Martyr (17 page)

“What of your colleague, Piggott?”

“I don’t like the man. I don’t trust him and he doesn’t trust me. Piggott was quite familiar with Cotton, clutched him to his foul, pox-ridden breast and whispered secrets in his ear. If you want to know more of Cotton, you had best speak with him. Piggott is your man for that. I think he could be dangerous.”

“And the three ladies at the dinner?”

“Simpering, stupid women who would rather be occupied by God in heaven than enjoy a decent fucking here on earth, Mr. Shakespeare. I fear they are all on a mission to die, for which I am sorry, for they are harmless fools posing no threat to the state.”

Shakespeare made to leave. “I will see you are recompensed for this, Plummer. Keep your ears and eyes wide. I want word of a Fleming, one with a taste for being beaten by women, and beating them in turn. And tell me one more thing: the gaoler seemed mighty nervous when I arrived. Why do you think that might be?”

Plummer scratched his stones once more and then put his hand down the back of his woolen smock to rub his neck. “Fleas, Mr. Shakespeare,” he explained. “The place is alive with them. I fear they live on the rats, which are as fat as well-fed cats. Yes, the gaoler. A good man, runs a good prison here except for the fleas. But he has a little secret: can’t quite let go of the old faith. And you know, sir, there is another thing that might have set his nerves on edge; you were not our only visitor today.”

“Really? Who else has been here?”

“Richard Topcliffe. Like you, he was asking questions about our little supper party and Mass. I am happy to admit to you, sir, that he scared me half witless.”

Every muscle in Shakespeare’s tall, lean body clenched. “Topcliffe?”

“He, too, seemed most interested in the ladies and Cotton. Threatened me with the rack if I did not speak plain, so I told him everything I could without demur.”

“Did you mention the work you do for Slide?”

“No. I am not such a cony as that. But I did mention that he might get far more information from Piggott. I fear Father Piggott may now be even less kindly disposed toward me. …”

“Thank you, Mr. Plummer. Feel free to use my name if you ever feel you are in danger and need assistance. But you may find it does not work miracles with Richard Topcliffe, I am afraid.”

Plummer put that thought away. He took Shakespeare’s hand and held it. “Thank you. And I hope I have not given you my fleas to take home.”

Outside the cell, the gaoler was waiting, and walked Shakespeare the few steps to Piggott’s dungeon. The priest was in a corner of his cell, hunched into himself like a wren in a hard frost. He did not move or utter a sound when Shakespeare entered and clanged shut the door.

“Mr. Piggott?”

Piggott did not move.

“Mr. Piggott, I will talk with you whether you wish it or not.”

Still no movement. Shakespeare grasped the collar of his coarse woolen smock and pulled him up sharply. As he did so, Piggott’s head flopped into view and Shakespeare recoiled in shock; it was a bloody pulp. His nose looked broken, his eyes swollen red dump lings with pinpricks of light. The man tried to sit up, but groaned as if his ribs were cracked.

Shakespeare moved his hand forward to help him, but Piggott shied away as if he would be hit. He tried to speak, but no human sound came from his mouth. Shakespeare went back to the door and ordered the gaoler to bring water and rags to wash the wounds, and try to find bandages.

The gaoler was reluctant to comply. He stood there, dumb and inert.

“If you have any sense, gaoler, you will do as I say. Or perhaps you would like me to put out your little secret? I am sure Mr. Topcliffe would like to hear of your Romish leanings.” It was a low trick, but it worked. The gaoler looked shocked for a moment, then lumbered off. He returned hastily with all that Shakespeare required, save the bandages. “Now clean the blood from the prisoner.”

The gaoler gaped at Shakespeare as though he were mad. Why would anyone wish to clean the blood from a prisoner’s face? But when he saw the scowl in Shakespeare’s eye, he sighed in submission and advanced on Piggott, grumbling as he roughly wiped the clotted blood away. When he was at least partially clean, Shakespeare handed the gaoler two pence and told him to go to the nearest apothecary for muslin bandages to wrap Piggott’s injured chest.

“I cannot leave my post. It is against the law and my terms of employment.”

“Then send one of your turnkeys. Do I have to remind you this is Queen’s business? Would you have me draw your neglect to the attention of Mr. Secretary Walsingham?”

“It seems everyone is on Queen’s business today,” the gaoler grumbled as he trundled off once more.

“Now, Piggott, we are alone,” Shakespeare said in a low, urgent voice as he stood over the prisoner, who, he had to admit, did not look much better cleaned up. He was an ill-favored individual with heavily pitted skin and thinning, lank hair. “Be straight with me or I will have you in the Tower this day, where you will be confined to Little Ease before questioning under duress. This is a matter of state and I will be answered.” Little Ease: a cell so small that a prisoner could neither stand nor lie down, nor even sit properly. “Little Ease, Mr. Piggott. Discomfort so severe that you would beg for the backbreaking pain of the pillory in exchange.”

