placards. And if it had been Marlowe, why would he have signed it Tamburlaine? Only a fool would draw attention to himself in such a way – and Marlowe, however hot-blooded and wild, had never been a fool.
‘Now, now, Mr Shakespeare,’ Topcliffe said, putting up his stick as if it were a rapier. ‘Hear me out.’
‘I want to hear nothing from you, Topcliffe. Have you not women or children to torment somewhere?’
‘Wait, Shakespeare. I know we do not see eye to eye on much, but I have to tell you that I am with you on this. Marlowe was a dunghill of iniquity, but he had his fair parts. The verdict was wrong, I am certain. He was murdered.’
‘Then why did you say nothing?’
‘I had no evidence, Mr Shakespeare. Why did you say nothing?’
Shakespeare ignored the question. ‘And what was Marlowe to you, anyway? Why are you here?’
Topcliffe took a smouldering pipe from the pocket of his fine doublet and thrust it in his mouth. He sucked hard and blew out two thin streams of smoke from his nostrils. ‘Marlowe? I would happily have drawn out his entrails and hacked off his pizzle like a Papist girl-boy for his godless ways and playmaking. And yet –’ Topcliffe’s menacing growl almost softened for a moment. ‘And yet I will admit, in other things his heart was right. His denunciation of the foreign incomers was something that should gladden all English hearts, for who can stomach these strangers overrunning our land, taking bread from stout English tables? Five years ago, Drake sank the strangers who tried to invade our shores. Now the Council welcomes so many ragtag beggars from France and the Low Countries that you scarce hear an English voice in London. Marlowe was right and I am with him. I would push every last one of them back into the narrow seas and cheer their drowning.’
The pall-bearers entered the room and lifted the body of Christopher Marlowe from the day bed to carry him away for burial.
Shakespeare turned away. Topcliffe understood nothing. This was not about Marlowe’s views, this was about murder. The trouble was that in these days of famine and rising prices, when many men could not find a day’s work, there were plenty who thought like Topcliffe, plenty who would do evil to the incomers and their wives and children, Catholic or Protestant. Their only crime? Not being English.
Chapter 3
OUTSIDE MRS BULL’S house on Deptford Strand a small crowd had gathered, perhaps fifteen strong. Shakespeare was taken aback to see his brother Will among them, with a group of familiar faces from the playhouses. Henslowe was there, Alleyn and Burbage, an uncommonly doleful Will Kempe, his customary jest and smile absent today. Marlowe’s patron, the poetry-loving Thomas Walsingham, stood tall and
stiff with the little group. Nephew to Shakespeare’s late employer, Sir Francis Walsingham, Thomas cut an elegant, mournful figure. He smiled wanly at Shakespeare. George Peele, the poet and playmaker, cut an equally desolate figure in an outrageously costly doublet and hose of green and gold satin that would not have been out of place at court.
Shakespeare took his brother by the hand, then drew him close in an embrace. ‘This is a fine place to meet, Will.’
‘Self-defence, they say. Do you believe it, John?’
‘No, of course not. If Rob Poley said the sun was yellow I would believe it blue.’
‘First Thomas Kyd is tortured within an inch of his life, now Kit is dead. Which of us will be next?’
Shakespeare frowned. He had not thought of this killing in the context of a threat to London’s players and poets. Yet when he looked again at the group of men mourning Marlowe he saw anxiety as well as grief in their eyes. Also, despite the death and the arrest and hard questioning of playmaker Thomas Kyd for supposed heresy, he saw defiance in the crowd. He felt sick to the depths of his soul.
‘Come, John,’ Will Shakespeare said. ‘Come with us to St Nicholas and see Kit interred at least. And then I shall head home to Stratford. This city has become unhealthy.’
A small cart clattered westwards from Aldgate through the mid-morning streets of London. It was a Friday and the roads were busy with heavy drays nose to tail, drovers with flocks of geese and sheep at every turn.
