by Tony Hays
The red flush had drained from my face, and my heart had returned to a normal pace. “When you last saw Will, did he say aught about Thomas Quiney, young Judith’s husband?”
“Only that for a farthing he would kill the boy.”
“He rewrote his will, you know, to guard against Quiney seeing any benefit from it. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps Quiney was behind his poisoning.”
Ben shrugged. “Perhaps. But he struck me as more schemer than doer. No doubt he would think of it. And no doubt he would spend great spells of time planning it. I suspect that his attempts at execution would end in failure.”
Such had been my assessment as well. Something Ben had said earlier came back to me.
“You said that Will’s financial situation had improved. How? His investment in the tithes had brought him virtually nothing. He had some quarters of malt, but even if he sold them, they would not bring him nearly enough to even dream of building a new theatre.” Quarters of malt, sixty-four gallons’ worth each, were almost as good as hard money.
“I do not know, Simon. He simply told Drayton and me that he had made some wise investments and his coffers were now overflowing.”
This news cast the whole affair in another light. Investments generally did not pay off so quickly. Could Will have taken part in something for which he was paid a great deal? His plays had certainly made him much money over time, but this sounded more immediate than that. And if that was behind his death, what could it have been? Murder was no stranger in our world, but there was almost always a reason. The death solved some problem for the murderer.
But if Will had already performed this task, and had received payment, what would his death solve? The answer was self-evident. He was killed to keep him from saying anything of the affair. Will was not indiscreet. So whatever knowledge he possessed must have been about something of the greatest severity.
I stopped thinking long enough to glance up and see Ben smiling above me. “And why are you laughing at me?”
“You should see yourself, Simon. Your face is a masque of total concentration, more so than I have ever seen on another human.”
“Ben,” I said, ignoring his comment, “if Will’s improved fortunes touched on matters grave enough to demand his death, and beyond that to demand my death for even enquiring into it, than it must be very important indeed.”
“Simon, if these matters are that grave, they could encompass only one thing—treason.”
Chapter Five
Be careful of your manners,” Ben Jonson warned me as we turned off the Holborn Road onto a narrower lane, and Southampton House came into sight. “Rarely a night passes that Wriothesley doesn’t have some important guest, and he is particular that the niceties are strictly followed. It is said that James favours him so much because he is an excellent host for those visitors the king finds tedious.”
I had no problem in seeing why. It was a magnificent brick structure with matching gable windows on either end, and an impressive tower over the gatehouse. From this angle, I could see that it was rectangular, but I suspected that there was at least one wing extending from the back; Southampton would have to provide royal apartments for the king and queen. A royal snub might be difficult to ignore, but if this were the alternative accommodation, I would not be displeased. It floated like an island in the sea of fields north of Lincoln’s Inn, and I suspected that Southampton’s gardens were sumptuous. Indeed, the massive estate was the superior of some royal palaces that I had seen, both in England and Europe.
A row of wooden buildings sat opposite the gatehouse, shops along the ground floor with the upper floors, I presumed, for the families. A glance around showed few other residences, so I had to guess that the shops primarily served the earl’s house, which meant that Jonson’s comment was probably right. I also seemed to recall Will telling me that Southampton had hosted a performance by the Globe’s players for Queen Anne, not long after she and James moved to London. High-ranking guests and entertainment for the royals could provide a handsome income for nearby businesses.
At least the road was free of the pedlars and strumpets and garbage that marked the rest of the city.
Ben and I presented ourselves at the gate, and Southampton’s man bade us follow him through and into the garden. I had underestimated the gardens; Sir Walter could take lessons from the gardener.
He took us through the massive front doors into an entryway. A spiraling staircase climbed to the left where a black-and-white tomcat sat peacefully on the bottom step. He considered us, twitched his whiskers once or twice, and lazily padded across the hall, disappearing into the bowels of the house.
“His name is Ezra,” a voice said from above. Henry Wriothesley, the third earl of Southampton, was a tall, spare man. His face narrowed to a point at his chin. On this day, he was dressed in black with a wide white collar and cuffs. His dark hair, which he always wore hanging down over his shoulders, was streaked with grey now. He was only forty-three that year, but he little resembled the youth, the young earl who became Will’s patron. Though I had seen him before, I had never met him.
“Come. We will talk in my study.”
We followed him through the great rooms of the house, an army of liveried servants seeming to appear at every turn, some dressed in clothing unlike Southampton’s people. I heard some Spanish floating in the corridors. Finally we reached a chamber paneled in carved dark wood. The earl sat at the side of a small writing desk. “Please be seated.”
One always waited until an earl invited one to sit before doing so. I could almost see my old tablet from school and hear the master teaching us protocol.
“Master Jonson, I have added my voice to the chorus petitioning His Majesty for your pension. I suspect that it will be settled on you soon.”
Ben preened. “I am, as ever, in your debt, your lordship.”
Southampton cocked his head. “With the death of my friend Shakespeare, you are unquestionably the best among your fellows. Still, it is a rare gift from a king to a poet, but perhaps it will become a tradition.” He stopped and turned to me. “You are Saddler, the Stratford constable?”
