The Man in the Snow (Ebook) (7 page)

 
‘She won’t speak, master. Not a word passes her lips. The child is called Giovanna, named for her father.’

 
‘Did you know Giovanni well, Agnes?’

 
‘Oh, yes, sir.’

 
Agnes was about ten years older than Dorcas, perhaps thirty, with a round, maternal face that spoke of a warm, caring nature. The sort of face that a woman such as Dorcas might confide in. It was time to separate the friends. ‘Come then, with me. Let us leave Dorcas with the babe. There is no need to press her if she does not wish to speak.’

They sat in the withdrawing room with the door shut. Agnes was ill at ease. It was probable that the only time she had ever been in such a room was to lay the fire or to dust and polish. Now she was sitting on a settle, talking face to face with an important man from the office of a Privy Councillor.

 
Shakespeare had no desire to scare her, yet he knew that after a lifetime doing the bidding of her masters, she would be naturally intimidated. He spoke kindly to her, but firmly. ‘We must do all we can to help Dorcas.’

 
‘Yes, sir.’

 
‘She has been subjected to a terrible assault and she is very scared. We must discover who did this so that we can ensure it never happens again. It is up to us to help her, Agnes. You and me. Will you help me in this?’

 
‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I would do anything for Dorcas.’

 
He settled back in his chair at the table and smiled at her. ‘Now it is clear to me that the incident in the night was connected to the death of Giovanni. Are we both agreed on that?’

 
‘I ... I don’t know, master.’

 
‘It is a fair assumption, do you not think?’

 
‘If you say so, sir.’

 
‘So I need to find out a little more about Giovanni. How long have you been in service to the Earl of Oxford?’

 
‘Eighteen years. I came in the year that his lordship returned home from his Grand Tour. He brought Giovanni and ... and the others. I was a girl, thirteen years of age, about the same as Giovanni. We were all wide-eyed with wonder, Mr Shakespeare. Never had we seen such people nor heard such strange voices. Foremost among them were Giovanni and the singer Orazio. When Orazio sang, it did make the hairs on my neck prickle. But he was gone within a twelve-month.’

 
‘For the present, let us just talk about Giovanni.’

 
‘He was beautiful, sir. It is not a word I would normally give to describe a boy or man, but it was the only one for Giovanni. We all liked him.’

 
‘Dorcas clearly
loved
him.’

 
‘Yes, sir. And he loved her with equal ardour.’

 
‘Are you certain? He was a most remarkably handsome man. There must have been other young women who desired him. Did he not have other paramours?’

 
‘It was not his way.’

 
‘Then this was true love?’

 
She lowered her voice. ‘He and Dorcas had planned to run away together, to his home of Venice.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I should not have said that!’

 
‘That they planned to run away? Why not?’

 
‘Please don’t say I told you that, sir, for I would not wish to cause Dorcas any more trouble. She might lose her place in the household.’ There was a clear edge of panic in her voice.

 
‘Why did they want to run away?’

 
She shook her head. ‘I must not say.’

 
‘I pledge to you, Agnes, that I will do nothing and say nothing to harm you or your friend.’

 
‘Mr Shakespeare, I beg you not to ask me these questions.’

 
‘You must want to help her ...’

 
‘I cannot.’

 
Shakespeare sighed. He was no longer smiling. He was standing now, towering above her. ‘You must realise, Agnes, that withholding evidence is, in itself, a crime. If you have any information that may cast a light on this murder and the assault on Dorcas, you have a duty to tell me. The alternative ...’

 
He left the alternative hanging.

 
Agnes was clearly terrified. She whispered, ‘She told me Giovanni was in trouble. She said there were those who wished him harm. That was why he had to get away. That was why they wished to go to Venice.’

 
‘Who were these people?’

 
‘I know not, master. She would tell me no more than that. Please say nothing.’

 
‘Was this to do with clipping of coins?’ He took the piece of silver from his purse and held it in front of her frightened eyes. ‘You know what this is, don’t you, Agnes?’

 
‘I have heard of such things.’

 
‘Did you know that Giovanni was clipping? Was he in trouble with criminals and outlaws? To whom did he sell the silver?’

 
‘I don’t know, sir. Please, I have already said all I know. Too much ...’

 
‘Dangerous and powerful felons are involved in this trade. They would shoot a man dead without hesitation if they thought he had crossed them. Did he fall foul of the coiners? Who killed him, Agnes?’

 
She shook her head and he thought she was about to sob. He pressed on.

 
‘
Why
was he killed? If not for clipping of coins, then why?’

 
‘I beseech you, master, if I knew I would tell you.’

 
‘Was it someone in this house? Who wanted him dead? Would Monsieur Marot have done such a thing? He was eaten up with jealousy over Dorcas, was he not? Did he kill his rival in love?’

 
Agnes wrapped her arms around her ample frame and began to rock back and forth.

 
‘Would Marot have been able to get hold of a dag – a pistol? Are there any such weapons in this house that he would have known of?’

 
She rose from the settle and began pacing up and down the room, gasping for breath.

 
Shakespeare relented. ‘Go back to her, Agnes. But think hard on what I say – and come back to me with any information you have, however slight.’

