The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Clements, Rory

  ‘One of my ewes collapsed and died this morning. Not a mark on her.’

  Finally, Shakespeare managed to force his way into the stableyard at the back of the inn. The Searcher of the Dead was walking towards the storehouses.

  ‘Thank God you are still here, Mr Peace.’

  Joshua Peace smiled grimly. ‘Perhaps I should take up permanent residence. There are enough cadavers to keep me busy. But listen to that . . .’ The hubbub, occasional whistles and shouts of the mass of people outside in the street provided an unwelcome background noise. ‘I confess I feel under siege in here.’

  ‘Where is this new body?’

  Peace tilted his head. ‘Back there in an empty storeroom.’

  ‘Who summoned you to look at it? Was it Sir Thomas Lucy?’

  ‘No, Mr Shakespeare, Alderman Whateley asked me to look at it. He seems to think kindly of you and your judgement, unlike that crew out there.’

  ‘They are scared, that is all. Two unexplained deaths within days will unnerve any man or woman. They begin to look at their neighbours askance. They lock their doors at night when such a thing was never done before. Come, show me what we have.’

  The body was laid out on a pile of empty crates. Shakespeare looked upon it with relief and the blood flowed back into his veins. It was not Badger Rench.

  His first reaction lasted all of two seconds. His next reaction was one of astonishment. The corpse had only one arm and a hole where its nose should be.

  ‘Shot in the face at close range,’ Peace said. ‘No doubt at all what the cause of death is here. The arm was long gone. Even that dirty-dealing coroner could not dispute a finding that this man was shot dead with a bullet to the brain. As no weapon was in evidence, and as the muzzle must have been no more than six inches from his face, I suggest that murder is more likely than suicide.’

  Shakespeare wasn’t really listening. He was trying to make sense of this. Surely this was the body of the Frenchman, Leloup or Seguin or whatever he called himself these days? He gazed down at the figure. Naked and pale, the body was that of a man in late middle years, perhaps fifty or so. The legs and arm were still muscled, but the belly, hairy and speckled with blemishes, was expanding. The prick hung sad and forlorn in a forest of grey.

  ‘Cover him, Mr Peace. Allow him some decency.’

  Peace draped a linen sheet across the body’s nether regions.

  ‘Was he like this, naked?’

  ‘No.’ Peace pointed towards a stone shelf at the back of the store. ‘His garments and other accoutrements are over there. It occurred to me this man was not of common stock, for his clothes are good and he wore a silver pomander around his neck – something I have not seen since I was in Italy. People in these parts cope well enough without such things.’

  ‘I believe I know who he is. If I am correct – and I have a way of checking – then he is a Frenchman named François Leloup, an associate of the Duke of Guise.’

  Peace raised his eyebrows, and then emitted a laugh of astonishment. ‘You are full of surprises, Mr Shakespeare. These are deep waters.’

  ‘It was said he had a nose like a wolf’s snout.’

  ‘No more.’

  They both gazed at the bloody wound. Shreds of flesh and gristle hung loose where once there had been a proud nose.

  ‘Where was the body found?’

  ‘In the river, by the bridge. The constable, Nason, had it brought here. When I came out this morning, it was lying in a handcart in the yard out there. No one seemed to know who it was or what to do with it. I think it fair to say that no one wanted to make any decisions. Nason scurried off. I rather think he wished to carry the news to his master at Charlecote.’

  As Peace spoke, Shakespeare rifled through the dead man’s possessions. A capacious riding cape, doublet of black and gold, shirt of fine white cambric with lace cuffs, fine knee-length hose, netherstocks and riding boots. Nothing too lavish or gaudy, nothing to draw the attention of strangers. He might have been a government officer, a lawyer or merchant. Such men usually travelled with servants to guard them and do their bidding, but at the Cutler’s Rest in Sheffield they had insisted Leloup had no lackey. He felt all the seams for hidden coins or papers, but there was nothing.

  Beside the clothes, on a platter, there was a dagger with a jewelled hilt and the silver pomander that Peace had mentioned. Shakespeare picked up both items and studied them. They were fine artefacts, expensive. He returned to the body and examined the hand. No rings or other jewels.

