‘You look as if you need food and drink,’ Shakespeare said when Andrew arrived home.
‘I have no appetite, sir.’
‘No. Nor would I. But at least sup a little ale. Here.’ He handed him his own cup.
Andrew took a few sips, then thirstily downed the whole half-pint.
‘Better?’
The boy shook his head. Suddenly, he looked old beyond his years. ‘No. Not better. Empty. I had expected some kind of elation, but there was none. My hatred seeped away into nothingness.’
Shakespeare held the boy to him. ‘You are a man now,’ he said. ‘A good man. We will talk of your future, soon.’ As he spoke, there was a knock at the door, and he heard Jane’s soft-shod feet scuttling through the hall to answer it.
‘Will, it is good to see you.’
‘I would have come sooner. There were… difficulties.’
‘Well, you are here now. Welcome.’
‘I am lost for words.’
Shakespeare smiled. ‘There is a first time for everything, Will. Say nothing. It has all been said.’ He embraced his brother, whose clothes were dusty and stained.
‘In truth, John, as well as bringing my condolences, I come with another purpose. I fear I was not wholly open with you the last time we met. I knew more about the death of Kit Marlowe than I told you. I thought it safer to avoid London for a while. I believe I am still in grave danger.’
Shakespeare stood back from his brother and looked into his eyes inquiringly. ‘You are safe here, Will. Come to my solar. Let us talk in comfort. You look as if you have been dragged here from Stratford. Jane will bring us refreshments.’
In the quiet of Shakespeare’s sunlit room, his brother unburdened himself.
‘John, I am sure you must know of the arrest and torture of Thomas Kyd before Marlowe’s death.’
‘Of course. He was one of those believed to be this Tamburlaine who wrote the attack on the strangers, which was posted outside the Dutch church. But I did not believe it for one moment. It was Francis Mills who ordered his arrest and hard questioning. Mills has a taste for torture, I fear. Perhaps it is revenge for the ill- treatment he has at the hands of his sluttish wife.’ Shakespeare could not help noticing that his brother’s hands were trembling and that his brow was deeply furrowed with concern.
‘You will know, too, John, that Tom Kyd had shared lodgings with Kit Marlowe.’
‘Yes, of course. It was much discussed.’
‘So when Kyd was arrested and the pursuivants searched his rooms, what were they looking for?’
‘Why, evidence linking him to the Dutch church tract. All they found, though, was some discourse on atheism, which is offence enough in the eyes of many. I believe he said it was not his paper, but Marlowe’s.’ Shakespeare snorted, without humour. He was bemused. ‘But Will, this was just one of many lines of inquiry into the Dutch church posters. A reward of a hundred marks was offered for information, and torture was sanctioned by the Privy Council. Few believed, however, that Marlowe was behind the posters, for why would he have named himself so clearly, knowing the penalty for such sedition?’
‘Perhaps the searchers were looking for something else when they tore apart Tom Kyd’s room and broke his body on the Bridewell engines of torment. Perhaps Poley, Frizer and Skeres were seeking the same thing when they took Kit Marlowe to a room in Deptford and killed him.’
‘What else could they have been looking for?’
‘I cannot tell you for the present. Suffice it to say that I know of it. I could add that there are some who do believe Poley, Frizer and Skeres were not the only ones present in that room when the killing occurred.’
‘Who else?’
‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Why did you not mention any of this before?’
‘You would have been compromised. It would have been your duty to seek out whatever Poley and the others were after, and then destroy it.’
‘You must at least tell me what manner of thing you mean. Is it written matter, some sedition?’
‘Not now. You will know soon enough.’
‘Coining, perhaps? Marlowe had much trouble with his counterfeiting activites when he was in Flushing. It was a weakness of his. Had he treasure hidden, false money, that they sought?’
‘Be patient.’
Shakespeare poured brandy for his brother from the jug left by Jane. ‘Will, beloved brother, if Marlowe was involved in counterfeiting the Queen’s coin or writing something of a seditious nature and you know what it is, you are already in peril. Nothing you can tell me will make your position more dangerous. You say they tortured Kyd and killed Marlowe because of it. Why would they stop there? The slightest suspicion that you know of its whereabouts could lead to your arrest, and worse.’
‘That is why I left London so hurriedly after the inquest. I had only stayed as long as I did to discover what came out in the testimony of Poley, Skeres and Frizer. I went home to Stratford, but I soon realised I could not stay there; I had to face up to this matter. These past days I have been in Shoreditch, for I had much to organise. I fear I did not hear of Catherine’s terrible death until now. My coming here to your home has had to be most quiet, and I must keep it that way.’
‘Someone is after you?’
‘It is possible.’
‘And is there some link to Catherine’s death?’
‘No, none that I know. John, come with me on the morrow and you shall discover all that I know.’
‘This disturbs me greatly.’
‘Yes, but I must ask you to trust me on this.’
Chapter 39
The keeper of the Marshalsea shook his head and rubbed his long, grease-streaked beard. ‘I am sorry, Mr Shakespeare. Ingram Frizer is no longer here. Got his pardon from the Queen yesterday and so I had to let him out.’
Shakespeare uttered a low oath. ‘Where did he go?’
‘I have his place of abode. I did write it in the black book. You are welcome to consult it, though whether he went there I could not say.’
The keys on the keeper’s belt clanged with every step through the echoing halls of the old prison as he led Shakespeare to his little room. ‘Here we are, master,’ he said at last as he opened the door, letting Shakespeare in first.
Shakespeare held a kerchief to his nose in disgust. There was a foul smell in here of cooking fat, which added a nauseous quality to the common gaol scents of ordure and sweat.
The keeper brought down the black book and opened it flat on the crooked table, where, judging from the stains, scraps and crumbs, he took his daily food.
‘There we go, sir. Admitted the second of June, killed a man in self-defence. Following inquest, to be held on remand awaiting decision of court in Chancery. Now he has had his formal pardon. Let me see, where did he abide?’ The keeper scratched his dirty, fat forefinger across the page. ‘Ah, there it is — not far from here, master. By the river, St Augustine Inn, my old father always knew it as. Now, though it is called Sentlegar House. Tenement building. Many of the worst sort live there, sir. You will find it hard by the Bridge House.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I wish you fortune of Mr Frizer, sir, for I cannot say I liked him much. A sly fellow, I would say. Not one to turn your back on, lest you wish a poniard in the kidney.’
Shakespeare was relieved to step out into the comparatively fresh air of Southwark. The streets were thronged with stalls selling goods from the world over, brought back by the great trading carracks. Spanish gold and fruits could be had here, wine from France, printed books from the German lands, furs from the Russias and spices