Piggott picked a stray clot of blood from his nostril. He looked like a dog that had been whipped to the point of death. “Don’t worry.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’ll tell you everything I told Topcliffe.” He winced with pain and put a hand to his injured jaw.

“Well?”

“I told him I had a message to pass on. It was a message for a priest, a priest whose name I do not know. All I know is that he is lodged with Father Cotton.”

“And what was the message?”

“Cogg. Cogg of Cow Lane. Just that and no more.”

“And who gave you this message to pass on?”

“I … I do not know.”

“I could have you on the rack this day, Piggott. Do you know what the rack does to men’s bodies?”

Piggott nodded sullenly. All men knew that the rack could pull bones from joints, that it could tear muscles and tendons irrevocably so that the racked man would never walk or use his arms again.

“So answer me. Who gave you this message to pass on?”

“It was a Frenchie. I do not know his name. He came to me here and said he was sent by Dr. Allen. He may have been from the embassy of France. In truth, Mr. Shakespeare, I do not know. That was enough for me. He gave me money, two marks. Such money is the difference between life and death in a place like this.”

“And what did you consider the message to mean?”

Piggott was in so deep now, all he could think of was staying alive. He would sacrifice the Pope, Cardinal Allen, and the English College at Rheims for the slim chance of life. His voice grew even lower and seemed to scour his mouth. “I took it to be the whereabouts of a weapon of some manner. A dag, perhaps. That is the way to kill princes these days, I believe.”

Oh yes, thought Shakespeare, a wheel-lock pistol is certainly the way to murder princes; it had worked with William the Silent and now Elizabeth feared it would work its evil on her. A wheel-lock pistol could be ready primed and was small enough to be hidden in a gown or sleeve. That was why wheel-lock pistols—dags—were barred from the precincts of royal palaces. “Is that merely your surmise? Or do you have some reason for believing this?”

Piggott shook his head wearily. “Surmise, Mr. Shakespeare, merely surmise.” He turned his head once more to the wall and slumped back into his fetal position, the only sign left of life being the fast and harsh sound of his painful breathing.

Chapter 21

T
WO HEAVILY ARMED MEN STOOD AT THE DOORWAY
to Cogg’s property in Cow Lane. Shakespeare dismounted and approached them. “Is Topcliffe here?” he demanded.

They looked at each other, winked, then turned back to Shake speare and smirked. “No entry,” one of them said with studied nonchalance.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You could be the King of Sweden’s monkey for all I care. No entry.”

“I am John Shakespeare, secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham. I am here on official business and I will be admitted.”

“Try it if you like. Best of luck.”

Shakespeare stepped forward. The two men immediately moved closer to each other to form an impenetrable wall. They wore thick doublets of oxhide, garments that would deflect most knife blows. They carried skenes and wheel-locks in their belts and swords in scabbards, which they did not bother to draw. Both were strong of arm and broad of chest. “If you do not let me pass, you will answer to Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary. Do you understand what that means?”

“Look, whoever you are, do you think we’re worried about you or bloody Walsingham? We answer to Mr. Topcliffe and he answers directly to the Queen. Do you understand what
that
means? Now then, which of them two would scare
you
more?”

At that moment the front door opened. Topcliffe stood there. He glowered at Shakespeare, then diverted his attention to the two guards. “Get a handcart,” he ordered. “We’ve a body to move.”

The more vocal of the two guards bowed obediently, then shuffled away.

“Topcliffe,” Shakespeare said, “what is going on here?”

Topcliffe was about to turn back into the building, but he thought better of it and stopped. “What’s it to you, Shakespeare?”

“You know very well, Topcliffe. I am in the middle of an official investigation.”

“And by God, you are slow. Would you have found Cogg without me? Would the foul priest Piggott have talked to you if I had not softened him first? I doubt you could find a cunny in a whorehouse.”

“Topcliffe, we’ve got to work together on this. We may not employ the same methods but I know we share the same ends—the security of our Queen and country.”

“And what sort of milk-livered country will that be with the likes of you fighting for it? A country of men who would rather kneel and kiss the feet of the Antichrist than wash their hands in the blood of the Queen’s foe. I would rather spill every last drop of Popish blood than see a single hair on her body harmed. Would you? Which church does your father go to of a Sunday, Shakespeare? Tell me that.” Topcliffe spat at the ground between them. “Come in then, boy. Come and see what we have found and explain to your Walsingham why you always follow where Topcliffe leads.”

