Prince

Chapter 16

John Shakespeare found the chief of guards, Edward Wilton, outside the main door of Gaynes Park Hall. ‘I must take my leave, Mr Wilton. Please fetch my horse and weapons.’

‘Leaving in the middle of the night, Mr Shakespeare? Only thieves and murderers sneak from houses at such a time…’

‘Watch your tongue, Mr Wilton, lest you be relieved of it.’

‘I know about you, Mr Shakespeare. Oh yes, sir, I know all about you and your spying for Robin Crookback.’

Shakespeare was tempted to strike the man. ‘I am in the service of Her Majesty. Who do you serve, Mr Wilton? Now fetch my mare, sword and dagger or expect to find yourself arraigned before court. This is Queen’s business and I will not be delayed.’

Wilton’s face was suffused with scorn. ‘I’ll get your bloody horse. Hope it goes lame on you.’

Soon after dawn, Shakespeare arrived at Cecil’s mansion near the Strand. The footman at the door looked at him with a strange mixture of horror and pity, as though he had some grotesque deformity, then hurried away into the house. He returned quickly and said Sir Robert would see him.

He followed the servant through the hallway to the meeting room. Cecil was already there, standing stiffly and unsmiling.

‘John…’

Shakespeare bowed. ‘Sir Robert, I believe I have what you require.’

‘John, there has been another gunpowder blast.’

‘I heard. The Dutch market. Rick Baines arrived at Gaynes Park with the news. I believe there were dead or wounded.’

‘You have not heard then?’

Something in Cecil’s normally unreadable face brought a rush of cold panic to Shakespeare’s chest. He could not draw breath, nor speak. He shook his head.

‘John, sit down. I have grave news. Your wife…’

No.

‘She took the full force of the blast, John. She could have known nothing of it. I am so sorry.’

Shakespeare felt that his knees should buckle and he should slump to the ground, but his joints were rigid, immovable. Like a drowning man, he gasped for air but could not breathe. His body was closing down with his mind, which could not take this in.

‘There was a young Dutch girl with her, who identified her. The girl is badly injured and is presently at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.’

Catherine dead?

Cecil stepped towards him. He was a head shorter than Shakespeare, yet he put his arm about him; perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt moved to open himself to another.

The mother of his child. His bedmate, soulmate.

The footman who had brought him to this room reappeared at the doorway with a flask of brandy and two small silver cups. Cecil nodded to him and he poured out two measures.

‘Drink this.’

Shakespeare obeyed. He downed the brandy in one gulp. Cecil did likewise.

‘Now sit.’ Cecil pushed him down into a chair. He signalled to the footman to refill the cups. ‘Now drink again.’

Shakespeare drank the second dram. The spirit burned down his throat to his belly.

‘ Catherine…’ he managed to say, at last, his breathing long and deep. ‘Is this true, Sir Robert?’

‘It is true, John. There is no doubt.’

‘I should not have left her.’

‘It was cruel chance, nothing else. The Dutch girl says they were there purely on a whim. They were walking by and saw the market. Mistress Shakespeare was one of five that died. Many others are injured. Mr Bedwell from the Tower Ordnance estimates a quarter-ton of powder was used.’

‘Where is she?’

‘The Dutch girl?’

‘Catherine.’

‘Her remains are with Mr Peace at St Paul’s, with the other dead.’

‘I must go to her.’

‘Go then, John. But first, I beg you, steel yourself and tell me what you have discovered at Gaynes Park.’

In the St Paul’s crypt Joshua Peace was at his work as Searcher of the Dead. He was examining the corpse of one of the Dutch market victims. He heard the door open and turned to see John Shakespeare. His face drained.

‘John, I am so sorry.’

‘Where is she, Joshua?’

‘I do not want to show you the remains, John.’

‘I need to see her.’

Peace shook his head. ‘Please, do not ask me that.’

‘I must.’

‘I beg you, remember her as you last saw her. If you see her now that will always be your last memory. In all your dreams and in all your waking moments, it will be there. You will never wash it away.’

Shakespeare was silent a few moments, then his eyes drifted to the mutilated body on the slab. ‘Like that?’

‘Worse, John. Ripped apart. There is nothing recognisable. Without the Dutch girl we might never have identified her. One moment living, the next with God.’

‘You must help me, Joshua. All your skill. I want to find this powderman and do to him as he has done.’

‘There is something… a clue, perchance…’

‘What?’

‘How will you use this, John?’

‘Justice. I want justice, not vengeance. Let the law take its course.’

Peace stepped to the side of the crypt and took a copper bowl from a shelf. He showed its contents to Shakespeare. There were pieces of metal — a toothed wheel, brass or bronze, and shards of steel. They were twisted and mangled, but it was clear that they had been parts from an unusual instrument. ‘I believe these articles constituted some sort of timepiece. Even in this state, it is clear to me that they were fine-made. These parts were found…’

‘In the bodies of the dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘If I am correct, it means there was a time-delay mechanism. The powdermen set the clock, then made their escape. At the predetermined moment, the device released a flint against a steel plate, sending a shower of sparks into the powder.’

‘Like a wheel-lock pistol.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Have you heard of such a thing before?’

‘When I was in the Low Countries I heard of such a method being used at the siege of Antwerp. The town’s defenders used the services of a skilled clockmaker to devise such a machine, which was then used with deadly purpose against the Spanish.’

