Traitor (50 page)

‘But you
know
that the earl was murdered. We both know that.’

Cecil shook his head. ‘I know nothing of the sort. I know that there were some curious goings-on at Lathom House. I know, too, that many people might have wished him dead. I confess that it suits my own purposes that he is succeeded by his brother William, whose loyalties are more certain. But that does not mean I killed him. Nor do I have any reason to believe that he died of anything but natural causes. A rupture of the gut, perhaps, a canker within, some bad shellfish … These things happen every day. Did he take his own life, deliberately, with some poison? He was always of a melancholy humour. We will never know what killed him. It is a tragic waste of a
young life, but nothing out of the ordinary. If he was murdered, it was not by me, nor by my command and not with my knowledge.’

Shakespeare downed his goblet of wine. It was good wine, but it felt raw against his throat. His very nerve endings felt raw.

Cecil reached out and gripped Shakespeare’s hand, briefly.

‘A man in my position must do many bad things, John, but I promise you this: I have never stooped to murder, nor ever would. I have called you here today because it is important to me that you know that and believe it.’

‘And Eliska? What of Eliska? I know she obtained poison in Lancashire.’

‘Then you know more than I do.’ Cecil nodded slowly. ‘Dear Lady Eliska. That is where my deceit lies. I realise now that I should have told you more about her before you went to Lathom House. I wanted you to observe her without prejudice. She seemed desperate to do some harm to Catholicism and the Inquisition, but I couldn’t be sure whose side she was really on. There were times when I confess I doubted her. I knew she had to go to the French embassy, but who could know what really passed within those walls? In the end, we know that she spoke truth, that she was on our side; she had a rare passion and we made use of it, which you may think shames England. But it was what she yearned for. With this in mind, Sir Thomas Heneage had great plans for her – plans that needed your assistance. First, though, I wanted your reaction, for I trust your judgment.’

‘As you say, you should have told me before sending me to her. It might have saved much grief.’

Cecil threw wide his hands. ‘
Mea culpa
, as the Romans say.’ He stood up from the settle and walked across the room. ‘
Mea maxima culpa
, John.’ He took a paper from a shelf. ‘Do you believe me? May I tear this up?’

Shakespeare saw that it was his letter of resignation.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

He looked hard at Cecil. Did he really not know of the poisonous mushroom and Eliska’s role in acquiring it?

‘John, I need you. England needs you. You will be recompensed in full for all Ickman has done to you, I promise you. But I need you in my service. Your actions in Brittany … I can think of no other man who could have done such a thing.’ Cecil’s fingers hovered over the paper, ready to rip it to pieces.

‘Arrange an audience for me with Sir Thomas Heneage. When I have spoken with him, I will give you my answer. First, I have business elsewhere.’

Shakespeare bowed curtly and walked to the door. Cecil watched him go, deep foreboding in his careful eyes.

Sending Boltfoot and Andrew back to the family, Shakespeare went alone to Mortlake. Cold rage had supplanted the unreasoning fury he felt before. He still had violence in his heart but now he considered the consequences beyond the act. He could not implicate Boltfoot and Andrew in this.

At first the door to Bartholomew Ickman’s opulent dwelling was not opened. Finally, at the third beating of his poniard and fist against the oak, he heard a shuffling of feet from inside and the door was opened. A serving woman stood there in apron and smock.

‘Mr Ickman is not here, master.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Gone. He left soon after noon.’

‘Where is his manservant?’

The woman looked from side to side, as though fearing she might be overheard.

‘Speak, woman.’

‘He left soon after, sir. I think …’ She hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘I think he has fled, master. In truth I do not know what is going on this day. Others have run away, too. There is a great fear, sir.’

For a moment, Shakespeare wondered whether the woman was going to break down in tears. He pushed past her into the house and strode from room to room. He went to the solar where he had met Ickman and Topcliffe. The hall echoed with silence. The whole place seemed deserted. What in God’s name was going on here?

The serving woman was still cowering by the door when he returned.

‘I will be back,’ he said. ‘Tell your master that there is no hiding place on earth from me.’