Shakespeare’s heart was pounding with rage, yet he swallowed his pride and stepped into the building. A large body lay beside a barrel, its head a mask of caked blood. Flies feasted and buzzed.

“Stabbed through the glaziers,” Topcliffe said. “Looks like a pig, don’t you think? Get him down the shambles and turn him into pies, no one would know the difference.”

“Who is that? Cogg?”

“Oh yes, that’ Cogg all right. Whoremonger, broker of stolen goods, wild rogue with a taste for meat and venery.”

“I take it you knew him?”

Topcliffe put his heavy boot square on Cogg’s dead chest and leaned forward so that Shakespeare could smell him. He could get you anything you desired. He was dangerous but he had his uses, Shakespeare. Sometimes. He didn’t always choose his friends wisely, as you can see. But we know who did this to him, don’t we?

“You think it’s Southwell?”

“I
know
it’s the boy-girl. And I know
why
. A dag. Southwell bought a dag from Cogg to kill our Queen and then tried to cover his tracks by killing him. We both know the Popish beast Southwell did this, but you will flounder like a fish in a bowl while I will catch him and make sure he departs this life in great pain and torment, wriggling like an eel as I remove his pizzle and sweetbreads and hold them, dripping, before his bulging eyes. And I will do so
before
he harms our Queen.”

Shakespeare had much more to say, but held his counsel. He knew that it would all be so much wasted breath. It was impossible to talk to Topcliffe; he was set in his brutish ways. Like a terrier with game in its jaws, nothing would prize him from his belief that the Jesuit Southwell was on a killing spree, with Elizabeth as his ultimate target. For one brief moment, Shakespeare had a flicker of doubt. Perhaps Topcliffe was right in this? The moment passed. Yet he had to ask one more question. “Topcliffe, you took my witnesses. Where are they? I must talk to them.”

“What witnesses would they be?”

“You know very well. The vagabonds from Hog Lane. You removed them from Bridewell where I had sent them in custody.”

“Vagabonds? Gypsies? I know nothing of any gypsies, Shakespeare. And if I did, I’d rack them, every one, then hang them. I’d clear our country of such foul slurry.”

“Are you denying that you had them removed?”

Topcliffe said nothing, merely looked at Shakespeare with scorn, then turned back to his work.

There was nothing Shakespeare could do on the matter. He had no way of proving anything against Topcliffe. And even if he did, who would care? Most people in this town would consider the disappearance of four vagabonds a good thing and shake Topcliffe by the hand for it.

Shakespeare wasn’t certain what he was looking for, but he searched the house, impeded at times by Topcliffe’s men, who delighted in trying to trip him and bar his way. After an hour, he left and set off for Seething Lane. He badly needed to see Harry Slide again. Something had been nagging at Shakespeare since his visit to the Marshalsea. How exactly had Topcliffe heard of Piggott, Plummer, and the Mass said by the Jesuit priest Cotton?

Slide was waiting for him, but he wasn’t alone. He had with him a constable and Walstan Glebe, publisher of
The London Informer
. Glebe was bound by the hands and was being restrained by the constable. He tried to protest at his detention, but Shakespeare would not listen. He ordered the constable to wait with Glebe in the antechamber, then took Slide through to the solar, now nearly restored to the condition it was in before being ransacked. “Harry, before we talk about Glebe, I’ve got to ask you something. How did Topcliffe know about the Marshalsea Mass?”

Slide looked genuinely shocked. “Topcliffe knew?”

“Oh yes. He got in there before me. He beat Piggott halfway to death. Have you been dealing with him?”

“Mr. Shakespeare, no. Never. I have never dealt with Topcliffe.”

“Only I couldn’t help but wonder about your injuries …”

“In God’s name, no. No. That was as I told you. I was robbed and beaten in the street by an unknown attacker.”

“So I would be wrong in wondering whether Topcliffe beat the information out of you as he beats everyone else to get what he wants?”

Slide shook his head vehemently.

“So how do you think he knew?”

Harry Slide sat down. He looked utterly distraught, but Shakespeare knew all too well how he could dissemble. Walsingham had once said that if Slide ever gave up intelligencing, he could get work as a player with Mr. Burbage at the Theatre, so clever was he at playing a part. Slide shook his head. “
Anyone
could have told Topcliffe. The gaoler, one of his turnkeys, a visitor, prisoners. They come and go, Mr. Shakespeare. The Marshalsea is not the Tower. It is as tight as a goodwife’s sieve.”

Shakespeare sat down beside Harry Slide. He wasn’t by any means certain that he believed the man, but he was sure he needed him. “All right. Leave it at that. I will accept your denial. But let me tell you, Slide, that if ever you
do
consult with Topcliffe, you will make an enemy of me, and an enemy of Mr. Secretary, who prizes loyalty above all else. Now tell me what you know about Cogg of Cow Lane.”

