The Heretics (23 page)

Peace roared with laughter. ‘Any man’s hand would be cold here in this crypt! Just don’t examine me any further, you might not like what you find.’

‘You know why I am here.’

‘You wish to know what I have discovered about three bodies that were entrusted to my care.’

Here in the old crypt it was, indeed, as cold as the grave. In the middle of the room stood a pair of trestle tables with small wheels at the end of their legs to make them movable. Two bodies were stretched out on them on their backs, staring up at the stone ceiling with lifeless eyes.

‘Yes, that’s Mills’s wife,’ Peace said. ‘And I am told the other one is called Heartsease and made his living as a grocer.’

‘What have you discovered?’

‘That the time of death was about an hour before the constable arrived. Certainly no more than that. Cause of death was massive blood loss due to throat wounds. They had copulated a short while before their deaths. When they were found, they were both naked and bound, so it is possible to imagine that they were surprised in the act and threatened in some way to submit to their bindings. A pistol comes to mind; otherwise why would a strong, healthy man like Heartsease allow himself to be tied up? But that is merely my speculation.’

‘I do not think any pistol was found.’

‘Then it is up to you to discover how they were subdued, John. But don’t get me involved in your investigations, please. They are too dangerous.’

Shakespeare walked over to take a closer look at the bodies. He was well aware why Joshua Peace would wish to avoid further involvement. He had been involved once before, a few months since, and had got in so deep that his very life had been imperilled. Such ventures were not in Peace’s nature.

Gazing down at the still, bloodied corpses, it was hard for Shakespeare to imagine them ever having been imbued with life and passion. He had met Anne Mills only twice and had thought her unremarkable, mousy even, but he was aware how much she had meant to Mills. It was almost as though she had possessed him, like some evil spirit. What a thing was the human heart, that one man should give his life and soul for a woman that another man would not even grace with a second glance. Shakespeare touched the woman’s face gently, with his knuckles.

‘The interesting thing for me is that Mills remembers being in the room with the bodies, but does not remember the killing itself.’

‘Are you saying you have doubts about his guilt?’

Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I would merely like to be certain that he has a fair trial. His brain has become addled and I have worked with him too long to see him go to his death if there is any chance that he is innocent.’

‘Well, I have already looked at the bodies closely, but I will examine them again. I do not expect to find anything of note, though.’

‘Thank you, Joshua. I would ask you to get word to the lawyer Cornelius Bligh at Lincoln’s Inn. He is a good man. Ask him to visit Mr Mills and represent him as best he can. I shall pay his fees.’

‘I will do that today.’

‘And what of the remains of Garrick Loake, the body from the river?’

Peace nodded towards the doorway into the other room. ‘He’s in there. Would you like to see him?’

Shakespeare had no desire to see or smell the putrid carcass; he knew what a few days in the Thames could do to a dead body. But he had to show willing. ‘Very well.’

The corpse was every bit as repulsive as he had expected, so bloated and mutilated that only the distinctive, over-large nose could tell you that the man was Loake. The skin was slimy and mottled, like a dead goose that had been hung far too long before roasting. There were cuts in many places, particularly on the head and face.

‘It was tangled in branches, pulled this way and that by the currents. What was left of his clothing, part of a doublet and his breeches, were in tatters. What I cannot establish yet is whether the skin tears and the deeper wounds were the result of buffeting against logs and banks, and feeding by predators, or whether the injuries were caused before immersion.’

‘So you do not know the cause of death?’

‘I am as certain as I can be that it was not drowning. No water emerged when I pressed down hard on his ribs, which suggests to me that he was dead when he entered the river. He could have been murdered elsewhere and thrown in. He was found upstream of the tideway close to Richmond, therefore he could not have entered the water anywhere downstream of there. The body is washed clean of blood, so I am still trying to determine the location of the death wound. It is not obvious, I am afraid, but I will not give up.’

‘Do you not even have any possibilities?’

‘There are wounds of different shapes and sizes. I need to look at them all individually to see if any are likely to have been caused by a dagger. The head injuries are more difficult. Cracks in the skull would indicate battering by a heavy object. This is not a simple task, John.’

