So fine to meet you, Mr. Cotton, Piggott said, his voice thick and unctuous. I have a message for you to pass on, an important message.
Cotton felt sick. He unclasped Piggott’s talon-like fingers from his arm and found that he was shaking. Stepping back, out of Piggott’s reach, he nodded tersely, took a deep breath, steadied himself, and prepared to say Mass.
With an extrav agant sweep, Harry Slide slapped a broadsheet down on the ale-soaked table. You owe me a penny for this, Mr. Shakespeare, and more.
They were in a partitioned booth in the Bell tavern in Grace-church Street. A good fire was blazing in the hearth and the windows were steamed over. From beyond the paneling came a din of noise as a group of city merchants celebrated the arrival of a carrack from the Indies. It was clear from their very loud and drunken voices that the vessel had come laden with spices and silver, having been away more than a year and feared lost. They had ventured a large amount of money and now their faith had paid off, their wealth increased many times over. This evening they were happily drinking away a small part of their profits while being entertained-if that was the correct word-with a ballad sung with feeling but little joy by a shabbily dressed young troubadour, plucking at his lute in a corner by the kegs. Outside, the sky was cloudless at last and sharp with cold, turning the slush of day to a thin sheet of ice.
Don’t worry, Harry, you’ll get more. A lot more.
Well, there’s a change of tune, Mr. Shakespeare. Yet I would be more content if the minstrel would change his tune, too. He cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted out, Something cheery, minstrel, for pity’s sake!
John Shakespeare tugged at his short-cropped beard and sighed. The truth is I need you, Harry. He reached over and touched his arm by way of emphasis. I need you to assist me as an employed man. There is much to be done, not just the Jesuits. My hands are full. Will you help?
Slide took a long sip of Gascon wine, dark red and sweetened with sugar, and considered the proposition. It was one thing bringing intelligence to Mr. Shakespeare and Walsingham when he had a juicy morsel to sell, but it would be quite another thing being a hired hand, a journeyman intelligencer. He was not, however, in the least surprised that he was needed. Would this be something to do with Lady Blanche Howard?
So you know about that?
Slide threw up his hands with palms exposed to the ancient beamed ceiling. The whole of London knows about Blanche Howard. He nodded at the broadsheet lying on the tavern table. Have a look at that.
Shakespeare picked up the paper and felt the prickles rise on his neck.
The broadsheet was titled The London Informer. Printed on one side, under the heading Horrible Tragedy of Lady Blanche Howard, and the secondary heading Murdered by Foul Priest, it proceeded to give intimate details of her injuries and the manner in which she was found. It then went on with a rambling discourse, referring mischievously to Howard of Effingham’s sisters, Lady Douglass and Lady Frances, suggesting they might not have been so enamored of Blanche as their brother. Friendly reader, the tract concluded, we must tell you, though it pains us so to do, that they may well have just cause for their reluctance to don the drear weeds of mourning. How else could it be, when we know that the Lady Blanche had already hazarded her place in God’s Kingdom by her monstrous associations with lewd Popish beasts, one of which, the notorious Southwell, late of Horsham St. Faith in Norfolk and the traitors’ colleges of France and Rome, had brought her with child and, fearing for his own mortal life, has taken hers with a cruel dagger. This Southwell is thought abroad in London, given solace, food, and lodging by those who wish harm to our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth. He is the foul murderer, with cross and relic and blade, and we beg you all, our fellow English men, if ever you happen upon him or his confederates, to spare no mercy but to bring him to the hangman’s righteous rope.
Where did you get this, Harry?
It’s Walstan Glebe’s rag. He had a bundle of them over by Fishmongers’ Hall, selling them a penny each.
So this was Glebe’s work. Shakespeare knew of him. He was a rat from the sewers, a pedlar of dirt and dissimulation. Before taking up his profession as broadsheet writer, printer, and seller, he had scratched a living stealing the odes of others to sell as his own. Swooning lovers had paid him money for poems to woo their fair ladies, for which he had merely copied out the work of other scribes and poets and handed it over as his. His crime had come to light when a red-faced swain had gone to the magistrate complaining that his intended had laughed at him for reciting to her an ode that was already common currency. For his pains, Glebe had been branded by hot iron on the forehead with an L for Liar. Now he wore his hair low over his forehead and had acquired a reputation for printing the most seditious and salacious broadsheet in the city.
What do you make of it, Harry?
Slide’s lips turned down uncertainly. I don’t know, Mr. Shake speare. You tell me. Does the paper speak the truth? I thought you should see it.
Shakespeare gave it consideration. He had to concede that it was generally accurate, surprisingly so given Walstan Glebe’s history, though he had no way of knowing what Lord Admiral Howard’s sisters, Lady Douglass and Lady Frances, thought of their adoptive sister. Was there bad blood between them? What was interesting was the suggestion that Lady Blanche had got mixed up with the Jesuits. Was this Topcliffe’s voice? Most of the other information certainly could have come from him or, indeed, from the constable or bellman.
But one thing puzzled Shakespeare: the line that read He is the foul murderer, with cross and relic and blade. The cross and relic had not been discovered until the Searcher of the Dead, Joshua Peace, had extracted them from the corpse. Peace would have told no one, of that Shakespeare was certain. So how did Glebe know about them?
At last the mournful minstrel took a break from his singing and playing. Harry Slide cheered and clapped with painful irony. Shake speare found himself laughing. Harry did that to you. Shakespeare knew a little about his past, or at least the story he chose to tell: his father had been a lawyer who lost a fortune gambling at cards, cockfights, and horse races. When he ended up in the Clink for debt, he hanged himself, leaving nine-year-old Harry and his mother destitute. She scratched a living working for a tailor and bought Harry an education. It had not been the easiest of childhoods, but there were plenty who fared worse. So why did Harry seem so… half-formed? It was as if some of his soul were missing, that he could draw men in with his seeming good character, only to betray them. Shakespeare downed the last of his wine and felt its warm sweetness course down to his belly. We need to talk to Mr. Glebe, Harry. Can you find him?
I can find anyone, given time.
We don’t have time. Find him quickly. And what are your thoughts about the connection with Southwell? Is he in any way involved?
It is possible, of course…
But you have doubts?
Slide nodded.
Well, make inquiries about him. Bring him in. He can’t be allowed to remain at large any longer. Mr. Secretary wants him in custody, as, I know, does the Queen. Let us lock him away as safe as the crown jewels. Use your best connections to discover the truth about this murder. Three marks a day, Harry, with twenty-five more for bringing me Southwell and a further twenty-five for finding the killer of Blanche Howard.
Slide was silent a moment as he thought the deal through. What it came down to was that he needed the money to see him through this chill winter. He smiled that winning smile. Of course, Mr. Shakespeare. A most generous offer. Consider me your man.
Chapter 7
At seven, long after dark, the Marshalsea Gaoler lumbered along to the cell for Cotton and the three ladies. I must lock up now, Mr. Cotton, he said apologetically.
The six dinner guests had almost finished their own feasting and were sipping wine together and discussing the dark plight of England. All were fearful that Mary, Queen of Scots, the great hope of their Catholic cause, might soon suffer a martyr’s death. Even now they prayed for a miracle to save her and raise her up instead to her rightful place as anointed Queen of England.
They had, for a short while, been able to forget their anxieties; the Latin Mass said by Cotton had suffused
