Rory Clements - The Queen's man

Shakespeare set his mouth firm, not certain that he was hearing the full tale. He spoke sympathetically, trying to take her at her word. ‘You are beset by many tribulations, Aunt. I would urge you not to be too proud to seek help. Anne would do anything for Florence, and for you. My brother Will likewise, and of course my mother. But Aunt, there is something I am duty-bound to ask you: do you believe Florence’s disappearance has anything to do with Benedict? Has he been in these parts?’

She looked at him fearfully, but shook her head vigorously.

Shakespeare was about to delve deeper, but in the distance they heard a shout. Then the shrill blast of a whistle pierced the air. Audrey Angel’s eyes widened.

‘They have found her!’

‘Stay here. I will discover what has happened. You will hear soon enough.’ He did not want her to go, in case the news was bad. Sometimes a mother should not see what has become of her child.

The body was at the edge of the wood, half a mile west of the Angel house. It lay straight, like the stone carving on a knight’s tomb. Feet together, hands crossed on the chest, blank eyes open as though staring at the darkening sky. A long branch lay close by, broken from an oak.

Shakespeare stood over the wretched corpse. His eyes went to the neck, where a black wooden rosary was drawn taut. The crucifix, also made of black wood, hung to one side of the lifeless throat.

The face was cold and discoloured, but Shakespeare recognised it well enough. He had known it for much of his life: his cousin Benedict Angel. Their kinship was tenuous — Audrey’s mother had been an Arden — but it was enough to consider them family of sorts. A group of villagers had already gathered, thirty or so. Some made the sign of the cross in the old way. Two women got down on their knees and began to pray. Another woman wailed and tried to move forward to touch the corpse. Shakespeare stayed her with gentle pressure on her arm, then turned to his brother and Anne. ‘Keep everyone back. No one must trample here. There may be footprints or other evidence.’

‘They will not listen to me , John.’

‘Then bring the constable to me. This is important. Do it now.’

Will nodded, took Anne by the hand and hurried away with her towards the town, trailed by Anne’s young brother, Thomas.

Shakespeare put up his hand and addressed the assembled villagers in a loud, clear voice. ‘Will has gone for the constable. While I wait for him, I must ask you all to stand back away from the body. You all know me as John Shakespeare, but I am now an officer of the crown, and I will be obeyed. This is the body of Benedict Angel, whom you all know. He had become a seminary priest and fugitive, but his death will be investigated in accordance with the law, and if there has been foul play, then the murderer will be hunted down to be arraigned before a court, where he will face trial and retribution. Do you understand?’

One or two grumbled; others nodded to signal their understanding. Most hung their heads, disgruntled, angry and afraid. A killer on the loose in Shottery? In living memory, none had heard of such a thing. Doors would be locked this night.

‘And remember, we still have a missing person — Benedict Angel’s sister Florence. You can do nothing here, so it would be better if you resumed your search for her, before darkness makes further progress impossible. We must hope for the best, and pray that she is safe.’

Was Florence further on into the woods? Shakespeare did not hold out great hope of finding her alive. He could not but think that her disappearance was somehow connected to the death of her brother. Getting on to his knees, he looked more closely at the face and neck. He touched the face, then the hands. The flesh was utterly cold, everywhere. Benedict Angel had been dead for many hours. Gently, he pushed two fingers beneath the beads of the rosary. A four-foot length of cord ran from it, but was not tied around the neck. The rosary itself was tight against the flesh, but that did not mean it was the cause of death. He needed one versed in the examination of corpses to look at this body, and the sooner the better.

Standing up, he looked at the footprints in the dust and fallen leaves that littered the forest soil. There were too many of them; no way of knowing which were from the villagers searching for Florence and which might be the prints of the murderer or murderers. He looked at the broken branch and considered whether Angel might have hanged himself from it, dying before it snapped. It seemed unlikely.

At the back of the group of villagers who lingered, reluctant to leave this grisly spectacle, he spotted the bull-like figure of Rafe Rench, the biggest farmholder in Shottery and father to Badger Rench. He was broad, his arms as muscled as the quarters of a plough-ox. Catching Shakespeare’s eye, Rench snorted and turned to go.

With wary eyes, a group of farmhands watched him walk away. One of them nudged his friend and jutted his chin towards Rench’s back. ‘He won’t be unhappy.’

‘Another poke of the stick.’

Were they suggesting Rench had something to do with this? Shakespeare wondered. It was a question that he would have to put, but first things first. He had to get this body moved before dark, and call for the Searcher of the Dead.

His brother and Anne reappeared with the constable.

‘He had heard of the search and was on his way,’ Will said, by way of explanation for their quick return.

Shakespeare turned his attention to the constable. ‘Mr Nason.’

‘This is bad, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Who is Searcher of the Dead these days?’

‘Mother Peace in Warwick still, but she lies close to death. Her boy, Joshua, has been doing her work most of this year past, though there are many who call him necromancer, for he deals with bodies in most unholy fashion. It is said he learnt devilish tricks in the Italies.’

‘Well, send to him nonetheless. I want him to return straightway, with your messenger. Is that understood?’

Nason took off his filthy, stained cap and scratched his long straggly hair. ‘If I may be so bold as to mention it, Mr Shakespeare, it seems that you are directing matters here, whereas the way I see things, it is my place as constable to take control of the inquiry until the sheriff is informed.’

‘Don’t argue with me, Mr Nason. I have the Queen’s authority. Now send for Mr Peace before you do anything else. There is no time to be lost. And then — and only then — will you remove this body to the home of Mr Angel’s mother, and inform the justice of the peace and sheriff what has befallen here.’ Shakespeare had no doubt that Nason had already sent word to the justice, for Sir Thomas Lucy employed Ananias Nason as a servant in the kitchens when not taking his turn as constable.

‘I don’t like it. We don’t need no Searcher of the Dead here.’

‘You don’t have to like it, just do it. Or you will spend this night in your own cage.’

Nason grumbled something and wandered off. Shakespeare did not trust him. He would have to find a messenger of his own to ensure that word got through. Across the field, the villagers were still hunting for some sign of Florence, but their efforts seemed lacklustre as if they were searching for a second corpse. He caught sight of Will, with Anne and her brother. Ah, Thomas. He could be despatched to ride the nine miles to Warwick and bring back Mother Peace’s son.

Boltfoot Cooper and his new riding companion, Kat Whetsone, arrived at a wayside inn ten miles south of Nottingham. She was wearing doublet and hose and had her hair tied back beneath her cap. But though she rode astride the horse, none could have mistaken her for a man.