The Man in the Snow (Ebook) (8 page)

 
‘And you, Mr Stickley, what are
your
inclinations?’

 
The steward’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened with shock at the question. ‘Sir?’

 
‘I merely ask because you have been in service to his lordship these many years. Do you have wife or mistress hidden away somewhere?’

 
‘Indeed not, sir.’

 
‘Have you then taken a vow of chastity?’

 
‘I ... what are you saying, Mr Shakespeare?’

 
‘Merely wondering aloud. I know that many great houses have a priest in residence, often kept in the guise of a retainer. Are
you
a priest, Mr Stickley?’

 
‘No. No, sir, I am not. Why do you ask such a thing?’ The steward stiffened his thin shoulders with indignation.

 
Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I have met many priests sent from the seminaries of France and Rome. You have the austere aspect of such a one. Think nothing of it for I intended no insult. Remind me, when did you enter service with his lordship?’

 
‘I have been in the service of the earl and his family all my life, sir. Just as my parents and grandparents before me.’

 
‘So you were with him before his Grand Tour of the Continent?’

 
‘Yes, sir.’

 
‘Did you go with him?’

 
Stickley nodded. ‘I did.’

 
‘It must have been a remarkable experience for you both. And, of course, you were there when he found Giovanni in Venice. He was the son of a whore, I believe. How did his lordship meet the boy?’

 
Stickley’s brow knitted and his lips narrowed. ‘Mr Shakespeare, I must remind you that the Earl of Oxford is my master. I cannot be expected to answer questions behind his back.’

 
‘Why? Does he have secrets?’

 
‘That is not what I meant. It is simply that he may wish these details of his life kept private. You must ask
him
these matters.’

 
‘Do I have to remind everyone in this household that I am inquiring into a murder and that I have the authority of Sir Robert Cecil? Do you really wish to fall foul of me, Mr Stickley?’

 
‘No, sir, and I understand exactly what you say, but I am bound to give loyalty to his lordship. If you wish to question me on such matters, I would be happy to answer you openly – but only with his approval and preferably in his presence.’

 
Shakespeare glared at the steward. This damnable house was a sink of unanswered questions. Agnes seemed to believe that everyone held Giovanni Jesu in affection. So why was so little being done to bring his murderer to justice? He was considering what to do about Stickley when they both heard the echoing report of the front door being hammered below.

Chapter 9

Boltfoot stood on the threshold, as white as ermine, his cap and shoulders covered in snow, his eyebrows frosted with ice.

 
Shakespeare frowned in puzzlement. ‘Boltfoot?’

 
‘My horse was shot from under me, master. I have had to walk here.’

 
‘Who did this?’

 
‘A scavager named Billy. The man who found the body. I know where to find him.’

 
‘Then let us ride.’ Shakespeare turned to the steward. ‘Mr Stickley, I am leaving Dorcas Catton in your care. Ensure she remains with Agnes and is kept safe at all times. She is not to associate with the other servants and they are not to be given access to her. Is that understood?’

 
‘Yes, sir.’

They found Scavager Billy in the taproom of the Broken Wheel, just as Boltfoot knew they would.

 
He was with the barmaid, as before. He leant towards her ear and said something, then laughed, the same tinkling laugh Boltfoot had heard before. Boltfoot had a great urge to pummel Billy around the head with the stock of his caliver for killing his mare.
That
would do for his irritating laughter and his immature fumblings for a while. Instead, Boltfoot merely nodded towards the man to identify him.

 
Shakespeare walked to within a yard of him. ‘Scavager Billy?’

 
The man looked up from the barmaid, surprised to discover a man staring down at him, a man who knew his name and had the polished aspect of a member of the gentry. The girl let out a resigned sigh and removed herself from him.

 
Billy grinned at Shakespeare like a fool, but then he saw Boltfoot and the humour fell away from his scarred face. He began to stand from his stool, but Boltfoot pushed him down, hard, his dagger at his throat.

 
‘You killed my horse, you filthy maggot.’

 
The scavager tried to pull away from the blade, but Boltfoot grabbed his lank hair from behind and pressed the point of the knife in harder so that it drew a speck of blood.

 
‘I suggest you talk and quickly, otherwise Mr Cooper is like to do for you.’ Shakespeare looked around. The taproom was crowded and noisy. This was not the place to deal with Scavager Billy. ‘Come with us. Outside.’

 
‘I’m going nowhere with you.’

 
‘You have committed a felony. Attempted murder. You are going to gaol and from there you are going to the hangman – and any man who tries to stop us will be an accessory after the fact. Bring him out, Boltfoot.’

 
Some turned and stared, but no one intervened as Boltfoot dragged Scavager Billy from the tavern at the point of a dagger. Outside in the thick brown slush of the street, Shakespeare made the man stand against a wall in the shelter of a jettied overhang. Billy looked frantically from side to side as though expecting someone to come to his assistance.

 
‘You are on your own, Billy – and you have but one chance to save your useless, God-forsaken life. Answer my questions, or else I will have you in the Wood Street Counter within the hour and you will be arraigned before the justice who will order you hanged. First, why did you shoot Mr Cooper’s horse from under him?’

 
‘I didn’t want to shoot the horse. I like horses. I wanted to kill the cripple.’

 
‘Why?’

