Traitor (22 page)

‘I am going back there. I have a few more questions for our host the innkeeper. I am certain he knew the youth.’

‘Yes. I agree.’

After a few minutes, they saw the constable striding off towards the village. They rode back to the inn. The landlord was in the cellar, rolling in a new delivery of ale casks. He seemed shocked to see Shakespeare looking down at him through the open trap-hatch.

‘A few more words, innkeeper,’ Shakespeare began as he descended the ladder.

‘I told the constable all I know.’

Suddenly the innkeeper’s obsequious manner had turned defensive, almost belligerent. He was an unremarkable-looking man, yet there was something familiar about him. His face was square-set with thick features and a heavy brow.

‘He was satisfied with my answers.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Why? What business is it of yours?’

‘You will find out soon enough when I have pursuivants sent to arrest you – if you do not cooperate with me.’

The cellar was dusty and stank of rat droppings. Shakespeare put his hand to his poniard irritably.

‘Barrow, the name’s Barrow.’

Barrow. That was why the face was familiar. The constable at Ormskirk was called Barrow. This man must be closely related. Shakespeare took a stab.

‘I know your brother.’

The innkeeper shifted uneasily, but said nothing.

‘The constable at Ormskirk. He
is
your brother, is he not?’

‘What’s my brother got to do with this?’

‘It is interesting that you have such a close connection with Ormskirk. How far is it from here, twelve miles, fifteen?’

Again, the innkeeper was silent.

Shakespeare took the poniard from his belt. He moved a step closer. Their eyes met briefly, then Barrow looked away. Shakespeare reached out and gripped the man’s shoulder, twisting him so that he had to look at him.

‘You knew that youth.’ His thumb rubbed the honed edge of the blade, with menace.

‘Get your hand off me. I never saw him before.’

‘That lad was no vagabond. His clothes were almost new.’

‘Maybe he stole them. You said yourself, he was a burglar.’

‘And did you note his hands?’

‘Hands?’ Barrow’s voice was full of disparagement now. ‘Why should I note his hands?’

‘His fingertips were ink-stained. He worked with inks. That does not sound like a common thief or rogue to me.’

The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders dismissively and averted his eyes again.

‘God damn you, Barrow, you will answer my questions or pay a heavy price. A boy has attempted burglary, perhaps murder, and I want to know why – and who sent him. It was remarkable how quick you were to the door of our chamber, like a ferret down a rabbit-hole. You knew all along that he was there because you sent word to his master in Ormskirk – and when the boy arrived at the inn, you let him in. Now tell me his name.’

Ignoring Shakespeare’s poniard, Barrow leant his forearm across the keg he had just deposited. ‘You, Mr Shakespeare, can stick your questions up your southern arse. You are not the law here and you are not welcome. Come for me with pursuivants, will you? You couldn’t raise a band of pursuivants anywhere west of Manchester. Now get out of my inn. I’ve got men upstairs will be glad to scrape out your eyeballs and replace them with your bollocks if you try anything. Understood?’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘You have already told me everything I need to know, Mr Barrow. Good day.’

He turned his back and climbed the ladder from the cellar.

‘Come,’ he said to Eliska. ‘Let us ride hard. I have business to attend to.’

Near Ormskirk, they stopped at a crossroads beneath a sycamore.

‘I must take the left fork, into town,’ Shakespeare said.

Eliska leant across and embraced him, then kissed his cheeks. ‘It is time for us to part. I am leaving this place. I have a wedding to attend, which I greatly prefer to funerals. I cannot abide them.’

‘I understand.’

‘You would be wise to leave, too, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Indeed, my lady.’ He smiled at the formality of her address. He tried to kiss her again, but she pulled back from him.

‘Let us not delude ourselves. It was a fine diversion, nothing more. A little cheer in a barren landscape. Farewell.’

She squeezed his hand, then withdrew her fingers, shook the reins and kicked on, alone, towards Lathom House. He waited a few moments, watching her retreat. He imagined her galloping across England in her carriage with her monkey, accompanied by her loyal coachman. He had never met anyone like her, nor ever would again, he fancied. Briefly he wondered about her tears in the night, then wheeled his horse and trotted the last two miles into town.

