Then there was William Inman, the secretary and righthand man to Blake, the one taking the part of Oceanus in the masque. Like everyone else he’d been up there in the gallery, covered in weeds and seashells. Maybe he was in pursuit of Doña Luisa, waggling his trident about. Bill Inman appeared bluff and harmless. Yet within barely an hour of his master’s death and in the presence of the corpse, I had discovered him and the widow in a hot clinch. Were they united in loss – or in lust? If it was the second, then that must be one of the oldest reasons in the world for doing away with a spouse. Bill Inman and Lady Jane might have conspired together, perhaps with the help of engineer Snell, to get rid of the husband. It would be an unequal match, if it got as far as a wedding. But then unequal matches are made every day. Also I recalled that Lady Blake had come from a comparatively humble background, her father being an apothecary. So she was used to unequal matches, even if the union with Blake had been very much to her advantage.
There was one final figure whom Ned Armitage had identified as being present in the gallery. This one was carrying a decorative lantern and wearing a cloak covered with painted eyes. I recognized the description of the masque figure, Suspicion. The eyes on the cloak are self-explanatory. Suspicion carries a lamp because he is always prying into corners and sniffing out other men’s actions. The part of Suspicion had been played by Giles Cass.
I couldn’t get to the bottom of Cass. He was someone out of my sphere. I had seen and heard him conversing with the platter-headed Dons in the Spanish tongue. He had made some witty remark when I’d been stuck up in the chair during the earlier practice. Yet he was apparently hostile towards the Spanish settlement, or at any rate wary of it. Hadn’t he announced in the Mermaid tavern in front of Jonson and the rest of us that he couldn’t see, for the life of him, why we were negotiating with our old enemies? I had not quite believed him at the time and thought he might have been speaking to provoke us. William Shakespeare – who seemed to know everything about everybody – had called him a weathervane. He’d said that Cass had connections with Walter Raleigh before transferring his loyalty to Robert Cecil. No, veering towards Cecil. I doubted that Cass had loyalty to anyone. He turned where the wind blew strongest. But it was Raleigh I was thinking about now.
Sir Walter.
The lion in the Tower.
Raleigh must have seen the spectacle, or at least heard the noise, as the Spanish party paraded up the river the other day. As a privileged prisoner in the Tower, he enjoyed a ringside seat. Except that, far from enjoying this peaceful armada, it would have cut him to the quick.
Raleigh had once been the most hated man in London. It was said – how fairly I do not know – that he had taken his pipe out of his mouth and blown smoke into the face of the Earl of Essex while the latter was on his way to the execution block. Essex had been a great favourite with Londoners (until the time came for them to join him in the perilous business of rebellion), so any enemy of Essex was an enemy of theirs.
But people are fickle. When it came to Sir Walter Raleigh’s turn to be accused of treason and of conspiring with Spain, they admired the way he stood up for himself under examination. And, to be frank, I do not think many of us believed that Raleigh would ever conspire with Spain, but only against her. He was passionate against the country. Therefore when Raleigh was sentenced to that terrible fate of drawing and quartering – which involved his guts being torn out and his privy parts being cut off and thrown into the fire before his very eyes, prior to his head being severed from his body – there was disquiet among the people. And so the wise King James reprieved Sir Walter from that terrible fate and permitted him to live quietly in the comforts of the Tower, the very place where Essex had met his own death under the warrant of Elizabeth. Maybe this was what the new King had intended all along, to show how his justice could be tempered with mercy.
Sir Walter had his supporters, more of them now than ever. The arrival of the Spanish in our town was not the most popular event of the year. The mood of the Londoners on the Thames that recent afternoon had been expectant and curious, but it was not warm or truly welcoming. What if Giles Cass was still dedicated to the Raleigh cause, that is to the anti-Spanish cause? So dedicated that, with or without direction, he had decided to spoil the chances of peace between the two nations? On that interpretation, Cass’s ear-whispering closeness to the Dons was a ploy to give the impression he was on their side. While behind everyone’s backs he was plotting the death of Blake. A greater effect might have been produced by striking at one of the English principals to the treaty – Robert Cecil himself, perhaps, or the Earl of Nottingham – but that would have been a much more dangerous business than trying for the life of a comparatively lowly courtier. On the other hand, the murder of Blake (if that’s what it was) had taken place in Queen Anne’s own household, in her absence but right under the noses of the Spaniards. It was a bad omen. Perhaps there was worse to follow . . .?
So there I had it. The individuals who’d been in the gallery at some point during this fatal afternoon included Lady Blake and Maria More, Lady Fortune and Doña Luisa de Mendoza, William Inman, Giles Cass and John Ratchett (perhaps) or one of the Spaniards (possibly). In addition the Snells, father and son, had been up there, together with Ned Armitage and Tom Turner and perhaps others from the Snell workshop.
There might have been even more people in the gallery whom Ned Armitage hadn’t noticed or had forgotten about. I had been up there myself briefly, escorting Sir Philip. In short, if this was a murder, then the list of those who had the opportunity to do it wasn’t confined to these named characters. On the other hand, it was . . . interesting . . . that without much straining I could think of a motive why almost any of them might – no more than might – have been pleased to see the back of the harmless courtier.