Two men were standing by the river. Shakespeare recognised them instantly. Provost Pinkney and his giant of a sergeant, Cordwright. They were watching him and he noticed that they both smiled.

He walked over to them and they made no attempt to avoid him.

‘Mr Shakespeare, we meet again,’ Pinkney said. ‘How fares private soldier Woode? Itching for blood and steel?’

‘He fares well enough.’

Shakespeare turned to Cordwright. The last time he had seen him, he was wasting away in a Weymouth gaol cell. Now he seemed almost back to his immense strength.

‘And how did you slip the hangman’s noose, Mr Cordwright?’

Pinkney laughed. ‘Takes more than a gaol cell to hold my sergeant.’

‘So it appears. Well, Mr Pinkney, it seems a mighty
coincidence to find you here. Are you friends of Mr Ickman? Perhaps you lay fires for him.’

‘Indeed not, Mr Shakespeare. We are here because our word is our bond, as always. Small tasks for great gentlemen. No, indeed not, we are no friends of Mr Ickman, though it would be fair to say we have made his acquaintance.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘Why, I believe he is in the woods. Did he not venture into those woods yonder for his morning perambulation, Mr Cordwright, along that path?’

Pinkney nodded towards the thick woodland that stretched away from Ickman’s property.

‘Yes, sir, Provost Pinkney, I believe he did.’

‘But enough of common chatter, Mr Shakespeare,’ Pinkney said. ‘Our work here is done and we must be away. Be so good as to convey my greetings to private soldier Woode.’

Shakespeare had already noted two horses tethered to a tree close by. Pinkney and his sergeant walked towards them, mounted and rode away slowly in the direction of London, without turning back. Shakespeare watched them depart, then followed the path into the woods.

The body of Bartholomew Ickman hung from the branch of a tree, swaying gently in the breeze. Shakespeare gazed upon his grotesque face without emotion. The dead man was wearing the buttercup silk doublet he had worn in the fields of Lancashire, divining for treasure with Dee. His arms were unbound and a stool was on its side close to his dangling feet as though he had stood on it and kicked it away to take his own life. But Shakespeare knew better. He had a very good idea how Ickman had died.

D
R
J
OHN
D
EE
was waiting when Shakespeare arrived back at his brother’s rooms in Shoreditch. Shakespeare glared at him with angry disdain.

The old alchemist was dressed in his flowing gown once again. He stood rigidly, with his back to the window, and looked nervous. Shakespeare wondered why he was here. He did not wish to see this man; he had enough problems of his own to contend with.

‘I was told I might find you here,’ Dee said tentatively. ‘Your Dowgate neighbours.’

‘Why are you here, Dr Dee?’

‘I heard about your home. The blaze … a terrible mishap.’

‘It was no mishap. The fire was deliberately set. It was arson, attempted murder of three adults and four children. It was a monstrous act.’

‘I know. That is why I am here. I can keep silent no longer.’

Will was out at the playhouse. Andrew and the children were in the other room with Jane. Boltfoot was here, though, eyeing Dee with wary curiosity. Shakespeare turned to him.

‘Boltfoot, please bring Dr Dee some wine. I think I wish to hear what he has to say. Sit down, Dr Dee.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But I must warn you to be straight with me. I have little patience today.’

Dee sat on the hard wooden settle. His beard was growing again and he looked much like his old self. He folded his hands in his lap, his voluminous sleeves draped across his thighs. He closed his eyes, as if summoning up some divine energy to enable him to say what had to be said. Shakespeare watched him closely, and waited.

‘Here.’ Boltfoot handed Dee a beaker of sweetened wine.

Dee opened his eyes, took the beaker, sipped it, then put it on the settle at his side.

‘What I am about to say does not come easy, Mr Shakespeare. But at the hazard of my immortal soul, I must tell you certain things.’

Shakespeare watched and listened, but said nothing.

Dr Dee produced a paper from his sleeve. ‘This is the letter you found about the person of Father Lamb. When I was at Chevening, Mr Mills showed it to me, for it meant nothing to him. He thought to try whether my intellect would fare better.’

‘And did it?’

