‘We winked at it, nothing more.’
‘And what of Baines — or Laveroke?’
‘He has disappeared. It was believed he was heading for Scotland with a plan to murder James. Nothing has been heard of him since. Perchance, he was set upon by bandits.’
Shakespeare looked askance at his master.
‘This is a war, John. Men die in wars.’
‘I understand the heat of battle, Sir Robert. But there are times-’
Cecil put up a hand. ‘Leave it, John. Mourn your wife, do not grieve for some unknown palsied prince, now buried in an unmarked grave. Do not grieve for a murderer like Baines who, if God be just, now lies feeding the crows in some woodland ditch.’
‘And what of Marlowe? I know what happened to him.’
‘Do you? Then you know more than I do, and more than I wish to know. Whatever you believe you know, I do not wish to hear it from your lips and you do not wish to tell me, for I believe that to do so would heap much trouble on you and yours and many others. Suffice it to say that whatever the reason Marlowe was in that room, he was not taken there to be killed. It was unpleasant, tragic even, but it was not a premeditated murder. We both know that. The inquest decided it. Let it rest.’
‘And Topcliffe?’
‘Do you have some evidence against him that would be listened to in court?’
Shakespeare shook his head slowly. Not an ounce of evidence. Nothing to prove his guilt in attempting to extract information from Marlowe by illicit torture. Nothing but a play called The White Dog, and who knew where that was? All he had was the partial confession of Nicholas Jones. ‘I have words spoken by his apprentice, admitting he was there in the room at the time when the Searcher of the Dead says the killing took place.’
‘And will this apprentice testify as much in court?’
‘No.’
‘Then all you have is hearsay.’ Cecil closed his mouth and looked Shakespeare square in the eye. There was nothing more to be said on the matter and both men knew it.
‘One day-’ Shakespeare began.
Cecil reached out his small, neat hand and stayed Shakespeare with a light touch on the forearm. ‘Let us talk of this horse, this Conquistadora. I had thought to give it to Her Majesty. I think such a gesture would lift her spirits and help us ease Don Antonio Perez’s progress to her presence-chamber. Do you not agree?’
Cecil had changed the subject. Shakespeare sighed. No more delving into murky waters, for to do so could only harm Will, Kyd and all the others from the Dolphin Inn. ‘Yes, Sir Robert, I agree. Her Royal Majesty would be most pleased with such a present.’ At last he managed a faint smile. ‘And I confess I am delighted to be depriving the vidame of his most prized possessions. Perhaps he will collect silver treasures and fine paintings, not slaves, to satisfy his quest for beauty.’
‘Indeed so. Her Majesty shall have the horse. I am not certain, however, that she would appreciate the animal’s name.’
‘It is a little bit… Spanish. ’
‘Then let us change the filly’s name… to Gloriana. That will please her very well, I do believe.’
Chapter 45
The rain came down like mare’s piss, soaking Shakespeare through to the skin as he strode from Dowgate to Wood Street.
At the Counter gaol, the ancient, grey-bearded keeper did not look pleased to see him. Mr Shakespeare had brought nothing but trouble on his previous visits. ‘Good day, kind sir, good day,’ he said, but the tone of his voiced betrayed his true feelings.
Shakespeare stared at him with icy dispassion. ‘Who takes command of the gaol when you are not here, master keeper?’
The old man scratched his beard and crumbs and lice sprinkled out down his jerkin. He hesitated before answering, unsure what was for the best.
‘It is a simple enough question. I cannot believe you spend twenty-four hours of every day and seven days of every week here.’
‘Indeed not, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Why, the chief turnkey is my deputy.’
‘The one I demanded be shackled?’
‘Yes, sir. Or one of the other turnkeys when he is not available.’
‘Bring me to him.’
The keeper shifted uneasily. ‘I cannot, sir.’
‘He is in irons, is he not? I ordered it.’
‘No, sir, I had to unlock him. He was ill with the ague. I had the fetters removed so that he might receive care of his goodwife.’
‘So you disobeyed me? You do realise what this means for your position here?’
‘Indeed, sir, I do, and I am most fearful. It was with a heavy heart that I made the decision to free the turnkey. But what choice did I have? Had I not done so, I know it would have cost his life. He would have wasted and perished, though he had not been convicted of any crime. I would have consulted you, master, but I knew of no way to get word to you.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Gone, sir.’
‘Home?’
‘No, gone altogether, sir, to his maker. Hanged. By the Dutch church. He was among those arrested following the recent disturbances in the city, Mr Shakespeare, after the ship blew up on the river, sir.’
Shakespeare breathed in deeply. So the turnkey had been one of the rebel band of Baines and Curl. He must, surely, have been responsible for Morley’s death. Well, he had had the self-same fate meted out to him: hanged by the neck until dead.
‘Thank you, master keeper. That is all. Take better care when you employ a replacement for the man.’ Shakespeare turned and left, stepping through the great studded door out into the bustle of Wood Street and the pelting rain. He had not even bothered to ask the name of the hanged turnkey. What did it matter? A gnat of a man, he had thought him. Well, he had now proved himself of no significance. No one would remember him save, perhaps, his wife and children, and they would do well to forget all about him as soon as they could.
Lucy was delivered to Shakespeare’s door by two horsemen in tangerine tabards. She had been a guest at Essex House, waiting to be carried aboard a French packet-boat to Calais. She was unharmed.
‘They told me I was there with the Queen’s express permission,’ she said as they sipped wine in his refectory. ‘I confess my time in the earl’s house was well spent, though. I do believe I have acquired new clients of great wealth. Yet, I must thank you, Mr Shakespeare, for I have some inkling of all you have done to rescue me.’
Shakespeare thought she looked magnificent, yet vulnerable and, perhaps, a little afraid. Her hair was soaked from the rain and her black skin glistened. The vidame had thought her a jewel to be added to his collection, but she was a human being, a frail woman leading a life of debauchery that all too often ended in disease, violence, the ravages of liquor and early death. Perhaps this woman could rise above it all, but she would not be the first to have tried and failed.
‘I think it is Beth Evans who most deserves your gratitude,’ he said.
‘I know that very well. She is a fine woman. My right arm. You must come and see her all you wish. No fees will be levied…’
Shakespeare laughed out loud and shook his head. ‘No, Lucy, I think not. Her charms belong to a time long gone. Long, long ago. No, I will not be coming to your trugginghouse.’
The rain stopped and the sun came out again and burned the city dry. The exodus of the wealthy and powerful gathered pace. All feared that a hot summer would bring more disease.
