A Murder by Any Name

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  Turning onto London Bridge, Nick slowly made his way to the opposite bank and home. Far beneath his feet, the mighty river flowed inexorably to the sea; tomorrow it would return. Nick wished his heart were tidal, for then all that he had witnessed, all that he had heard, could be washed clean. Instead, his heart was a fortress moated by blood, and he, both gaoler and condemned, forever doomed to live within its walls.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Black Sheep Tavern

  The annual Christmas bash at The Black Sheep was in full swing. Well, if Nick were honest, it had started out as a party, but as the evening wore on and regular patrons drifted in, it had turned into a right knees-up. It was Nick’s fault, and judging from the looks Maggie had been sending him, she thought so too. He was stationed by the door and hadn’t had the heart to turn anyone away. Earlier in the evening, it had been a much quieter affair with just a few friends: Maggie, John, and the children; Rivkah and Eli; Kat and Joseph; Richard, aka Codpiece, currently sitting on the floor and entertaining Jane, the baby, by pulling faces that should have terrified her but somehow sent her into paroxysms of giggles; Sir Thomas who had put back a fair bit of ale and was looking at Rivkah in a way that made Nick want to throw him through the wall; Black Jack Sims; his grandson, Johnnie, clutching the inevitable tankard of ale in his grubby fist, with Ralph lurking in the background; Will Shakespeare, legless as usual. And Kit Marlowe, even more sloshed. Any minute now their debate concerning the use of masque would come to blows, Kit maintaining that it lent an elegant symbolism to drama, Will saying it “buggered up the realism.”

  “Now a play within a play,” Will slurred. “That’s something else. Comic subplot and all that.”

  “Bawcocks!” shrieked Bess the parrot. Kit saluted her with his tankard; Will raised two fingers. As elegant a summary of their opposing aesthetics as anything Nick had witnessed.

  Now the gathering had swelled in numbers: Harry the Tinker was slouched in a corner, trying to grope any woman within reach; Mistress Baker was in earnest conversation with Maggie about how to make sure a pie crust didn’t burn; numerous neighbors, sailors from the wharves, and punters just let out from the Bear Garden and the Bull Baiting Ring were in full cry, laying odds on the Garden’s latest acquisition, Bardolph the bear, said to have been captured in Epping Forest. And there was a shy newcomer in their midst, sitting on the floor with Codpiece and holding Jane on her lap. Matty, the cinders from Whitehall, who had not stopped eating since Nick had brought her from the palace and told her The Black Sheep was now her new home.

  The little beggar girl from the steps of St. Paul’s Cross had been taken in by Mistress Plunkett and her husband. It turned out the child’s name was Allison. “Our own are all growed up and moved away,” Mistress Plunkett said. “Allie’s family were carried off in last summer’s pestilence. How she survived on the streets, only the good Lord knows.” The little girl standing next to the cook had been wholly unrecognizable as the small heap of rags Nick had first encountered. Washed and dressed in a plain but good-quality frock, her hair combed and plaited, her cheeks beginning to show a little color from plentiful food, Allison now looked like a human being rather than a death’s head. She had been too shy to speak, but when Nick crouched down to say goodbye, she had thrown her arms around his neck and clung to him. Over her shoulder he saw Mistress Plunkett surreptitiously dab her eyes with a corner of her apron. “She says you saved her,” she told Nick.

  “I think it’s you who is her savior,” he replied.

  Nick sat nursing his drink, content for the moment to be a spectator, to drink in the noise, feast his eyes on people he called friends, people who seemed to bear more substance in the world than he did himself. The investigation had worn him down, left him feeling like a counterfeit coin passed from hand to hand for too long, the base metal beneath the gold beginning to show.

  * * *

  On the day of the execution, Nick had gone to see the Queen. She was in her private suite, and there was no sign of Codpiece. Expecting to be dragged over the carpet for having delayed making his report, Nick was pleasantly surprised to find Elizabeth in a good mood.