Dee nodded his head gravely. ‘I told Mr Mills that I could not understand it, that it was all about birds and seemed meaningless. But that was a lie. In truth, I saw instantly what it meant. It was an acrostic of sorts, and the words leapt from the page at me. Look now, examine the initial letters of the verse you uncovered.’

‘Hand me the letter.’

Dee leant across and placed the paper in Shakespeare’s hands. He gazed at the hidden words that had been revealed by heat.

‘
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
.’

Shakespeare took a quill from his brother’s table and dipped it in an inkhorn. He scratched the initial letters of the message on a piece of blank paper, then examined what he had written:

TKBWILTHENEAGEUSEDMDENB
IATHTOPOISONLDFORERLDAD.

The letters seemed to have neither sense nor reason, except for one word that stood out like the back-end of a boar among sows.

‘I see the word poison in there, nothing more. Explain to me, Dr Dee.’

Dee shifted close and placed his long forefinger on the paper, smudging the wet ink.

‘At the beginning and end there are nulls, blanks – letters that mean nothing. That is why Mills could not see it. Reading from the H, the first two words become clear –
Heneage used
. You then have four sets of initials for names: MD, EN, BI and TH. After that, it clearly says
to poison LD
.’

‘LD – Lord Derby.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And the four sets of initials?’

‘You know them as well as I do, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Say the names to me. I wish to hear you say the names.’

‘Very well. MD, Michael Dowty; EN, Eliska Nováková; BI, Bartholomew Ickman; and TH, Thomas Hesketh.’

EN. Eliska Nováková. Evil nightjar
.

‘Then it was as I thought. They were all in it, working together.’

‘On the orders of Sir Thomas Heneage, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.’

‘Political murder.’

If this letter had succeeded in reaching Lamb’s Jesuit masters in Rome, the enemies of England would have spread it abroad with glee and rejoicing. No more could England claim moral authority over King Philip of Spain and his despised political assassinations.

‘My question, Dr Dee, is how you were able to see this so clearly from a rag-tag scrawl of letters?’

‘Because I already knew of the conspiracy, Mr Shakespeare. And Father Lamb heard it from my lips.’

‘You told Lamb? In God’s name, why?’

‘Because I wanted to stop it. I wanted to save the earl. I had already done far too much harm, and I was overcome with guilt and remorse. I still am, Mr Shakespeare. That is why I am here today. I seek to expunge my sin. I am an old man. I do not have long to find redemption.’

‘So you were part of the conspiracy, but had second thoughts: is that what you are saying?’

‘No. No, I never meant murder against any man.’

‘What, then, was your sin?’

Dee sighed deeply and his tight jawline throbbed. For a moment it occurred to Shakespeare that he might weep.

‘My sin, Mr Shakespeare, was my involvement in the original plot to ensnare the earl, the plot that ended with poor Richard Hesketh’s cruel death on the scaffold. Richard was my good friend of many years’ standing, and I used him most foully.’

Shakespeare threw a questioning glance.

‘You wish to know why I betrayed my friend. It was not intentional. It all began when Heneage invited me to dine with him in the early summer of last year. The talk turned to my
time in Prague and he asked me who I knew there. I mentioned several names, including Richard. Heneage seized on the name and questioned me about him.

‘I thought no more about it, but Heneage called me to his home at the Savoy again a few days later and told me about the Privy Council’s fears that Lord Strange – Lord Derby as he would become – was a crypto-Catholic, and that he was manoeuvring secretly against the Queen. Heneage told me the Council wished to compromise him, bring his plans out into the open and thus dash his hopes of ever succeeding to the throne. To this end, they had conceived a scheme. A letter would be brought to him from Catholics in Prague, begging the earl to be their figurehead. If he did not reveal the letter to Queen and Council, he would be proved a double-dealer, just like Mary of Scots before him. It was suggested that Richard Hesketh should bring the letter to the earl, as if it had come from exiles. Heneage needed my assistance, though, for Richard would trust me above all men. If he did this thing, all former charges against him would be dropped, I was told, and he would be allowed to live unmolested with his family once more. As for me, in return for my small help, I would be offered a living, perhaps Winchester or the collegiate church of Manchester.’