early twenties if she was a childhood friend of Eleanor Dare.
“Mistress Hardy?” Shakespeare said.
“Yes, master.”
“Tell me about Eleanor, if you will.”
Agnes sighed as though she had told this story a hundred times and was mightily fatigued of it. “Do you mind if I sit down, master? I ache all over and my head’s a-throbbing like a faulty harrow.”
“Of course.” Shakespeare smiled. He remained standing, away from her, for she had an unpleasant smell. “I believe you knew Eleanor as a child, Mistress Hardy?”
“I didn’t like her, though. She thought so highly of herself. My mother worked for her parents as a kitchen malkin, but Eleanor and me played together when we were small. When we were older, though, I wasn’t good enough for her.”
“Describe Eleanor to me.”
“Above herself, sir. Like she was somebody and I was nobody.”
Shakespeare closed his eyes momentarily in frustration. “And her appearance? The color of her hair. Was she fat, well formed?”
“Too thin for my liking. I last saw her when she was sixteen and she barely had tits to speak of. Some might have thought her pretty, but I reckon a man would have to be a poor sort of fellow to go after a hop-pole like that one. Her hair was like straw. And I couldn’t abide those clothes she wore. Worsteds and velvets and suchlike, with lacy lawn coifs all above her curls. Little Mistress Nose-in-the-Air is what I called her. Blue eyes she had, very blue with a strange gray ring around the middle if you looked close.”
“And what happened when you saw her recently? Where were you?”
“I was by the bull-baiting, waiting to go in, with my friend, when I saw Eleanor White-Dare-in the crowd. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, because I knew her to be lost in the New World, sir, with all those others, killed by savages. I thought it was a ghost. But then she moved a little closer and I saw that it
“The bull-baiting you say, not the theatre?”
“No, sir, the bull-baiting. I like to see the bulls tossing the dogs on their horns, sticking them in the belly and their bowels spilling out, sir.”
“What time of the day was this?”
“Why, mid-afternoon. A bright day like today, sir.”
“So you had a good view of Eleanor Dare?”
“Clear as I can see you, Master Shakespeare.”
“And how was she appareled?”
“Now, there’s the funny thing. She was dressed like a strumpet. She had no cap or coif. Her head was uncovered. And her breast was uncovered, also, as though she were an unmarried woman, sir, when she is not. Perhaps Mistress Nose-in-the-Air has become Mistress Eyes-on-the-Ceiling.” Agnes Hardy slipped off her shoes and rubbed her aching feet.
Shakespeare was becoming increasingly irritated. “And the man she met. What was he like?”
“I paid him little heed, but I would say he was not as tall as you. He had a long beard and long hair, and quite red. I couldn’t tell you more. Except he was in workman’s clothing.”
“Very well, Mistress Hardy, that will be all. If you see her again, send word to me.” He had had enough of the woman. She was a poor witness for detail, but he was left believing that she did, at least, honestly believe she had seen Eleanor Dare.
As he walked toward home, he realized he was being followed. Each time he turned around, a darkly clad figure on the other side of the road also stopped and melded into the busy crowds. He was not unduly concerned, except that it would make it a little more difficult to travel to the Chelsea household of Bess of Hardwick and the lady Arbella Stuart undetected.
Chapter 11
C ATHERINE SHAKESPEARE KNOCKED AT THE DOOR of the house in Holborn where last she had seen Anne Bellamy. An old man opened it slowly and shuffled forward into the daylight, carrying a stick. Somewhere behind him, from the depths of the house, a dog barked. The man was bent forward but looked up at Catherine from dull, watery eyes.
“Yes?”
“Master Basforde, it is I, Catherine Shakespeare. We have met before. I am seeking Mistress Bellamy.”
He paused, as if trying to recall where he had heard her name, then said curtly, “She’s not here.”
“When will she be back, pray?”
“She won’t be back. You’ll find her at Westminster. Gone to Mr. Topcliffe’s fine house.”
Catherine felt uneasy. Anne had been arrested in January and held for questioning by Topcliffe in the Gatehouse Prison, but she had been freed on bail within the bounds of Holborn. Catherine had visited her twice at these lodgings, been welcomed here by this old man, Basforde Jones. Then, last week, Anne had told her that Father Southwell was living nearby at the home of a great family, where he was safe, but was preparing to go further afield in England, to bring the sacraments to the faithful in the Midlands and West Country. Anne said she had begged him to say a mass at her family’s home in Uxendon before he set out on his journey. She would break her bail and slip away for one night and meet him there. Would Catherine come, too? Catherine immediately said yes, the idea both thrilling and terrifying her, for she was well aware of the possible consequences. Only the overbearing-intolerable-intervention of her husband had prevented her going.
Catherine frowned in disbelief. “Topcliffe? Has he taken her again?”
The man’s grumble turned to laughter. “No, she went of her own accord. Have you not heard? Her belly swells by the day, so Nicholas tells me.”
“Nicholas?”
“My boy Nicholas, Nick Jones.”
Catherine felt sick. Nicholas Jones, Topcliffe’s contemptible assistant. And was he saying that Anne Bellamy was with child? How could such a thing have happened? She looked closely at the leering old man.
“May I enter your home?” she said. “I would wish to speak more on this.”
The old man stepped aside. “By all means, mistress. All are welcome here at my humble abode.”
She stepped into the dark hallway. She saw the eyes of the man’s mastiff in an inner doorway and sensed malevolence. The dog barked louder. The old man hobbled over to it and beat it about the head with his stick. It whimpered, then lay down and was quiet.
“Did I tell you that my Nicholas is to come into money? A scryer with a glass ball told me my boy would be rich one day, and so he is to be. A very grand gentleman he will be, I am sure.”
An awful thought took shape in Catherine’s mind. If Anne really was with child, could Nicholas Jones be the father? He was thick-set, sly, and shared Topcliffe’s taste for cruelty and the shedding of blood. Could sweet, innocent Anne have allowed herself to be debauched by such a monster?
“I am sure she will have a pretty baby and we shall save it from the clutches of the Rotten Chair. The dirty little drab…”
Catherine exploded in a rage. She pushed the man full in the chest with both her hands. “How dare you talk of her like that? It is you that has brought her to this! You and your foul son and Topcliffe.”
The old man slunk back into the shadows, his stick raised defensively. “She is a grubby little whore, mistress. A grubby little whore. We have all had her, so that none will know who is the father of her bastard.”
“No. It is not true.”
“She’s a bitch in heat, that one, dripping for it. All the time…”
For a moment, Catherine believed she could summon up the strength to kill this man. Take his stick from him