  “Well, Nick,” she said, waving him forward and indicating he should sit, “you’ve done well.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, eyeing the flagon of wine and the extra goblet.

  “Go on, then,” Elizabeth said. “And give me a top-up. We’ve much to celebrate.”

  The problem was, Nick didn’t really feel like celebrating. That morning he had stood on Tower Hill with Sir Edward Carew, Cecily’s father. Mary’s parents had declined to come.

  The countess had mounted the scaffold with grotesque dignity, seemingly oblivious to the hail of filth, rotten vegetables, and stones pelted by an angry mob. The ugliness of the crowd’s mood now that the countess—dubbed the “Court Killer”—was herself caught (a pun the Londoners relished) was in direct proportion to their fear when she had been at large. Denying the countess a private death on Tower Green within the walls was a sign that the Queen would show no mercy or favoritism when it came to the meting out of justice. Nor would she allow the countess any final words from the scaffold. But she had refused to order the commoner’s death of hanging, drawing and quartering; instead, she granted what mercy the countess’s exalted rank entitled her to—the headsman’s ax.

  As the executioner’s blade had flashed on its downward descent, Nick had turned away. He had had enough of death, had no stomach for more, however richly deserved. He pushed his way through the crowd, sickened by the bloodlust he saw in peoples’ eyes, in his friend’s eyes. At the meaty thump of the ax, the crowd had sighed with almost orgasmic release, then cheered itself hoarse as the executioner held the severed head aloft.

  He waited on the edge of the crowd until Edward joined him. Slowly they walked back toward the city.

  “I thought I’d feel better,” Edward said after a long silence. “But Cecily is still gone.”

  Nick drew his cloak more tightly about him and quickened his pace, Hector loping at his heels. He didn’t know what to say except that he had often found this to be true, that any death, even the justified death of an enemy, was so much ashes in the mouth. He clapped his friend on the back and left it at that.

  The countess had destroyed much more than the three lives she had deliberately taken. Lady Carew, Edward told him, had never completely regained her wits after the murder of her eldest child.

  “She blames herself,” Edward said. “She was the one who put Cecily forward to the Queen.”

  * * *

  When he had returned to The Black Sheep from his interview with the countess in the Tower, the first thing Nick had done was strip and wash himself in the icy water from the well. Then he busied himself helping John and Maggie prepare for the Christmas rush, serving behind the bar until closing time, sitting in a corner by the fire during lulls, silently sipping wine and trying to ignore the concerned looks of his friends.

  That same night, Rivkah stopped by—unusual for her, as she seldom frequented the tavern when it was open—and, after a few low words with Maggie, came over to where Nick was sitting in his usual place.

  “Here,” she said, handing him a little packet. And when Nick didn’t open it, she added: “St. John’s Wort.”

  “Thanks,” Nick replied.

  She sighed and sat down beside him. “You don’t know what it is, do you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Rivkah looked as if she was going to explain, then changed her mind. Instead, she took the packet from him and tipped some of its contents into his wine, stirring it with her finger.

  “Hey,” Nick said.

  “Drink,” she instructed.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  She looked at him for a few seconds, then rose. “I’ll be going, then.”

  Nick put a hand on her arm. “Stay.”

  She smiled and shook her head. Giving a pat to Hector who was sleeping at Nick’s feet, she left. Nick sat looki
ng at the door for a long time.

  * * *

  The Queen was speaking, and Nick hadn’t heard a word. He tried desperately to pick up the thread. It didn’t do for a subject’s mind to wander when their monarch was holding forth.

  “You’ve no idea what I was saying, have you?” Elizabeth said.

  “Er …”

  She gave him a shrewd look. “That bad, eh?”

  Not for the first time, Nick was convinced she could read minds. He lifted his hands palm upward in a helpless gesture.

  “No time to go all mopey on me,” the Queen said. “I need you.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Nick. The next job may be worse.”

