‘There we go, sir. Admitted the second of June, killed a man in self-defence. Following inquest, to be held on remand awaiting decision of court in Chancery. Now he has had his formal pardon. Let me see, where did he abide?’ The keeper scratched his dirty, fat forefinger across the page. ‘Ah, there it is – not far from here, master. By the river, St Augustine Inn, my old father always knew it as. Now, though it is called Sentlegar House. Tenement building. Many of the worst sort live there, sir. You will find it hard by the Bridge House.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I wish you fortune of Mr Frizer, sir, for I cannot say I liked him much. A sly fellow, I would say. Not one to turn your back on, lest you wish a poniard in the kidney.’
Shakespeare was relieved to step out into the comparatively fresh air of Southwark. The streets were thronged with stalls selling goods from the world over, brought back by the great trading carracks. Spanish gold and fruits could be had here, wine from France, printed books from the German lands, furs from the Russias and spices from the Moluccas. Looking down Long Southwark to the bridge, he saw nothing but people, wains and farm beasts, packed tight in an endless stream. He shuddered at the thought of what might have been, had the hellburner done its foul work.
St Augustine Inn was less than a furlong from the gaol. Shakespeare walked straight in, for the door was open. A family of ten huddled in the first room he saw, a drab band of whores in the next. He asked after Ingram Frizer. No one would admit to knowing him. He looked in all the tenements. There were only poor families, whores and rats. Not a clue as to his whereabouts.
The windows were shuttered at Robert Poley’s splendid, timbered townhouse in Birchin Lane, just north of Lombard Street. Yet it was not entirely empty, for a housekeeper answered the door to Shakespeare.
‘I would speak with Mr Poley,’ Shakespeare demanded.
‘I fear he is not here, master,’ the woman said. She was an honest-looking woman in her thirties. Shakespeare looked at her questioningly and wondered why any decent goodwife would wish to work for a villain such as Poley.
‘When will he be back?’
‘He has left for the summer, master. Gone to the country to escape the pestilence. I just come here to dust and look out for the place while he’s away.’
‘Did he say which part of the country?’
‘Norfolk, I do believe. He said he would be travelling for a few weeks and that he might go to the Low Countries for a while. He has a friend with him, sir, one Nicholas Skeres.’
Shakespeare looked at the woman’s eyes yet more closely and could see no dissembling in them. So Poley and Skeres had left town, and Frizer was gone, too. Well, that was most convenient for them. Shakespeare cursed beneath his breath, then smiled at the woman and thanked her for her assistance. There was only one more place to try: Deptford.
It was a journey of no more than half an hour by tilt-boat. Shakespeare paid the watermen, then strode across the green to the fine house of Ellie Bull. He hammered at the door, with more than a hint of impatience. He was well aware that Cecil would be in a fury if he had any idea what he was about and would damn him for not devoting his time to the Scots prince or the Spanish woman. But since the arrival of his brother, there was this matter of Marlowe again, this murder; he was convinced of it. It had lain unquestioned too long.
Mrs Bull eyed him warily. ‘Yes, master, how may I help you?’
‘I am John Shakespeare, an officer of Sir Robert Cecil.’
‘Yes, sir, I know that.’
‘You are well informed, mistress.’
‘You were here at the inquest on poor Mr Marlowe, here in my humble house.’
Shakespeare looked up at the facade of the building. There was nothing at all humble about it. Ellie Bull had clearly been left a widow of some means, for the house had a large frontage, all in a single wood frame, and a pleasant aspect with views across Deptford Green and the river. It was well away from all the other housing in the village.
‘I would come in and talk with you.’
‘And why would that be, sir?’ Ellie Bull stood her ground and crossed her plump arms across her ample bosom. She would have been a comely girl in her younger days, and still had an attractive blush to her cheeks. But there was a hint of hardness about her, too, the hardness of a woman of business who liked gold and would not give an inch in the getting and keeping of it. ‘I have no knowledge of the sad events in my house. I had let the room to the gentlemen for their afternoon of gaming and drinking, and the next thing I knew, there was a brabble and an accidental death. That is all I know or can tell you, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Did you hear the fight?’
