The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Clements, Rory

  ‘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.’

  The 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.’

  From 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.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  FLORENCE ANGEL 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 justic
e 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.’

  For a few moments, she appeared to be wavering. There was something wholly innocent about Joshua Peace that was difficult to resist. ‘Mother told me of you.’

  ‘Help us, I entreat you.’

  ‘No. I cannot go against my brother. He sits now, all pale and shining, with Holy Mary. I thank you for your help, Mr Peace, but I must ask you and John Shakespeare to go now, and not disturb us again.’

  Shakespeare could barely contain his frustration. He turned once more to her mother. ‘Aunt Audrey, for one final time, I entreat you: make your daughter see sense and cooperate with me, to your advantage and mine.’

  ‘She is almost twenty-six years of age, Mr Shakespeare. She will not be influenced by me.’

  Joshua Peace put his hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder. ‘Come, sir, there is nothing more for us here.’

  ‘Well met, Mr Shakespeare!’

  Shakespeare swivelled in surprise, his sword halfway out of its scabbard.

  ‘No need for your sword, sir. We work for the same man and have the same ends.’

  Shakespeare relaxed. ‘Mr Slide. I heard you had been looking for me. What are you doing here in Stratford?’

  ‘Why, the same as you. Hunting traitors, earning a dishonest crust from the silver platter of Mr Secretary.’

  Shakespeare had just taken his leave of Joshua Peace on the outskirts of Shottery and was on his way back to Hewlands Farm. His last hope of learning anything from Florence Angel was to enlist the aid of Anne Hathaway. ‘You have no notion why I am here, Mr Slide, and you know it.’

  ‘Oh, I know well enough. You wish to find a one-armed Frenchman and a Scotsman named Buchan Ord, and now you have complicated matters by stumbling into murder and conspiracy.’

  ‘Conspiracy?’

  ‘This town is febrile with plotting. I believe you need my assistance, sir.’

  ‘Why would you expect me to trust you, Slide? You followed me covertly in Sheffield, and then you dodged away like a common criminal.’

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, I assure you, I am a most uncommon criminal. And I can prove my worth to you this very instant, by bringing you intelligence that will both delight and astonish you.’

  Shakespeare studied Harry Slide. As in Sheffield, he was attired in a yellow satin doublet that would not have looked out of place at Elizabeth’s court. ‘I should take you by the neck and drag you to the town gaol, Slide. I am certain a dozen lashes at the whipping post would do you good.’

  ‘Do you not wish to know my intelligence?’

  ‘Very well. Tell me. If it disappoints me, you will have the whipping.’

  ‘Then prepare to be astounded, sir, for I bring you most remarkable news: your little friend has arrived in Stratford this very day.’

  ‘What little friend? Do not speak in riddles.’

  ‘The lame one. He rode in not two hours since.’

  ‘Boltfoot Cooper?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, I am certain that is the name. He arms himself like one of Drake’s pirates and grunts where better favoured men might utter a word or two.’

  Shakespeare drew his dagger. Slide put up his hands defensively. ‘I beg of you, is this not good intelligence? Worth a groat of anyone’s money, I would say.’

  ‘You will not insult any man of mine. Where is he?’

  ‘He is at the White Lion, and nor is he alone, which I am sure is even more remarkable and welcome news for you.’

  ‘Slide, you risk wearing out my patience utterly.’

  ‘He is with Kat Whetstone. Surely you remember her? Few men do forget her once they have seen her.’

  ‘She is here with Boltfoot? What manner of nonsense is this?’

  ‘The very finest sort of nonsense: true nonsense.’

  Shakespeare grasped Slide by the nape of his neck and pulled him. ‘Come with me, we will go to them.’

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, unhand me. I have come to you of my own free will to offer intelligence, with no expectation of reward, though one always hopes. You do not need to treat me with brute force.’

  It was true, of course. Shakespeare released his grip.

  Slide rubbed his neck. ‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. But before I go, a word of warning for you, sir. There is one Hungate hereabouts. Ruby Hungate.’

  ‘I have met him. I need no word of warning.’

  ‘And therefore you must know his strange tale.’

  ‘What tale?’