  ‘Was there no purse?’

  ‘No. Nor any sort of baggage.’

  ‘Curious that the murderer took his other possessions, but not this dagger and pomander. They are items of considerable value.’

  ‘There was one other thing that interested me, Mr Shakespeare.’ Peace pointed his index finger at the chest of the man, and traced a line around the front and side of the body. ‘You see this line like a thin surcingle? And here, halfway up the ribcage, a small indentation in the flesh. No bigger than a farthing coin. It is clear he has kept something tied close to his body. Whatever it was, it has gone.’

  ‘It must have been something of extreme value. Will you wait here, Mr Peace? I want someone else to see the body.’

  Kat Whetstone was dipping her spoon into a bowl at the long refectory table in the hall. She greeted Shakespeare with a smile. ‘This is the latest I have ever broken my fast in my life. Taste this.’ She held out the spoon. ‘Frumenty with little pieces of apple and raisins and cinnamon.’

  ‘Thank you, Kat, but no. I will eat later.’ He looked down at her seriously. ‘For the moment, please come with me. I must show you something.’

  ‘This is very mysterious, John. Do you intend taking me to your chamber to show me this wondrous object?’

  Shakespeare was not in a mood for mirth. ‘A body has been found in the river near here. I want you to see it.’

  She placed her spoon in the bowl, stood from the table and smoothed down her skirt.

  Her dismay was clear enough to see. She put a hand to her mouth as though she would gag at the horror that lay before her.

  ‘Is it the Frenchman?’

  She nodded hurriedly, and then turned away. ‘Yes, it is Monsieur Seguin. Even without . . . even so horribly mutilated, I recognise him.’

  Shakespeare was surprised. He had thought that Kat Whetstone did not have a squeamish bone in her body. She was tough, resolute and had the stomach of a hardened soldier. What was it about the death of François Leloup that so unsettled her? Was she afraid?

  ‘Who did this?’ She had retreated to the doorway and held her head averted from the corpse.

  ‘That is what I mean to discover. And to do so I need to find Buchan Ord. If you truly have the information that you promised Mr Cooper, then end your games now and give it to me without further delay. Ord must know something about this man’s fate.’

  ‘John, I have not been playing games. All I know is that they planned to meet here in Stratford.’

  He looked at her coldly. ‘I believe you know more.’

  She met his eye. ‘Very well. Perhaps I led Mr Cooper to think I had more detailed knowledge, for which I beg forgiveness. But one thing you cannot deny: Mr Seguin’s presence here – even in death – must indicate that Buchan is somewhere nearby. And it is my desire to find him as much as it is yours.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE BURIAL OF Benedict Angel was a grim, dirty affair. The gravedigger excavated a ragged hole at the crossroads near the place where his body was found. His mother stood at the edge of the pit, her head hung low, her despair complete.

  Few townsfolk had dared come, for they knew the dangers of being associated with papism or treason. Shakespeare and Boltfoot stood beneath an old gibbet, charred where someone had tried to burn it down many years ago. They were a few yards from the grave. Will, Anne and her siblings were there with Shakespeare’s father and mother. So were the Dibdales, who farmed the land near Hewlands and
whose son was also a fugitive priest. A score of the braver souls from Shottery and Stratford stood their ground with courage, all too aware of the problems that could be heaped on their families by being recognised as papists.

  On the other side of the grave, twenty yards from the proceedings, Richard Topcliffe watched with Ananias Nason. Topcliffe had a black book in his hand, a quill and a horn of ink. Ananias pointed to each of the mourners in turn and muttered. As he did so, Topcliffe followed the pointing finger with his eyes, then scratched away in his book.

  ‘That man could give the reformed religion a bad name,’ Shakespeare said to Boltfoot.

  Boltfoot said nothing. He was wondering about the hole he had dug just a few hours earlier. He had gone to great lengths to ensure it was deep enough, but given their poor tools and the lack of time, he was unsure it was adequate. How deep was it? Three feet, perhaps. Four at the most. He did not feel easy.

  Shakespeare sensed his anxiety. ‘I know what you are thinking, Boltfoot,’ he said quietly. ‘We will talk of it later.’

