‘No one… just the turnkey with victuals.’
Shakespeare recalled the small gnat-like creature who had brought foul ale when last he was here. ‘Bring him to me. Now.’
The keeper hurried away, clearly panicked and trying to weigh up the implications; these men — Shakespeare and Mills — were important personages. They could bring him trouble.
Shakespeare examined the body. At first sight, there was no reason to believe this was other than a self- killing. Certainly Morley had been frightened enough to take his own life. Mills might well have scared him yet more, with threats of Topcliffe and torture. Yet, from what Morley had said, there were also those who badly wished him dead. He examined the hands and wrists. The wrists had raised weals as if they had been tied tight, but that was not surprising, for he himself had bound the man and dragged him behind his horse. His tongue was engorged and thrust obscenely from his mouth in a way that Shakespeare had noted on other hanged men, so it seemed probable that was the cause of death. But was it a voluntary death?
There was also a dribble of blood from the dead man’s mouth, on his chin and throat. Had he bitten his tongue? Then Shakespeare noticed spots of blood on the stone floor on the other side of the cell, away from the body. They could not have come from the man while he was hanging. He kicked away the straw and saw more blood. Was it his imagining, or was the blood formed into letters? He looked closer. The blood was dried and difficult to discern, but he was almost certain there were two letters there, almost certainly described with a fingertip. They seemed to be initials. There was definitely an R, but what was the second letter? It could be a B or a P. RP, RB. Two names came to mind: Rob Poley and Rick Baines. There were also two straight lines, hooked at the end. Was this a message from the dying Morley? The name of the man who killed him — if, indeed, he had been murdered — or the name of the powderman? With the side of his foot, Shakespeare brushed the straw back over the bloody letters.
On its own it was worthless. Not evidence, not really a clue. If only he had got to Morley. If only he had never left London. But he had gone to Gaynes Park and he had left his wife and family. He punched his fist into the wall and gasped with pain. But even pain was better than nothing; it meant he could still feel.
The keeper returned with the turnkey. Shakespeare towered over the little square-set gaoler by a foot and a half. He looked strong, his arms rippling beneath his filthy jerkin and shirt, but could such a small man have hoisted Morley to his death?
‘What do you know about this, turnkey?’
The turnkey shrugged. ‘Don’t look well, does he, Mr Shakespeare. Nor does your hand, sir. Why, you have a nasty graze on your knuckles, I should say.’
‘Where did he get the cord?’
The turnkey turned his head away impudently. The keeper looked on nervously.
‘Has he had visitors other than Mr Mills?’
‘Ask him yourself,’ the turnkey said. ‘I’m paid to feed prisoners and keep them locked away, not answer questions. If he wanted to top himself, that’s his look-out. There’s always ways to do it for those who are desperate, but who cares. Saves the hangman a task and leaves more victuals for the rest of us.’
Shakespeare turned to the keeper. ‘I do not have time for this. Have this man put in fetters. Send me word when he wishes to answer my questions. He is to stay incarcerated until I say otherwise. And remove the corpse to the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s.’
Shakespeare strode from the Counter prison into the air of London, and found it no more clean or wholesome than that of the gaol. There was a foulness in the city, a miasma of death and decay. He had to go home. He had a small daughter and two adopted children to look after. They would need him. And he needed time to himself, to think and to mourn.
Chapter 17
In the last light of evening, Boltfoot looked across the water meadows of the Lea towards the Three Mills site. He saw the place with new and questioning eyes. What secret did this powdermill hold if the man named Holy Trinity Curl had worked here? Why had the proprietor Knagg not mentioned him?
There had been no further information to glean from the poachers in the woods at Godstone, but the older man had agreed to bring his son-in-law, Tom Jackson, to meet Boltfoot and tell him what he knew of Curl. Jackson was suspicious and evasive; he was clearly scared of being involved in any way with officers of the state, even one as unimposing as Boltfoot. The meeting had achieved little beyond a vague comment about Curl being a small man with yellow-red hair and eyes of a similar hue. If Jackson knew more, he wasn’t saying. ‘Talk to them at Three Mills,’ he said shortly. ‘Thomas Knagg knows all about him. I never paid the man much heed.’
After that, Boltfoot went to the Godstone mill and met the miller, Mr Evelyn, who was open with his replies. Yes, there had been an attempt to breach the stockade and, yes, there had been attempts at bribery. The constable had been informed, and he had been to the county sheriff. There had been a full inquiry but the man they now knew as Curl (he had used an alias when insinuating himself with the powder-millers in the tavern) had disappeared and no one knew where he was. The inquiry had been dealt with in a thorough manner and there had been no repeat of the episode; there was nothing more to be done. As Boltfoot listened, he itched to be gone, certain that the answer to this investigation did not lie here. Though tired from a night with no more than one hour of sleep, he rode hard for Bromley-by-Bow, where this rabble-rousing hedge-priest had once been employed. They must know where he lived and more about him. So far, he had a description of him, nothing more.
Now he sat astride his horse, looking across at Three Mills, planning his next move. He shook the reins and rode up to the stockade gateway, where he dismounted.
The swag-belly guard recognised him and looked anxious. Boltfoot stood square in front of him and stared steadily up into his eyes.
‘Where is Mr Knagg? Is he here or taken by Sarjent?’
‘He has gone, Mr Cooper. No one knows where. The pursuivants came with Mr Sarjent but Mr Knagg had already departed with his family. Mr Sarjent and the pursuivants are in charge now.’
‘How long have you worked here, guard?’
‘Five years, sir, since Armada time when first it was changed from wheat flour to powder milling.’
‘Do you remember a man called Curl — Holy Trinity Curl?’
The blood drained from the guard’s face.
‘Answer me.’
‘Aye. I recall the man,’ he replied, nodding slowly as he spoke. Boltfoot could see that he was frightened.
‘Where can I find him?’
The guard glanced around nervously to see who might be listening.
Boltfoot’s hand went to the hilt of his cutlass. ‘Will you answer me?’
‘Mr Cooper, please. There are pursuivants here. We have been told to talk to no man.’
‘Shall I relieve you of your sweetbreads?’
The guard’s eyes were wide, like those of a tethered goat that has caught the scent of a predator and has no escape. His shoulders slumped and his chest sagged to his belly. ‘All I know is that he did sometimes preach at the churchyard at St Botolph without the wall at Aldgate.’
‘You have seen him there?’
His great girth could do nothing for him here. ‘No, but he did ask me to go there and hear him. Said I would find many like-minded men there.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘I do not know, Mr Cooper.’
‘What do you think he meant?’
‘Will this come back to me, Mr Cooper?’
‘It will if you do not talk plain. Be certain of that. Better to talk to me now than be racked by others.’
‘Please, sir, I have a wife. And I have nine children, all of them aged under ten years.’
‘Then if you wish to remain with them, you will give me all the information I require.’
