Howard looked aghast. “Good God, this is horrible.”
“I am sorry. I mention it only because I suspect there to be a religious significance and wanted to know whether you have any ideas on the matter. My lord, I fear that the assailant may be the same assassin who has been sent by Spain to kill Sir Francis.”
“What possible connection could there be between Blanche and a plot against Drake? Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr. Shakespeare?” Howard was incredulous.
“There are certain curious connections that lead me to this belief.” Shakespeare outlined his theory, including the conspirator’s viciousness toward prostitutes in Delft and Rotterdam.
For a moment, Howard simply glared at Shakespeare, as if trying to decide whether he had heard him correctly. “Did you say prostitutes, Mr. Shakespeare?” he said at last. And then he exploded. “Are you suggesting that my daughter was a whore? ”
“My lord, certainly not.”
“How dare you come to me with such scandalous imaginings?”
“My lord, you misconstrue me. Lady Blanche was a devout young woman. Of that I have no doubt. There is not the slightest suggestion that she was a whore. But I do believe she may have known this man. And if this man is in London, as I believe, then there is no reason to suspect he has changed his brutal treatment of women. All women, not just whores. The nature of Lady Blanche’s injuries… the fact that she was moving in Catholic circles where the assassin might have sought sanctuary… these lead me to the possibility of a link. It is tenuous but I cannot ignore it. Perhaps she had discovered something and he killed her to silence her.”
Howard’s face was still set in fury, but his rage subsided. “So you believe the man who killed Blanche may be the same man that shot at Drake and wounded his coxswain?”
“It is possible. I can put it no stronger than that.” Shakespeare downed the remainder of his brandy in one. “Now I must ask you, my lord, whether you know the name of the man with whom the Lady Blanche was consorting and by whom she came to be with child?”
“I really do not like this line of questioning, Shakespeare. It is
… indecent. Poor Blanche is not yet interred and yet you spread tittle-tattle about her.” indecent. Poor Blanche is not yet interred and yet you spread tittle-tattle about her.
“No, my lord. That is not the way it is. I have spread no word about her.”
“But someone has. The broadsheets have been brought to my attention with their scurrilous stories.”
“I am investigating that, sir. I already have the most notorious of these people, one Walstan Glebe, in Newgate, awaiting trial on a number of charges. He is likely to lose his ears, his liberty, and his right hand.”
“Good. That is the sort of thing I wish to hear. Let us leave it at that. Find my daughter’s murderer, Mr. Shakespeare, and when he hangs at Tyburn, you shall have my gratitude. Good day to you.”
Shakespeare wanted to press for more information, for any clues in the background of Lady Blanche, any word of her friends and acquaintances, but it was clear that Howard considered the interview over. Shakespeare knew only too well that there was no profit in pushing matters with such men of power. And so he bowed, thanked Howard, and together they left the cabin.
On deck, Drake was standing up now, jabbing his finger at the parchment and muttering something about the weather gauge. Shakespeare left Lord Howard with his naval consorts and wandered over to Boltfoot Cooper.
“I trust you are well, Boltfoot.”
Boltfoot made an indeterminate noise from the back of his throat.
“It sounds as if we nearly lost our Vice Admiral. The Royal Armory has looked at that weapon you found. They tell me they had never seen anything like it. Accurate to an extreme degree. Made to order by a Bavarian named Opel for Gilbert Cogg. It was clearly made with only one purpose in mind and should have been brought to our attention. Mr. Opel has one of two choices: expulsion from these shores or he can work for the Armory.”
Boltfoot lifted his head in the direction of Deptford Strand. “You need to talk to them in Roberts Chandlery over there, Mr. Shakespeare. Bob Roberts. And the ostler, Perkins, of the livery stables at the Eagle Tavern by Sayers Court. They’ll tell you more about the man who fired the shot. They both saw him and spoke with him.”
“I spoke to them both on the way here. They gave me good descriptions of our man, but no clue as to where he has gone. The horse he rode has not been seen again. I believe you hit him?”
Boltfoot shook his head. “Nothing more than a small hole in his side, I think. He was too far away. Should have got him straight through the back but I was losing ground against him.”
“I am sure you did well to hit him at all. Did you get a good look at him?”
“No. But I might recognize him running. All I know is that he didn’t have a beard and he was tall, slender, and could move quick.”
“All right, Boltfoot. Stay vigilant. I have put out word to the surgeons, physicians, and apothecaries in case he should seek treatment.”
Shakespeare left the teeming Royal Dock and headed through the crowds toward Deptford Strand for the tiltboat back to London. Then he changed his mind, turning instead toward Howard of Effingham’s house by the Green.
Robin Johnson, the steward, answered the door to his knock. He did not seem surprised to see Shakespeare again. “I trust the Lord Admiral was not too harsh on you, Mr. Shakespeare.”
“No, no.”
“I am sure that he wishes this matter to be resolved as much as any man, but he worries about the effect on his family’s reputation. These have not been easy times for the Howards, as I am sure you understand.”
Shakespeare understood. Too many Howard heads on pikes had decorated the gatehouse to London Bridge in the past half a century.
“Quite. But it is you I wish to speak with now, Johnson. Do you have somewhere quiet where we could talk awhile?”
Johnson led the way through the hall into some side corridors down to his own room in the servants’ quarters. It was bare by comparison with his master’s sumptuous hall, but it was warmed by a fire and had chairs and a small oak table. “This is my sanctuary,” Johnson told him, “where I escape from the trials of the day and plan the work of the other staff.”
He wore the livery of his station as steward to one of the most important men in England: a white satin doublet with gold trimming and black hose. He was a handsome man in his late twenties or early thirties, of medium height with dark hair and a trimmed beard. It was his good looks and easy charm that had made Shakespeare think twice. And he had recalled, also, something that Catherine Marvell had said almost in passing- that Lady Blanche and her lover could never have married. A woman of noble blood could never wed a servant, that was certain.
“So, Mr. Shakespeare, how can I help you?”
“I would like to know more about the Lady Blanche.”
“As I said, sir, her loss was felt by all of us.”
“Tell me, Johnson, how long have you been in the service of Lord Howard?”
Johnson was as stiff as an oak stave. “Since I was a boy, Mr. Shakespeare. My mother worked in his lordship’s kitchens and I was brought up in the household. I have worked my way up to steward.”
“I am sure you have been very diligent. You are a good-humored man, Johnson. I am sure the household likes you well.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“I imagine the Lady Blanche was fond of you, too?”
“What are you implying, Mr. Shakespeare?”
“You were her lover, were you not?”
Johnson was shocked into silence. Then he said, “I wonder, sir, if I were to talk openly, whether I might forbear on you not to reveal to his lordship what I say.”
Shakespeare studied his eyes and saw some kind of honesty, but that was not enough. “I can promise no such thing, Johnson, as you know. But I would have you speak your heart to me. I promise it will be better for you to proceed that way. I respect openness. The alternative would be questioning under duress, which I am loath to do.”
Johnson nodded slowly. The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I understand, I hope. And yes, Mr. Shakespeare, I was Blanche’s lover.
