‘You do not surprise me. I would have wagered a month of my warrant on it. So, John, let us talk of secrets. I have heard whispered gossip that you are engaged in that dark and bloody world once more. For little Robert Cecil, I do believe.’
Shakespeare took a seat at Henbird’s intricately carved table. ‘I do indeed work for Sir Robert, a man who has the best interests of his sovereign and his country at heart. Unlike some at court,’ he added wryly.
Henbird laughed and his belly shook like a subtlety of milk jelly. ‘Yes, there are those whose own interests do not always coincide with those of Her Most Royal Majesty.’ He rubbed his ear. ‘Did I not hear in the past year that you had fallen foul of my lord of Essex? A most grievous falling out, I am told.’
Shakespeare said nothing. It seemed that Henbird’s ears were as close to the ground as ever, and his hearing as acute. The memory of the conflict with Essex was not one Shakespeare relished, but nor could he regret discovering the sly and treacherous heart of the Queen’s favourite. One day, he and Cecil would doubtless need such information. In the meantime, he would never be a welcome guest at Essex House again. Nor would he wish to be. He had chosen the path of peace, tied to Cecil’s star; let those who wished war join the Essex camp.
‘Come now, John. Do not deny it.’
‘I am not here for such talk, Nick. But I am glad that you have not lost your talent for discovering men’s secrets, for I would make use of it.’
Henbird clapped his hands and a livery-clad serving man hurried in and bowed low. ‘What will you have, John, honest English ale or good Burgundian wine?’
‘Ale.’
Henbird nodded to the servant. ‘A pitcher of ale. And make haste, man, before we die of thirst. Now, John…’
Shakespeare waited until the servant had closed the door behind him, then spoke. ‘I want to find Glebe. Walstan Glebe. I recall you made use of him from time to time. Is there a way to seek him out?’
Henbird’s eyes widened. He was enjoying this. ‘Walstan Glebe? Have you looked in limbo or the pit? That’s where I would put him and let him rot like kitchen waste. I would happily cut away his ears and nose to make him prettier. And I would sever his hands at the wrist to make my purse feel safer.’
‘So you don’t know where he is?’
Henbird put up a hand. ‘Now, I didn’t say that, John. I didn’t say that at all. Permit me to guess: could this be something to do with the late issue of his Informer, in which he signs himself Tamburlaine’s Disciple?’
‘ Apostle.’
‘I begin to understand. A most sensitive subject, I am sure. Not one that Sir Robert or the court would care to dwell on for too long. They will want you to solve this and have the powdermen strung up in short order, John. They need the coin from these Dutch goldsmiths and wool merchants to fill the war coffer. Can’t be upsetting the refugees and scaring them back to the Low Countries with their gold and silver.’
‘And Glebe?’
‘Yes, I think I know a way to him. What favour will you do me in return?’
‘What do you want?’ Shakespeare glanced around the room with its exquisite plasterwork, carved oak furnishings and delicate tapestries. ‘You have gold aplenty.’
The ale arrived and they both drank deeply. At last Henbird wiped his gold-threaded sleeve across his mouth. ‘I want to be part of it, John. I want to be part of your world once more. This chicken warrant is most lucrative, but it wearies me to distraction. I would gladly not see another ledger or profit sheet in my life.’
Shakespeare looked Henbird in the eye and saw that he was being utterly serious. Suddenly he leaned forward, reached out his hand across the table and shook Henbird’s firmly. ‘Call it a trade, Nick. I need help and I can think of no one I would rather employ than you. You are well placed and I have a task for you, if you will take it.’
‘Anything, John, anything to get me away from talk of fowl.’
‘But first tell me a way to Glebe.’
‘As you will. I believe I do have a way. Have you heard of Black Lucy?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘Glebe has long had an obsession with the whore. She is succubus to him. He worships her glistening black hide — can’t get enough of it.’
‘From what I have heard, he is not alone in that.’
‘Indeed, John, she is a most wondrous exotic creature. Pope, saint or archbishop would be sore tempted by that one. I confess I have partaken of the fruit myself on occasion. A man could spend his family’s fortune on Luce and not rue the day he first saw her. I know and like her well. When once you see her in puris naturalibus, you will desire no other.’
‘Will she help me find him?’
Henbird spread out the plump palms of his hands. ‘If she likes you, if you pay her enough, if she wants to do Glebe a bad turn — any one of those may bring you to him. But tread carefully and treat her well, for she is a greater gift to London than all the beasts in the menagerie.’
‘One more question, Nick: you worked with Poley in the Babington inquiry of ’86. Who does he work for now?’
‘The same man he always worked for — himself. Other than that, I have heard tell that he has connections to Essex House and to Thomas Walsingham. They all do — Poley, Frizer and Skeres. Frizer has been Walsingham’s servant. Poley and Skeres worked with him against the Babington plot. But Thomas Walsingham has no interest in such things now. He is a country gentleman, tending his estates in Kent, dabbling with poetry.’
Shakespeare thought of Thomas Walsingham. Was any man more different from his kin? He was a warm, good-natured man, as far removed from his uncle Francis, the Queen’s late principal secretary, as it was possible to be. He could not see him as the puppet master pulling these strings. Yet nothing could be ruled out in such affairs.
‘Give me your opinion. Who was behind the Marlowe killing? Who was the paymaster and what was the motive?’
Henbird was a man who had stayed alive in the lethal underworld of spies, assassins and traitors by knowing when to talk and when not. ‘That would be an opinion too far, John. My neck might be thicker than a chicken’s, yet it is equally susceptible to the farm-wife’s blade.’
‘You said you wished to go intelligencing again, Nick. I had not thought you afraid of farm-wives.’
‘Do not underestimate farm-wives, nor Queen’s servants…’
Shakespeare nodded. He understood. Queen’s servants. ‘Topcliffe?’
‘You said the name, not I.’
‘But why?’
‘That is for you to discover. And there is the one that said most recently that Marlowe should be silenced…’
‘Baines. Richard Baines.’ Shakespeare frowned. It was a name that had cropped up in his investigations, even before Marlowe’s death. Baines, another sometime spy for Walsingham, had written a tract against Marlowe within the past month in which he said that all Christians should ‘endeavour that the mouth of so dangerous a member be stopped’.
‘Again, John, you said the name. I believe he complained of Kit Marlowe’s irreverence. But that did not sit well with me, for I do not recall Rick Baines having much in the way of religion. Anyway, his wish came true, for Marlowe’s mouth was indeed stopped. Does that mean he did it, though?’
‘It would not be the first man he had killed in cold blood.’ Topcliffe and Baines. Shakespeare tried to find a connection between the two men. What an unholy alliance. ‘You have said enough, Nick. Now, my small task for you: I wish you to discover what you may about a man named Oliver Kettle, presently a servant in the house of a Dutch wool merchant named Jan Sluyterman, of Dowgate. I have a notion about him. But be careful.’
‘As always, John. And the fee?’
‘First find me some information, then ask that.’
‘Ah yes, I had forgot, you learned thrift from Mr Secretary…’