The market square, so busy on his last visit, was almost deserted. He went to the magnificent chambers of Thomas Hesketh and hammered at the door. A servant opened it almost instantly.

‘Take me to Hesketh.’

‘He is not here, master.’

Shakespeare pushed past the man into the dark-wood interior and went to the room where he had last seen Thomas Hesketh. It was empty.

‘Where is he?’

‘At Lancaster, master. He will be there some few days.’

‘When did he go?’

‘This morning, early.’

‘But his boy did not go with him?’

The servant said nothing.

‘His scribe, man. He did not go, did he?’

‘I believe not,’ the servant said cautiously, a dark note of suspicion in his voice. ‘Might I inquire why you ask, sir?’

‘Because he tried to kill me last night, in an inn a few miles from here.’

The servant blanched. ‘Parfitt did this?’

‘Yes, indeed. Tell your master, Mr Hesketh, when you see him next. Or, better yet, send him a messenger. Tell him John Shakespeare told you this. Tell him his hireling Parfitt – if that is his name – found nothing.’

Shakespeare turned and strode from the building into the market square.

He had a tight, uncomfortable knot deep in his belly at the thought of what he would find at Lathom House. The portents did not seem good, not good at all. His fear was well grounded.

Tumult awaited him.

D
EATH HUNG OVER
the great house. The pennants fluttering across the battlements were lowered. It was midday but the sky was black. The threat of thunder menaced the air. As Shakespeare approached, he knew that Ferdinando, the fifth Earl of Derby, a man who might have been king, lay dead.

By the time he had entered the great palace, the gloom was utterly pervasive. He dismounted and went into the great hall. Cole was there, issuing orders and responding to questions. A clergyman was talking to him.

‘Yes, my lord bishop, he will be buried in the family chapel at Ormskirk, with his forebears. We will organise everything from here. You need only be there for the service.’

‘I should stay with the body, Mr Cole. It is only right … I must pray for his eternal soul.’

‘The countess wishes to make her own arrangements in that regard.’

Bishop Chaderton scowled. ‘She is bringing in a greased priest, is she? Thomas Hesketh will hear of this, as will the Privy Council.’

Cole scratched in a ledger and did not look up at the cleric. ‘No, there will be no Catholic priest. The earl will be buried according to the rites of the Church in England, just as his
father before him. And I am sure that your services will be required yet again.’ Cole looked up, unsmiling.

The bishop glared at him for a few moments, then sidled away, muttering.

Shakespeare approached. Cole met his eye, his countenance grim.

‘My lord died a few hours since, Mr Shakespeare. It was peaceful at the end. He said last night that he was resolved to die and would take no more remedies nor suffer any liquids to pass his lips, for he wished to fly swiftly into the arms of Christ, lightly, on eagle’s wings. Those were his very words.’

Shakespeare nodded. ‘Where is the countess?’

‘She is with the children.’

‘And the bishop? How did he arrive at such speed?

‘Mr Chaderton arrived last night, meaning to bring comfort to the earl, but the earl would not see him. I believe he also intends conversing with Dr Dee about the wardenship of Manchester collegiate church. There is talk that Bishop Chaderton will be translated to another see in the near future.’

‘Thank you. Keep me informed. I am going to my chamber.’ He began to walk towards the stairway.

‘Mr Shakespeare—’

He stopped. ‘Yes, Mr Cole?’

‘There have been other developments. The searcher, Mr Peace, has had his room rifled. I believe some of his property is missing.’

‘Is he hurt?’

‘He was not in the room at the time, but with Dr Dee. There is yet more news. A messenger has arrived from court. A commission of inquiry is to be sent here, for the Privy Council already fears the worst. It is said the Queen’s rage is tempestuous that a man so great as the late earl, her well-beloved cousin,
should be beguiled and brought to his deathbed in such a manner. She insists the witch who cursed him be caught and made to face the full and terrible wrath of the law.’

‘Who are the commissioners?’

‘Sir Thomas Egerton and Sir George Carey. Sir Thomas has local connections. He is Chamberlain of Chester. He is also well known to the family, having served as an adviser to the earl and his father in earlier times. I think they will be here within the week. I have already sent messages that his lordship has died.’