  ‘The stuff of legend, Mr Shakespeare. It is said he came from Surrey and was orphaned, that he lived in the woods alone, honing his skills as huntsman and archer. When Elizabeth was staying at nearby Loseley Park, there was a great fair with tumblers and minstrels, fighting and horse races. All the great courtiers were there, including Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester. As was often his habit, he offered a purse of five pounds for the finest archer in the region.

  ‘Ruby Hungate heard about it one day when he came from the forest to take rabbits to market. He was thirteen years of age, but had not yet grown to manly size and could well have passed for a boy two or three years younger. When he asked to try for the archery prize, the arbiter refused. “You’re not even as tall as a longbow and you certainly couldn’t pull one. Go watch the clowns and jesters.” “No,” Hungate said. “I will shoot my arrows. I’m as good as any man.” Something in Hungate’s eyes must have unnerved the arbiter, for he relented. I have seen Hungate’s cold eyes myself and I know why this might have been. Have you seen his eyes, Mr Shakespeare?’

  Yes, he had seen them. ‘This tale – this faerie tale – how long does it take, Slide?’

  ‘A minute or two of your time. “Go on, boy,” the arbiter said. “Get in line and see if you can shoot an arrow. Good fortune be with you, because you’ll need it. And serve you right if you make yourself a laughing stock.” Hungate’s arrows flew true. Everyone said he had the strength of a young bear, the eye of a falcon an
d the steadiness of a great cat. He beat the finest archers in Surrey and more from even further afield and won the five-pound prize. But more than that, he won the interest of the Earl of Leicester, who soon learnt of his prowess.’

  Shakespeare laughed. ‘I have heard this tale before. It is the story of Robin Hood.’

  ‘Not so. This is the history of Ruby Hungate. He was summoned to the earl’s presence. The boy did not bow nor show fear. “Are you not scared of me, boy?” the earl demanded. “No. And I am not a boy, for I say fuck, cunny and dog turd, and will use those words to any man who speaks to me so.” “You have a coarse tongue . . . boy. What are you scared of?” “Nothing,” Hungate replied.’

  Despite himself, Shakespeare was enthralled by the story.

  ‘And this is the way they spoke: “You will address me as my lord – or sir,” quoth my lord of Leicester. “Have you killed?” Young Hungate hesitated but a second. “Foxes, birds . . .” “Deer?” “That would be poaching, and against the law.” “A man?” “I have killed animals.” “There are those who say man is an animal.” To which Hungate gave no reply. “Well?” “I had not realised it was a question, sir.” And he laced the word “sir” with heavy disdain. The earl then laughed. “What is your name . . . boy?” “Hungate. Ruby Hungate.” “Then you shall have a ruby as an extra prize. And you shall join my household and learn all the soldierly arts. And you will learn to call me sir. You have a cold, killing eye.” For the first and last time, Hungate bowed. “Thank you, sir.”’

  ‘And how do you know this fine story, Mr Slide?’

  ‘It is a tale the earl himself likes to tell – to like-minded people. It is perhaps embellished, but I have heard it more than once and it is the same in essence. Anyway, Hungate was accorded a special place in the earl’s retinue, under the tutelage of his personal bodyguard. For the next three years he was educated in the skills of shooting, bowmanship, fencing and hand-to-hand fighting. He was told that the earl wished him to be trained to such a degree that one day he, too, could aspire to be his personal bodyguard. Later, when his loyalty was beyond doubt, he was sent to Rome and Venice to finish his education. He became versed in the subtle ways of belladonna, hemlock, arsenic, nux vomica and the Destroying Angel mushroom from an old alchemist who, it is said, boasted that his father and grandfather had prepared venoms for both the Borgias and other great families, so they might kill each other. He learnt the different techniques of strangulation and throat-slitting. He was taught how to kill without a sound and without leaving a trace of evidence. But still Hungate had not been asked to kill. On his return from Venice, he was summoned once more to the earl. “If I had an enemy who wished me harm, Mr Hungate, what would you do?” “Whatever you asked of me.” “Would you harm this man?” “If you wished.” “Even to the point of death?” “Yes, I would kill him.” “What if my enemy was a woman?” “When I shoot dead a goose, I do not ask its sex.” “And what would you expect in return for this service?” “A harlequin doublet, my lord, to show that I am your jester. And a ruby for my ear.”’ Slide smiled as he waited for a reaction to his story.