Ruled Britannia (53 page)

So many plays died with their creators. Once he was there no more, who cared about, who remembered, the children of his imagination? They died with him. As worms ate him, oblivion swallowed him. But to leave behind work in print . . . A hundred years from this moment, or two hundred, or four hundred, someone could take a book of his plays off the shelf, leaf through it, and decide to put on
La dama boba
. And when the lady nitwit went up on stage, Lope would live again.

With a sardonic smile, Captain Guzmán returned him to the present: “While you are here and merely mortal, Senior Lieutenant, do you recall any mention of Sir William Cecil at the Theatre?”

“Of Lord Burghley? No, your Excellency,” Lope answered. “I don't remember ever hearing his name there, though I have heard he's dying.”

“He is nearly dead. He is older than Philip, and fails faster. I never did understand why his Most Catholic Majesty spared him after the conquest, but that was his will. Maybe he respected a worthy foe; Burghley towered above the other men, the little men, who advised Elizabeth. Every Spanish officer I know is sure he had one last damnable plot in him, but no one ever sniffed it out.”

“Over in Westminster, Don Diego said much the same thing, sir,” de Vega said. “But I have seen nothing in the Theatre to make me think Lord Westmorland's Men involved.”

“Not the murder of Geoffrey Martin?” Guzmán asked.

“No, sir,” Lope replied. “For all that the mad English constable in Shoreditch mumbles about someone knowing someone who knows someone else—I think that's what he mumbles, for he speaks in riddles (often, I believe, riddles to himself)—he has no proof, none whatever, Martin's murder was anything but an ordinary knifing in an ordinary robbery.”

“It could be.” Guzmán's voice was studiously noncommittal. “Yes, it could be. But, in that case, what of the murder of Matthew Quinn?”

“The murder of—?” That brought Lope up short. “But I saw this Quinn alive and rehearsing only a few days, a very few days, ago. He's dead? When? How?”

“As for when, by the smell and the other signs, only a few days ago—I presume after you saw him last.” Guzmán had a wit so dry, Lope had
taken longer than he should have to notice it was there at all. Now he went on, “As for how . . .” He drew a finger across his throat.

“Where did they find him?” de Vega asked.

“In an alley behind and down the street from a tavern called the Bull Inn, in Bishopsgate,” Baltasar Guzmán replied. “It is not far from
Señor
Shakespeare's lodgings, whatever that may mean. The body was found without a purse, without a penny, so this may have been a simple robbery. It may—but, then again, it may not.”

“Yes.” Lope plucked at his neat little chin beard. “One murder in a company of actors—that means nothing. I wouldn't mind murdering one actor in that company myself. But two? Two murders from the same small group do make you wonder. Was Quinn doing anything out of the way in this tavern?”

Guzmán favored him with an approving glance. He didn't get that many from his superior, and basked in this one. The nobleman said, “Now that, Senior Lieutenant, that is a very interesting question. What I wish we had is an interesting answer. We have no answer at all. No one we can find who was in the tavern that night admits to remembering Quinn at all. No one.”

“Not even the taverner?” Lope scowled. “Quinn liked to hear himself talk, and he wore an ill-fitting periwig. He would not be easy to forget.”

“Someone had stolen the periwig, too, by the time the body was found,” Captain Guzmán remarked. Lope made a small, disgusted noise. Guzmán nodded and continued, “No, not even the taverner. He says Quinn wasn't a regular and he never wastes much time with people who aren't regulars. People who are regulars swear he is telling the truth.”

“Would they say the same if we questioned them—properly?” De Vega had no trouble contemplating torture, but didn't care to come right out and name it.

“Another interesting question. Maybe, for that one, we'll find an answer,” Baltasar Guzmán replied. “Meanwhile, though, I want you to work with this Constable Strawberry, who has been trying to catch whoever killed Geoffrey Martin. Maybe he can help us here, if these two killings are connected.”

“Yes, your Excellency,” Lope said dutifully. But he couldn't help heaving a sigh. “I don't much like this Englishman, though, and I don't think he's very bright.”

