deal with him.”
“You’re going to be out of a job if you don’t watch yourself, Jack Butler.”
“Don’t worry. You can stuff your job up your pox-rotten cunnies. I don’t want no more of you. Think you can just walk away on this, don’t you? I heard you and your plans. Bristol! Norwich! Filthy, cautelous whores. You are drawn foxes and will hang for it.”
Shakespeare stepped forward. “I am John Shakespeare and I am here on behalf of Sir Francis Walsingham. Royal business, madam. And I will not be got rid of.”
“We got nothing to say to you,” Parsimony spat.
“Ask them what happened upstairs, Mr. Shakespeare,” said Butler. “That’s why they’re in a hurry. That’s why they got plans to fetch off from Southwark.”
Shakespeare had no idea what he was talking about. These two women must be Starling Day and Parsimony Field, but where was Harry? “You two are not going anywhere. One of my men, Harry Slide, came here. Where is he?”
Parsimony and Starling looked at each other with something akin to panic. They rose at the same time and tried to get to the door. They didn’t stand a hope. Awash with strong drink, they stumbled. Shakespeare and Butler stopped them and restrained them easily in a couple of steps.
“I was sent to bring Mr. Slide here, sir,” Butler said. “And these two purveyors of the French pox have stabbed him through the gulf, by the look of him, poor sod. Blood all over the place. I was just going to fetch the constable when you turned up. Fine gentleman he was, Mr. Slide, sir.”
“Harry dead?” Shakespeare said. “Harry Slide?”
“We didn’t kill him!” Parsimony shouted. “He was a friend of mine. That’s why I called him here. My lovely, fine-dressed Harry. I can’t bear to think of him dead. The flagellant done for him, not us.”
“Flagellant? What flagellant? Where’s Harry?”
“The one that murdered Gilbert Cogg. Now he’s knifed Harry in the neck and run.”
“Where is Harry? Take me to him.”
“He’s up in one of the whores’ chambers. I’ll show you.” Butler pushed Parsimony and Starling toward the staircase, with Shakespeare following.
T HE SCENE in the bedroom was horrible to behold. Shakespeare immediately went down on one knee beside Harry’s body. It was obvious he was dead, an hour or two maybe; his body was cold.
A gash, no wider than an inch, had opened up the right side of Harry’s throat. Blood had poured out in a flood, spraying across a wide area of the floor at the foot of the bed. Shakespeare touched Harry’s cheek and pulled back from the coolness of his skin. His eyes were wide open in horror; his beautiful clothes splattered red.
How had poor Harry come to this? Shakespeare put his hands together to pray for Harry’s soul, but it did nothing to ease the pain and anger. He turned furiously to the women. “Tell me again, who did this to him?”
Parsimony looked at Starling. This man seemed to be a friend of Harry Slide, so perhaps he was all right. “We had better tell him everything, Starling.”
Starling nodded and Parsimony turned back to Shakespeare. “But you got to protect us from Topcliffe. He won’t listen to reason. We’ll be gibbeted at Tyburn tree before he gives us a hearing.”
“I promise nothing, but if you do not tell me the truth it will be the worse for you. In the meantime, you,” he nodded to Butler, “consider yourself my deputy. Go now and fetch the constable, then arrange for Mr. Slide’s body to be consigned to the coroner.” Shakespeare turned back to the women. “Who else is in this house?”
“Some whores, that’s all,” replied Butler. “They’ll all be swiving or sleeping.”
“They’re good girls,” Starling put in. “They don’t know anything about any of this.”
“Right then. You tell me everything.”
They went downstairs, out of sight of the body. Jack Butler went off to fetch in the constable, while Starling told Shakespeare her story.
“The killer. Tell me about the killer.” Shakespeare was insistent.
She described Herrick in great detail. She told Shakespeare that he took a bag with an implement from Cogg after bundling his body into the barrel. She told, too, of the nature of his wound-as well as the new weals received from her beating. “His back was red with scars. I reckon he must have been one of them religious mad-pikes. His hair was short and he didn’t have a beard. I think he couldn’t grow a beard. No sign of stubble. And he was scornful,” she went on. “He paid good money, but he looked at me like I was dog turd. He was tall and well muscled, too. Didn’t laugh or smile. Didn’t say nothing good, but then again, he didn’t say nothing bad neither.”
“Did he say anything religious? Did he have any religious symbols? Crosses, beads, that kind of thing?”
“If he did, I didn’t see them.”
“And what did he talk about?”
Starling was getting bored. She was also sobering up. “This and that. He asked me questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like where I came from. I told him Strelley. A pit village full of men like my husband. Mr. Flagellant asked me if I knew Devonshire and Plymouth. Now, why would I know fucking Plymouth?”
“Did you get the idea he was going there?”
“Well, what do you think? You’re supposed to be the cunning man around here. I tell you this, though: he kept asking about post horses and suchlike.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing. What could I tell him? I don’t know nothing about post horses. Why should I? I’ve never been on a nag in my life. Shank’s mare does for me. I walked to London.”
So Herrick was making for Plymouth. And sooner rather than later. But would he get there by horse or try Drake’s own route: by horse to Dover and take ship from there? The Dover route might be quicker, but that would depend on the winds. If the weather was inclement, he could be holed up in Dover for days. Shakespeare reckoned he would have gone the more certain overland route. Whichever way he went, the highways were likely to be bogs of mud at this time of year, but Shakespeare decided he would have to follow him, riding fast across country. He had to leave immediately; there was not even time to go home. Herrick probably had two or three hours start on him, but with good fortune, he could be caught.
Jack Butler arrived back with the constable, a lumbering oaf with the dead eyes of a cod.
“I want this place closed down with immediate effect,” Shakespeare told the constable. “These two women will be held in custody while I decide what to do with them. Keep them in the Clink, but tell no one they are there. And I mean no one. I promise that you will answer to Mr. Secretary Walsingham himself and suffer for it if a single word of this gets out. And when you remove Mr. Slide’s body to the coroner, you will treat it with honor. Do you understand? You, Mr. Butler, find me a quill, ink, and some pieces of paper, for I must write urgent messages which you will deliver, in person. The one to Mr. Secretary at his home in Seething Lane, the other to my own home in the same street. There is to be no delay.”
Chapter 36
Drake was in an ebullient mood as his small party took the barge from Greenwich Palace to Gravesend early in the morning. The Queen had wished him God speed during a short private meeting in the presence chamber. Now, with a salty cry as if he were weighing anchor and setting sail for the Indies, he waved his hat and urged the rowers forward like a knight spurring his destrier at the tilt.
At Gravesend they took horse and settled into a goodly trot on the well-trodden road that would take them south and east through Kent toward the Channel port of Dover. Diego took the lead on his bay, followed by a band comprising Drake; his wife, Elizabeth-sidesaddle on a beautiful gray palfrey-her maidservant May Willow; Captain Harper Stanley-his mustaches bristling-two servants of Drake; and the deputy lieutenant of Devon, Sir William Courtenay, returning home to Powderham Castle. The group was accompanied by two of Drake’s most trusted mariners, men known to be handy with wheel-lock and sword. The rear guard was taken by Boltfoot Cooper, his caliver primed and his hand ever close to the hilt of his cutlass.
Drake settled in the middle of the group, between his wife on the right and Courtenay, whom he knew to be a