Mrs Bull hesitated.
‘It is a simple enough question, mistress. There was a violent quarrel. You must have heard something, for you were in the house, bringing them refreshments of ale and sweetmeats from time to time. Yes?’
‘I may have heard something … but I paid it no heed. Young gentlemen will fight and brawl now and then. It is their nature. No concern of mine.’
‘But you heard something?’
‘I suppose I did. Yes, now that I come to think of it.’
‘What time was that?’
‘As I recall, the inquest was told it was six of the clock.’
‘That is not what I asked, mistress.’
‘If the inquest said six, then six it was.’
‘Who was in the room that day? Did men come and go?’
Mrs Bull began ticking off names on her fingers. ‘Well, there was Mr Marlowe, of course, and Mr Poley. Oh, and the poor lad who killed him in the terrible accident, Mr Frizer. And I believe there was one other, a jolly, red-bearded fat fellow – that’s him, Nicholas Skeres. Fine gentlemen all.’
‘Do you know where they are now? Where is Frizer?’
‘The only one I know of is Mr Frizer. I do believe him to be in the Marshalsea.’
‘No, he has had his pardon.’
‘Well, then, I am mighty pleased for the lad, for he did not deserve to be incarcerated for defending himself. Any man must have the right of self-defence.’
‘Where might he have gone?’
‘Home?’
‘No. He is not there.’
‘Well, he is certain not here, so I could not say.’
‘What of the fifth man? There was a fifth man in the room.’
Mrs Bull looked puzzled and began counting off names on her fingers again, then shook her head. ‘No, sir, four was the number.’
‘What manner of house is this, Mrs Bull? For it is surely no tavern, nor inn – yet these men – these five men – treated it as a taproom that day. Or if not a taproom, they had some other purpose. So I say again, what manner of house is this?’
‘It is my dwelling-house, sir, and respectable. My late husband and I did bring up twelve children within these walls, though none survived, God rest their poor little souls.’
‘If it is nothing but a dwelling, why were Poley, Marlowe and the others here that day?’
‘It was a favour, sir, a favour for a friend. Now, if you have learned all you require, I must be about my chores.’
‘I am not finished with you. This matter is Council business, ordered by Sir Robert Cecil. I will have answers from you, for I believe there were five men here that day and that Marlowe died earlier, more like three or four of the clock, and that one man had to slip away unobserved. I believe you all conspired to lie about the time of death in case anyone in the vicinity saw this fifth man leave. It would not have done to link him with the death.’
The warm cheeks of Ellie Bull suddenly took on the sharp-edged aspect of the business woman that she was. ‘You can name your names, Mr Shakespeare, and speak of Sir Robert Cecil and the Council, but I tell you this – I am kin of Cecil and old Burghley and I will not be intimidated by you, nor have words put in my mouth. The tale was told at the inquest, and that is that. The matter is at an end. Good day.’ She stepped back into the spacious innards of the
house, and slammed the door shut in Shakespeare’s face.
‘If you were going to murder a man, Joshua, why go to the bother of luring him to a house in daylight? Why share a few cups of ale and then stab him through the eye? Why not, instead, wear a cowl, slide up to your intended victim in a side-street by night and cut his throat? Or run the man through with a sword?’
Joshua Peace was examining the lacerated tongue of a woman found dead, probably murdered, near the archbishop’s palace in Lambeth. ‘You have a very good point, John.’
‘Which means that Poley and the others did not take Marlowe to Widow Bull’s house to murder him. Why, then, was he there? If they had wanted to play at cards and take ale together, why not go to a tavern or inn? There are plenty of those in Deptford.’
‘Perhaps the widow offered them a good price for ale … or a fair sirloin of beef?’
‘The widow Bull does not need the money. There is something else: she is well connected, claiming some kinship to the Cecils.’
‘Hold this, John.’ Peace handed Shakespeare a steel implement for the widening of orifices. ‘The Cecils, you say? You are entering dangerous territory there, I think.’
