by Tony Hays
Now, at last, with this knowledge to comfort me, I could mourn for my friend properly. And I could love my wife again, and bring happiness to my house.
———
I stopped once more at John Davenant’s inn. Such was my good humour that I spent an hour outside playing with young Will Davenant. The more I looked at him, the more I realized that he was indeed Shakespeare’s son. But I would say nothing to anyone, neither furthering the rumour nor stopping it. Let people think as they would.
Jane Davenant wanted to know all about London, what the women were wearing and did I see the queen. John was more the businessman, wishing to know about prices and what London inns were charging for a chamber. Did their wine seem watered? How much did the hostlers charge for seeing to horses? Such things as I would never think to question. But it reminded me that I needed to see Matthew, who ran my business. He was a good strong, solid man. Once I had seen him as a proper match for my daughter Margaret, but it had been some time since I had let my mind wander afield in that vein. Now, with this behind me, I could once again be a proper father to my children.
But the next morning, as I went down to the tavern to break my fast and prepare to leave for Stratford, I was startled to see a new customer, seated with his back against the wall. Malcolm Gray.
He smiled at my entry, but it was a sad sort of smile.
“Simon! Please join me.” I saw nothing threatening in his posture, and so I did as he asked.
John Davenant brought me some eggs and crusty bread with a bit of pork. Malcolm had the same.
“What brings you to Oxford, Malcolm? I thought I had seen the last of you, at least for a while.”
Malcolm paused in his eating, wiped a crumb of bread from his beard, and leaned down into a satchel at his side. Rising up, he put a bound book in front of me. I recognized it immediately, one of John Hall’s casebooks where he recorded the treatment of his patients.
“Where did you get this? Was it you who attacked John and stole the book?”
“No, one of George Wilkins’s scum did that. The king ordered me to bring this to you.”
“The king? I thought you served Edward Coke.”
Malcolm grinned. “One man may have many masters, but I lied to you earlier. Coke recognized my abilities, but he brought me to the attention of His Majesty, who saw something in me that he could use. It was King James who kept the noose from about my neck. I was on loan, shall we say, to Coke.”
“So he sent you to return John Hall’s property to me?” I was truly confused.
“Open it to the week before Shakespeare’s death. Read the entries.” He paused and motioned for John Davenant, who hurried over with a tall mug of ale.
“ ’Tis too early in the morning for drink, Malcolm.”
“Read the passages.”
And I did, slowly. They were written in a sort of Latin abbreviation, but I had had reason before to read passages in John’s books, and he had taught me something of how he wrote them. At first, my reading was desultory, uninterested, but then with widening eyes and fear chilling my bones.
I slammed it shut.
“No! I will not believe it!”
“Did the king not tell you that he learned more of the poet’s death than he wanted to know?”
“Aye.”
“This is why.”
My gaze swung to and fro about the room. I could not focus, not at first, and when I did it was as if my mind was shutting down. I could not think to speak or even grunt.
Malcolm pushed the mug over, and I snatched it up and emptied it. But all that did was enrage me further. Suddenly, I felt limp, the room spun, and all turned black.
When I awakened, I found myself back in my chamber at Davenant’s. Jane sat next to me, applying a cold cloth to my head. “You had a mighty fall, Simon. Good for you that the big man was there to keep you from hitting the floor.”
I jerked my head from the pillow, and it immediately exploded in pain. “Where is he?”
“Right here, Simon,” came a voice from the corner of the chamber.
“Why?”
Jane, glancing back and forth between us, gathered her things and left us alone.
“Why did I bring this to you? The king felt sorry about not giving you what you sought. At first, he thought he had done you a boon, but as he considered it further, he decided that you did him the honour of returning his property and he could do no less for you. He sent me after you with that.”
“Did you read it?”
Malcolm nodded. “I did.”
“Then you know what it means?”
Again, he merely nodded. “Some truths should remain hidden but others must be faced. This is one of those times, Simon. You sought the truth of the matter. It is in those pages.”
I felt that I was in a dream, a nightmare, and that it must all return to normal. But this was no dream. Malcolm was real. The inn was real. I was real.
Jane Davenant hurried in with a mug. “Here, drink this. It is an extract of valerian root and will calm you.”
I took a sip of the bitter fluid. But after the heat struck my stomach, I did feel calmer. I read the passage again and again. Finally, I looked at Malcolm. “You know that there’s only one way to interpret this.”
“I would wish for others, but you are right. John Hall, and others, have much to answer for,” Malcolm added ominously.
“What will I do? What can I do?”
Malcolm crossed the room and laid a friendly hand on my shoulder. “We will go to Stratford together, and together we will seek the best way to resolve this.”
I waited wordless as he paid my bill. He said he had four horses outside, a remount for each of us. Malcolm Gray was a man of many parts. He had known what my reaction would be, and he had prepared everything for that event.
“Not a word to anyone, Malcolm. I must deal with this directly. I do not need gossipmongers blocking my path.”
“In this,” my giant friend said, “I am your servant. I have never been a member of such a close community. So, I will watch and learn, and lend my counsel when it seems needed.”
“You sound as if you have planned all this?”