  Elizabeth was looking into the fire as if lost in thought. Then suddenly she laughed, but when she turned back to Nick, her eyes were hard and bright. “Do you know what the Puritans call me?”

  If Nick was startled by this abrupt change of subject, he was careful not to show it. “No, Your Majesty.”

  “ ‘Mother of Harlots and Abominations,’ ” Elizabeth said. “It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Nick wisely said nothing. For all her toughness, he could tell Elizabeth was wounded by being called a harlot. It hurt her to find that there were subjects who still plotted against her, still longed to see her dead. It was as if she were a mother reviled by her own children. And no matter how many subversives and traitors she sentenced to death, like the many-headed Hydra, more sprang up to replace them. Nick knew that he and Sir Thomas would be busy for many years to come. Which made him remember: he still hadn’t gotten around to reporting in to the Spider yet after his mission to the Continent.

  “Then there are those who believe I am the Virgin Queen,” she said. “Indeed, I have encouraged them to do so.” Her face darkened. “The countess certainly believed it.” Suddenly she leaned forward in her chair. “Do you think I am responsible for creating such a monster, Nick? Is it I who have the blood of Cecily and Mary on my hands?”

  It was as if Nick were suddenly looking at the Queen in her shift before she put on her gorgeous robes of office, and what he saw was a woman, alone and beset by doubt. “No,” he said. “You have always known the limits of your state; the countess never did. She styled herself your servant and used it to justify her actions, when all along it was herself she served.”

  Elizabeth searched his face. “Thank you,” she said at last. “That is a comfort to know.” Then, smoothing down her skirts, she rose to signal the audience was over.

  “You must be eager to return to your den of iniquity,” the Queen said.

  Nick thought that he would vastly prefer the iniquity of Bankside to that of the court. South of the river, evil did not wear a disguise, but walked openly. Nevertheless, out of politeness, he started to protest, but the Queen waved him to silence. “No, no, don’t start lying to me now. You were doing so well. Off you go,” she said. “And take this.” She handed him a heavy leather purse. “Give this to the Jewish doctors with my thanks. I might have a use for them again.”

  Nick bowed to hide a grin. He couldn’t wait to tell Rivkah the Queen had used a plural noun to describe Rivkah and her brother. She would value that far more than the gold.

  “And what about you?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Majesty?”

  “A reward, you dolt. And don’t give me any guff about service to your Queen being its own reward.”

  So Nick had asked the Queen if he could bring Matty from the palace to The Black Sheep. She looked thoughtful. “Not going soft on me again, are you Nick?”

  He knew she was referring to the clemency he had bade her show Sir Christopher despite being an accessory after the fact to the deaths of Cecily and Mary by keeping silent, and Perkin by disposing of the body. Not to mention the tax fiddle he and Master Summers at the Custom House had been involved in. She had satisfied justice by imposing a huge fine on them both and stripping them of their trading licenses. Then she had banished Sir Christopher from court but had allowed him to inherit part of his aunt’s fortune; the rest had reverted to the Crown. The last Nick had heard, Sir Christopher had retired to the most remote of the countess’s estates on the far northern border with Scotland. Master Summers had gone to live with his sister in Bristol.

  “Sir Christopher’s suffered enough, Majesty,” Nick had said. “The countess tormented him for years, made him her lapdog, broke his spirit utterly. Let him find whatever peace he can.”

  The Queen had harrumphed but had taken his advice.

  Sir Hugh had been released from the Tower the same day as the countess’s arrest. Much chastened by his experience, he had left the court and returned home to his father’s manor near Bath. It was rumored that he had since amended his promiscuous ways and become unusually devout; he and Lady Alice were to be married as planned in the New Year. Perhaps love could conquer all, Nick mused when he’d heard the news.

  The Queen had granted her permission about Matty.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Happy Christmas.”

  “Happy Christmas to you too, Nick.”