He picked up a basin from a shelf. From it he took a number of rings and a thin chain with a cross at the end.

‘The rings were on his fingers. You will see his name carved on each of them. The cross was in the pocket of his breeches. It is possible it means something to you.’

Shakespeare turned the silver chain and cross in his hands. The only thing it meant to him was that, perhaps, Garrick Loake had been a Catholic. There were plenty of such men and women in England: people who clung to the old faith in secret but found it made their life more tenable to pretend otherwise. Perhaps the most interesting thing about Garrick Loake was his connection to the Theatre – a connection he shared in common with Beatrice Eastley, late of Wisbech. If both were Catholic, then the circle seemed complete. Had Loake perhaps heard his lethal secret from Beatrice, or someone close to her? Had she, in fact, tried to recruit him to conspiracy?

He handed the object back to Peace. ‘Keep it safe.’

‘As always.’

‘And keep me informed, Joshua. Will you share a flagon of Gascon wine at the Three Tuns before I leave you? I am certain I promised you as much.’

Peace shook Shakespeare by the hand again. ‘Another day, John. For the present, I must force some more work out of my decrepit limbs and brain.’

Shakespeare found Ursula at her market stall among the booksellers. Three books lay on her table, but they were there for show. It was the leaves of tobacco that caught the attention.

‘Another good day, Ursula?’

‘Like stealing from babies. The pigging lawyers are the best. They’ll pay anything to get their hands on an ounce or two of verinshe sotweed. Brown gold, they call it, and they’re not far wrong.’

‘Well, I was merely passing, visiting an old friend, and I thought I would see how you were faring.’

He looked at her fondly. She was well fed now, but her pinched mouth and cheeks would always betray the truth: that she had been ill nourished as a child.

Ursula’s transformation was amazing. She had been born to the wild, staying alive by cheating and thieving as part of one of the feared vagabond bands. She had done a good deed for Shakespeare and his family, and in return he had taken her in, promising her an education and a home if she would help with the younger children, Grace and Mary.

‘Got something for you, Mr Shakespeare. Here.’ She handed him a paper, folded over like a letter.

He took it. His name was written in bold lettering on the front. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘A little brat brought it, said it was for you, then ran away, so I couldn’t question him. Read it and see.’

Shakespeare cut open the letter, read the words and recoiled. The letter was unsigned and was written in a brownish-red ink. It said,
Exorcise your own demons, lest they claw away all you hold dear
. There were two names, in capital letters: GRACE at the top; MARY at the foot of the page. The whole effect was of a cross. And then Shakespeare realised what the ink was: it was blood. He shuddered.

‘What does it say, Mr Shakespeare?’

It was a warning.
Cease your delving or your family will pay a terrible price. A blood price.
But whilst he might discount threats from Topcliffe while he remained in gaol, this one could not be ignored.

‘I must go.’ He looked at the girl and knew that she could see the fear in his eyes. ‘You must take care, Ursula. Come home before dark. Have your young man accompany you, for the sake of safety.’

‘You’re pigging worrying me now.’

‘There is nothing for you to fear. I just want you to be safe. Do you understand?’

She nodded. She wasn’t going to argue with him about this; she had seen enough misery and death to know terror when she saw it.

Shakespeare ran the half-mile home through crowded streets thick with horse-dung and piles of waste, pushing carters and apprentices out of his way. At the house in Dowgate, out of breath, he shouted for Jane, who came hurrying and tried to hush him as he demanded to know where the girls were. She took him to the schoolroom and pointed to them.

‘There, master, see. They are safe.’

They were sitting at a table, working very seriously together. Without thinking, he swept them both up in his arms and hugged them.

‘What is it, master?’ Jane said. She stood in the doorway, her face creased with confusion and anxiety.

He shook his head, unable to express what he knew and feared. All he could do was try to think how he could protect the girls. He had to go away soon, that was set, but first he had to find somewhere safe for his family.

Of a sudden it came to him. If Sir Robert Cecil wished him to do this work, he could protect his family. There was space enough at his mansion on the Strand, and guards aplenty.

