Shakespeare thought back to the horror of the scene he had encountered, then shook his head, surprised. No. She was on a bed and there was some blood staining on the sheets, but very little.
Then she was killed somewhere else, or in another part of the house, and taken there. She would have lost a lot of blood with these injuries. The Searcher held up two objects-a piece of bone and a silver crucifix. These were inside her, thrust in most unkindly. I think the bone is a relic, a monkey’s bone passed off as the finger of a saint, for all I know.
What was it doing there?
You will have to ask her killer that, Mr. Shakespeare. All I can tell you is that the girl was about eighteen, certainly no older, and in good health. As to the child, it was twelve weeks gone, a boy. From the spread of blood about her person, I feel certain that the wound which ripped it from her belly was inflicted after death, which may be some small comfort to her family.
Peace pushed his arms underneath the body and lifted it so that the bare back was visible. Look at this, Mr. Shakespeare.
Shakespeare moved closer. Her slender back, from nape to lower back, had two red raw lines, which made the shape of a cross. At the house in Shoreditch, where she lay with her front exposed to the sky, he had not seen this.
What is it? What has caused this?
Peace ran a finger down the bloody stripes. It seems to be a crucifix, crudely cut after death.
Shakespeare stared at the wounds as if by staring he would go back in time to when they were inflicted. Is there some religious significance?
That is for you to answer, Mr. Shakespeare. There is something else, too…
As Peace spoke, carefully laying the body back on the slab so that her wounded back was no longer visible, the ancient door to the crypt was flung open. Two pikemen marched in, taking up positions either side of the doorway. They were followed by a man of later years, probably in his fifties. His hair and beard were as white as the snow outside, and his eyes were keen. He was tall and lean, with the languid air and fine clothes of the nobility. Shakespeare recognized him immediately as Charles Howard, second Baron of Effingham and Lord Admiral of England. Howard looked first at Shakespeare, then at Peace, without saying a word. He stalked forward to the body of his beloved adopted daughter, Blanche, lying on the Searcher’s stone slab, for all the world like a carving on a sarcophagus. For two minutes he stared at her face, then nodded slowly before turning on his heel. In a moment he was gone, closely attended by his pikemen.
Shakespeare caught Peace’s eye. I suppose there really was nothing to say.
No. Nothing. Now let me show you this one other thing. Peace lifted her hands and showed Shakespeare the wrists. They were marked with a raised weal. That is a rope mark, Mr. Shakespeare. Whichever brute did this to her tied her up most cruelly.
Shakespeare looked closely at the marks, then winced with the thought of the suffering this poor girl had endured before death. He shook Joshua Peace by the hand. Thank you, my friend. Consign her body to the coroner. You know, in quieter times it would be a fine thing to pass an hour or two with you and a flagon of Gascon wine at The Three Tuns.
Yes, said Peace. And let us drink heartily to quieter times.
Outside, up in the daylight, Shakespeare was surprised to find the Lord Admiral and his pikemen waiting for him. It was snowing properly now, dropping a carpet of white around St. Paul’s, but if Howard of Effingham felt the cold he did not show it. He stood stock-still, like a soldier, his colorless face set and hard.
My lord…
She was with child?
Shakespeare said nothing. There was a sadness in the old man’s voice that needed no response.
Who did this thing to her?
I intend to discover that, my lord. Could I ask you about the people she knew? Do you have any idea who the father of her child might be?
Howard breathed deeply. You are Shakespeare, Mr. Secretary’s man, I believe.
I am.
This is a tragic business. Tragic. I loved Blanche as if she were my own child. She was part of me. But it is also delicate, Mr. Shakespeare. There is the family to think about.
I understand. But you must want to find her killer.
I do, I do. The Lord Admiral hesitated. Let me just say, there were people in her life of late of whom I did not approve… He stopped.
Shakespeare needed to probe deeper. He needed every crumb of information this man could provide, but he began to realize it was not going to be forthcoming.
These people…
The admiral looked distraught. Momentarily he reminded Shake speare of a lost puppy he once chanced upon in his schooldays, which he had taken in, much to his mother’s disapproval. I really can say no more.
Do you, at least, know anything of the house in Hog Lane by Shoreditch where her body was found?
I am sorry. I know nothing of such things.
My man Boltfoot Cooper has made inquiries but he failed to discover the landlord or tenant of the building.
Howard said nothing. He stood like a rock.
Perchance, in a day or two you might talk with me, my lord?
Perchance, Mr. Shakespeare. I can promise no more.
One last question. Was she a Roman Catholic?
It seemed to Shakespeare that Howard of Effingham clenched his teeth. He did not answer the question but nodded to his pikemen, then turned and walked to his horse, which was tethered nearby. To Shakespeare, his reaction spoke more than a printed volume could.
As Howard rode away eastward, some apprentices threw snowballs at Shakespeare and one hit him. He laughed and gathered up some snow, crunching it hard together in his gloved hands before flinging it back at the boy.
It was Friday, a fish day. Many days were fish days, as a means of boosting the fortunes of the fishing fleets, but that was no hardship for Shakespeare, who enjoyed fish in all its forms. Soon it would be Lent and then every day would be a fish day. Jane, his maidservant and housekeeper, had given him smoked pike instead of flesh for his breakfast this morning, and he would have some eel and oyster pie before bed.
The trees were decorated white as Shakespeare walked through the streets of high houses, their shutters thrown back to let in the air. Thick wood smoke belched from their chimneys, adding to the permanent city stench of ordure until the mixture clogged the nostrils and the lungs. Summer was the worst, particularly here, near the confluence of the Fleet and the Thames and close to the Fleet and Newgate prisons, where the rotting flesh of dead convicts might be left uncollected for weeks on end; at this time of year, thankfully, the stink retreated to a background whiff.
An endless procession of carts, drays, and wagons, laden with farm produce, barrels, and building materials, trundled nose to tail in both directions, their horses’ ironclad hooves turning the new snow to slush, slipping and stumbling in the endless potholes. There was barely room for them to pass on the narrow streets, and they often ground to a halt, setting the carters to shouting and swearing. At times, blows were exchanged before a beadle interposed and brought some order.
In a few minutes, Shakespeare had followed the road out of the city, over the Fleet river (if such a putrid ditch was deserving of the name river, he thought), soon turning left toward the high, forbidding walls of Bridewell. Every time he came here, he found it difficult to believe that such a dark fortress could ever have been a royal palace, yet barely sixty years ago, Henry-the great Henry-had entertained his Spanish Queen at dinner behind these walls. His son, Edward the Sixth, had handed the dreary place over to the city fathers for the housing of the poor. And now it was little more than a prison for the city’s harlots, gypsies, and vagrants.
A squadron of eight armed men, pursuivants, marched past him with a prisoner, their boots stamping through the snow. They came to a halt, throwing their prisoner to the ground, and their sergeant, whom Shakespeare recognized as one of Topcliffe’s men, hammered on the massive Bridewell door. Almost instantly it was opened by the gaoler, clutching his clanking keys.