“As may be—he is the man on the spot, and he has been working on the matter since Martin died,” Guzmán said. “Martin was a good Catholic man. His killing should not go unpunished.”

“Was Quinn a good Catholic man?” Lope asked.

Looking unhappy, Captain Guzmán shook his head. “No, or no one thinks so. Before we came here, he was a Protestant. He went to Mass afterwards, but no one ever thought he was pious.”

“No link there, then,” Lope said. Guzmán sent him a warning look. He hastily added, “But I'll go find out if there are any others.”

Feeling put upon, he rode up to Shoreditch. When he got there, one of the watchmen who assisted the constable told him Strawberry was out on rounds. The fellow had only a vague idea of where Strawberry might be found.
I could be at the Theatre
, Lope thought resentfully,
not chasing down this slow-witted Englishman who isn't likely to know much anyway
.

He finally came upon Walter Strawberry marching up a muddy street, swinging a truncheon by its leather thong. “Give you good day, Constable,” he called, hurrying towards the other man.

“Why, Master de Vega, as I live and expire,” Strawberry said, tipping his hat. “Greetings and palpitations to you, sir.”

“Er—thank you,” Lope said. Listening to the constable always reminded him English was a foreign language. “I have just learned of the death of the player, Matthew Quinn.”

“He died the death, indeed. Murther. Murther most foul, and robbery of's periwig—another felony besides,” Strawberry said. “Mind you, I am factitious of who the miscegenate was.”

“Are you?” Lope said. Constable Strawberry solemnly nodded. De Vega asked, “Think you this slaying hath connection to that of Geoffrey Martin?”

“Connection? Connection?” the Englishman said. “Why, man, if some low cove had not connection with Geoff Martin, and now with Quinn, they'd not be slain. Will you tell me I'm wrong?” He stuck out his jaw in challenge.

“Meseems you have mistook me,” Lope said. “Be there in your view connection betwixt Masters Martin and Quinn?”

“Give me leave to doubt it, sir. They were both honest men, or honest enough, and with such vice square against all conjunctions Biblical—”

De Vega muttered a quick
Pater noster
. He hoped God was listening.
Trying to get through to Walter Strawberry was like going to the dentist, save that Strawberry drew sense rather than teeth. “Let me try once more,” Lope said with what he reckoned commendable calm. “Think you the same man did slay these twain?”

“Ay, belike,” the constable said—at last, a definite answer.

Lope felt like cheering. “And who was this man?”

“Why, the murtherer, assuredly.” Strawberry stared at him. “Who else might he be?”

Another
Pater noster
did not suffice de Vega. Neither did crossing himself. Through clenched teeth, he asked, “What calls he himself?—this man you reckon the murtherer, I mean.”

“Know you of a wicked cove, hight Ingram Frizer?”

“No, sir. I ken him not.” Lope shook his head.

“Well, him I believe to be the benefactor in question.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Lope said. “I am most terribly sorry. One of us hath of your tongue a grasp imperfect. Which that may be . . .” He threw his hands in the air. “I own I know not.”

“I have spake English since I was a puling babe: it is the tongue of my captivity,” Strawberry said. “You, then, needs must be inerrant.”

“Would I were!” Lope exclaimed. “Tell me more of this man Frizer.” Maybe he would learn something. He dared hope. Stranger things must have happened, though none occurred to him offhand.

“He hath a knife and a temper and a quick way with both,” Constable Strawberry said, and de Vega understood every word. The Englishman went on, “You being intermittent with them of the Theatre, I feel it recumbent upon me to give you fair warning: this Ingram Frizer hath acquaintance with Nick Skeres.” He paused expectantly.

“Again, I am sorry, but this name I know not,” Lope said.

“Do you not? Do you not indeed, sir? Well, Master Skeres, though he'll not slit your weasand with a cuttle, still and all he is a most vile cozening rogue, a cheat such that Judas In's Chariot hath not seen the like. And”—another portentous pause—“
he
hath acquaintance with Master Shakespeare, the poetaster.”

