Heminges made a long sigh, seemed as though to speak, then not, and then finally did. “Will, I can this forgive, if only because you have been true to us in such time as you could still have been false and clear out of the misgivings of your own heart. But be warned that I will not forgive such insult again, for if we cannot have confidence in the fellowship of our own company, and our own company, then where can we place it?”
“And I,” said Burbage. “And enough. But on to console. What plan do you make?”
“I am to meet Carey tonight, on pretence to share with him what news I have regarding his father’s poisoning – for I am now confident it was such – and to gain his leave to question those attendants to his household that were witness at his father’s death. But also, under guise of such abuse as his name has taken, both from Miller and from his own brother, to see clear his actual standing and to learn if he is bequeathed more in debts than in fortune, and thus learn what value his patronage may still hold.”
“As would be good to know,” said Heminges, “that we might balance the cost of our risk against the reward of our service.”
“Just so,” I said. “Let me also ask you this and you tell me if my thinking be too vain. Inside only few days, I have alone confronted an unsuccessful killer and a successful pamphleteer, and we have in company been subject to the loss of our quarters. Do we count such events separate or should we in their sum consider the threat of a larger conspiracy to see our company failed?”
“If we count them separate and they be one, then we aid through our own foolishness what plot we may confront,” said Burbage. “If we hold them one, and they in fact prove separate, then we lose nothing but some worry.”
“To which end,” said Heminges, “I already have a thought.” He spread a copy of the pamphlet on the stage. “What do you see in its printing?”
“Much truth,” I said, “and my own shame.”
Heminges made a face as if I were a child that had too longed whined at some hurt. “Whether to Carey’s end or to this possible conspiracy, what we need now, Will, is the gift of your considerable wits and not your public penance. And so I would ask that you indulge your own sorrows in private and do us the favour of attending full to those dangers we face.”
I could not contradict his console. Such ills as the company now faced they did partly at the cost of my own failings, and so I could best serve it now with my attention and not with my penance. And then, thinking more close on his words, I understood his point.
“By what do I see, you mean: what do I see in its type and not in its meaning,” I said.
Heminges nodded. “We have truck enough with printers to know that you can oft discern the press of some document solely from those imperfections of form its letters hold, or from some curious habit of spacing, or from much else. So, I ask what we see in this that might tell us its printer so that we might there gentle inquire as to its author.”
Burbage wagged a finger in assent. “And, as we have considerable custom with printers, what press we might find has likely previous benefitted from our purse and does hope to again, and so will count our goodwill more heavy than that of a one-time pamphleteer.”
We laid out printed copies of our own plays and various handbills we had commissioned, noting which had been made on what press, and balanced their clues against those the pamphlet held – principal being a gap in the larger W at the start of my name, and also, in a faint fading of the type from the left to the right, sign that the pressure of this press was not full even.
“Dear God,” said Burbage, holding the page of a handbill promoting a recent production that showed both same errors plain. “That pamphlet is from Jaggard’s press, sure.”
CHAPTER 13
Jaggard was printer, bookseller and a full member of the Stationer’s Guild, so our Company had regular truck with all his concerns. Being that he also was a man of not little ambition and by reputation would ready do that most to his own benefit – although none would actually call him false – we did hope he would betray this smaller customer so as to retain our favour.
“My good sirs,” Jaggard said, guiding us from the clamorous confines of his print shop to the room next, where he stored some materials, “and even ‘gentleman’, as I am told the esteemed Shakespeare may now rightly be addressed. That you all three seek my congress leads me to hope you have some large need?”
“A large need concerning a small matter,” said Burbage, and he slapped the pamphlet down stern on the table.
Jaggard snorted a short laugh. “I’ve seen it of course, but pay it no heed. Pamphleteers by reputation are as like to call a cow a crow, and then still try sell its milk.”
“As I am in this both cow and crow, I would know who takes such interest, whether in my milk or in my feathers,” I said, “for I would be neither milked nor plucked.”
Jaggard shrugged. “Some Puritan much aggrieved at your art and no more, and of what consequence? Any man of reputation these days may find himself target. This is proof of your standing and of no more. And so, were I you, I would celebrate it if I did not choose to ignore it. Anything that makes your name, even if with some whiff of scandal, likely more fills your audience.”
“Then I would know its author’s name that I may thank him to his face.”
At which Jaggard’s face grimmed. “And how from me?”
At which Burbage lost patience and held up that handbill which mimicked the pamphlet in its imperfections.
“Do you think us such fools that, having had much printed, we would learn nothing of your art? That learning having also swollen your own purse?” Burbage said. “In any printing, there are small faults unique to the press of each house. And such matching faults do plain appear both here,” Burbage pushed the handbill into Jaggard’s chest, “and here,” pushing now the pamphlet with his other hand. “As we know you to have printed the former, then we know you, too, have printed this unkind assault on our friend and, I might add, your good patron.”