There was no evidence for any of this, apart from the severed ropes. If they had been severed. Deliberately severed. You’d have to be an expert to do that so precisely, wouldn’t you? To cut them just enough so that for a few moments they sustained the chair which held Sir Philip, before giving way at a sufficient distance above the ground to ensure his death when he fell. It would surely take an expert hand, like one of the Snells. Would a woman be capable of it? If there was someone to guide her hand, possibly. I suddenly remembered the handkerchief which Ned Armitage had found in the gallery and which I’d taken from him, pretending to know who it belonged to.
I drew it from my pocket. It was made of linen with delicate cutwork and adorned with red spots of embroidery. I held it to my nose. The principal scent was rosewater but underneath there was a darker, muskier odour. A lady’s handkerchief. I wondered whether it belonged to Lady Jane or perhaps to Doña Luisa de Mendoza. The very name of the Spaniard sounded like a scent. How should one set about returning a handkerchief to a beautiful Spanish lady? And what would she say in return? Gracias, señor, muchas gracias?
These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a low groan from outside my room. In time I might grow used to Mrs Buckle’s sleep-walking. She was drawn out of bed by those visions of her late husband, who appeared to her to be stalking about the house, now seen walking up the stairs, now turning a corner.
I opened the door. My landlady was, as before, standing on the floor below. She held a candle. She was not alone this time. There was no ghost visible, but her daughter Elizabeth was beside her, whispering in her ear, urging her to return to her chamber. The mother seemed reluctant to move and Elizabeth grasped her arm and steered her back towards the bedroom.
I returned to my own room. Something about the scene I’d just witnessed snagged at my memory but I couldn’t think what it was.
Here is a letter, found in the pocket
Despite Sir Philip’s death, Ben Jonson’s Masque of Peace was still scheduled to go ahead in two days’ time, shortly before the formal oath-taking and signing of the treaty at Whitehall. We learned that Jonson had received a hint from the highest quarters – from Secretary Cecil, in othe
r words – that there was no question of calling off the Somerset House performance. It should be viewed as a tribute to the late courtier. Sir Philip’s body lay in the Blake mansion along the Strand. It was due to be transported to the couple’s country house for interment in the family vault. (None of these great families is content with one fine house but must have two at least.) Anyway, body or no body, in the matter of the masque, national pride was at stake. It was part of the celebrations surrounding the outbreak of peace. To cancel it would be to cast doubt on the validity of that peace.
Blake’s death was officially an accident. As far as I could see, suspicions as to its cause were confined to Jonathan Snell the younger and Nicholas Revill the player. A complication was that John Ratchett was compelling me to report to him on my findings. But what did I owe Ratchett anyway? He was in the pay of the French ambassador (and so was I, indirectly). If I told him – as I intended to – that I had discovered nothing out of place, then he would have to be satisfied with that, wouldn’t he? Unless he himself had been responsible for the ‘accident’. Even so, by this logic, when I told him that there was nothing amiss and that Sir Philip’s fall had been an unlucky chance, the hand of God, and the rest of it, Ratchett ought to be satisfied because he was not suspected. Did this logic work? I didn’t know. My poor brain could not contain so much logic.
And suppose it was murder, then was there an obligation on me to try to discover who had done it? No, I decided, there was no obligation, or not straightaway. My first responsibility was to myself, to escape from the mess I was in.
There were several concerned parties to report to on the death in Somerset House. William Shakespeare, for one, had requested that I tell him about anything ‘untoward’ in our preparations for the masque. You can’t get much more untoward than a violent death.
Naturally, WS knew what had happened but he made me tell the story over again, asking questions at various points.
“This was an accident, Nick?”
“I suppose so. It certainly had the appearance of one.”
“You believe it wasn’t?”
“No, but . . .”
“But?”
“Jonathan Snell’s son had an idea that the ropes holding the chair might have been cut part of the way through so that Sir Philip was bound to fall to his death. His father says it’s all nonsense, though.”
“Old Snell knows best, I suppose,” said WS.
“I think he’s an honest man,” I said.
Perhaps there was a hint of a question in the remark. And, in fact, I was interested in Shakespeare’s opinion about Snell’s honesty. But all the playwright said was, “Honest? I think so too.”
“Looked at one way, William,” I said, “this was not our fault but to do with the, er, mechanics of the masque. Or it was an act of God.”
“An act of God striking at the deus ex machina, eh? That’s the trouble with these devices, Nick, they let you down when it comes to it.”
“Or they don’t let you down and you stay stuck up in the air.”
“Or they don’t. It’s much simpler to rely on a handful of foils, some fine costumes and a few choice words. And a bit of blood. Let the audience do the rest of the work inside their heads.”
I knew that WS didn’t hold with these new-fangled devices employed on stage. Even so, he was shrewd enough to understand that some of the audience liked them and, in a masque at least, they were essential.
“You said once that Sir Philip and Lady Blake were cold with each other,” I said, reverting to the subject that was on my mind. “Did you mean . . . what did you mean exactly?”