Shakespeare took the tool absent-mindedly. His thoughts were not here in this chilly crypt beneath St Paul’s, but in the room where he had seen the corpse of Christopher Marlowe. ‘I think it a distant thing, through marriage. I cannot pay such things heed.’
Peace said nothing. He had his nose close to the dead woman’s mouth, sniffing.
‘But I have developed a theory, Joshua, one not entirely based on wild surmise. It is this: Marlowe was taken there to be tortured. They wanted to obtain some information from him. It was the perfect place for that. Widow Bull’s house stands apart. A man’s screams might be muffled there. You recall the injury to his hand? You speculated that it could have been caused by some sharp edge of iron. Could that injury have been caused by an attempt to apply a thumbscrew?’
‘Yes, it could.’
‘You noted, too, that he stank of ale. One could not miss it. It seems to me possible that they might have plied him with drink elsewhere, so that they could lure him, drunk, to the widow’s house with promises of more ale or other pleasures. I believe that would explain their presence there. But then things went wrong. He was a strong man. They overestimated his inebriation. And when they tried to bind him and apply the instrument of torture, he fought back with great force. In the fracas, he was killed, perhaps with his own knife, perhaps with Frizer’s. It doesn’t matter which.’
Peace put out his hand and Shakespeare returned the implement to him. ‘Everything you say fits, John. Except one thing: why would anyone wish to torture a fellow like Marlowe? What could he possibly have that Poley and his friends would want?’
‘I am not sure, Joshua. But I am hoping that I will soon find out.’
‘John, before you go, there was the other body you sent me, one Christopher Morley, found hanged in Wood Street Counter.’
‘What did you discover?’
Peace shrugged his lean shoulders. ‘That he died by hanging, nothing more. I think you know he had weals about his wrists, as though tied, but you had bound him yourself, I believe. There was nothing to say he was hanged by others. On balance I would say it was self-destruction, for most men set upon in such a way would put up a fight and suffer injuries to their hands and nails. But I am afraid there is no certainty in my judgement.’
Shakespeare nodded. Perhaps they would never know. ‘There was one other thing, Joshua. There were letters writ in blood on the dungeon floor. RB or RP I could not discern which.’
‘That is something I cannot help you with.’
‘No. But I find myself believing it was RB – Rick Baines. And there were two other lines, which could have been LL Morley was trying to tell me that Luke Laveroke was Baines. He left that message because he knew he was going to die. He was certainly afraid.’
‘Then that is for you to discover. I wish you well, John.’
Chapter 40
‘WHERE ARE YOU taking me, brother?’
‘To a place of agreeable entertainment and good beer.’
‘The playhouses are all closed while the plague persists, Will.’
‘Well then we cannot go to the playhouse. Patience, John.’
They were mounted, walking their horses slowly through the evening streets northwards along Bishop’s Gate Street. Arriving at the gate, Will halted and looked about. ‘Are we being followed? You have better eyes.’
Shakespeare hesitated. Were they safe? Normally he had an instinct for such things; the shadow that lingered too long against the wall, the man who moved against the flow and stopped too frequently. But in this teeming throng, nothing was clear. And his thoughts had not entirely been occupied with the ride. ‘I have no reason to believe so,’ was all he could say.
‘Then let us rein in across the road at yonder inn, have water brought to our parched horses and share a jug of beer together.’
‘Very well.’
They trotted into the stable-yard adjoining the Dolphin Inn, just north of the Bishop’s Gate. From the outside, it seemed a poor sort of place, with daub breaking away from the walls. The sign of an arched dolphin was in sad repair and needed repainting. Shakespeare wondered why his brother should have brought him to such a hostelry, for it would not have been his first choice of tavern or inn for a pleasant summer’s evening drink.
The two watchers nodded to each other. One turned his horse’s head, then peeled away and rode south. The other dismounted and found a tethering post for his mare.
The taproom was gloomy and almost full of drinkers. Will signalled to a serving girl to bring them beer.
