have told Topcliffe that Master Woode had been there.”
“That certainly seems the most likely cause. And I fear he will be questioned under great duress as to the whereabouts of Southwell. It is Topcliffe’s way…”
“It is too awful to imagine.”
“Mistress Marvell, if you have any information on the whereabouts of Jesuit priests in England, you would do well to tell me now. The sooner we find them, the sooner may end the torment of Mr. Woode and the tribulations of Lady Tanahill. Yes, I am looking for this Southwell, but I am also looking for another Jesuit or one associated with the Society of Jesus. I do not know his name for certain, though he has used the name van Leiden. He is a Fleming and he is not what he seems. The chances are, however, that he is known by Southwell, for these people arrive in pairs and support each other.” As he spoke he studied her closely for reaction, but just then Jane arrived with fortified wine and Shakespeare asked her to bring the children through with cakes.
“Well, mistress,” Shakespeare said after Jane had gone. “Do you know any Jesuit?”
“I do not.” They were the most difficult three words Catherine had ever spoken. They were a lie, and no amount of equivocation could disguise the fact in her mind. Her parents would be horrified that she had to stoop to this. And yet the alternative would be betrayal of all those she knew in the Church of Rome. Her friends.
Shakespeare did not believe her, but all he did was nod. “Good. Well, the first thing to be done is to find out where Woode is being held. I will make inquiries. In the meantime, what will you do, Mis tress Marvell?”
“I will return to the house in Dowgate with the children.”
“Will you be safe there?”
“I can only pray-if I am still allowed to-that I will be, Mr. Shakespeare.”
Chapter 28
Topcliffe cracked the silver-weighted end of his blackthorn stick into one of the few remaining glass win- dowpanes at Tanahill House. The glass shattered, sending shards crashing into the entrance hall. On the orders of the Queen, he was leaving. Reluctantly. After four days he was still convinced Robert Southwell was hidden in the house, but Elizabeth had commanded him to call off his hounds.
He stood directly in front of Lady Tanahill and scowled at her. “I will be back,” he said. “And I will have this house as my own. Listen carefully to my words, you Popish whore bitch. This will be mine and you and yours will be broken.”
“And I will pray to God for you, Mr. Topcliffe. That He may teach you the error of your ways.”
He spat at her and stormed off. Anne Tanahill wiped his spit from her soft ruff, where it had landed, then turned back into the house. She felt that nothing could hurt her anymore. As she surveyed the remains of her house, she could hardly believe that this had once been a beautiful family home. In the quieter days, before her husband was taken away to the Tower, they had spent long hours of joy within these walls; now, as she walked from room to room and from floor to floor, she saw only rubble and broken woodwork. Every panel had been torn out and thrown aside, every floorboard jimmied up. The backs of every fireplace had been hammered into with heavy mallets, shattering the brickwork, as had the backs of cupboards and spaces under the eaves. Even plastered ceilings, exquisitely crafted, had been destroyed.
“How can they be allowed to do this, m’lady?” her housekeeper, Amy Spynke, asked when they had finished their tour and returned to the kitchens, where they all spent most of their time now. “Surely they must make reparations to you.”
The Countess laughed without humor. “I think that is about as likely as peace on earth, Amy. Topcliffe has made it plain he will not rest until this house is his. The people who make the accusations end up with the property of the accused. It is all vanity.”
Rose Downie sat huddled in a far corner, by the fire, cradling the baby that was not hers. She could not meet their eyes.
Amy and Joe Fletcher, the manservant, had already interrogated Rose, but she had refused to say a word, either of denial or confession. Every day, they had demanded whether she had brought Topcliffe, and every day, when she refused to answer, they knew that she had. And yet they also knew that Topcliffe had struck her in the face with great savagery, so there was still sympathy for her and the slightest sliver of doubt in their hearts.
“She must answer to God, not us,” said Lady Tanahill to Amy in a low voice, looking over at Rose. “But we must never trust her again. She must be kept away from all aspects of our faith-and in particular she must never catch sight of any priests who might come here. Topcliffe will keep a constant watch on this house.”
A little later, when the household sat down to eat, exhausted by the start of the clearing up, the Countess left them all in the kitchen and went up to take Father Cotton fresh food and water. She feared the priest was in desperate straits, but felt that the Jesuit should stay in the hole a few days more and then escape at night to a safer house. The Bellamies and the Vaux family would, she knew, take him in. But she knew, too, that he had other sanctuaries of his own.
She raised the jakes and prized up the trapdoor and peered in. By the light of her candle she could see Cotton sitting on the brick bench, legs hunched up with his arms around them, head into his chest. He was shivering and she could hear his teeth rattling.
“Father Cotton, we believe it is safe now. They have gone.”
He made no move, nor signaled in any way that he had heard her. “Father Cotton?”
She knew he was alive by the violent shaking of his body, but apart from that there was no movement. The smell in the place was repulsive, but she slid down into the hole with him, leaving the candle standing above her on the lip of the trapway. She sat beside him on the brick bench and put her arm around his shoulders. His body was as cold as stone yet he trembled as if he had a fever. She stroked his forehead like a mother with a child, combing his lank hair with her fingers.
She thought she heard him say something but it was so soft she could not make it out. She talked to him with gentle, reassuring words. Once more he seemed to say something, so faint she could scarcely hear him, but she thought it was “i have seen God.” She felt her skin prickle and held him closer, and she knew that she could not leave him in this hole a moment longer.
Harry Slide swept into John Shakespeare’s house in Seething Lane with his usual flourish. All he needed to complete the regal touch was a herald to announce his coming. “i have juicy tidbits for you today, Mr. Shakespeare,”I have juicy tidbits for you today, Mr. Shakespeare, he announced with no preamble. “Firstly, it seems our friend Walstan Glebe, publisher of The London Informer, is willing to talk-in return for his freedom.”
“Well, that’s what we wanted.” Shakespeare rose from the table where he had been writing a report on his investigation for Walsingham and shook Harry’s hand. “But I’m not letting him out of prison until I hear the quality of what he has to say, Harry. We’ll go to see him at Newgate. What other news?”
“Two of the ‘Winchester geese’ from Cogg’s bawdy house have flown the nest-and a third is dead.”
“Now that is interesting. Tell me more.”“Now that is interesting. Tell me more.”
“The dead one is called Alice Hammond. There is nothing sinister about her death. She drank herself into oblivion and then choked on her own vomit. However, it is curious to note that her cousin, Starling Day, and the procuror of the bawdy house, Parsimony Field, are missing. Girls like this go missing all the time, of course. But I am told that Parsimony and Cogg were as close as two stoats in a hole. If anyone might have known his secrets, it is her.”
“Do we know where these women have gone?”
“I fear not. The trail is cold. But I have word out that we are looking and that any information will be well rewarded. Unfortunately, we are not alone in our search. Topcliffe is looking for them, too.”
Shakespeare groaned inwardly. He wasn’t surprised, of course; he already knew of Topcliffe’s interest in the murder of Cogg. But why would Topcliffe be concerned with preserving the health of Sir Francis Drake? His only interests were the evisceration and butchery of Papist priests and the accumulation of riches. “Well, let’s find out what has happened to these two young ladies. Perhaps they murdered Cogg. Let us not lose sight of our targets, Harry. We are to find the murderer of Lady Blanche and to discover and dispose of the would-be killer of Sir Francis Drake. Nothing more, nothing less. There is, however, one other matter of interest to me: have you heard anything of the whereabouts of Thomas Woode?”