Chapter 8

Halfway between Shoreditch and Stoke Newington, Boltfoot’s mare crumpled beneath him. Boltfoot heard nothing, saw nothing, just felt the animal slump suddenly and slide into the snow, her forelegs splaying helplessly and horribly. Then he looked down and saw blood seeping into the snow and an arrow protruding from the horse’s flank.

 
Instinct took over. Boltfoot twisted from the saddle to the right, away from the side where the arrow had struck. He huddled into the snow behind the mortally injured beast, using her heaving body as a shield. A second arrow sped past his head and descended in an arc, some thirty yards away.

 
Boltfoot unslung his caliver in one easy move, then began to pour in powder and shot, tamping it home with a skill born of many battles. He pushed the ornate octagonal muzzle of the weapon forward, over the horse’s back, then squinted along its length into the white distance, seeking the archer. From the flight of the arrow, he guessed the attacker was no more than fifty yards away. A third arrow flew and he saw the bowman beside a tree, in a field away from the road.

 
Looking about, Boltfoot noted that the road here was almost deserted, save for a pair of riders a quarter of a mile away, heading north. The conditions were simply too bad for anyone else to be out. He could not rely on anyone coming to his aid.

 
He ranged his shot, aimed and pulled the trigger. The caliver boomed. Shot, flame and smoke belched from the barrel. He knew he had hit nothing, for there was little chance of that. This was about keeping the attacker at bay, ensuring the enemy knew he had firepower and did not advance on him. Quickly, he re-loaded and as he did so he heard a tinkling of laughter.

 
In the distance the two riders had halted their mounts, alerted by the crack of Boltfoot’s weapon. They looked back as though wondering whether to investigate, but then seemed to think better of it. They shook their reins and kicked their horses into a fast trot to be away from this private battle as soon as they could. In his mind, Boltfoot cursed them as cowards and began to aim the caliver again.

 
The archer came out of cover, Boltfoot pulled the trigger once again, but all he saw was chips of wood flying from the tree. His assailant shouted out something that Boltfoot could not hear, then laughed again, shot an arrow without any hope of hitting his target and ran through the snow to another tree nearby, where a grey horse was tethered. Boltfoot primed and loaded his caliver again, but the attacker was already mounted up, his bow held loosely in one hand, a quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

 
At first, Boltfoot wondered whether the bowman would attempt to charge him down, so he held his fire. But the archer merely waved, then urged his horse on and away in the direction of London and its mass of smoking chimneys.

 
Boltfoot came out from behind his dying horse and watched the attacker disappear. He had not seen his face because it was cowled, but he knew that laugh: it was the scavager, the simpleton named Scavager Billy who had stumbled on the body of Giovanni Jesu.

 
Why had he come out here after him? Perhaps there was more to the discovery of the body than the scavager and constable suggested. Boltfoot gritted his teeth. Somehow, he had to make his way to Stoke Newington on foot. But first there was an act of mercy to perform.

 
He knelt down and stroked the poor horse’s great head. Gently, he put the muzzle of his caliver to the beast’s temple, close to the eye, and pulled the trigger. Boltfoot stayed there, holding the animal as she slipped into stillness, then let out a great sigh.

 
He had realised the date. It was noon on December the twenty-fourth: Christmas Eve. What a day. What a bloody day.

The countess intercepted Shakespeare outside the withdrawing room. ‘Mr Shakespeare, I am not going to allow these incidents to ruin Christmas in this household. You are casting a pall of melancholy over us all and I must insist you are gone by nightfall, sir.’

 
‘My lady, I would like nothing more than to have this hideous murder solved and the killer taken into custody by day’s end. Apart from anything else, I have a family of my own, and they will hope to see me this evening.’ He looked the Countess of Oxford full in the eye. He detected a hard edge there that he had not noted before. What, he wondered, had she really thought of Giovanni? Giving preferment to favourites at court had been the downfall of many kings. How much more enclosed and intimate was a man’s own house?

 
‘I have instructed Stickley to give you every assistance and ensure that the servants are available to be questioned by you.’

 
‘The secret is held within the mind of Dorcas Catton. If she could be persuaded to speak, all would become clear. I am certain of this.’

 
‘You wish me to talk with her again?’

 
‘It is possible she might open her heart to you where she would not confide in a stranger.’

 
‘Well, then I shall try, Mr Shakespeare.’

 
‘Thank you, my lady.’

As soon as Dorcas was summoned by the countess Shakespeare took the opportunity to go to the maid’s chamber with the steward, Wat Stickley. It was a cramped, unremarkable room at the back of the house in the servants’ quarters. There was one bed, hard and small, little more than a child’s cot, a box and a baby’s cradle.

 
‘She normally has this room to herself, Mr Stickley?’

 
‘Since the babe was born, yes. But I think we will now bring Agnes in here with her.’

 
Their search was thorough, but they found nothing of interest. Swaddling bands for the babe, a comb, beads, a small picture drawn in ink that, Stickley said, was a likeness of Dorcas’s mother.

 
‘Tell me how things went between Dorcas and Giovanni.’

 
‘I think you probably know as much as any man, Mr Shakespeare. It was always clear to us that they enjoyed each other’s company, but it is also true that we were quite surprised to learn in February that she was with child by Signor Jesu.’

 
‘Surprised?’

 
Stickley raised his eyebrows conspiratorially. ‘We had rather wondered whether Signor Jesu had other inclinations, sir ...’

 
‘You thought him a sodomite?’

 
‘I would not use that word.’