Jaggard now lay both documents to table and pretended a close examining. “I could see where eyes only some little schooled would see it so.”
“Then you say on your honour this comes not from your press?” I asked.
“On my honour? I cannot say sure, as such a small job could easy pass from its ordering to its execution in the hands of my son or some other without my console, it being simple in its requirements. We are, after all, in the business of print and do not make habit to decline such commerce as might present itself.”
“So, comes some Puritan from the street, one who has not previous made your employ, and asks printed this charge against a regular patron of long standing, and for only what few pennies this job might be worth, and in your mind his commerce is as good as mine?” I asked.
“Sir, you misunderstand me. I say only that it be possible that such job could transpire and I have no knowledge of it – some of the shop being skilled at their craft but not much read or knowing of our business, so that to them it seemed only some paper and some ink.”
“Even so, such job being only of recent minting, you could quick discern its author by asking those in your employee, you saying you had no hand it is commission yourself,” Burbage said, now standing so close to Jaggard as to limit his comfort.
Jaggard backed nearer the door. “I do wish I had known of this job at such time as it was offered, as I would have declined it. But having taken it on, and its author wishing to be anonymous, to reveal him would offend my honour. You, being men of honour, must see this sure.”
“A short minute past, you implied this to be not of your press, then perhaps of it, and now of it sure but your honour binds you to hold secret its author,” I said, “you having first said it was our short schooling in your art that even made us think this from your press to begin with. What apt pupils we must be to have so quick discerned the truth both of the pamphlet’s printing and of your honour.”
Jaggard, now much flustered, shook his h
ead. “Sir, you have advantage of me in matters of wit – that I ready admit – and by that art you now make me seem to say such as I did not mean.”
“Then let me phrase this simple so as not to tax what wits you hold,” I answered. “You claim no knowledge of the offending pamphlet being printed in your shop, but also refuse to learn if it be so. Further, if you did know its author, you would tell us not, as your honour – which does seem to come and go at your convenience – would have you hold that secret dearer than the value of our future commerce?”
“I can only say that you were meant no insult at my hands and that I do true regret any that was unknowing done. I will say no other, as the more I say, the double more you seem to hear.”
“Then we will take leave so that you can reflect on your honour in private,” I said, “while we reflect on what future need we may have of it. Or of your commerce.”
Jaggard importuned us stay as we left – sure, he said, that, being men of honour all, we could reach such settlement as offended none. But we left him to his blathering.
“Honour or no, I cannot credit that Jaggard would protect some small chick at the risk of offending such a hen as us that doth oft lay such rich eggs,” Heminges said.
“He would not,” Burbage said.
“Which means we have some other hen in our hen house,” I said. “If not some fox, and our Puritan Friend, then, whether hen or fox, is likely neither Puritan nor friend.”
CHAPTER 14
A fiery curve like some slice of hell escaped fresh to heaven bent along the western horizon, striped in fading bands by the smoke of some thousand cook fires arising weak against its brilliance – the thin smoke magnifying by comparison the brilliance of that sight it first seemed to diminish. This proof of the vanity of any paltry human enterprise lent a sinister aspect to the gloaming hour as I made my way around the expanse of St Paul’s. With each passing day, it seemed the ancient building grew ever more decayed, as if the lightning bolt which rent its spire asunder some five and thirty years previous had been the catalyst for the hands of time to clench the cathedral and squeeze the life from it.
As I had only before been to the cathedral grounds in day, I was used to them crowded, filled with business more secular than ecclesiastical. The grounds now emptied, in this failing and reddened light a litter of papers and other discard gave a small stir in what little breeze the evening offered. Their fluttering was reminder to me of the constant commerce in both souls and shekels that did here daily transpire. I imagined the whip arm of Christ had long since wearied in his attempt to make the temple clean, and the darkening melancholy of this emptied desolation dripped to the scene as though from his own holy despair.
To be alone in the expanse in which the Cathedral was set, and atop the city’s tallest hill, left me feeling naked and open to the eyes of God. In the usual press of London, I oft felt as though just one blade of grass in some large field, such that my efforts and my offenses did so easy blend with my neighbour’s that they seemed of diluted consequence. But I now felt as exposed as Adam, like a bared throat that awaited whatever pleasures cruel fate wished to offer. I was much unnerved. So much so that, when I heard feet ring on the cobbles near and saw that it was Carey I felt much affection toward him in my relief, even though just an hour previous I was sore distressed thinking how I might discharge this evening’s business to other than my own detriment.
Carey was dressed the same as he had been at our last meeting. His clothing was of fine material and manufacturer but of little ornament or excess, only now with a broad belt and sash from which hung a scabbard holding a broad sword with a thick hilt and handle – it suiting his manner to wear a soldier’s weapon and not the rapiers that were common to his class.
“Is our congress now so common that I no longer deserve the compliment of some finer dress?” he asked, his comment balancing both his humour and his disapproval. My time had run short, and I was dressed only as I could manage from my own closet.