Egerton. An interesting choice. As a lawyer, his star was rising, newly appointed Master of the Rolls in the Court of Chancery. Perhaps he was helped by the severity of his Protestant faith. He was a scourge of Catholics, having prosecuted the Jesuit priest Edmund Campion, Mary Queen of Scots and the Babington plotters. He spoke of Catholicism as ‘the devilish doctrine of Rome’. How closely would he inquire into the death of an earl suspected of being a crypto-Papist? He had been pleased enough to see Mary of Scots lose her head. And yet, if he had been close to this family in his earlier days, perhaps he would wish to see justice done.

Carey was a lesser known quantity, an administrator and diplomat – a man who went wherever he was ordered in the service of the Queen, and dealt with matters to her satisfaction.

‘What of the earl’s brother, William – the sixth earl as he must now be known – does he know what has happened?’

‘Word has been sent to him on the Island of Man. The weather does not look good for the sea crossing, I fear.’

‘No. Indeed not. Well, I am sure he will take up his inheritance in due course. Now, where is Joshua Peace?’

‘You will find him in his chamber. And I have here a letter for you, brought by messenger this very hour.’

Shakespeare took it, surprised to see it bore his brother’s seal. He stuffed it inside his doublet to read later and went in search of Joshua Peace.

Peace’s door was open. He went straight in and clasped the searcher’s hand.

‘Joshua, I have heard—’

‘I am well, John. But I am mighty glad you have returned. This place has been in turmoil. Wailing, shouting, heavy footfalls as servants and retainers run hither and thither. Not only that, but I have been robbed, my belongings turned upside down, my clothes torn to shreds.’

‘The Lamb letter?’

Peace sighed. ‘Safe. I am sure that is what they were after. But I had it about my person.’

‘Joshua!’

‘I applied gentle heat to it. You were right to think there was more to it. I revealed secret writing – lemon juice or some such ink.’ Peace grimaced. ‘It still does not mean much, not to me. The secret writing itself is like a riddle or puzzle. A riddle within a riddle.’

He fished in his doublet and held up a scrap of paper on which he had scrawled a few words.

‘
The killing birds wait in line. The hawks edge nearer, even as golden eagles under soaring eyries dive. Malevolent dove, evil nightjar, baleful ibis and twisted hoodcrow toss overhead, preying on insects, shrews or newts. Let dogs fester, orphans rot, ere rooks lay down and die
.’

‘God’s blood, Joshua, what is this about?’

As he spoke, it occurred to him that whoever Cecil had assigned to the decoding of the letter would not have discovered this hidden writing from the copy.

‘I have no idea of the significance. I will keep that copy. You take the original.’

Joshua delved once more into his pockets and produced the Lamb letter, wrapped in waxed paper for safe keeping.

Shakespeare took it. The secret writing was quite clear where the heat had revealed it.

‘The Earl of Derby’s crest has an eagle and child. It is everywhere. Even the inns are named after it. This is about Derby.’

‘But what exactly can we learn from it?’

Shakespeare read it again. It meant nothing to him.

‘All I have learnt is that it is mighty important to someone – important enough to ransack your chamber.’

And perhaps mine, too. Was that why the boy with the knife was in his room at the inn?

‘Well, I will continue to study it,’ Peace said. ‘But my work here is done. I must be away, to London.’

‘I know, Joshua, I know – and I thank you for your trouble in coming here. Before you go, however, I must ask you to examine the body of the earl, as a searcher rather than a physician.’

‘Very well.’

He looked at his old friend closely. Joshua Peace was normally imperturbable, but he seemed shaken. The evidence of the attack was all around – ripped clothing and bedding, a broken chest. Shakespeare could understand why he would wish to return to London. Summoning servants to help, the two men put the room to rights as best they could before Shakespeare set out for his own quarters, pulling out his brother’s letter to read on the way.

The letter was but three lines long and shook him to the core.

‘
John, I have grave news. There has been an incident at St John’s. Andrew is missing, accused of a most shocking crime. Come to Oxford immediately. Your loving brother, Will
.’

Shakespeare stopped in his tracks, scarce able to take it
in. He felt his heart would stop with fear. It changed everything. He raced back to Joshua Peace, threw open his door and thrust the letter towards him.