 
Billy shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘He was trouble. The constable said I had spoken too freely. He said the cripple would talk to Mr Topcliffe and get us in difficulties. I don’t want no trouble with Mr Topcliffe. I would rather cross the devil himself than Mr Topcliffe.’ He suddenly shook his head violently. ‘I should not have said that. Please, master, I beg you do not tell him I said that.’

 
‘What has Topcliffe to do with all this?’

 
‘I would tell you, but Tom told me to keep my mouth shut else he would cut out my tongue and stick it up my arse.’

 
‘I’ll do worse than that.’ Shakespeare almost began to feel sorry for Scavager Billy. He had the wit of an earthworm and had little idea what he was involved in. In attacking Boltfoot he had probably been driven by nothing more than a half-formed idea that he was in danger. ‘Billy, do you know who I am?’

 
‘A gentleman?’

 
‘My name is Shakespeare. I represent the Queen of England.’

 
‘Queen Bess?’

 
‘So you must answer my questions honestly. Even Topcliffe is subject to the Queen’s law. Now tell me true, how is Topcliffe involved with the death of the man whose body you found in the snow?’

 
‘The Ethiop? That was the constable’s notion.’

 
‘You mean the constable killed him?’

 
‘No, no. The body was found by the apprentices, just as I told your cripple. So I brought the discovery to the attention of the constable, Tom. It was him as went to Mr Topcliffe, because he didn’t know what to do with the body. He was only a blackamoor, but he was dressed in gentry attire, which we could not understand, by no means.’

 
‘So Topcliffe came to you?’

 
‘Aye. He laughed when he saw the dead black face.’

 
‘Did he
know
him?’

 
‘Ask him yourself. All he said was he knew just what to do with him, which is what Tom and me wanted to hear.’

 
‘And what was that?’

 
‘He told us to take him on the handcart to Mr Peace at St Paul’s. And he said we should sell the dead man’s clothes for our pains. He’s a fair man is Mr Topcliffe.’

 
‘Topcliffe fair?’

 
‘If he likes you, he’d do anything for you. If you would damn the Pope and his legions to hell, like a good Christian should, then he is your friend.’

 
And what if he doesn’t like you, thought Shakespeare. What then? What if you are a Catholic priest or one who harbours them? Then he will tear you apart like a ravening beast and bathe in your blood.

 
‘What of the crown of holly?’

 
Scavager Billy laughed in his curious way. ‘That was Mr Topcliffe’s notion, too. He told the constable to arrange for it to be done. I think it was a jest of some manner. But he told us to say nothing and tell no one what he said. I pray to God I will not be in trouble with him now.’

 
Shakespeare looked at the man in despair. He was just the sort of callous, unthinking idiot that Topcliffe always used for his foul designs. Not innately wicked, merely malleable to an evil man’s will. Men like Billy had been the source of every tyrant’s power from the birth of the world.

 
‘Shall we take him to the gaol in Wood Street now, Mr Shakespeare?’ Boltfoot said.

 
‘No. Leave him be. Let him take his chances with Topcliffe. He might wish he had gone to the hangman instead ...’

‘Mr Sh-sh-shakespeare, what a pleasant s-surprise. And Mr Cooper, too. Welcome to my home.’

 
‘And good day to you, Mr Gregory. I trust you fare well.’

 
‘Well enough, Mr Sh-shakespeare. Well enough.’

 
They were at a modest wood-frame house not far from the Tower, a hundred yards from the river. It seemed to Shakespeare that Arthur Gregory had grown a little leaner in the two years since last they had met, but his face beamed as pink and jolly as ever.

 
‘Forgive me for disturbing your peace on Christmas Eve, Mr Gregory, but I wished to delve into the recesses of your memory. It will not take more than a minute or two of your time.’

 
‘Tether your horses and come in.’

The house had a small hall that was aflame with candles and richly hung with holly and ivy. A fragrant log fire raged in the hearth. Arthur Gregory’s coy, plump wife bustled in and greeted the visitors, but then scuttled out as quickly. A young serving girl brought in hot spiced wine.

 
‘S-s-so tell me,’ Gregory stammered. ‘What is this about?’

 
They had worked together back in the 1580s when both men toiled for Principal Secretary Sir Francis Walsingham. After Walsingham’s death, Gregory had gone to work for the Earl of Essex’s intelligence office, but had recently left his service. He had a subtle mind and careful hands; skilled in the opening of seals and closing them again so no one could tell.

 
‘Did a man named Giovanni Jesu ever cross your path?’

 
Gregory frowned, trying to recall.

 
‘A black man, in the retinue of Oxford?’

 
Gregory nodded and smiled. ‘Indeed. Yes, I remember. Walsingham took a great interest in him at one time in the early eighties. You must have been new to his s-service.’

 
‘Giovanni would have been very young in the early eighties.’

 
‘He was already s-s-spying, however. Mendoza had got hold of him.’

 
Bernardino de Mendoza was a schemer on a grand scale. He had been Spain’s ambassador to England until he was deported from the country in 1584 for his involvement in the Throckmorton plot against the Queen. As Shakespeare knew from intelligence reports, he was still alive, still conspiring to bring about England’s downfall, even though he was ailing and blind and retired to his house in Madrid.

 
‘What happened?’

 
‘Well, of course, Mr S-s-secretary threatened the boy and made him his own. He s-s-spied on his own s-spymasters.’

 
‘But what sort of information could a boy of sixteen or so have given to either Mendoza or Walsingham? That is what puzzles me, Mr Gregory.’