“In truth, I had attired for our previous discourse and that with your family out of the stores of our company, my own clothes being at best such as you see now. But as you seemed to wish this truck be held quiet, I dressed such that, should I encounter some that I know, they would not find my costume of note and thus my business, also, note not.”
Carey waved his hand as though to bat a fly. “So, what news?”
“From your brother’s recollection, and knowledge gained from an apothecary, I can, I think, confirm the agent of your father’s death. Were you at Somerset the night he died?” I asked.
“I was not, but arrived the morning next.”
“Did you note upon his person any mark of violence or such other as did strike you odd?” I did not want to ask about the poxing of the hands or mouth direct, as this might colour Carey’s recollection, but instead wanted to hear plain his remembering.
“Of violence, no, though he was then already dressed as should befit his station and powdered and perfumed as is the habit. He was much reddened about the mouth, but I thought that likely of his illness.”
I relayed his brother’s account of his father’s final hours, though not in the same unkind spirit in which I had heard it, and then also what the apothecary had said of banes, their effects, and their common place in many gardens.
“So, you are saying poison?”
“Yes, my lord. It seems certain. And it confirms your own dream, in which you saw poxed both his mouth and his hands.”
“His hands were gloved when I saw him that morning next, but his mouth was unnatural red.”
“If you think it wise, I would like to meet with such of your servants as were attending him in his last days. For those poisons as his symptoms would suggest would sure have been introduced through his supper.”
Carey nodded. “So, you think some servant wished my father ill?’
“Whether some servant wished him ill, or was the agent of some other who wished him ill, or was perhaps just witness to such act, I cannot know. But as kitchens and suppers are their province, I do hope they have some knowing, even if they know not its portent.”
“Then I will have them know you wish their thoughts on my father as their good master for your work, and you can decide best how to frame your inquires to tease out the truth.” He paused, scanning for a moment the surrounding city, many lights now showing in its pooling darkness and the sounds and alarms that seemed somehow more common to the night making their faint echo. “In your message, you mentioned some abuse of my name. What of this?”
“Know first, please, that I am the messenger only, and such as I have heard is not my opinion, but only–”
He held up a hand. “Do you think me such a fool that I cannot tell message from messenger? Speak clear and waste not my time with your apologies.”
“Your brother made claim that such debts as your father held equalled the estate he bequeathed, though as your brother seemed some soured at his status, I thought perhaps his opinion coloured by his contempt. But my landlord, too, in a recent matter made the same claim, which made such claim seem common thinking.”
“And how are my debts of your concern?” Which sounded both question and challenge.
“Twofold, my lord. As such debts as you may have inherited were first your father’s, and as the fires of greed do oft burn brightest in foul mischief, I do consider that such debts could be motive in his murder. And second, as you have asked me talk plain, I must for my company’s sake consider your patronage, and such effects as your debts may hold for us, for good or ill.”
Carey’s face set hard, and he paused a long moment. “I have secured you in this current service for such insights as you have in your writing clear shown, but do not suppose your gifts as accountant are required. As to your company, do you suppose that my father did ever, or would I, pay for your service from our own purse? Such favour as you hold through my office, whether the weight of its name or selection to perform at Court, come at no cost to me,
and payments for those performances are from the Queen’s household, not my pocket. But gold is true oft earned in blood, so I shall consider my father’s accounts, and should I find such that points to mischief, then I will have your counsel.” He drew a breath as though controlling his temper. “Who, pray tell, is this landlord who makes so free with my name?”
“Miller, my lord, who owns our theatre but seeks our eviction current. He is Puritan, and much dismayed of our arts.”
Carey nodded. “I have had word from this Miller, his signature among some Puritan others on a letter praying that I withdraw support for your troupe so as to please the honour of God. I did not plan them answer, as their stations and opinions seemed both beneath my concern. But now I think I may warn him that his liberty with my reputation may cause him harm before any such that his God may have in store for him.” Carey then reached into the top of one glove and pulled from within a folded paper, which he opened. A copy of the pamphlet from Jaggard’s press.
“On the matter of reputations,” he said, “I was also was recent made an anonymous present of this.”
I could feel my face colour and such that I feared even in this dark it be plain. “My lord, I–”
He again held up a hand. “I ask no explanation, as such appetites as men entertain do oft find satisfaction in strange beds, and so to judge some man for such acts made public that I myself have frequent done in private satisfies no definition of justice. But the fact of reputation, that does matter. And so I will scold you stern to be sure in future to shake thy spear only in such fashion as not to gain such fame for that performance as you have from those of more public display.” He waved the pamphlet as though removing from it some stench, and then let it fall to join that trivial litter of human vanities that flowered across the Cathedral grounds. “The harm this does you is not to sever that thread from which my favours hang, but only to saw it half. One scandal is an accident, but a second would prove a habit from which I would be excused.”
Rotten at the Heart Page 8