“I am, my lord.”
“Tell me of this fancy of yours that Shakespeare was murdered.”
I was not quite tongue-tied, but I was absolutely out of my ken. My encounters with the nobility had been rather few and uneventful. I did not fear Southampton as a man, but rather I feared the power that he wielded.
“My lord, Master Shakespeare sent for me about one week before he succumbed. He insisted that he had been hale and then suddenly he took ill. No matter what his physician did, his condition worsened.”
“I see,” Southampton said, nodding sagely. “Did he suggest who might be behind such a horrendous act?”
I held my tongue a moment. How much to tell him? The truth. “He was not certain, but he suggested several people who might prove helpful. Your name, my lord, was among those.”
Southampton nodded. “So, you would have found your way to my door even if I had not summoned you?”
My turn to nod. “Yes, my lord.”
“This seems a great deal of trouble to go to on the word of a man delirious with fever. Of course, all of those who knew Shakespeare well knew that you were an especial friend of his. I applaud the constancy of your devotion, and your dedication to your oath as constable, but he is dead. Nothing you do now will serve to change that. And, indeed, you could unleash hidden affairs that could besmirch your friend’s name for all eternity. All on the word of a good man caught in the thrall of a fever.”
“Not quite all, my lord. Master Hall, Will’s physician and son-in-law, has confirmed that the signs of poison are evident both on his body and in Hall’s record of his decline.”
“I see,” Southampton said softly, dropping his chin into his hand and stroking the beard there slowly. “So this is not just some irrational attempt to keep your friend alive in your mind a bit longer.”
Somethi
ng about his words made me think that he was repeating the claim of another. “My Lord Southampton, my enquiry has been authorized by Sir Walter Devereux, High Sheriff of Warwickshire. No one who was Will’s friend doubts that your patronage was the most important influence on his success. But I have a duty, both to my oath and to my late friend, to find who killed him. Please do not take my stubbornness on this point as a sign of disrespect.”
Southampton smiled and shook his head sadly. “You will not be dissuaded?”
“No, my lord. With regrets, I will not.”
“Ben, can you not persuade our friend here of the folly of his quest?”
Jonson did not immediately respond, which told me that he was weighing his words as carefully as when crafting a poem. “My lord, if the sheriff sees enough merit in this to charge him to investigate, it is not my place to dissuade him. Just last night a hired killer tried to end Simon’s life. Today, a peer of the realm tries, politely, to warn him against pursuing this. Like you, my lord, I questioned the need for this, but I am now beginning to see some value to his enquiry.”
Southampton threw his head back in a genuine laugh. “Oh, Master Jonson, you tease me, you do. I am not warning Master Saddler. I am advising him, as a mutual friend of the departed Shakespeare. Let me be blunt.
“Over the course of his life in London, William Shakespeare was involved in a number of affairs of no little significance. In virtually every situation, he emerged untainted by these matters. But if Master Saddler is going to be rummaging around in Will’s life, he might not like what he finds, and what he finds might besmirch the good name of one of the most talented poets of his generation.”
“May I speak freely, my lord?” I seethed at how easily Southampton could accept his friend’s murder, yet have no need to bring the doer to justice. Will Shakespeare deserved better than that.
The earl nodded his assent. “Within reason.”
“I find it difficult to understand why a man of your position and rank would concern himself with the reputation of a dead playwright. Half of the time, their plays are banned within the city. The plague closes their doors frequently. Within our lifetimes, their work was not even considered serious enough for mention. You can see why I question your motives.” I did not truly believe my own words, but I was trying to provoke some reaction in Southampton.
And it succeeded.
Southampton’s face grew cold and even darker. He stood and motioned for one of the servants. “Know this, Constable, your enquiry could reveal matters that threaten powerful men. They will not allow that. And one hired killer will turn into dozens.”
The interview was at an end.
———
“I will say this for you, Simon,” Ben Jonson began as we found ourselves turned unceremoniously out into the lane. “You are, in your own way, as fascinating as Will. Come, let us go to the Mermaid. I’ll stand you to a mug of ale and we can consider these matters.”
And I had violated the restrictions that Devereux had placed on my enquiry. I was certain that I would hear about that later. The midday was approaching, and my stomach growled, so I let Ben lead the way back towards the city. Though we were a short distance from the old city walls, once we were back on the main road, we found it busy with merchants hawking their wares. The stench of horse dung lay heavy in the air, held down by the smoke from ten thousand chimneys.
“Tell me, Ben. You are from Westminster?”
“I am.”
“Though not within the walls, it is certainly part of London. How can you stand living here? The noise. The foul stench. You never see the sun. How?”
“I have traveled with the theatre companies when the plague closes them down in the city. I visited Will a time or two in Stratford. How do you stand so much silence? And do you not grow weary of the colour green?”
I held up a hand in surrender. “As you like. You surprised me, Ben.”
“How so?”
“With Southampton. I thought you would be more accommodating because of his rank, and because he is championing the petition for your pension from the king.”
