by Tony Hays
Could Judith have killed her father in revenge? I kept the question to myself.
“Did he have any strange visitors during his illness? Anyone unfamiliar?”
“Not really. A man from London came twice, but I do not know his name. He was a very large man. Otherwise, it was simply John, myself, Judith, Mother, oh, and Peg and Margaret helped out a few times, when Father needed to be moved so that we might change his linens.”
I nodded. This was usual. That Peg helped might seem odd to some, but Anne Shakespeare was very understanding of her husband’s wandering eye. I suspect that she did not care where he found his pleasure as long as it was not in her bed.
“This large man, was it Ben Jonson? What did he look like?”
“I have never met Ben Jonson.”
“But surely he visited New Place,” I protested.
Susanna smiled. “Mother always locked us away when Jonson visited Father. She was afraid his sins would taint us as well.
“Beyond the man’s size, he looked ordinary enough. Something like a tavernkeeper. Good clothes. Not expensive, but well made.” Susanna, much like her father, had a discerning eye.
It could easily have been Jonson. “And you say he came twice?”
“Aye. Both times he left with some documents. I asked Father, but he said it was of no consequence. ‘A debt paid,’ he told me.”
What could that have meant? From my admittedly limited acquaintance with poets, I found that they often spoke in riddles, and Will had been no different. Still, it may simply have been connected with Will’s London affairs. He owned several properties there, the Blackfriars gatehouse among them. But it had been some time since I had talked to Will about such things, and he might have divested himself of some, if not all, of his London property.
Before I could think of another question, Susanna reached over and clasped my hand. “Simon, John will counsel you to leave this be. He is a good man, but overly cautious. I would have you find my father’s killer. My daughter adored Father, as did I. To have him ripped away from us before his time is the definition of cruelty. I know that Father wronged you, and I know that you have borne a grudge against him ever since. But I have never done you harm, and so I ask you to do this for me if for no other reason.”
Moisture grew in the corners of my eyes. “I will do this for three reasons, Susanna—for you, for the friend Will once was to me, and because it is my duty.”
I left without speaking further to John.
———
I turned away from Hall’s Croft then and followed Southern Lane, on my way to Bridge Street and then my house on Henley Street, just a few doors away from where Will was born.
But before I could reach my home, an idea struck me. It had been but a few minutes since I had heard the bells tolling the ninth hour. This, I knew, would be an ideal time to beard the lions, or at least one of them.
———
I was not certain where I would find my quarry but I suspected he would be at Atwood’s, a tavern he himself owned; if not there then I would find him at Perrott’s. Reputation was a good predictor of actions.
But there he was at my first choice, young Thomas Quiney, vintner and, in my estimation, common ruffian. In my duties as constable, I had come to know him well. He was a disgrace to a respectable family. Indeed, in the months prior to Will’s death, I had dealt with him many times.
“Master Saddler,” Quiney greeted me. He was a tall, thin scarecrow of a man, with greasy brown locks. I had never fathomed why he was so popular with women. Just a few weeks before, he had been charged with bastardy for impregnating Martha Wheeler. The poor woman proved to be doubly unfortunate. She died in childbirth, along with Quiney’s bastard child. Or perhaps she was the fortunate one.
Only two or three other men graced Quiney’s tavern. They looked as if they had crawled from the same cess pit as their host.
“What brings you here, Constable? To drag me before the Consistory Court again? I have already been excommunicated.” Quiney’s voice rasped roughly against my ear.
I sat at one table. “A beaker of your best cider, Thomas.”
The son-in-law of Will Shakespeare retreated behind his bar and filled a beaker. He brought it back to me and sat. “I will ask you again, Master Saddler. Why are you here? Your kind usually does their drinking at Perrott’s.”
“I am enquiring into the murder of William Shakespeare,” I said, keeping my eye on him.
He just nodded. “I heard.”
“You heard that he had been murdered?”
“Think you that I do not speak to my wife’s relatives? For many weeks I have been the most hated man in the Shakespeare household. But overnight you have stolen the crown from me, and I was glad to relinquish it.”
“I doubt that my fall from grace has been partnered with a rise in respect for you.”
Quiney chuckled, a bit nervously I thought. “Perhaps not. But when you are so universally reviled as I, any relief is a blessing. So, Simon, am I now your chief suspect?”
“You are,” I confirmed with a smile.
“Well,” he replied, “if I killed him, I made a mess of it. He changed his will to keep me from profiting from my marriage.”
I did not like Quiney. I had never liked him. “How did you manage to convince Judith to marry you?”
Quiney grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “I taught her what a man and a woman can do for each other.”
“Please, Quiney. You come from a fine family, but you yourself are disgusting. You are a rogue and a scoundrel. Judith is the daughter of Stratford’s leading citizen. Where is the attraction?”
He did not answer immediately. First, he refilled his own beaker, draining it as if it were water. “You are a constable, Simon. Have you not observed that it is the children of the best families who cause the most trouble?”
I could not argue with that. Judith Shakespeare had been a problem to her parents since her twin, Hamnet, died. The boy’s death was a tragic accident; he had fallen into the River Avon and drowned before anyone could reach him.