“No, not planned. I am just skilled at stage managing.”
I found it difficult to stand, but Malcolm gave me his arm and navigated me out of the room into the bright morning sunshine. On any other day, I would have reveled in it. Not this day.
“If it helps, the king knew that this would be a shock to you, but he thought it better that you knew. He told me that perhaps you could have the strength to bring this to a conclusion.”
“How kind!” I muttered bitterly, as Malcolm held a beaker to my lips. The beer burned going down, but it could not help the burning in my soul. “Are you prepared to leave for Stratford?”
“Shouldn’t you rest a bit more?”
“I have rested too long as it is. It is time for me to go home.”
With that, my big friend helped me upon my horse, then he mounted his. I felt comfort at his presence. In the short while that I had known him, I had found him to be an honest man, no matter his earlier life.
Malcolm led the way, as I simply remained blank, clutching John Hall’s notebook fiercely. “John, John,” I thought. “How could you let this come to pass?” For that matter, how had I let it come to pass? I wondered then if the blame could be laid at the feet of all Stratford, and London. But I was seeking scapegoats, others to blame than my own transgressions.
“You should approach this directly, and rid yourself of this burden once and for all,” Malcolm counseled. “The sooner you put this behind, the sooner you may live again.”
“Aye,” I answered simply. But I knew my life would never be the same.
It was the longest journey of my life, and I fear I was poor company for my companion. But Malcolm Gray was not an ordinary man. I saw that from the first. He was content to keep his own counsel, and happy to refrain from offering his counsel to others.
&nb
sp; Usually, on such a trip in the spring, I would enjoy the budding flowers and new growth. But on this trip, I did not even notice them. ’Twas as if I lived in a world without smell or sound, a world without colour.
An hour or two beyond Oxford, I turned to Malcolm and broke the silence. “I have been town constable for many years, Malcolm, and yet I have never faced a situation like this.”
“Every situation is different, Simon. But you are a man born to survive. There are not many like that in this world,” he said. He pointed towards a grove of yew trees off the trail. “It is late. Try and resolve this now and you will make a mess of it. Sleep, and face the world rested. The world will look less dangerous tomorrow.”
So I did as advised, but my dreams were filled with images of Will and Peg entwined, of George Wilkins laughing at me, of Jane Davenant laughing at all of us.
Chapter Fourteen
The sight of Seven Rivers Road was a welcome one. How oft had I traveled this road with Will at my side, going to or returning from the fleshpots of London? We had not a care in the world then. As we passed Holy Trinity Church, I realized with a start that my old friend lay there, already decaying. I remembered something he had written once about sullied flesh resolving into a dew, and the memory sparked a shiver down my back.
The bridge into Stratford was just as I remembered it. With a start, I realized that it had been but ten days since I left. It seemed so much longer. On the morrow, Will’s killer would either be revealed or I would be dead. I should have seen it from the first; I could have saved all of us much pain and sorrow.
“Malcolm, I would have you stop at my house as my guest.”
He shook his head. “No, I will stay at Perrott’s and gauge the mood of the town. I can learn more by listening to gossip if considered an outsider than a friend of yours. People will be guarded if they believe that I am allied with you. If I am a foreigner, they will be more willing to talk amongst themselves.”
With that, Malcolm went his way to Perrott’s and I turned towards Henley Street and my family. I opened the door, and all was quiet within. Mary was not chattering away. Margaret was not scolding her. I heard no sounds at all. I wandered through each room, but all were empty.
“Peg! I am home!”
The words echoed through the empty house.
“Simon.”
I turned and there, standing alone in the doorway, was my cousin Hamnet, the corners of his mouth turned down in sadness. “Hamnet, where is my family?”
“They are at my house, Simon. Mary has taken ill, and we brought her there so she could be better cared for. As soon as I heard you had returned, I came straightaway.”
———
Not five minutes later, I rushed into Hamnet’s house to find my darling baby lying listless, nearly lifeless it seemed, in Hamnet’s best bed, the one reserved for guests. Peg, Margaret and John Hall hovered over her still form.
“What has happened here?” I cried.
Peg turned to see me enter, and I gathered her up in my arms and held her tightly to my chest. The act sparked a cry of surprise from her, and she pushed me away, but just a bit. “Simon?”
I looked down at her. “We have no time for explanations now. Tell me what has happened here, John.” Later would come the time to hear his story of how Will had died; now, I cared only for Mary’s life.
John, looking pale and shaky, shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. “I do not understand it, Simon. She was fine yesterday, and today she is near death. It makes no sense, but she exhibits the same symptoms as Will Shakespeare did.”
A perplexed innocence coloured his words, something that I noted but had no time to pursue. All that mattered to me at that moment was my baby girl.
“Father,” I heard Margaret say. “You have changed!” The wonderment in her voice was pleasing to hear, but did nothing to dispel my panic over Mary.
I released Peg and went to little Mary’s side. I took her hand in mine, her tiny, tiny hand, and squeezed it gently. Mary’s eyes fluttered open and she attempted a smile. “My stomach hurts, Papa.”
