Revenger

covered in dents, the rusting heads of old halberds and pikes and poleaxes. To the left, barely visible, was a mace. He picked it up by the handle. It was heavy and deadly. The wooden haft was long and ornately carved, the sort used by cavalrymen, who needed longer-handled weapons than the infantry. The head was round and decorated with knobs.

“My husband has told me in the past that a Le Neve man-at-arms used that at Agincourt.”

“It seems old enough. How did you discover it?”

“I looked for it. I had my suspicions after what you had told me of the manner of their deaths.”

The iron head of the mace was coated with dried blood and strands of hair. There was an eerie silence in the room and a sense of unreality.

“I will need to take this with me. I want the Searcher of the Dead to look at it. He should be able to tell me whether this could have been the weapon that killed your daughter.”

“Take it. I cannot bear to have it in the house.”

“And your husband?”

“I do not know where he has gone or when he will be back. He goes off for days, weeks, even months at a time. Much of his time is spent with Essex or at court, where wives are not welcome. No one must eclipse the Sun Queen.”

“Well, get word to me if he appears. If the searcher tells me the mace is the weapon, your husband will be apprehended. I must take my leave. There is much to do.” He looked away from her as he spoke.

“You might have come to me last night,” she said in a low voice. “I wanted you.”

Yes, he thought, he might well have gone to her. Any man would have done. He said nothing.

“You are a rare man, Mr. Shakespeare. I see the passions within you, yet you hold back where other men would not. You lead a mysterious life which I do not understand, for I am certain you are no schoolmaster.”

Shakespeare laughed, breaking the frost between them. “But you have seen my school.”

“The school is closed down. Your family is gone. Why are you still here?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“And you give too few answers. God speed, Mr. Shakespeare.” She looked at him wistfully for a fleeting moment.

Outside, his mare was watered and ready and the mace wrapped in jute sacking, bound with string. Shakespeare tied it securely at the side of his saddlebag and then mounted. Dodsley handed him the reins. Cordelia Le Neve stood on her doorstep. Shakespeare bowed his head to her, then spurred his mount forward. Further along the path, the watching horseman still sat motionless in the saddle. It was of no significance, for he had learned nothing new by watching them; Shakespeare knew, too, that he would soon lose the watcher on the way back into London.

Shakespeare kicked his mare into a gallop. He would get the mace to Peace without delay and turn his attention to the whereabouts of Boltfoot and Jack. Both were well able to take care of themselves, but it was troubling that they had not yet reported back.

Chapter 27

J OSHUA PEACE UNWRAPPED THE MACE AND HELD IT in his arms, mentally weighing it and estimating its killing force. He examined the round iron head and gently picked strands of hair from the coagulated blood. Carefully, he put them aside, on the central slab where he did his work.

“Yes,” he said. “This could well be the weapon, John.”

“But you cannot be certain?”

The Searcher of the Dead smiled. “Well, in truth, I can be sure. Wait just a moment.” He went through to his cool inner room, where he kept the tools of his trade and bodies awaiting his examinations. He reappeared a few moments later with two curious-shaped pieces of hard-dried plaster.

“I took clay molds of the regions of their heads which were injured, then cast these plaster likenesses, showing the true nature of the injuries. You can clearly see the indentations caused by the weapon, for I shaved away their matted hair.”

Shakespeare studied the plaster casts, fascinated by the detail. They had the curve of a human head and then, in the middle, a caved-in area of about four inches across, where they had been struck with great force. Inside this central indentation were multiple smaller dents where the knobs on the head of the mace would have made their mark.

“It certainly seems to be the weapon that did these injuries, Joshua.”

“But let us be certain, as I said we would.” He took the ancient mace and held the round head into each of the casts in turn. “A perfect fit. You have your weapon, John.” From his apron pocket, he produced two little wooden boxes. One was inscribed ALN, female the other JJ, male. He opened them in turn and showed them to Shakespeare. “These are locks of the hair of Amy Le Neve and her lover, Joe Jaggard. Look at their hair and compare them to the strands I just took from the head of the mace. It is impossible to say for certain that they are the same, but it is fair to say that they are similar, would you not agree?”

“Indeed.” Even with his high-born connections, Sir Toby would not wriggle free of this. The evidence was plain for all to see. He had the motive; he had the weapon. “Thank you for your diligent work, Joshua.”

The Searcher of the Dead carried the casts, the mace, and the samples of hair from the crypt into the side room. Shakespeare followed him. The room was full of shelves with boxes and jars and items taken from the scenes of crimes. There were three trestle benches with a small wooden wheel at the end of each leg, so that they might be wheeled between rooms with ease. On one of the trestles a body was laid out, covered in a shroud: a prodigiously large man, well over six feet.

Shakespeare’s heart skipped a beat. “Joshua, who is that?”

Peace began pulling back the shroud. “I do not know his name, but he has been most foully treated. Tortured, then murdered. His body was found in the Thames, near Greenwich.”

“May I see his face?”

Peace unwound the shroud until the face was visible. The wide-open eyes, blank and dead, were brown, the hair was black and curly. He had a long, ragged beard and a dark-tanned face, stained with much blood. A wooden peg leg was strapped to his thigh and projected downward from just below the knee. His forearm was distinguished by a long and vivid red scar.

Shakespeare let out a long sigh of relief. It was not Jack Butler. From his size and shape, Shakespeare had thought it might have been his manservant. Instinctively he crossed himself as, so often, he saw Catherine make the sign.

“Look at these injuries, John. Most curious. He was killed in a manner I have not seen except on the battlefield when I was in the Netherlands back in ’85. Hewing and punching, they call it. It is an English military thing. With your sword, you first slash down on the side of the neck-the hew. Then you immediately stab upward into the stomach, which is the punch. Hew and punch-a quick and methodical way to dispatch an enemy. In the heat of a battle, a man may effectively do this time and again as the foe come at him: hew and punch, hew and punch, hew and punch. Into soft flesh and away from bone, so that the blade is not blunted so soon. No one survives it.”

“So you think a soldier inflicted these injuries.”

“Most probably. But first, they inflicted a foul and vicious torture. Using some sort of tool, his tormentor cut the webbing flesh between each of his fingers. It was done to both hands-eight savage cuts in all-leaving the hands looking like a bird’s crooked talons. It would have been most horribly painful. And his tongue was cut out for good measure. If they wanted him to reveal information, that seems a strange way to get him to talk. It’s not the first one like this, either. I was brought another a week ago with the exact same injuries. That body was found on the mudflats on the Isle of Dogs, close to the river where this one was found.”

“One week? Not more recent?”

“No. And he was a much smaller man.”

Shakespeare was relieved. This corpse could not, then, have been Jack Butler or Boltfoot; it had already been