Hamnet had been very much his father’s son. Bright, active, he was beloved in Stratford. And Judith had been his constant companion. Will once told me that he believed that Judith blamed herself for her twin’s death. “I can see it in her eyes, Simon,” he said. “And I fear she will never believe otherwise.”
It was after Hamnet’s death that Will began preparing for his eventual return to Stratford.
Pushing the death of young Hamnet from my mind, I answered Quiney’s question. “Yes, I have noted that in the past. But Judith Shakespeare is a young woman of intelligence. You are a worthless piece of—”
I slapped away Quiney’s pathetic attempt to strike me, without even rising from my seat or spilling my drink. The other patrons chuckled at his discomfiture. And embarrassed he was. “The next time, Quiney, come at me with something more than a drunken punch.”
Standing, I threw a halfpenny on the table, which he snatched up. Quiney might have poisoned Will, but he had help if he did. And that realization led me down a path that I had been avoiding. Could Judith have poisoned her own father? Could a rogue as disgusting as Quiney have persuaded her to kill William Shakespeare?
———
Anne Shakespeare very nearly slammed the door of New Place in my face. “Are you here to cause more trouble?”
“I am here, Mistress Shakespeare, to speak with your daughter, Judith.”
“You are not welcome.”
“I am here on official business. It seems that your husband was murdered.”
Anne Shakespeare, the lines in her face growing even more severe, narrowed her eyes. “Is that your judgement?”
“No, Mistress. It is the judgement of your son-in-law, John Hall.”
For the first time in my acquaintance with her, Anne Shakespeare was without words. She stepped aside and hung her head as I entered.
Judith was in the kitchen, sitting silently at a table. S
he looked up at my entry and attempted a smile. Though she had given Will her share of trouble, I had never doubted that she loved him. But the sparkle in her eye could flash to anger in a moment, and she often turned the full fury on her father.
“I am sorry for your father’s passing, Mistress Quiney.”
“He loved you, you know,” she said, turning away from me. “I understand the pain he caused you, but he did love you.”
“You know of that?”
“We spoke often of you. We spoke often, once.”
“But not later?”
She smiled wistfully. “No. As I grew older, the limits that Mother set upon me grated against my soul. I went to Father for relief, but he would not entertain my suit.”
“He supported your mother?”
“He told me that as he lived in London, it was not his place to overrule her. That surprises you?” She read my face well, just as her father once had.
“I would think that, given Will’s disposition, he would have encouraged you.”
Judith shook her head. “Father felt sorry, I think, for Mother. He was not a man without feeling, Simon, though I know you might disagree.” She paused. “I even begged him to take me to London with him.”
“And he refused?”
“I think I would have been more burden than help. If only Hamnet…” But her voice trailed off before she could finish the thought.
I had no need to ask further questions. This girl was no murderess. I saw quickly that while her twin lived, they had found solace in each other’s company. But her spirit was much like her father’s, and when Hamnet died, she was left adrift.
I would not ask her why she had married Quiney. That act of rebellion, and rebellion it was, had been directed at her mother, not Will. I feared that she faced a lonely and unhappy life, a product of her own nature and making.
I found Anne sitting before a fire in their front room. She was sewing and barely glanced up when I entered.
“Mistress Shakespeare?”
“I suppose you wish to ask me if I killed my husband?” she answered without looking at me.
“I wish to ask you several questions. Of which that is one.”
She stopped her sewing and finally looked at me. “Why can you not leave well enough alone? William is dead. Let him stay in the grave where he can do no more harm.”
“Harm?”
“I need hardly tell you of his proclivities, but far more than that, he has corrupted an entire generation with his plays and his poetry. We are not meant to enjoy life, but to use it to prove our worth for Heaven. Yet, his plays preach a false gospel, one that will condemn those corrupted by it to eternity in Hell. Is that harm enough for you?”
I realized that I had recoiled at her assault. “Yes, Mistress, so you have told me, but I am not here to debate religion with you, nor what influence Will might have had. I am concerned only with the manner in which he died. Susanna has already told me some of the details, but you live here. Other than this man from London, who came twice, did Will have any other visitors from outside Stratford?”
“Just one other. That brute Ben Jonson showed up on our door about a week after William fell ill. I did not wish to let him in, but he was sober and seemed very concerned.”
“Did he act suspiciously?”
“Ben Jonson always acts suspiciously, but I saw nothing nefarious in his visit.”
I knew Jonson, in some ways better than Will. He was capable of murder, but I saw no reason he would want Will dead. “You had no wisewomen in to see to him?”
“I had John Hall. Several women of the town helped me care for him.”
Which was exactly what Susanna had told me. This line of enquiry was getting me nowhere. Anne may have hated all that Will symbolized, but she would not have killed him.
I took my leave as Anne returned to her sewing.