A painful smile at last forced its way on to Slide’s yellow-bruised face. “Gilbert Cogg! The fattest, greediest felon in all of London, Mr. Shakespeare. But a jovial fellow.”

“A dead fellow now. Murdered. Stabbed in the eyes with some thin blade.”

Slide did not look surprised. “Ah, a sadness. Not a great shock, however. Cogg dealt with many dangerous people. He loved gold more than anything. More than meat, drink, or lechery. Gold and rare stones were always his things and I know he would do anything to acquire them.”

“Such as supply a pistol to a hired Spanish killer?”

Slide’s eyes finally met Shakespeare’s. “So that is what this is all about. Is there some connection with Piggott?”

“He was the intermediary. Whoever organized Cogg to supply the weapon got the message to his killer that it was ready via Piggott. So now we have a killer loose with a weapon, the like of which we can only imagine. To stop a determined man with a wheel-lock, we would have to keep Drake hidden away in his cabin, seeing no one until the Admiral is safe at sea. I fear that is most unlikely. And with Cogg dead there is no witness to identify the assassin.”

“What of the Jesuit Southwell?”

Shakespeare laughed humorlessly. “Is he the killer? Everything we know about him suggests not. Tell me this though, Harry: if Cogg was so wealthy, where was his gold? I searched his house thoroughly. Topcliffe did, too. There was no sign of it.”

“Cogg
was
wealthy. Maybe Topcliffe did find it and has kept it for himself. Or maybe he kept his treasure banked elsewhere. He had a whorehouse beside the Bel Savage, much to the irritation of the city aldermen. They found it far too close for comfort, though many were not above making use of its services.”

“Take me there one day, Harry. It might be an education. Sometimes I think I have lived far too innocent. But in the meantime, go there and make inquiries. The geese might know something. First, though, let us speak with Mr. Glebe and see if we can’t find some reason to give him a spell in the pillory. A spattering of eggs and a back that aches beyond enduring might make a better man of him. Where did you find him?”

“Back at Fleet Lane. He was trying to take apart his press to get it out of there. Evidently your friends at Stationers’ Hall were slow off the mark.”

In the antechamber, Glebe hung his head sullenly. His hands were bound but he could use his fingers as a comb, teasing his thick, wiry hair into a fringe to conceal the branded L. He looked up as Shakespeare and Slide entered the room, then thrust his bound hands in front of him. “Please, untie me, Mr. Shakespeare. I am not going anywhere.”

Shakespeare nodded and the constable proceeded to cut him loose. He picked up a small bell from a coffer and rang it. Jane quickly appeared. “Some ale, please, Jane.” Slowly he began to pace the room. Glebe’s eyes followed him expectantly. Finally Shakespeare turned to him. “Well, Glebe, it seems your days of beslubbering reputations are over. At the very least I have you on charges of illicit printing and resisting arrest. With your previous record, I think the very least you can expect is the loss of a hand, both ears, and ten years with hard labor—”

“Mr. Shakespeare—”

“Have you anything to say to me before I consign you to Newgate and let the law take its course?”

“What can I tell you, sir? All I have done is repeat gossip that I have heard in the taverns and alehouses.”

Jane returned with ale. She poured beakers for Shakespeare, Slide, and the constable but hesitated before giving any to Glebe until Shakespeare nodded his assent.

“No, Glebe, that is
not
all you have done. Someone who knows about the murder of Lady Blanche Howard has spoken to you. I think a spell in Newgate and the thought of what is likely to befall you might concentrate your mind. I do not have time to listen to your denials.”

Glebe looked even more sour, as though he had swallowed unripe medlar fruit. “Sir,” he protested, “what have I done wrong? I merely wish to exercise my rights as a freeborn Englishman. Are we slaves? Have you forgotten the Great Charter?”

“This is nothing to do with slavery. You know as well as I do that all printed works must be licensed. You have not done so and you will pay the penalty. Had you cooperated with us, we could have let you go about your business, but this matter involves the murder of a cousin of the Queen—and we need to find out who did it. Once you are in the cage, there will be no way out, Glebe. No appeal. I am sure you understand.”

Glebe shrugged his sloping, rounded shoulders. “I have nothing more to say. Do your worst.”

For a moment, Shakespeare was caught off guard. He had expected Glebe to crumple and talk. Surely a man who had known the stench of his own burnt flesh, and the pain associated with it, might wish to avoid further internment and possible mutilation?

“So be it. Take him to Newgate, constable. Make sure he is shackled to the floor and given nothing but porridge and water. And tell no one he is there.”