The Queen's Man (25 page)

‘No, you’ll need your hands and the strength God gave you.’

A
light rain was falling. Boltfoot reined in his horse on the edge of town and slumped his shoulders.

‘I do believe we are here, Mr Cooper.’

She was smiling at him. A smile that said,
Here we are and I have got you to do just what I wanted
.

Boltfoot patted his horse’s neck. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he and Kat were not going to be at all welcome here in Stratford-upon-Avon. Most likely, he would be dismissed from Mr Shakespeare’s employment by day’s end and be reduced to scouring London docks for a berth by Saturday.

‘Why, Mr Cooper, you do not look at all happy. Now that we are here, you can be rid of me. I had thought you would be glad to see the back of me.’

‘Where is he, then? Buchan Ord? You said he was here.’

‘Patience, Mr Cooper. First let us find an inn where we can feed ourselves and the horses and wash this dust from our mouths and eyes. Then we can seek out your master, and all will be revealed.’

T
he inquest was under way by the time Shakespeare arrived at the alehouse. He was surprised to see Joshua Peace standing outside in the drizzle.

‘What is going on here, Mr Peace? Why was I not informed of the inquest – and why are you not participating?’

‘The coroner does not want me. He has made up his mind already, or someone else has made it up for him. He will not allow me in there.’

‘I know whose work this is. Sir Thomas Lucy.’ Shakespeare spat the name. ‘Follow me, Mr Peace.’ He pushed open the alehouse door and felt the eyes of twenty or so men looking at him. A group of them – perhaps fifteen – were jurors; only two were witnesses – Humfrey Ironsmith and Ananias Nason. At a table, dominating the small room, was the coroner, with a clerk at his side.

The coroner was a slight man with red hair, cheerless eyes and grim lips. In any other setting, no man would note him. Yet here, as master of his court, he had a stern presence that cowed the men ranged before him. He was accustomed to being obeyed when he held an inquest.

In front of the table, laid out on a sheet on the floor, was the corpse of Benedict Angel. The smell of beer and woodsmoke could not quite conceal the early waft of a decomposing body. Two of the jurors were standing looking down at it, having been ordered to examine the dead man.

The coroner pointed a long, slender finger at Joshua Peace. ‘Mr Searcher, what are you doing here? I ordered you to go away. If you do not do so now, you will be arrested and held in contempt until such time as the justice orders you clamped into the pillory.’

‘No, he stays.’ Shakespeare strode forward to the coroner’s table. ‘I am John Shakespeare and I am in charge of the investigation into Mr Angel’s death – murder, as it seems to me. What is your name, Mr Coroner?’

‘No, damn you, I am in charge of this investigation. And you have no need of my name, for you, too, are leaving this hearing.’

Shakespeare turned to the clerk. ‘What is your master’s name? I need it, for it will be reported to Sir Francis Walsingham, as will yours. The Privy Council will hear how you have interfered in the inquiries of an officer engaged on Queen’s business.’

The clerk looked to his master for guidance. Suddenly, the coroner hammered his fist on the table, making his Bible and several papers jump. ‘Rot in hell, Shakespeare. My name is Bagot. Henry Bagot. Stay if you must with your necromancer. Stand by the wall and be silent, for this is a solemn proceeding and I will brook no interruption.’

S
hakespeare stayed at the hearing for one reason alone: so that the coroner should know that his corrupt justice was noted, and that it would be reported.

‘You mentioned a broken branch not three feet from the body, Mr Nason,’ the coroner said.

‘That is so, sir. It was a main lower branch of an oak.’

‘Would it have been high enough to suspend him? Is it possible that the dead man hanged himself from that branch and that it broke away from his weight after he had died?’

‘I cannot deny that is a possibility.’

‘And this thing.’ He held up the rosary, which had been restrung. ‘This thing of papist superstition could have borne his weight and choked him to death?’

Nason seemed to accept the suggestion, but he was clearly uneasy. No one in the taproom dared gainsay him or the coroner, however. Except Shakespeare, who snorted with scorn. The coroner gazed at him with undisguised contempt. ‘Be careful, Mr Shakespeare, lest you wish a week in the cells.’