———
My stubbornness in this affair would come back to haunt me, I knew. Susanna would tell Peg. They were great friends. Or Anne or Judith might. I had not told John truly why I felt so certain about my path in this affair. It was indeed my duty as constable, and I did owe it to my old friend. But more than that, more than all of that, I wanted to find out who Will Shakespeare had been, what had made him the destructive soul that he was. I needed to know what manner of man could destroy the marriage of a dear and trusting friend without a hint of regret, unless I was to believe Judith. But what bothered me most right then had nothing to do with such deeply guarded secrets. No, what troubled my heart as I hurried along the streets was the passion with which John Hall had attempted to dissuade me from my course. For it carried less concern and more warning, and that was out of character for Shakespeare’s son-in-law.
Chapter Three
You should avoid all of this, Constable Saddler,” said Henry Smythe, bailiff of Stratford. Will’s own father, John, had once worn the robes of the bailiff, the town’s highest officer, as had my own kinsman, another John, in the years after. But John Shakespeare, driven by the desperation of his financial failure, had broken the law, something that cautious Henry Smythe would never do.
Smythe was a fat little man, more concerned with the privileges that came with his office than the duties. But we had got along well in past years and had never truly clashed, not even when I delivered a summons to his son for failure to pay his debts.
“And why is that?” We were entering the Guild Hall.
He shrugged. “Shakespeare is dead. I never liked him all that much, and I suspect that others feel the same. Some feel that Stratford is a better place without him.”
“And some do not, Master Smythe. Do not forget that he was my friend. If he met his death at another’s hand, then as constable it is my duty to enquire.”
“Whatever you wish, Simon,” he waved me off, yawning to impress upon me his lack of interest. “I would not expect to find everyone eager to cooperate though, if I were you.”
“Remember, Master Smythe, that if I find the man who did this, I will have to bring him before you as Justice of the Peace.”
“Ha! You think I would be allowed to sit on such a case? No, you should speak immediately with Devereux to determine the path you will travel in this. Mind you, he will either order you to cease your enquiry or to keep it as quiet as possible. He dislikes controversy.”
Sir Walter Devereux was the sheriff of Warwickshire. It had been something of a family office as his father and grandfather had both held the title in years past. I did not know Devereux well, as almost every case in Stratford was settled by Smythe serving as justice. Rare was the situation that called for the high sheriff to be disturbed.
Smythe’s attitude did not surprise me. In his time on the council, he had evinced little interest in my duties, unless they touched upon him in some personal way. I had been smart enough to make certain that any cases involving aldermen were handled quickly and with due discretion.
Excusing myself, I hurried away from Smythe and swiftly went to the chamber allotted to me. Decorum had dictated that I tell him of my investigation, but beyond that I had no responsibility to him for its conduct. Indeed, at that particular moment, the fewer who knew my plans, the better.
I did not need my key, as the door stood open. But it should not have.
“Ho! Master Saddler!” came a pleasant voice from within.
“Good morn, Master Addenbrooke.”
Jack Addenbrooke was one of my watchmen. Supervising the watchmen was a sometimes onerous part of my duties. All of us worked without pay, according to the records, but we all received some small compensation by way of expenses. Usually, we all had other occupations, but I was fortunate. My father had been a miserly old man and a trader in wools and other goods with more than just a bit of luck. I was the only child who survived infancy, and so I inherited all—house, money and business, which I simply hired a good man to run for me. Jack, who had been hauled into court for debt less than a decade before, had been bequeathed to me by the last con
stable. He was more fond of drinking than watching, but no serious incidents could be ascribed to him. Yet.
“Was all quiet last night?”
Jack, seeming as round as he was tall, with cheeks painted a merry red by the Gascoign wine he swilled, smiled. “Verily. Hardly anyone about the lanes.”
“Good.” If I were to concentrate on my new task, I did not need problems elsewhere. I opened the parish coffer, where we kept our valuable parchments and documents. Rummaging through it for a summons I needed, I almost did not hear Jack’s next words.
“Except for one ruffian, hanging about outside Master Hall’s house. I ran him off forthwith.”
“Who was he?” I tried to show only moderate interest; Jack was renowned as Stratford’s nosiest gossip.
“Some scoundrel from London, or at least his tongue sounded like someone from that hellhole.”
“That’s odd,” I answered. And it was. Stratford was a rural town, where everyone knew everyone else. Several of our sons had made good careers in London—Richard Field, aye, even Will’s brother Gilbert, and Edmund too, Will’s youngest brother. But Ned had died nearly ten years before. A messy affair involving an illegitimate child, I had been told. But few Londoners ever came to Stratford. Remembering Hamnet’s comment from two nights before, I realised that this marked two Londoners in a fortnight, or perhaps two visits by the same man.
“Let me know if he appears again, Jack. It may be that we can arrange some time in the stocks for harassing our watchmen.”
“Aye. I will. Off to bed now. Tonight will come quickly.” And Jack stumbled out the door, though whether he stumbled from fatigue or wine, I did not know. Truly, at that moment, I did not care.
Why would anyone from London be hanging about outside John’s house unless it had something to do with Will? Or was I making assumptions? I did not know for certain. Will often went to London in his last years, and John frequently joined him. This stranger could easily be someone with whom Will had done business, heard of Will’s death and had come to offer his condolences. Or it could be something else, equally as innocent. Or, certainly, it could be just a common cutpurse who had tired of London and opted to try the provinces.
