‘John, sit down. I have grave news. Your wife…’
No.
‘She took the full force of the blast, John. She could have known nothing of it. I am so sorry.’
Shakespeare felt that his knees should buckle and he should slump to the ground, but his joints were rigid, immovable. Like a drowning man, he gasped for air but could not breathe. His body was closing down with his mind, which could not take this in.
‘There was a young Dutch girl with her, who identified her. The girl is badly injured and is presently at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.’
Catherine dead?
Cecil stepped towards him. He was a head shorter than Shakespeare, yet he put his arm about him; perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt moved to open himself to another.
The mother of his child. His bedmate, soulmate.
The footman who had brought him to this room reappeared at the doorway with a flask of brandy and two small silver cups. Cecil nodded to him and he poured out two measures.
‘Drink this.’
Shakespeare obeyed. He downed the brandy in one gulp. Cecil did likewise.
‘Now sit.’ Cecil pushed him down into a chair. He signalled to the footman to refill the cups. ‘Now drink again.’
Shakespeare drank the second dram. The spirit burned down his throat to his belly.
‘ Catherine…’ he managed to say, at last, his breathing long and deep. ‘Is this true, Sir Robert?’
‘It is true, John. There is no doubt.’
‘I should not have left her.’
‘It was cruel chance, nothing else. The Dutch girl says they were there purely on a whim. They were walking by and saw the market. Mistress Shakespeare was one of five that died. Many others are injured. Mr Bedwell from the Tower Ordnance estimates a quarter-ton of powder was used.’
‘Where is she?’
‘The Dutch girl?’
‘Catherine.’
‘Her remains are with Mr Peace at St Paul’s, with the other dead.’
‘I must go to her.’
‘Go then, John. But first, I beg you, steel yourself and tell me what you have discovered at Gaynes Park.’
In the St Paul’s crypt Joshua Peace was at his work as Searcher of the Dead. He was examining the corpse of one of the Dutch market victims. He heard the door open and turned to see John Shakespeare. His face drained.
‘John, I am so sorry.’
‘Where is she, Joshua?’
‘I do not want to show you the remains, John.’
‘I need to see her.’
Peace shook his head. ‘Please, do not ask me that.’
‘I must.’
‘I beg you, remember her as you last saw her. If you see her now that will always be your last memory. In all your dreams and in all your waking moments, it will be there. You will never wash it away.’
Shakespeare was silent a few moments, then his eyes drifted to the mutilated body on the slab. ‘Like that?’
‘Worse, John. Ripped apart. There is nothing recognisable. Without the Dutch girl we might never have identified her. One moment living, the next with God.’
‘You must help me, Joshua. All your skill. I want to find this powderman and do to him as he has done.’
‘There is something… a clue, perchance…’
‘What?’
‘How will you use this, John?’
‘Justice. I want justice, not vengeance. Let the law take its course.’
Peace stepped to the side of the crypt and took a copper bowl from a shelf. He showed its contents to Shakespeare. There were pieces of metal — a toothed wheel, brass or bronze, and shards of steel. They were twisted and mangled, but it was clear that they had been parts from an unusual instrument. ‘I believe these articles constituted some sort of timepiece. Even in this state, it is clear to me that they were fine-made. These parts were found…’
‘In the bodies of the dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘If I am correct, it means there was a time-delay mechanism. The powdermen set the clock, then made their escape. At the predetermined moment, the device released a flint against a steel plate, sending a shower of sparks into the powder.’
‘Like a wheel-lock pistol.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Have you heard of such a thing before?’
‘When I was in the Low Countries I heard of such a method being used at the siege of Antwerp. The town’s defenders used the services of a skilled clockmaker to devise such a machine, which was then used with deadly purpose against the Spanish.’
‘Then I must find this clockmaker.’ Shakespeare stood there, irresolute. Even in his numbness, he could see the truth in what Peace said about remembering Catherine as she had been in life, not in death. His eyes caught a patch of colour close to the old, cold walls of the crypt. There were strips and shreds of material there in hues of green, saffron and rusty-blood. ‘Her dress?’
Peace nodded helplessly.
‘Thank you, Joshua.’ Without another word, Shakespeare left the crypt; he had seen enough.
As he rode north-eastwards with lethal purpose, Shakespeare felt nothing. His heart was empty. He was hunting because it was his instinct so to do, nothing more. He could not examine himself thus, for that would open up the pain, and he had to keep it closed away. There was no time for grief.
The long-bearded keeper of the Counter gaol in Wood Street rubbed his bony old hands and looked at him with surprise. ‘I had not expected you, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed, I had not. I had heard — there was word…’ the ancient, tremulous voice trailed away.
‘Has Mr Mills been to see Morley?’
‘He came yesterday in the forenoon.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare. He did stay no more than an hour.’
‘Take me to Morley,’ Shakespeare said flatly. He scarcely noted his surroundings, the bleak walls, the stench of human ordure, the bold rats playing about his feet.
‘Of course, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Please, follow me.’
The gloomy entrails of the prison were lit by tallow sconces which threw out black smoke and burned in uneven flares, lighting the faces of prisoners in a hideous manner as they leered through their cage bars at the keeper and his visitor. They arrived at the cell where Shakespeare had left Morley. The keeper pushed open the door.
Shakespeare saw immediately that Morley was dead. He hung limply from a noose made of a thin cord tied to the bars of the room’s single high window. Both men looked at the body in stunned silence for several seconds. Shakespeare turned to the keeper, dark fury in his eyes.
‘Mr Shakespeare, sir, I did not know…’ the old man spluttered helplessly.
‘Cut him down.’
The keeper took a dagger from his belt and tried to reach up to cut the rope, but he was not tall enough. ‘Here, give it to me,’ Shakespeare ordered impatiently, snatching the blade from his hand. He sliced at the cord and the body fell to the ground. ‘Who has been in here, master keeper?’