As Shakespeare’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he spotted a somewhat soulful face that he knew: Richard Burbage, the acclaimed player who had been with Will in Deptford at the time of the Marlowe inquest. He nudged his brother to point him out. Will simply nodded in acknowledgement. And then Shakespeare noticed that Burbage was talking with the poet and playmaker George Peele, who had also been there at Deptford. Suddenly, he realised that everyone in this room was a player or manager or somehow involved in the playhouses of London and beyond. Ambitious young Thomas Dekker, Philip Henslowe the money man, good Edward Alleyn, Marlowe’s old friend and collaborator George Chapman. Even Will Kempe was there, smiling again, jesting with his friends and fellows. Most surprising of all was the presence of Thomas Walsingham, nephew of the late Sir Francis, patron of Marlowe and sometime acquaintance of the three men in the room with him when he died.
‘Will, what is this? Some sort of convention or council of players and playmakers?’
‘Each and every one, John. All here knew and admired Kit Marlowe’s work, though it would be false to suggest that all liked him. You will find men of all the great players’ companies here – the Admiral’s Men, Pembroke’s Men, Lord Strange’s Men and others. Some have come away from their tours for this evening’s entertainment.’
In the corner, Shakespeare spotted Thomas Kyd, hunched forward on a straight-backed chair.
Will caught his brother’s eye. ‘He cannot walk. His body is broken by the tortures, but he demanded to be here. His friends carried him here in a cart, most painfully.’
Shakespeare was unnerved by his brother’s talk. Whatever their motive for being here, this was a secret convocation, a meeting that Edmund Tilney, Master of the Revels, would be happy to break up with sword, hagbut and mace. And he would doubtless have the full backing of the city aldermen and some of the more Puritan-minded men on the Privy Council. ‘I say again, Will, what is this?’
‘You fret, John. Come and talk with Kyd. Discover what has been done to him.’
‘No. I will not talk with him. He has lately been in Bridewell, hard-questioned over certain seditious papers. I cannot say hale fellow to him.’
‘Very well. But I must say to you that I have made a pledge to every one of these men here gathered that you will
not tell a soul who you have seen here this day. You may tell the world what you see and we will thank you for it, but not the names. If you cannot abide by such a pledge, then leave now. If, however, you wish to understand why Kit Marlowe was killed, then stay.
Shakespeare breathed deeply. His mouth was set. What in God’s name had his brother got into? Whatever it was, he could not leave him here to take the consequences alone. ‘Very well, I will stay. But do not try me too hard, Will.’
Will smiled. ‘Come with me, and I shall show you to your seat in the yard. The performance will be starting very soon.’
The backyard of the hostelry was bounded by a high wall, along which a low stage had been erected with screens to either side. Before it, there was one stool.
‘There, John, is your seat. You are about to watch a play called The White Dog. It was the last thing ever written by Christopher Marlowe. It may never be seen again after this evening, but all gathered here believe it must be performed, if only this once. Please, John, take your seat.’
‘This performance is all for my benefit?’
‘No. It benefits all. The whole world of playmaking. All who believe in virtue and civility.’
‘And will we all lose our heads?’
‘All the men here know the risks they run. They merely have to gaze on the fractured body of Tom Kyd and consider the fate of Kit himself to know what ills may befall them. But I think we will not lose our heads. Not if we stand together. For without us, who would entertain the royal court?’
Shakespeare laughed. It was true enough. The Queen would not allow anything to come between her and the pleasure she took from plays and masques, however indignant such things might make the Puritans. ‘And if I am sitting here, alone, where will you be, Will?’
‘I am the chorus, I will provide the prologue. Sit. Drink your beer. And allow us a few errors, for we have had no rehearsal.’
Shakespeare sat down. Despite the obvious peril, he felt light in the head, as though he had not slept enough or had had too much strong liquor. What could worry him? It was a pleasant summer’s evening and he was here to watch a play by the estimable Christopher Marlowe. Accompanied by Catherine, he had in the past taken pleasure in Mr Marlowe’s Tamburlaine. What care could he have now, on such a balmy evening, with such a good company of men and the scent of summer flowers in the evening air? What fear should he have for his own life, with Catherine gone?
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