“I loved Will, Simon. Oh, we argued, debated, fought like wild men. Will Shakespeare had less art in his soul than…” He stopped and smiled. “I sometimes am led down a narrow alley when I should stay in the wider street. But I know this: Will only wanted to be as good a poet as he could be. If he was involved in such things as Southampton alluded to, he did so only because of one of two traits—his zest for living or his belief that it would aid in his goal. A man cannot live his life as a pawn, shoved around a board by the nobles. And if you do not take a stand for a friend, then where will you make your stand? In this, I believe, you and I are of like minds.”
My respect for Ben Jonson grew immeasurably at that moment. Oh, he was fond of praising himself above all others. And he certainly believed that he was the most talented man in British history. But a man with that sort of view of himself is, most often, not the strongest friend to others, unless he can be that friend at no cost to himself.
“Ben, you should go back home and compose a poem. If Southampton is right, by this time tomorrow, I will either be dead or in the Marshalsea Prison. You would profit no one by accompanying me on either journey.”
The big redhead laughed heartily. “I have been in prison before, and I have faced death many times. Once, in the Low Countries, I fought an enemy in single combat and killed him, stripped him of his weapons. No, I think your odds of success are far greater if I accompany you.”
“And what of your wife?”
Jonson rolled his eyes. “Though I do love her, she is a shrew. She would complain if I go. She would complain if I do not. So, why not do what you want since you are damned no matter which path you choose?”
That was logic with which I could not argue. And though I would never admit it to Ben, I did feel a certain comfort and easing of tension with his presence.
Ben launched then into a tirade about each of his rival poets and why their work was not worthy to wipe his bottom. It distracted me from thoughts of nobles and assassins until we reached the Mermaid Tavern just beyond St. Paul’s.
His hand on my shoulder stopped me just as I made ready to enter.
“Simon, you should focus on finding the source of Will’s newfound wealth. Do not be seduced by stories of Essex and that sorry affair. Elizabeth has lain rotting in Westminster for thirteen years. Yesterday’s scandal is today’s boast among the nobles. For a man to resort to hired assassins, the threat of exposure must be real; the danger to his person must be immediate.”
I nodded. Ben’s words were well chosen and as true as a well-aimed arrow.
“Be careful with any man we meet in here. Almost all knew Will, but not all liked him. And some of them earn their shillings by being informants for men like Southampton.”
With that, he pushed open the door and entered.
A big, bluff man behind the bar waddled out and hastened up to me. “Simon Saddler! I thought never to see you in my tavern again.” He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me so tight I thought my stomach would emerge from my throat. Will Johnson, the owner of the Mermaid, was one of Shakespeare’s oldest and dearest friends. I had heard it said that the tavernkeeper befriended the young poet when he first came to the city, indeed that it was Johnson who kept him from starving during that difficult first year.
“Master Johnson!” Ben roared. “Two pots of your best ale for my friend and me!”
“Right away!”
Once armed with our ale, Ben navigated our way between tables until we came to one in the back, already occupied by a pair of men, one a priest.
“Is this the Reverend Donne that I see?” Ben bellowed.
The priest smiled gauntly. John Donne, a lawyer by trade and now a priest in the Church of England, was also a poet of some talent. I had never met him, but Will had spoken of him many times.
Donne had led a rather chequered life, for a lawyer. He ran afoul of the law ea
rly on when he married a girl without her father’s permission. For that he spent time in prison. The last few years had not been kind to him, and he had been forced to live in the country in rather meagre accommodations. But then, suddenly last year, he had decided to study for the ministry.
The second man was a heavyset fellow with long, unruly brown hair and beard and piercing black eyes. I did not know him, but it was obvious that Ben did.
“Master Jones,” he said. “Rumour has it that you have received the commission for the Queen’s House at Greenwich.”
So this was the architect, Inigo Jones, who was making a name for himself. Somewhere I had heard that he had spent much of his time traveling with nobles to Italy, most recently with Thomas Howard, the earl of Arundel. But now, with a royal commission, his future was made. If, that is, he pleased the king.
“Aye,” he said pleasantly, his voice belying his age. His cheeks were a merry red, indicating that he had been celebrating his good fortune. “Who is this with you, Ben?”
Jonson clapped me on the back. “This is Master Simon Saddler, of Stratford-upon-Avon, a lifelong friend of the late Will Shakespeare.”
Donne, the priest, stood and took my hand in both of his. “William Shakespeare was a good and gentle soul, and we mourn his loss with you. God will provide a special place in Heaven for him.”
Will Shakespeare was an adulterer and the only place for him would be in Hell. But I did not say that. I simply said, “Thank you.” And we sat down.
“What brings you to London so soon after Will’s passing?” Inigo Jones asked. “Disposing of his property here?”
I was uncertain how to answer the inquiry. No doubt my true purpose would be talked of all over the city by nightfall, but I thought that confusing the issue might be of some service. “No, no. I am here on business for the Stratford Corporation. I bring summonses for certain residents of London who have fallen into debt to citizens of Stratford.”