“Poetaster? Shakespeare? You show yourself no judge of poesy, Master Strawberry, an you place him so low. Can it be doubted he is amongst the finest poets of our time? I think not.”

“Can it be doubted he knows Nick Skeres?
I
think not,” Strawberry returned.

Again, Lope understood every word, at least individually. What he
didn't understand was what, if anything, all those words meant taken together. He muttered something nasty under his breath, knowing he had no choice but to try to find out.

 

A
FTER ANOTHER PERFORMANCE
as the ghost in
Prince of Denmark
, Shakespeare scrubbed chalk and black greasepaint from his face in the tiring room. Every so often, someone would come up and tell him how frightful he'd been. His thanks were distinctly abstracted. He kept looking around the room, wondering if Christopher Marlowe would dare appear. His fellow poet would make a ghost even less welcome than that of the unhappy prince's father.

Thus far, no sign of Marlowe. Shakespeare knew nothing but relief. Maybe Kit's folly had limits after all. Maybe. He dared hope.

“Well played, Master Shakespeare! Most well played!”

Shakespeare had a towel over his eyes at that moment, but he didn't need to see to be sure who spoke to him. “For which kindness I do thank you, Lieutenant de Vega,” he replied.

“It is nothing, nothing at all,” Lope said grandly.

When Shakespeare took the towel away from his face, he got a surprise after all, for there beside the Spaniard stood Cicely Sellis, Mommet perched on her shoulder. Hoping to hide his alarm, Shakespeare bowed to the cunning woman. “Give you good day as well, Mistress Sellis.”

“And to you,” she replied. “I have more than once before seen you give the ghost, but never, methinks, better than today.”

“You are too generous by half,” Shakespeare murmured.
I'd liefer give than give up the ghost
, he thought.
But have I the choice?
He turned to Lope de Vega and murmured again, this time only two words: “How now?”

How are you now come hither with Mistress Sellis and not with the Spanish jade who cost a nobleman's life?
was what he meant. By the way Lope coughed a couple of times and turned red, he understood all the words Shakespeare hadn't said. But he answered smoothly, saying, “We two, being friends and having in common a friend, were together glad to see him play his famous role.”

“Just so,” Cicely Sellis said. Her cat yawned.

De Vega smiled. Shakespeare didn't care for the expression; Mommet might have worn it playing with a mouse. The Spaniard was going to take his revenge. And he did. “Know you a man called Ingram Frizer, Master Shakespeare?”

I might have guessed
, flashed through Shakespeare's mind. No one in the company had spoken much of Matthew Quinn's death. No one had seemed much surprised to hear of it, either, not when Quinn's tongue had flapped so free. But two murders in one company had drawn the dons' notice as well as that of Constable Strawberry, and Shakespeare didn't suppose he should have been much surprised at that.

No more than a heartbeat slower than he should have, he shook his head and answered, “Frizer? No, Lieutenant, I ken no one of that name.” Nobody could prove otherwise—he hoped. A question of his own seemed safe: “Why ask you me of him?”

Sure enough, de Vega replied, “He is suspect in the murther of the player, Quinn.”

“May the hangman sell the rope by which he dances on the air, then,” Shakespeare said. “But why, I pray you, think you he and I be known each to the other?”

“For that you are both known to one Nicholas Skeres,” the Spanish officer said, his voice suddenly hard.

How much did he know? If he knew enough, he wouldn't have brought Cicely Sellis along while he asked questions—he would have brought a squad of soldiers and dragged Shakespeare away. Realizing that helped the poet quell his fear. Lope was only fishing for whatever he might find.

Shakespeare resolved to give him as little as he could: “I have met Nicholas Skeres, ay, but he is no friend of mine. Indeed, I misdoubt him not a little; as I live, he is like as not a queer-bird, his name writ down in the Black Book.” He had no idea whether Skeres had actually gone to prison and had his name inscribed in the register, but he wouldn't have been surprised. And he didn't mind in the least slandering a man he truly disliked. Skeres, he was sure, could take care of himself.