regularly, it is entirely possible that an amount has been stolen or sold illegally.’
‘Could it not have been stolen in transit?’ Shakespeare asked.
‘Yes, that is possible, but less likely. Had a highway robbery occurred, I would have been informed straightway, and I have had no such reports in recent months. The other places powder might have been acquired is from county stores or from the hold of a ship-of-war. County stores do not hold great quantities, but a ship is a distinct possibility. However, powder is usually not loaded until shortly before a ship weighs anchor, to reduce the risk of mishaps. My firm opinion is that a powdermill is the source.’
‘Where are they, Mr Bedwell?’
‘The nearest to London is Rotherhithe. It is powered by a watermill on a small tributary of the Thames. A little further afield, in Essex, you will find the Three Mills site on the river Lea at Bromley-by-Bow, which has recently been converted to powder production. There are also established mills at Faversham in Kent and Godstone in Surrey, and we have lately licensed a saltpetre works east of London in Suffolk.’
Cecil approached the table. He had heard all he needed from the ordnance men. ‘Thank you, Mr Bedwell. I know you have brought papers with further details of the positioning of these mills, their keepers and production details. I would ask you to leave those with Mr Shakespeare. And Sir Henry, if you see Her Majesty before I do, please assure her of our most rigorous efforts in this matter.’
‘Quite so, Sir Robert.’ Sir Henry Lee rose from his seat, followed by Bedwell. ‘I bid you all good day, leaving you with this thought. All spring, the Queen has talked of nothing else but her racehorse, Great Henry. She is convinced he will win the Golden Spur for the third year; but this news has quite distracted her. She considers the attack a personal affront to her authority. I would have her talking horses again, gentlemen, not raging like a North Sea tempest about gunpowder. That way we may all sleep a little better. So I urge you to put an end to this nonsense in short order. Until you do so, Her Majesty is expecting regular reports.’
After Lee and Bedwell had departed, Cecil turned to Mills. ‘What are your thoughts, Frank?’
‘Well, it clearly wasn’t Marlowe.’
Cecil sighed. Wearily, he rubbed the hunch of his shoulder that had earned him the epithet Robin Crookback. He was a small man, neat and self-contained. Always in control — in control of himself, of others, of his surroundings. ‘Yes,’ he said impatiently. ‘I think that is clear enough. It wasn’t Marlowe. So who was it?’
Mills lowered his pinpoint eyes, chastened. He was a tall man, about Shakespeare’s height, but thinner and older. He was becoming more and more stooped, as if he had invisible weights pressing down on him. Perhaps it was the burden of his sins, or the adulteries of his wife, that pulled him down.
He and Shakespeare had worked together for years, first for Walsingham and now under Cecil. Though their relationship had been reasonably cordial in recent months, Shakespeare could never forget that Mills had once betrayed him. Yes, he would work with him, but he would never trust him.
Mills’s great talent was in drawing information from suspects. His presence alone could often produce results as quickly as Topcliffe’s rack. At times the two interrogators had worked together — Topcliffe applying the engines of despair, Mills coaxing the confession or required information with soft words. He understood that the anticipation of agony and mutilation could often be as bad, worse even, than the pain itself.
Shakespeare disliked this in Mills, this resort to fear. Yet he had to concede that there was more to the man than this. Mills had a sharp, political mind that understood better than anyone the significance of intercepted correspondence between the courts of Europe — what to dismiss as tittle-tattle or disinformation, and what needed acting upon.
‘A witness speaks of seeing two men rolling a barrel from a small cart,’ Shakespeare said. ‘One man was tall, the other not so tall. Other than that the witness could describe nothing remarkable about them and paid them no heed. Their features were concealed by caps or hoods.’
Silence descended on the room. Sir Robert Cecil, privy councillor, chief minister in all but name, did not expect Shakespeare and Mills to speak unless they had something noteworthy to say. In many ways he was like his predecessor, Walsingham; that fastidious attention to detail, that utter belief in the power of secret knowledge. Yet Cecil was not Walsingham. He was too worldly for that. Cecil’s father had brought him up to understand the mechanics of power — and how to acquire it — without ever asking himself why he should want it. It was power for duty’s sake and it was as natural as eating, breathing or pissing to Robert Cecil. Walsingham, on the other hand, had acquired power for a purpose. It was for his sovereign, his religion and his country. He had beggared himself getting it and holding it, and had died in penury because of it.