“I know, child,” I said to comfort her but with no conviction in my voice. “Cousin John will help you.”
Releasing her hand, I gestured with my head for John to follow me into the next chamber. I took a moment to study him. Wilkins or whoever had been sent to steal the book had done a pretty piece of work on him. Both eyes were still blackened, though the bruises were beginning to lighten. He still wore a bandage about his forehead.
“John,” I began. “I have your casebook, the one that detailed Will’s treatment, the one stolen from you when you were assaulted.”
Shock and disbelief spread across his face. “Simon! If you were involved in this…”
But I stopped him with a raised hand. “I was not, John. But I know who was and I cannot tell you. Let me simply say that there was a reason behind it. Perhaps not a good one, and certainly not one that demanded that you be so savagely beaten. I can tell you that I have exacted at least a measure of revenge for your treatment. But the words you wrote in your casebook have caused me to reach some conclusions on the death of Will Shakespeare.”
John narrowed his eyes. “Speak plainly, Simon. You have never hedged your words before. Do not start at this late hour.”
I waited an extra second. “Very well. Just before Will’s final decline, you gave him a purgative to cleanse his system. Immediately after, he fell into a coma and never awakened.”
The physician nodded. “If my notes say so. I hoped that it might serve to flush his body of the illness, a forlorn hope, but a method that has worked in the past.”
“Were you aware that Sir Thomas Overbury died in a very similar way to Will, and that it is now proven that the purge used on him was poisoned? The Somersets, husband and wife, go on trial in a few days to answer for this crime.”
“I had heard such, aye. What is this about, Simon?”
“I believe that you poisoned the solution in the purgative to kill Will.”
The surprise could hardly have been written more clearly on John’s face. “But why would I wish him dead? What possible reason would I have to do such a thing?”
“You and Susanna inherited New Place, did you not?”
John Hall stepped back and straightened his shoulders with indignation. “I am a man of medicine, Simon. Life is sacred to me. Besides, I liked Will. We got along well. I repeat: I had no reason to kill him.”
Malcolm Gray joined us. I did not ask whence he came; I was merely grateful to have him with me.
Turning back to John, I gave voice to my accusation. “I have the casebook, John. I know that you gave Will a purgative immediately before his final decline. I know that Sir Thomas Overbury was murdered in the same way. The earl and countess of Somerset will be tried in the next days for that murder.” A thought struck me. “Perhaps you were coerced into helping when the initial attempt to poison Will did not succeed quickly. Will knew things, John, that were a danger to certain powerful men. They were frantic to kill anyone that could endanger them. Perhaps that is the reason that you were so passionately trying to warn me away. Perhaps that is even the reason you were so horribly attacked. You became yet another man who knew things that he should not. I arrest you, John Hall, for the murder of William Shakespeare.”
My old friend stepped back, again aghast. “You cannot be serious, Simon! You have no proof.”
“I have enough to hold you as I gather more.”
“But what of your daughter?”
I struggled with my answer, torn between duty and Mary. But if I left John free, he might well flee the town, and then Mary would be in just as bad a condition. My daughter won. “You have always been an honourable man, John, though recent events would argue otherwise. I will trust you not to attempt to flee. I will set Malcolm upon you if you do.”
John glanced up and down at my giant friend. “Have we met before?” he asked.
“Not that I am aware of, Maste
r Hall.”
Malcolm turned toward the door. “I will wait out here, Simon, if you should need me.”
I returned to Mary’s bedside. Peg grasped my hand as I sat down.
“What has caused this sudden change in you?” she asked.
I hesitated before answering. Something deep within was troubling me, but I could not fathom exactly what it was. “I saw many things in London, Peg, many things that caused me to look at life differently.” I paused. “Let me just say that I peeked beyond the curtain at the world that made Will what he became. And I understand it better now.”
“I am glad,” she answered, but there was still much scepticism in her eyes. Only time could dispel those clouds.
But, at that moment, my mind was still wrapped around the matter of Will’s death. I could not see how I could be wrong. The coincidence was just too much to ignore. Just as with Overbury, Will was given a purgative and then began his fatal decline. And, after Will died, John was the next man to fall victim to a horrible assault. And, as I had pointed out, it was John who first and most insistently tried to persuade me to abandon the enquiry. Everything pointed towards John. I did not like it, but I could not avoid it.
Poor Susanna, I thought. She would be devastated that her husband had a hand in her father’s death. Anne Shakespeare would not care. Her passion for Will had cooled many years ago. She might even think that John had done her a boon.
Yet when I looked at him, caring so fervently for Mary, I could not reconcile the man to the deed. “Peg, will you fetch some water?”
She narrowed her eyes, suspicious as to my purpose, but she went to the door, only to be nearly bowled over by a panic-stricken Henry Smythe, Stratford bailiff.
“Simon! What have you done?” he exclaimed, pausing long enough to bend over and prop his hands on his knees, so out of breath was he.
“What do you mean, Henry?” But I knew what he meant.
“You…and that…behemoth…from London. Arresting…John Hall! How dare you?”
Peg, who had crossed the room to my side, now drew back, shock writing a frown across her face. “Simon? Why would you arrest John?”