‘Then I must find this clockmaker.’ Shakespeare stood there, irresolute. Even in his numbness, he could see the truth in what Peace said about remembering Catherine as she had been in life, not in death. His eyes caught a patch of colour close to the old, cold walls of the crypt. There were strips and shreds of material there in hues of green, saffron and rusty-blood. ‘Her dress?’

Peace nodded helplessly.

‘Thank you, Joshua.’ Without another word, Shakespeare left the crypt; he had seen enough.

As he rode north-eastwards with lethal purpose, Shakespeare felt nothing. His heart was empty. He was hunting because it was his instinct so to do, nothing more. He could not examine himself thus, for that would open up the pain, and he had to keep it closed away. There was no time for grief.

The long-bearded keeper of the Counter gaol in Wood Street rubbed his bony old hands and looked at him with surprise. ‘I had not expected you, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed, I had not. I had heard — there was word…’ the ancient, tremulous voice trailed away.

‘Has Mr Mills been to see Morley?’

‘He came yesterday in the forenoon.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare. He did stay no more than an hour.’

‘Take me to Morley,’ Shakespeare said flatly. He scarcely noted his surroundings, the bleak walls, the stench of human ordure, the bold rats playing about his feet.

‘Of course, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Please, follow me.’

The gloomy entrails of the prison were lit by tallow sconces which threw out black smoke and burned in uneven flares, lighting the faces of prisoners in a hideous manner as they leered through their cage bars at the keeper and his visitor. They arrived at the cell where Shakespeare had left Morley. The keeper pushed open the door.

Shakespeare saw immediately that Morley was dead. He hung limply from a noose made of a thin cord tied to the bars of the room’s single high window. Both men looked at the body in stunned silence for several seconds. Shakespeare turned to the keeper, dark fury in his eyes.

‘Mr Shakespeare, sir, I did not know…’ the old man spluttered helplessly.

‘Cut him down.’

The keeper took a dagger from his belt and tried to reach up to cut the rope, but he was not tall enough. ‘Here, give it to me,’ Shakespeare ordered impatiently, snatching the blade from his hand. He sliced at the cord and the body fell to the ground. ‘Who has been in here, master keeper?’

‘No one… just the turnkey with victuals.’

Shakespeare recalled the small gnat-like creature who had brought foul ale when last he was here. ‘Bring him to me. Now.’

The keeper hurried away, clearly panicked and trying to weigh up the implications; these men — Shakespeare and Mills — were important personages. They could bring him trouble.

Shakespeare examined the body. At first sight, there was no reason to believe this was other than a self-killing. Certainly Morley had been frightened enough to take his own life. Mills might well have scared him yet more, with threats of Topcliffe and torture. Yet, from what Morley had said, there were also those who badly wished him dead. He examined the hands and wrists. The wrists had raised weals as if they had been tied tight, but that was not surprising, for he himself had bound the man and dragged him behind his horse. His tongue was engorged and thrust obscenely from his mouth in a way that Shakespeare had noted on other hanged men, so it seemed probable that was the cause of death. But was it a voluntary death?

There was also a dribble of blood from the dead man’s mouth, on his chin and throat. Had he bitten his tongue? Then Shakespeare noticed spots of blood on the stone floor on the other side of the cell, away from the body. They could not have come from the man while he was hanging. He kicked away the straw and saw more blood. Was it his imagining, or was the blood formed into letters? He looked closer. The blood was dried and difficult to discern, but he was almost certain there were two letters there, almost certainly described with a fingertip. They seemed to be initials. There was definitely an R, but what was the second letter? It could be a B or a P. RP, RB. Two names came to mind: Rob Poley and Rick Baines. There were also two straight lines, hooked at the end. Was this a message from the dying Morley? The name of the man who killed him — if, indeed, he had been murdered — or the name of the powderman? With the side of his foot, Shakespeare brushed the straw back over the bloody letters.

On its own it was worthless. Not evidence, not really a clue. If only he had got to Morley. If only he had never left London. But he had gone to Gaynes Park and he had left his wife and family. He punched his fist into the wall and gasped with pain. But even pain was better than nothing; it meant he could still feel.

The keeper returned with the turnkey. Shakespeare towered over the little square-set gaoler by a foot and a half. He looked strong, his arms rippling beneath his filthy jerkin and shirt, but could such a small man have hoisted Morley to his death?

‘What do you know about this, turnkey?’

The turnkey shrugged. ‘Don’t look well, does he, Mr Shakespeare. Nor does your hand, sir. Why, you have a nasty graze on your knuckles, I should say.’

‘Where did he get the cord?’

The turnkey turned his head away impudently. The keeper looked on nervously.

‘Has he had visitors other than Mr Mills?’

‘Ask him yourself,’ the turnkey said. ‘I’m paid to feed prisoners and keep them locked away, not answer questions. If he wanted to top himself, that’s his look-out. There’s always ways to do it for those who are desperate, but who cares. Saves the hangman a task and leaves more victuals for the rest of us.’

Shakespeare turned to the keeper. ‘I do not have time for this. Have this man put in fetters. Send me word when he wishes to answer my questions. He is to stay incarcerated until I say otherwise. And remove the corpse to the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s.’

Shakespeare strode from the Counter prison into the air of London, and found it no more clean or wholesome than that of the gaol. There was a foulness in the city, a miasma of death and decay. He had to go home. He had a small daughter and two adopted children to look after. They would need him. And he needed time to himself, to think and to mourn.