The seconds passed in the meeting room, hidden deep in the somewhat anonymous house. Cecil’s father, Lord Burghley, Elizabeth’s longest-serving and most faithful minister, had bought it for his second son so that he should have a town place of his own; his other, greater mansion on the Strand, would go to Robert’s older half- brother, Thomas, along with the title Burghley. Robert knew, however, that he was his father’s chosen son and that he would inherit the jewel of his father’s holdings, the great palace of Theobalds in Hertfordshire.
‘And yet we cannot ignore the Marlowe connection,’ Shakespeare said, breaking the silence at last, glancing towards Mills for support. ‘Anything that involves Rob Poley must always raise suspicion. And what is Topcliffe’s interest?’
Shakespeare noticed the tightening of Cecil’s little fist, the stretching of the short and slender neck away from the hunch; most would not. Was it the name Poley or Topcliffe that brought a chill to this room?
‘Frank?’ Cecil demanded, as if Shakespeare had not spoken.
Mills studiously avoided the question of Marlowe. ‘There are many in this city who would wish harm to our Dutch friends, Sir Robert-’
Shakespeare recoiled slightly as Mills spoke. The man had midden breath and it wafted across the table at him. Before Mills could expound further, he interrupted. ‘If Marlowe was in any way involved in the intimidating placards posted outside the Dutch church, then we must wonder about a possible connection to the men who laid powder in that very place. Their method was more extreme, yet their target was the same. The Council — and you Sir Robert — thought Marlowe a fit subject for investigation alive. Has so much changed now he is dead?’
Once more, Cecil ignored Shakespeare and addressed Mills. ‘Who, Frank? Who in this city — Marlowe apart — would harm those who have sought refuge here? You called these strangers “our friends” — and they are friends of England. They bring skills and wealth with them at a time of great need. They help us open new trade routes. They help fill the war chest. And, above all, they abhor the Pope.’
Mills consulted a paper on the table in front of him. He smoothed it flat with the palm of his hand. ‘The welcome offered by the Crown and Council is easily understood, but it is worth looking at this from the perspective of the merchants and the common man. Consider this,’ he said, indicating the paper. ‘It is a summary of the recent Return of Strangers, dated May the fourth — four weeks ago. The aldermen and constables of each of the twenty- six wards have been diligent in their searches and have noted the names of more than seven thousand refugees and their children. We must assume, however, that the true figure is considerably higher. Many strangers keep others illegally about their houses as servants and apprentices. They hide when the word gets about that searchers are in the area. It would not be unreasonable to suggest that a true figure of fifteen or even twenty thousand incomers now live here.’
‘Out of perhaps two hundred thousand… possibly one in ten.’
‘Indeed, Sir Robert. And they make their presence felt, for they have a wide variety of trades and crafts. They bring skills to produce fine lace, glass, shoes, starch, hats and many more items. Their produce is much admired and desired by the English — yet they resent them, too. It cannot be denied that in some cases they do take trade away from their English neighbours. And it is true that they often keep themselves aloof and do not learn to speak English. Many English merchants, shopkeepers and craftsmen hate them. They fear their livelihoods are threatened and feel that parts of the city — Blackfriars, Billingsgate, St Martin le Grand and, further afield, Southwark — are become strange lands where a very Babel of languages is spoken.’
Cecil stopped pacing. He drew up the chair at the head of the table where Lee had recently been positioned, and sat down. He leaned forward purposefully. ‘Is there any evidence that Englishmen are joining together against the refugees?’ he demanded. ‘Have there been illegal gatherings? Will there be mobs in the street or insurrection?’ Cecil took a draught of ale and wiped a finger across his thin lip.
Mills hesitated.
‘Well?’
‘I cannot give assurances that there will be no riots; no man could. We know that the apprentices, when they are in drink, often cast stones at those they take to be refugees. But I would say this: there is no evidence that