“Maybe you weren’t aware, Nick, that Sir Philip was on the edge of the Essex rebellion? He was lucky not to have been called in and questioned. Cecil must have had his hands full with more important fish.”
“I saw the Secretary talking to Sir Philip on the day the Spaniards arrived in town,” I said. “He must have forgiven him.”
“The Secretary may forgive but he does not forget.”
“And what has this got to do with his relations with his wife? Blake’s, I mean. Cecil is not after Blake’s wife, is he?”
Robert Cecil, for all his forbidding appearance (some would say, his downright ugliness), had a name among women.
“Not at all,” said Shakespeare. “Lady Jane was angry with her husband because he had put himself at risk over the Essex business. The kind of anger that comes out of love, perhaps.”
“There was no one else involved?”
“Nick, you keep hinting at how much more you know. Tell me.”
“I thought that maybe she had a, er, partiality for William Inman.”
“Inman? I don’t think so. Like Jonathan Snell, he is an honest man as far as I know. Inman was devoted to his late master.”
So devoted that he must grope the widow within an hour of the husband’s death, I thought but said nothing. I also wondered why, since WS seemed so well informed on the individuals within the Blake household, he had required me to report back on them. That he knew them at all wasn’t so unexpected. Through the Earl of Southampton, Shakespeare himself had had connections with the circle surrounding the doomed Earl of Essex. If Sir Philip Blake had been on the edge of that circle, it wasn’t surprising that WS was familiar with him and some of his household. A keen observer of men and women, he stored up impressions and characters for later use. At least I assumed he did. It’s what I would do if I were a playwright.
We returned to Somerset House for a final practice of the masque. The last one had been abandoned before the end, of course. There was a subdued feeling to the occasion, which was easily explained. The members of Sir Philip’s household wore black armbands and none of us felt much like cracking celebratory grins to welcome the outbreak of peace and harmony. Any outsider viewing such a scene would have concluded that the preparations were going badly, very badly. If I hadn’t been used to the situation at the Globe playhouse before every performance – the controlled panic, the last-minute decisions – I’d have wondered how we would ever be ready to present our Peace within a couple of days. But we would be ready. We always are. It’s not merely that the show must go on. Before that can happen, the show must start.
Once again, nobles and commoners filled the audience room in Somerset House. There were señors and a sprinkling of señoras, as well as a few outsiders who were no doubt drawn by the hope of watching another man plunge to his death or some similar disaster.
Ben Jonson himself took on the dangerous part of Truth. Perhaps he judged that no one else would be willing to entrust themselves to the flying chair, even though the Snells were full of reassurance that the mechanism had been checked and rechecked. You could never say that Ben was lacking in courage.
I looked out especially for the widow, Lady Jane. I was curious, to be honest, about how she carried her mourning. But when I saw her I felt ashamed for ever having doubted her. Her face was etched with grief. There were deep shadows under her eyes. It was all most inappropriate for the part of Plenty even though, when she was made up, some of the worst effects were hidden. She seemed determined to go through with it, however. Her attendant, Maria More, kept her close company.
At some point during a pause in the action I approached them, brandishing the handkerchief. They knew me by this time.
“Forgive me, my ladies, but I found this recently. Does it belong to one of you?”
“Is that blood?” said Lady Jane, barely glancing at the handkerchief.
“That? Oh no. That’s the pattern. Embroidery, see.”
Lady Jane took the handkerchief and examined it. I suppose that, at a cursory glance, the red spots might have looked like blood. It was an odd question, nevertheless.
“Why, I think it is yours, Maria.”
“I do not think so, my lady.”
“It is, because I am sure I gave it you.”
Mistress More looked at the handkerchief properly for the first time.
“Where did you
find this, Master Revill?” she said.
“Up in the gallery.”
I gestured behind me. We were standing with our backs to the stage. Maria More looked at the handkerchief once again then shook her head.
“I thought it was one which Lady Blake gave me lately. But it is not, only very like. Here.”
She handed the handkerchief back to me. I thought I detected a ripple of distress pass across the older woman’s face. Lady Blake turned away at the very moment that William Inman – in his garb as Oceanus – came across to speak to her. They engaged in an earnest, whispered dialogue. I observed them out of the corner of my eye. Whatever Shakespeare had said about Inman being an honest man and one devoted to his late master, it was hard not to believe that there was an ‘understanding’ between this man and woman.
Perhaps Maria More thought so too for I had the distinct feeling that, in what she said next, she was trying to distract my attention from the whispering couple.
“Have you thought of a reason yet?”
“A reason?”
I don’t know why but I thought that she was referring to the death of Sir Philip Blake. Instead, as she quickly made clear, she was talking about the prohibition which kept women from playing on the stage. That old subject. But it was not a real concern with her. She was speaking merely to occupy me.
Then she came closer and spoke like a sister. She was a graceful handmaid to Plenty.
“See here, Nicholas, you have come undone. Let me tie you up again.”
I was wearing my dark costume as Ignorance, which had a somewhat rustic feel to it and which was fastened at the side with points. Using her strong and supple fingers, Maria More secured the loose strings. Her hands seemed to linger over the business and I did not object.
An Honourable Murderer Page 14