The verdict was always a foregone conclusion. Directed by Bagot, the jury decided unanimously that the dead man must have taken his own life. Somehow, Benedict Angel must have tangled his rosary on a low branch and choked himself to death. It was so implausible as to be laughable. Even a playwright would not have devised such a plot.

‘God has seen fit to strike down the popish traitor,’ the coroner concluded. ‘So die all the Queen’s enemies. Bury him in unhallowed ground.’ He swept up his papers and Bible and, with his clerk in his wake, tottered from the alehouse on his dainty legs.

Shakespeare watched him go. The coroner and his clerk kept their eyes firmly ahead, refusing to meet his judgemental gaze.

The jury also averted their eyes. They knew they had colluded in a scandalous episode and were ashamed.

‘Come, Mr Peace,’ Shakespeare said at last. ‘Brave the rain and walk with me to the Angel farmhouse. I would speak with Florence and I would like you there, for I would be grateful to have your opinion on the matter of the young woman’s health. Her mother says she is afflicted by the falling sickness.’

T
he countryside was rich and lush in this part of England, and the rain only served to make it seem greener. Since leaving this place, it had become in Shakespeare’s imaginings a heaven on earth, full of wildflowers and the scents of summer. Now it seemed tainted and full of foreboding, as though a cloud shaded the land.

‘I would value your thoughts, Mr Peace, on what is happening here in Stratford. Am I alone in thinking we are caught up in lunar madness? Everywhere is rage and hostility. No one is safe.’

Peace shook his head. ‘No, you are not alone. But are you surprised, Mr Shakespeare? In the space of half a century, this realm has supplanted one religion with another. How can that be achieved without conflict? There are too many interests at stake, and it seems this county has more resistance to change than most.’

‘And your own religion, Mr Peace? Where do you stand?’

Peace threw Shakespeare a puzzled smile. ‘Do you really wish to ask me that?’

No, thought Shakespeare, that would be unfair. He rather suspected that Mr Peace was without religion. Such a man would be seen as heretic by Catholic and Protestant alike and condemned by both. ‘Forgive me, Mr Peace. Your religion is none of my concern.’ Suddenly it came to him, like a ray of sun through a break in the clouds. This letter within his doublet, burning his body: there might be a way of dealing with it after all.

For the past two hours he had been wrestling with his conscience. His duty to his sovereign and his country told him that he must despatch the letter to Walsingham so that Mr Phelippes could attempt to decipher it. People did not bother to encrypt letters unless they had something to hide. It would be treason to withhold such a letter.

And yet . . .

And yet he knew Walsingham well enough by now. He would insist on knowing the precise manner in which the letter was discovered. How could Will and Anne be protected from the storm that would then break? The weak link would always be Florence Angel. There was every chance that she would be apprehended in the near future. A seasoned questioner would easily break the resolve of someone so fragile and vulnerable. Shakespeare gripped Joshua Peace’s arm and pulled him beneath the canopy of a huge oak tree, out of the rain.

‘What is it, Mr Shakespeare?’

Shakespeare looked at the young man with keen, inquiring eyes. One question pounded in his brain like rolling thunder: could he place his faith in this man? His intuition told him that he had never met a more trustworthy person in his life. But that ran counter to all that Walsingham had taught him.

‘Mr Peace, I want to trust you.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘No. No, it is not wise.’ Shakespeare glanced up into the leaves as though guidance would come dripping with the rain. As he did so, he had a bleak vision of himself accoutred like a pursuivant, hammering down doors in the name of the Queen. Was he
really
suited to this world of secrets and suspicion?

‘And yet I
am
a man of honour.’

‘Yes, Mr Peace, I truly believe you are.’ His hand went to his chest as though feeling for his pulse. The letter was secreted just below his heart.

There was silence between them for a few moments.

Sometimes in life, a man must strike out into the dark and trust his judgement, otherwise nothing would ever get done. Just as the great explorers of the oceans set to sea with no certain idea of where they are going and even less hope of returning home safely, so he must broach this subject now, or never. Shakespeare put his hand into his doublet and pulled the letter halfway out so that Peace caught a glimpse of it, then thrust it back into the warm pocket between his shirt and flesh.