The little cart pushed on regardless. The two men at the front drove their reluctant horse through the dung-thick streets with a lash. Every now and then one of them glanced over his shoulder at the barrel that bounced and jostled in the back. It looked innocent enough; onlookers, had they been interested, might have guessed that it contained biscuit or salt pork. They would have been wrong. It was packed tight with fine corns of gunpowder.
‘The city is like a farmyard today, Mr Curl.’ Luke Laveroke spoke in an accent that seemed to have no home, though there was certainly a little Scottish in there somewhere. Easily the taller of the two men, perhaps a foot above his companion, Laveroke was a good-looking man, but his face was in shadow today beneath a close-fitting leather workman’s cap. His greying hair, usually shoulder-length and well groomed, was neatly tied away from view. If anyone had cared to look closely, they might have noted his well-trimmed spade beard and fine features. But none would look at him today, for he wore the attire of a working man – a wool jerkin and knee-length brown hose – and had nothing to distinguish him from the common horde that cluttered these streets.
‘Indeed, Mr Laveroke. One cannot think for the cackle of geese and the lowing of the great beasts heading for slaughter. If only the nobility and their Dutch friends were accompanying them.’ Holy Trinity Curl was of an altogether different cut to Laveroke. His eyes were amber and piercing; so, too, his hair, almost concealed beneath a leather cap.
The cart arrived at Broad Street, its destination. Laveroke, who had the reins, pulled the unwilling horse to a halt.
‘Well, Mr Curl, here we are. The Dutch church.’
‘Not by right, Mr Laveroke. Not by right is it a Dutch church. A sad lapse by the poor young king, may God rest his soul. No part of England should ever belong to a scurvy foreign nation.’
‘Quite so, Mr Curl. So let us give the Council something to consider in the matter of strangers – following the recent sad events at Deptford.’
‘Sad events, Mr Laveroke, sad events.’
They drove the cart on a little further and stopped outside the colossal church, once the home of the Augustine friars but given to the Dutch nation by the boy king Edward VI in 1550. From inside, as they unloaded their deadly cask from the cart, they could hear the drone of prayers. The road and yard were busy; no one paid the two gunpowder men heed.
Together, they hauled and rolled the barrel along its bottom rim through the churchyard towards the north transept of the old building, which was well away from the road where their horse and cart waited.
‘I have the beetle and the peg, Mr Curl. Shall we begin?’
‘Why, yes, Mr Laveroke.’
With his mallet, Laveroke struck the strong wooden peg hard into the lower portion of the barrel. One hit was enough; the black powder spilled out of the small hole. Curl took a saltpetre-impregnated cord from inside his grubby leather jerkin. He ruffled up one end so that the strands separated, then thrust the other end into the hole. A small brown and white mongrel dog trotted over and stood sniffing his legs as he worked. Curl kicked out at it, but it would not go away. At last, the two men stood back and admired their efforts.
‘Do you have a tinderbox, Mr Laveroke?’
‘Indeed, I do, Mr Curl. It was a gift from a very great gentleman who wishes success to our endeavours.’
‘Then let us blow an arsehole in this maggoty den.’
The praying from inside the church was barely audible at this part of the transept, little more than a low hum. Laveroke struck flint against steel and lit a taper with his ornate tinderbox. ‘This should bring them a little closer to heaven, Mr Curl,’ he said as he knelt down and touched the glowing taper to the saltpetre-soaked fuse. It immediately sparked up and the two men watched for a moment with satisfaction.
‘Or hell, Mr Laveroke. Or hell, where they do belong.’
As the flame smouldered along the length of the fuse towards the barrel, the tall and handsome Mr Luke Laveroke and the amber-eyed Mr Holy Trinity Curl walked nonchalantly back towards their horse and cart.
