kinship to the Cecils.’
‘Hold this, John.’ Peace handed Shakespeare a steel implement for the widening of orifices. ‘The Cecils, you say? You are entering dangerous territory there, I think.’
Shakespeare took the tool absent-mindedly. His thoughts were not here in this chilly crypt beneath St Paul’s, but in the room where he had seen the corpse of Christopher Marlowe. ‘I think it a distant thing, through marriage. I cannot pay such things heed.’
Peace said nothing. He had his nose close to the dead woman’s mouth, sniffing.
‘But I have developed a theory, Joshua, one not entirely based on wild surmise. It is this: Marlowe was taken there to be tortured. They wanted to obtain some information from him. It was the perfect place for that. Widow Bull’s house stands apart. A man’s screams might be muffled there. You recall the injury to his hand? You speculated that it could have been caused by some sharp edge of iron. Could that injury have been caused by an attempt to apply a thumbscrew?’
‘Yes, it could.’
‘You noted, too, that he stank of ale. One could not miss it. It seems to me possible that they might have plied him with drink elsewhere, so that they could lure him, drunk, to the widow’s house with promises of more ale or other pleasures. I believe that would explain their presence there. But then things went wrong. He was a strong man. They overestimated his inebriation. And when they tried to bind him and apply the instrument of torture, he fought back with great force. In the fracas, he was killed, perhaps with his own knife, perhaps with Frizer’s. It doesn’t matter which.’
Peace put out his hand and Shakespeare returned the implement to him. ‘Everything you say fits, John. Except one thing: why would anyone wish to torture a fellow like Marlowe? What could he possibly have that Poley and his friends would want?’
‘I am not sure, Joshua. But I am hoping that I will soon find out.’
‘John, before you go, there was the other body you sent me, one Christopher Morley, found hanged in Wood Street Counter.’
‘What did you discover?’
Peace shrugged his lean shoulders. ‘That he died by hanging, nothing more. I think you know he had weals about his wrists, as though tied, but you had bound him yourself, I believe. There was nothing to say he was hanged by others. On balance I would say it was self-destruction, for most men set upon in such a way would put up a fight and suffer injuries to their hands and nails. But I am afraid there is no certainty in my judgement.’
Shakespeare nodded. Perhaps they would never know. ‘There was one other thing, Joshua. There were letters writ in blood on the dungeon floor. RB or RP I could not discern which.’
‘That is something I cannot help you with.’
‘No. But I find myself believing it was RB — Rick Baines. And there were two other lines, which could have been LL Morley was trying to tell me that Luke Laveroke was Baines. He left that message because he knew he was going to die. He was certainly afraid.’
‘Then that is for you to discover. I wish you well, John.’
Chapter 40
‘ Where are you taking me, brother?’
‘To a place of agreeable entertainment and good beer.’
‘The playhouses are all closed while the plague persists, Will.’
‘Well then we cannot go to the playhouse. Patience, John.’
They were mounted, walking their horses slowly through the evening streets northwards along Bishop’s Gate Street. Arriving at the gate, Will halted and looked about. ‘Are we being followed? You have better eyes.’
Shakespeare hesitated. Were they safe? Normally he had an instinct for such things; the shadow that lingered too long against the wall, the man who moved against the flow and stopped too frequently. But in this teeming throng, nothing was clear. And his thoughts had not entirely been occupied with the ride. ‘I have no reason to believe so,’ was all he could say.
‘Then let us rein in across the road at yonder inn, have water brought to our parched horses and share a jug of beer together.’
‘Very well.’
They trotted into the stable-yard adjoining the Dolphin Inn, just north of the Bishop’s Gate. From the outside, it seemed a poor sort of place, with daub breaking away from the walls. The sign of an arched dolphin was in sad repair and needed repainting. Shakespeare wondered why his brother should have brought him to such a hostelry, for it would not have been his first choice of tavern or inn for a pleasant summer’s evening drink.
The two watchers nodded to each other. One turned his horse’s head, then peeled away and rode south. The other dismounted and found a tethering post for his mare.
The taproom was gloomy and almost full of drinkers. Will signalled to a serving girl to bring them beer.
As Shakespeare’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he spotted a somewhat soulful face that he knew: Richard Burbage, the acclaimed player who had been with Will in Deptford at the time of the Marlowe inquest. He nudged his brother to point him out. Will simply nodded in acknowledgement. And then Shakespeare noticed that Burbage was talking with the poet and playmaker George Peele, who had also been there at Deptford. Suddenly, he realised that everyone in this room was a player or manager or somehow involved in the playhouses of London and beyond. Ambitious young Thomas Dekker, Philip Henslowe the money man, good Edward Alleyn, Marlowe’s old friend and collaborator George Chapman. Even Will Kempe was there, smiling again, jesting with his friends and fellows. Most surprising of all was the presence of Thomas Walsingham, nephew of the late Sir Francis, patron of Marlowe and sometime acquaintance of the three men in the room with him when he died.
‘Will, what is this? Some sort of convention or council of players and playmakers?’
‘Each and every one, John. All here knew and admired Kit Marlowe’s work, though it would be false to suggest that all liked him. You will find men of all the great players’ companies here — the Admiral’s Men, Pembroke’s Men, Lord Strange’s Men and others. Some have come away from their tours for this evening’s entertainment.’
In the corner, Shakespeare spotted Thomas Kyd, hunched forward on a straight-backed chair.
Will caught his brother’s eye. ‘He cannot walk. His body is broken by the tortures, but he demanded to be here. His friends carried him here in a cart, most painfully.’
Shakespeare was unnerved by his brother’s talk. Whatever their motive for being here, this was a secret convocation, a meeting that Edmund Tilney, Master of the Revels, would be happy to break up with sword, hagbut and mace. And he would doubtless have the full backing of the city aldermen and some of the more Puritan-minded men on the Privy Council. ‘I say again, Will, what is this?’
‘You fret, John. Come and talk with Kyd. Discover what has been done to him.’
‘No. I will not talk with him. He has lately been in Bridewell, hard-questioned over certain seditious papers. I cannot say hale fellow to him.’
‘Very well. But I must say to you that I have made a pledge to every one of these men here gathered that you will not tell a soul who you have seen here this day. You may tell the world what you see and we will thank you for it, but not the names. If you cannot abide by such a pledge, then leave now. If, however, you wish to understand why Kit Marlowe was killed, then stay.
Shakespeare breathed deeply. His mouth was set. What in God’s name had his brother got into? Whatever it was, he could not leave him here to take the consequences alone. ‘Very well, I will stay. But do not try me too hard, Will.’
Will smiled. ‘Come with me, and I shall show you to your seat in the yard. The performance will be starting very soon.’
The backyard of the hostelry was bounded by a high wall, along which a low stage had been erected with screens to either side. Before it, there was one stool.
‘There, John, is your seat. You are about to watch a play called The White Dog. It was the last thing ever written by Christopher Marlowe. It may never be seen again after this evening, but all gathered here believe it must