‘Jane, we are all leaving this place. This very hour. The girls can collect their most favoured possessions and clothes, and then we go.’

When Cecil read the blood letter, he nodded. ‘Yes, John, of course they must stay here. The girls can join classes with our own tutors. They will be well cared for. Your servant, Jane Cooper, is welcome, too, with her son.’

‘Thank you, Sir Robert. My mind is greatly eased. Someone does not wish me to continue my inquiries.’

‘But from the death of Loake, we can assume the conspirators are utterly ruthless and relentless. Would such people send threats, or go straight for the kill?’

Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I do not know. But the threat seems serious enough.’

‘Indeed. And now you must go westward at speed. Find Beatrice Eastley and bring her in. Logic tells me that she is the key to everything and instinct tells me that she is dangerous. I do not like the thought of her being in company with Lucia Trevail, for Lucia has access to the Queen.’

Jane, the two girls and little John Cooper were waiting in an ante-room with their bags of possessions. Other clothes and belongings had been packed up at home, waiting to be fetched by Cecil’s servants. But where was Ursula Dancer? She could not stay at Dowgate alone. Shakespeare decided to send a message to her with money; she might be safer at an inn, or perhaps her swain’s parents might find room for her.

Cecil held up the blood letter again. He seemed as troubled by it as Shakespeare himself. ‘Who wrote this foul missive, John?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘And you think it written in blood?’

‘I do.’

‘John, something very bad is happening. Take your leave of your daughters and go. You can rest at ease knowing that they will be safe here. An assassin would need a company of arquebusiers to get past my guards.’

The next morning, Shakespeare rode out from Dowgate with Andrew at his side. He had left messages with the stablehands for Boltfoot, informing him of the whereabouts of Jane and the children. He had also left orders for Boltfoot with Cecil’s servant Clarkson; Boltfoot was to follow Shakespeare and Andrew down to the west country.

‘I have one last task before we leave London,’ Shakespeare told Andrew. ‘Come, we must take a detour to Fylpot Street.’

He kicked on into a trot and they rode a little way northwards, up through the early morning streets.

Shakespeare reined in outside the old stone house. It was a place he knew well. Dr Simon Forman had had cause to regret crossing Shakespeare’s path before.

The door was unlocked and he pushed his way in. A surly youth stepped forward, but Shakespeare ignored him and strode up the staircase to Forman’s chamber.

The doctor was in bed, but not alone. There was not much bedding in evidence. His heavy testicles and notorious prick hung flaccidly along his hairy leg. A woman was snoring softly at his side, her ripe breasts uncovered and pointing in opposite directions. Her hair was a mess. She was not pretty but she was endowed with an air of raw lust.

Shakespeare stood and looked at them for a moment, then jabbed Forman in the ribs with his index finger. ‘Get up and put on some clothes.’

Forman stirred. His eyes opened, bleary and full of sleep. He saw his uninvited guest and suddenly he was wide awake. He scrabbled to pull some bedclothes about his person.

‘Don’t bother about that, get up, Forman.’

The doctor jumped from the bed, then shook the arm of the sleeping woman. ‘Wake up, Janey. We have a visitor.’

As she stirred, he scuttled around the floor, picking up his shirt and hose, putting them on as best he could. The woman, meanwhile, sat up in bed, not in the least shamed by her nakedness.

‘Who’s this then?’ she said.

‘This is Mr Shakespeare, Janey.’

She looked at him with inquiring eyes. ‘Is it now? And who’s he?’

Shakespeare looked back at her. Her expression had changed; his name meant something to her. He was sure of it.

‘Mr Shakespeare, Janey. Sir Robert Cecil’s officer . . .’

‘I don’t know the name. Have you mentioned him to me?’ She smiled with warm lasciviousness. ‘Nice looking, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t have time for this. Forman, come downstairs with me. I want to talk with you alone.’

Shakespeare led the way from the chamber down the stairs to the hall. He pushed the protesting servant boy from the room, out of the back of the house into the yard, and slammed the door after him.