The high-ceilinged meeting room in Sir Robert Cecil’s small mansion close to his father’s great house on the Strand was weakly lit. A tall window looked out over a central courtyard where the sun only ventured in high summer afternoons. Despite this, the room was not gloomy and had a pleasing air of intimacy and privacy. John Shakespeare sat opposite Francis Mills, his colleague in the service of Cecil. At one end of the table sat the stiff-necked Sir Henry Lee; at his side, the quiet, intense Thomas Bedwell.
The fifth man, Cecil, paced the room slowly and silently, his feet clad in pantoufles of rich blue velvet, his monogram RC braided in gold on each of them. ‘One dog you say?’ He addressed the question to Shakespeare.
‘One dog dead. No other injuries. It was good fortune that the wall held or there might have been carnage. There is a deep hole and a great deal of rubble around the north transept of the church.’
Cecil turned to Lee. ‘Perhaps, Sir Henry, you would explain to Mr Shakespeare and Mr Mills your role in this inquiry.’
Lee did not smile. The downward trajectory of his sandy moustache and beard might have conveyed the impression that this was a man rarely given to expressions of humour, yet his friends knew of his generosity and those who had served under him revered his courage on the field. ‘I am commanded to convey from Her Royal Majesty the urgency of this affair,’ he said in a curt voice accustomed to giving orders, ‘lest you had thought otherwise.’
‘I think we already understood the urgency of the threat,’ Cecil said.
‘She summoned me like a boy to her presence. She demanded to know what I, as Master-General of the Ordnance, was doing allowing villains and traitors access to gunpowder. Such was her fury, I would have rather faced a culverin’s roar. She wants these men eviscerated and soon. They must be alive when bowelled and crying for mercy even as their hearts are torn from their bodies and held before their eyes. No one in this realm must be allowed to imagine that they can acquire powder and use it for such a purpose without suffering a similar fate.’
‘You have made your point well, Sir Henry,’ Cecil said. ‘Which brings us on to the questions that must be answered. The powder. Where did it come from – and who ignited it?’
‘Saltpetre, brimstone, charcoal. In parts seventy-five, ten, fifteen. Is that not correct, Mr Bedwell?’ Lee demanded. ‘How in the name of God would I know where it comes from? I am retired. The master-generalship is an honorarium; it is a pension for my years of service in the f
ield. Ask Mr Bedwell where the damned powder came from.’
All eyes turned to Thomas Bedwell, Storekeeper of the Ordnance. He had a pair of spectacles on the table in front of him, which he now picked up and placed on the bridge of his nose. Bedwell was in his mid fifties, a few years younger than Lee though he looked a fair bit older. As an engineer, he had applied new technologies in the building of the defensive walls of Dover harbour and Portsmouth and along the Thames. He had modernised gunnery with his rules for elevation of cannon to establish the distance a ball would travel. More than that, he claimed to have devised a method of establishing longitude at sea. Now his primary task was ensuring the care and safe-keeping of the ordnance and munitions held in the White Tower armoury and the nearby storehouses in the Minories, once home to nuns from the Order of St Clare.
‘Well, Mr Bedwell?’ Cecil said, an edge of impatience in his tone. ‘Where did the powder come from?’
‘Not the Tower. I am certain of that. But nor was it made in someone’s backyard, for the quantity used was too great. I visited the site of the explosion and from the extent of the blast, I would say the barrel contained one hundredweight or more of fair quality powder.’
‘So where?’
‘From one of the mills. The powder is supposed to be kept secure in locked vaults, but some of the mill owners fall short. Powder is left lying about. Though the mills are supposed to be strictly guarded and are inspected regularly, it is entirely possible that an amount has been stolen or sold illegally.’
‘Could it not have been stolen in transit?’ Shakespeare asked.
‘Yes, that is possible, but less likely. Had a highway robbery occurred, I would have been informed straightway, and I have had no such reports in recent months. The other places powder might have been acquired is from county stores or from the hold of a ship-of-war. County stores do not hold great quantities, but a ship is a distinct possibility. However, powder is usually not loaded until shortly before a ship weighs anchor, to reduce the risk of mishaps. My firm opinion is that a powdermill is the source.’
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