‘Mr Peace, that paper is a letter. It could take innocent people –
good
people – to their grave.’

‘Then place it on a fire.’

‘I cannot. It is encrypted and I need to discover its contents. The only way to do that is to give it to my master, Sir Francis Walsingham, who has men skilled in the breaking of codes. But if I do so, he will rightly demand to know where I came by it.’

Peace understood it all, in an instant. ‘Then tell him that I found it within the clothing of Benedict Angel. I will confirm it.’

‘You would do that for me?’

The Searcher of the Dead shrugged. ‘Father Angel is beyond pain. Better taint
him
than the living.’

‘Thank you, Mr Peace. You have promised more than I could have asked.’

‘It is my pleasure, Mr Shakespeare.’

F
rom a distance of a hundred yards, Harry Slide strained to see what Shakespeare and Peace were doing. He could hear nothing and see little enough through the grey drizzle, and yet he gained an impression that something of importance had passed between the two men. And then he saw them shaking hands, like two market traders doing a deal for the sale of cattle.

Slide rubbed his own soft hands together with a smile. This was like fishing with human bait.

F
LORENCE
A
NGEL AND
her mother were doing their best to clear up the chaos of their home. They looked up from their work without a word when the two visitors entered.

Shakespeare smiled at the widow in greeting. ‘Good morrow, Aunt Audrey.’

‘John,’ she said, her voice flat.

‘And you, Florence.’

‘Why are you here, John?’

‘I am investigating your brother’s death, for which I offer condolences.’ He hesitated. ‘How are you, Florence? I know that all has not been well with you.’

‘I mean what brings you to Stratford? I had believed you were gone from here into the service of the heretics. Should you not be there, writhing in the pit of snakes?’

Shakespeare was astonished. Was this really the Florence Angel considered best friend by Anne Hathaway? He looked at her expressionless face, then to her mother, who seemed pained.

Suddenly, Florence seemed to soften. ‘Forgive me, John. I have not yet welcomed you to our home.’ She swept her arm around the debris of the hall. ‘Perhaps you can understand why I do not feel hospitable.’

‘Yes, I understand your anguish. But I am not your enemy.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘But nor are you my friend. Tell me, do you bring word from the inquest?’

‘A verdict of death by his own hand was returned. The jury only did what they were directed to do. I fear they had no say in the matter.’

‘So justice is dead, along with my brother.’

Shakespeare could not disagree with her, so he merely shrugged. He was studying her demeanour, wondering what Joshua Peace might see there. She was not as plump as he recalled. And she no longer wore her golden hair loose, but tied up beneath a close-fitting pynner, which made her look a little severe. Her eyes were bright, but distant. She was faded. No, more than that . . . she was
spectral
. As though she were already gone beyond this world. Only her sharp words and her rich crimson lips retained her link with the temporal. Around her neck she wore a rosary that looked exactly like the one tied around her brother’s neck.

‘I will investigate this, Florence, and I pledge that I will do all in my power to bring the murderer to court. It will help me if you would talk with me. When did you last see Benedict?’

‘Save your breath, John. I am not interested in your questions.’

‘You must have suspicions. Tell me this at least: who do you believe killed him?’

‘This heretical regime. Oh, I had quite forgot – that is
you
.’ She had reverted to the accusatory tone and it came as a jolt.

‘I understand your anger and grief. I would prefer to come to you when you have had time to bury your brother and mourn, but I do not have the leisure of waiting.’

‘Perhaps you should talk to him, Florence,’ her mother cajoled. ‘I do believe he is trying to assist us.’

‘No. He
says
he is our friend, but I know he is not. Benedict came to me last night in my sleep and told me you are my enemy and were never his friend. You come in a good man’s guise, but you are not with us, John Shakespeare, and so you are against us.’

Shakespeare was at a loss for words.

Joshua Peace stepped forward from the shadows. ‘Miss Angel, you do not know me. I am the Searcher of the Dead for these parts and I was called in to examine your brother’s body. Like Mr Shakespeare here, I know that he was the victim of a violent attack and that the verdict of the inquest jury was a travesty. I know, too, that Mr Shakespeare is your only hope of finding justice. I would beg you to listen to your mother and answer his questions.’