was still a home for Lettice, but since the death of Leicester, it was her son, the Earl of Essex, who was now effective master of the estate.
Sir Toby Le Neve’s ancient pile was a great deal less impressive than Wanstead, but a sizeable building for all that. As Shakespeare approached along an overgrown dirt-track driveway, he was struck by the high chimneys that dominated the surrounding parkland and, not far away, the edge of the vast forest of Waltham. Drawing closer, he began to realize that the house was in poor repair, that the chimney stacks were devoid of mortar and liable to tumble down in a high wind. Though it had clearly been a property of grandeur, windows were now cracked and the structure leaned menacingly.
No stable hands came to greet him as he reined in on the weed-thick yard that fronted the house. He dismounted and tethered the mare to a rusty iron rail fixed into the crumbling brickwork. If ever there had been a door-knocker, it had long since come adrift, so he hammered at the door with his fist. An ancient retainer, half bent and slow as a snail, eventually answered the door.
“My name is John Shakespeare. I would speak with your master.”
“He will ask me your purpose, sir.”
“Tell him it is a private matter.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The old man left Shakespeare on the doorstep and shuffled back into the house. When he reappeared, he asked him to follow. They went through to a large, wood-paneled dining hall where a man and woman sat, each in solitary splendor, at opposite ends of a long polished table. Both had platters of food and neither of them rose at his approach. The servant bowed a little lower than his already bent body and made his painful way out of the hall. Shakespeare recognized the man at the head of the table as Sir Toby Le Neve. He sat stiffly upright. His beard was proudly trimmed beneath haystack eyebrows. He looked exactly what he was, a soldier-with all the muscle and haughty bearing that profession entailed.
The woman was a different matter. She looked twenty years younger than the man, thirty or so to his fifty, and strikingly beautiful in a world-weary way. Her hair was light and fell in a casual yet sensual manner about her face; her gown was faced with rose-red damask and welted with green velvet and had seen better days. She smiled at Shakespeare, but her husband did not.
“Well, sir?” he demanded. “Does it please you to interrupt a gentleman’s repast?”
“I merely require a few words, Sir Toby. I am more than happy to wait until you have finished.”
“A few words, sir? And what would they be about?”
“Your daughter, sir.”
Le Neve glanced down the table at his wife. Shakespeare watched the smile slowly fade from her mouth. Her husband rose from the table, knocking his chair to the floor as he did so. He did not bother to pick it up, but marched to Shakespeare and took his arm. “Come with me, sir. This is not a subject to be discussed in front of womenfolk.”
They went through to a side room that Shakespeare took to be an office or library of some sort, though the whole place was a chaos not just of papers and books but also of armor, swords, halberds, maces, arquebuses, and other weapons of war.
“Who sent you? Why are you here? Your face is familiar.”
“My name is John Shakespeare, but I am certain we have not met. I am here on behalf of Mr. Peace, the Searcher of the Dead. He believes your daughter was murdered. I am helping him inquire into this matter. I imagine you would wish to assist me, sir.”
“Do you, now? Well, you are wrong. It is a matter which does no credit to anyone. To lose a child is a terrible sadness. To lose one under these circumstances, when she has taken her life, her body found most shamefully entwined with some youth, is beyond enduring for any family of honor.”
“I understand your grief, Sir Toby.”
“No, sir, I am sure that you do not.”
“But what if she did
“You presume to know a lot about what I want, Mr. Shakespeare. So I will put you right. What I want is for you to leave my house immediately and never come here again. I want to bury poor Amy and mourn in peace. That will happen as soon as the coroner releases her body to me instead of having it prodded and poked by your so-called Searcher of the Dead. Go, sir, go, whoever you are.” Le Neve was accustomed to giving orders; he barked rather than spoke. Shakespeare realized there could be no reasoning with him.
There was movement at the doorway. Shakespeare looked across and saw that Lady Le Neve stood there. Le Neve turned and saw her, too. “I told you, Cordelia, this is man’s business.”
Cordelia Le Neve ignored her husband, instead addressing their guest. “I believe you said your name was Mr. Shakespeare. Well, I am sorry that you have been berated so by my husband, but I beg you to understand how difficult these days are for us.”
“I am deeply sorry, Lady Le Neve.”
“And, of course, if there is any suggestion at all that Amy was murdered, then you must make inquiries.”
Shakespeare glanced at them in turn. Le Neve’s face was a mask of fury; his wife’s was more difficult to read. “It is believed they were bludgeoned. The poison was administered
“Nonsense, utter nonsense. The constable, the cunning man, and the sheriff all said it was poison. They had enough to kill an ox.”
“Sir Toby, their bodies were extensively ill-used by wild animals. It would be difficult for them to discern the truth. The coroner had doubts, which is why he referred the matter to the searcher.”
“Get out, sir, get out of my house. I will hear no more of this.” Le Neve plucked an ancient rusty sword from its scabbard.
Cordelia Le Neve stepped forward, blocking off her husband, and took Shakespeare by the arm. “Come, sir, let me escort you to your mount. You must take a little ale before you go, for you have clearly ridden a long way to get here.”
There was no point in staying. Shakespeare allowed himself to be led away. As he left the room, he heard the muttered words “I know your face, sir. I do not know from where, but I swear I know it.”
Lady Le Neve clapped her hands and the old servant appeared from the shadows. “Fetch Mr. Shakespeare some ale and make sure his horse is watered, Dodsley. He will be leaving straightway.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Now, Mr. Shakespeare, let me apologize for your poor welcome in our home.” Her voice was quiet, conspiratorial, as they walked toward the front door of the shabby old house. He noticed her scent. “My husband has taken this very badly,” she said, “very badly indeed. While I mourn the loss of a daughter, he mourns the loss of something less tangible, something which many people would not understand. It is honor. Nothing means more to my husband than his good name, a name that has been at the heart of England’s military history since his forebears came across with the Conqueror. Le Neves were at Poitiers, at Crecy, at Agincourt, at Flodden Field, and never once disgraced themselves. He wanted a son to carry on the tradition, but he had only a daughter, and now, with her shame, he feels his life is over. Murder or suicide, it makes no difference to him.”
“But…”
“Try to understand a little, Mr. Shakespeare. Try to understand why we wish to be left in peace to mourn as we may. No good can come of delving deeper-nothing can bring back Amy or lessen our pain.”
Shakespeare would not be moved. “One question before I go. The youth found with your daughter. Joe Jaggard. What was he to her?”
She opened the front door, just as Dodsley the servant emerged from the buttery with ale for him and a pail of water for the horse. “Good-day to you, Mr. Shakespeare,” she said.
Lady Cordelia Le Neve was about to step back into the darkness of the house, but Shakespeare stayed her with his hand.
“Tell me this: did he work for a man named McGunn?”
She hesitated a beat too long. Their eyes met. She seemed to shake her head, but it was such a slight motion that he couldn’t be sure. Then she pulled his hand away from her arm, retreated inside, and closed the door.