  As he closed the door behind him, his last glimpse of the Queen was of an aging woman sitting alone, staring into the flames.

  * * *

  Much as Nick was doing at the Christmas party. Will Shakespeare staggered over and put a heavy arm across Nick’s shoulders, whether out of friendship or to prop himself up Nick wasn’t certain. “Thou must be patient; we came crying hither,” he intoned. “Thou knowst, the first time we smell the air, we waul and cry.” He hiccupped.

  “Thanks, Will. That really cheers me up.”

  “All’s well that ends well,” Will said, raising his tankard.

  Nick looked affectionately at his friend and chinked tankards. “To thine own self be true,” he said.

  Will squinted at him, blearily, and then his face lit up. “That’s bloody brilliant,” he said. “Mind if I pinch it for one of my plays?”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Australian novelist and journalist Geraldine Brooks said that historical fiction is “taking the factual record as far as it is known, using that as scaffolding, and then letting imagination build the structure that fills in those things we can never find out for sure.” Choosing to set a mystery in the Elizabethan era is a daunting task because the period is already crowded with historical events, from the Babington plot to the invasion of the Spanish Armada and beyond.

  It is also dominated by two figures who cast very long shadows—Elizabeth I and William Shakespeare. As Brooks notes, the historical novelist’s challenge is to find the spaces between these known facts in which to create a believable fictional world. I have done this, in part, by mixing historical figures in with fictional characters. The fictional Nick Holt is drinking buddies with Will Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe in The Black Sheep Tavern, and frequents a court populated by the fictional Codpiece and Countess of Berwick and the real-life Cecil and Sir Francis Walsingham.

  A sharp-eyed historian will spot that I have placed the young Shakespeare in London in 1585, which is almost three years earlier than the historical record attests. I just could not envision a novel about Elizabethan London without his presence. I hope purists can forgive this liberty.

  I have also taken liberties with the character of Cecil. In 1585 he was only twenty-two and a student at Cambridge University, but I wanted to establish him as an antagonist to Nick from the outset of the series. I believe that, as the son of Baron Burghley, one of the most powerful of Elizabeth’s courtiers, it is not too much of a stretch to believe he obtained an influential position for his son. The playwright Christopher Marlowe serves as a precedent: as a young man he was on the books as a student at Cambridge while in reality he was spying for the realm abroad. The nickname I’ve given Robert Cecil—the Spider—is entirely fictional.

  Another indulgence relates to the character of Codpiece, who is entirely fictional. Unlike her father, Henry VIII, Elizabeth
did not have a Fool. I have also given Elizabeth more ladies-in-waiting than we know she had: I did this to allow myself plenty of scope in killing two of them off. All are fictional.

  For the record, Elizabeth was probably not as unwashed as I make her out to be. In fact, her father, Henry VIII, had a “bathing room” installed in Whitehall Palace in the 1540s which Elizabeth updated. References to her lack of hygiene in the prologue are for comedic purposes and are given from the point of view of a naïve character. Forgive me, Gloriana.

  Language poses an especially difficult challenge. I have tried, wherever possible, to employ words that were in use during the Elizabethan era, but to do so exclusively would have made my characters sound like they were spouting a pastiche of Shakespeare’s worst lines. So I have occasionally employed later British usage for the sake of readability.

  Incidentally, the quotes from Shakespeare are intentionally garbled. I figured the Bard had the right to misquote lines he hadn’t set down in writing yet, especially when in his cups.

  One final note: in Elizabethan England there was no such thing as the separation of Church and State. Everything political had religious overtones, and vice versa. To be a practicing Catholic was treason. This explains why Nick is haunted by his family’s status as suspected secret Catholics or “recusants,” forcing him to tread a very fine line at court.

  For all other discrepancies and inaccuracies, I humbly say, along with Shakespeare’s Puck: “Gentles, do not reprehend: / If you pardon, we will mend.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my agent, Carol Mann, for her unflagging support over the years.