  Just as the coffin was about to be lowered into the grave, Topcliffe handed his book and writing implements to Nason and walked forward. He shook his head. ‘Put it down. You’re not wasting good English oak on a traitor.’ The pall-bearers nervously set the coffin on the ground. Topcliffe pulled out his dagger and prised open the lid. Without ceremony, he upended the casket and the body rolled into the grave with only the winding sheet to cover it. Topcliffe pulled the coffin to one side, and then spat into the grave. ‘Now fill it in.’

  One or two mourners crossed themselves and Topcliffe took back his black book and made more marks in it.

  Shakespeare was surprised Florence Angel wasn’t here. He had been certain she would have heard about the funeral and would have come. No one from Arden Lodge had appeared.

  Rafe Rench arrived just as the earth was being piled into the hole on top of the corpse. He walked up to the widow Angel, who was now on her knees, her hands clutching at the mud. She was being comforted by Shakespeare’s mother, who held an arm around her bony shoulder. Rench bent down and rasped words into Audrey’s ear. His words were clearly audible.

  ‘Ready to sell now? Name your price and I’ll halve it.’

  Audrey Angel buried her face in the dug soil, clutched handfuls of mud and wiped it all across her face, in her mouth and eyes, as though she would join her son in the earth.

  Shakespeare felt sick. How had this quiet town and village, this corner of Eden, been rent asunder like this? Neighbour against neighbour, and all in the name of religion and greed. He watched the hole being filled. As the mourners drifted away, so did Topcliffe and Nason and Rafe Rench.

  Shakespeare’s mother came over. ‘You must do something about this, John,’ she said as she clutched his hands.

  ‘I will do all I can, Mother.’

  ‘I know you will.’ She smiled at him, and then turned away to join her husband on the walk back towards Stratford. At last, only the widow Angel was left. She made a final sign of the cross over the grave and whispered some words. Her face was covered in mud and she was shivering and seemed short of breath.

  Shakespeare approached her. ‘I want to help you, Aunt, but you must help me.’

  ‘Help? There is no more help. My life is done.’

  ‘No. There must be some small speck of light. For you and Florence. Anne will come to you. Please, listen to her and do what she says.’

  Audrey Angel wiped her wrist across her cheeks, but the tears would not stop. ‘For the sake of Florence, I will listen. But if anything happens to Florence, then I will block my ears and eyes and mouth for ever.’

  She hung her head again and they watched her walk off across the meadow. She looked ill and thin. These events were taking a heavy toll on the woman. When the soul despairs and rots, the body will never be far behind.

  ‘Come, Boltfoot, I have seen enough.’

  He turned away, and was startled to come face to face with Harry Slide. Shakespeare stared at him for two seconds, then grasped him by the arm. ‘Load your caliver, Boltfoot, and shoot this man in the leg if he tries to get away.’

  Boltfoot unslung his gun and began to load it.

  ‘Mr Shakespeare,’ Slide protested, ‘there is no need for this. I have come to you of my own volition.’

  ‘If you have something to say, say it.’

  ‘What I have to say, Mr Shakespeare, is that events are proceeding. Fast.’

  ‘What do you mean, Slide?’

  ‘I mean the conspirators are almost on the move. They mean to free the Scots devil and carry her away to France.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘It is my business to know such things. It is what Mr Secretary pays me for. And I shall hope for a recommendation from you that he gives me twenty marks at least for this intelligence. Now, please, will you ask your man to stop pointing his gun at me? Such things have a tendency to go off when least expected.’

  ‘Who is on the move? Who are these conspirators?’

  ‘You know as well as I do who they are. You are no fool, for Mr Secretary would never have employed you if you were. Now, I beg you . . . before Mr Cooper does me some damage.’

  ‘No, you will run again – and I have questions to ask.’

  ‘I promise I will not run. I came to you because my inclination is to ride for Sheffield Castle, which is a sieve. We must stop it up. We could ride together.’

  Shakespeare sighed. ‘Put up your gun, Boltfoot, but if he moves without my say-so, cut him down. Now then, Mr Slide, tell me more.’

  Slide bowed low, like a courtier. ‘Our meetings thus far have been too short, but now I am yours and you must consider me your servant. Mr Shakespeare, you can do with me as you please in the service of Mr Secretary and Her Royal Majesty, and all for a small price in silver.’

  ‘I’m promising you nothing. Get to it, Slide. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘I know what is happening at Arden Lodge. Horses are being readied, weapons polished and oiled. It cannot be long. Yes, they could be stopped here. You could arrest them all here this very day. But you would have no evidence against them. And nor would you know the names of their co-conspirators in the north. From what I know of Mr Secretary, I would suggest he might prefer us to surprise them in Sheffield, where the whole conspiracy will unfurl and their fellow plotters will reveal themselves.’

  ‘Why do I have such difficulty believing a word you say?’

  ‘Because you have been well taught by Sir Francis Walsingham. You are right not to trust me, or any other man. But that does not signify that I am untrustworthy.’

  For a moment, Shakespeare felt himself sinking into Slide’s lure, but then he shook his head. ‘No, Mr Slide, go alone to Sheffield if you wish. If you are who you say you are, then report to the Earl of Shrewsbury. He will know what to do with your information – if you have any.’

  Shakespeare’s first duty lay here, finding some way to protect his family against lethal forces that assailed them on all sides.

  They tethered their horses in the woods and made their way to the outskirts of Arden Lodge on foot. Approaching from the northern side through the trees, they avoided the woodland paths and nearby farmland where they were more likely to be spotted.

  The edge of the forest was thick with ferns. Together they crawled through the dense foliage until they had a good view of the back of the house. Over by the stableyard Edward Arden was talking with a man, perhaps a groom. Arden was dressed in a heavy riding coat. He had a petronel in one hand and several swords in the other. Close by, horses were being saddled and loaded with packs.

  Shakespeare peered closer. No, Arden wasn’t talking to a groom. He was talking to Harry Slide, who was also dressed in a heavy riding coat and boots. What was Slide doing here? Was he playing some sort of double game? Was it possible that he did dirty work for both sides, with loyalty to neither? Perhaps that was how he paid for his expensive silk doublets and his sapphire button
s. Shakespeare touched Boltfoot’s arm and gestured towards the trees to the west of the property. They inched their way round until they had a view of the gardens and there they saw what they were looking for: Florence Angel.

  She had just emerged from the house and was walking purposefully through the ornate gardens towards the woods. At her side was the mouse-like priest Hugh Hall. Both were dressed for riding.

  ‘Have your caliver ready,’ Shakespeare whispered.

  Boltfoot unslung his weapon and checked that it was still fully loaded. It was a fine, ornate weapon, won from a Spaniard on the far side of the world. It had a wheel-lock mechanism, was light enough to carry slung across his back and was his most prized possession. He pushed it out in front of him and gazed down its short muzzle.

  ‘What are your thoughts, Boltfoot?’

  ‘Too far for a certain kill.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone killed. I want to rescue the woman.’ Shakespeare had no doubt that Edward Arden and John Somerville and their fellow conspirators were digging their own graves, but it was Florence who was the greatest threat to Will and Anne. The problem was, he very much doubted whether she wished to be rescued.

  ‘Are there others inside the house?’ Boltfoot asked.

  ‘Probably two men and two women. There could be more.’

  ‘And you do not wish any of them killed?’

  ‘No. If they are engaged in treason, the law must take its course. What I want is to seize the woman and spirit her away without the others knowing what has happened. It would be best if they thought that her disappearance was of her own doing.’ He touched Boltfoot on the arm and pointed. Boltfoot took his finger from the trigger. John Somerville had emerged from the back door waving his pistol. Florence and Hall turned and began to increase their pace.

  ‘Come away, Hall,’ Somerville shouted. ‘Mr Arden wants you.’

  ‘We must make our peace with God,’ the priest called back.

  Florence took the priest’s arm and continued towards the woods.

  ‘Not now, you lazy arse! Pray later.’ Somerville aimed the pistol at Hall, but then appeared to change his mind and pointed the weapon at a wagtail as it pecked its way across the lawn. He pulled the trigger. The weapon recoiled and Somerville fell backwards. The shot blew away a lavender bush and the bird flew off at speed.