Rory Clements - The Queen's man

Peace understood it all, in an instant. ‘Then tell him that I found it within the clothing of Benedict Angel. I will confirm it.’

‘You would do that for me?’

The Searcher of the Dead shrugged. ‘Father Angel is beyond pain. Better taint him than the living.’

‘Thank you, Mr Peace. You have promised more than I could have asked.’

‘It is my pleasure, Mr Shakespeare.’

From a distance of a hundred yards, Harry Slide strained to see what Shakespeare and Peace were doing. He could hear nothing and see little enough through the grey drizzle, and yet he gained an impression that something of importance had passed between the two men. And then he saw them shaking hands, like two market traders doing a deal for the sale of cattle.

Slide rubbed his own soft hands together with a smile. This was like fishing with human bait.

Florence Angel and her mother were doing their best to clear up the chaos of their home. They looked up from their work without a word when the two visitors entered.

Shakespeare smiled at the widow in greeting. ‘Good morrow, Aunt Audrey.’

‘John,’ she said, her voice flat.

‘And you, Florence.’

‘Why are you here, John?’

‘I am investigating your brother’s death, for which I offer condolences.’ He hesitated. ‘How are you, Florence? I know that all has not been well with you.’

‘I mean what brings you to Stratford? I had believed you were gone from here into the service of the heretics. Should you not be there, writhing in the pit of snakes?’

Shakespeare was astonished. Was this really the Florence Angel considered best friend by Anne Hathaway? He looked at her expressionless face, then to her mother, who seemed pained.

Suddenly, Florence seemed to soften. ‘Forgive me, John. I have not yet welcomed you to our home.’ She swept her arm around the debris of the hall. ‘Perhaps you can understand why I do not feel hospitable.’

‘Yes, I understand your anguish. But I am not your enemy.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘But nor are you my friend. Tell me, do you bring word from the inquest?’

‘A verdict of death by his own hand was returned. The jury only did what they were directed to do. I fear they had no say in the matter.’

‘So justice is dead, along with my brother.’

Shakespeare could not disagree with her, so he merely shrugged. He was studying her demeanour, wondering what Joshua Peace might see there. She was not as plump as he recalled. And she no longer wore her golden hair loose, but tied up beneath a close-fitting pynner, which made her look a little severe. Her eyes were bright, but distant. She was faded. No, more than that. . she was spectral . As though she were already gone beyond this world. Only her sharp words and her rich crimson lips retained her link with the temporal. Around her neck she wore a rosary that looked exactly like the one tied around her brother’s neck.

‘I will investigate this, Florence, and I pledge that I will do all in my power to bring the murderer to court. It will help me if you would talk with me. When did you last see Benedict?’

‘Save your breath, John. I am not interested in your questions.’

‘You must have suspicions. Tell me this at least: who do you believe killed him?’

‘This heretical regime. Oh, I had quite forgot — that is you .’ She had reverted to the accusatory tone and it came as a jolt.

‘I understand your anger and grief. I would prefer to come to you when you have had time to bury your brother and mourn, but I do not have the leisure of waiting.’

‘Perhaps you should talk to him, Florence,’ her mother cajoled. ‘I do believe he is trying to assist us.’

‘No. He says he is our friend, but I know he is not. Benedict came to me last night in my sleep and told me you are my enemy and were never his friend. You come in a good man’s guise, but you are not with us, John Shakespeare, and so you are against us.’

Shakespeare was at a loss for words.

Joshua Peace stepped forward from the shadows. ‘Miss Angel, you do not know me. I am the Searcher of the Dead for these parts and I was called in to examine your brother’s body. Like Mr Shakespeare here, I know that he was the victim of a violent attack and that the verdict of the inquest jury was a travesty. I know, too, that Mr Shakespeare is your only hope of finding justice. I would beg you to listen to your mother and answer his questions.’

For a few moments, she appeared to be wavering. There was something wholly innocent about Joshua Peace that was difficult to resist. ‘Mother told me of you.’

‘Help us, I entreat you.’

‘No. I cannot go against my brother. He sits now, all pale and shining, with Holy Mary. I thank you for your help, Mr Peace, but I must ask you and John Shakespeare to go now, and not disturb us again.’

Shakespeare could barely contain his frustration. He turned once more to her mother. ‘Aunt Audrey, for one final time, I entreat you: make your daughter see sense and cooperate with me, to your advantage and mine.’

‘She is almost twenty-six years of age, Mr Shakespeare. She will not be influenced by me.’

Joshua Peace put his hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder. ‘Come, sir, there is nothing more for us here.’

‘Well met, Mr Shakespeare!’

Shakespeare swivelled in surprise, his sword halfway out of its scabbard.

‘No need for your sword, sir. We work for the same man and have the same ends.’

Shakespeare relaxed. ‘Mr Slide. I heard you had been looking for me. What are you doing here in Stratford?’

‘Why, the same as you. Hunting traitors, earning a dishonest crust from the silver platter of Mr Secretary.’

Shakespeare had just taken his leave of Joshua Peace on the outskirts of Shottery and was on his way back to Hewlands Farm. His last hope of learning anything from Florence Angel was to enlist the aid of Anne Hathaway. ‘You have no notion why I am here, Mr Slide, and you know it.’

‘Oh, I know well enough. You wish to find a one-armed Frenchman and a Scotsman named Buchan Ord, and now you have complicated matters by stumbling into murder and conspiracy.’

‘Conspiracy?’

‘This town is febrile with plotting. I believe you need my assistance, sir.’

‘Why would you expect me to trust you, Slide? You followed me covertly in Sheffield, and then you dodged away like a common criminal.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, I assure you, I am a most un common criminal. And I can prove my worth to you this very instant, by bringing you intelligence that will both delight and astonish you.’

Shakespeare studied Harry Slide. As in Sheffield, he was attired in a yellow satin doublet that would not have looked out of place at Elizabeth’s court. ‘I should take you by the neck and drag you to the town gaol, Slide. I am certain a dozen lashes at the whipping post would do you good.’

‘Do you not wish to know my intelligence?’

‘Very well. Tell me. If it disappoints me, you will have the whipping.’

‘Then prepare to be astounded, sir, for I bring you most remarkable news: your little friend has arrived in Stratford this very day.’

‘What little friend? Do not speak in riddles.’

‘The lame one. He rode in not two hours since.’

‘Boltfoot Cooper?’

‘Yes, indeed, I am certain that is the name. He arms himself like one of Drake’s pirates and grunts where better favoured men might utter a word or two.’

Shakespeare drew his dagger. Slide put up his hands defensively. ‘I beg of you, is this not good intelligence? Worth a groat of anyone’s money, I would say.’

‘You will not insult any man of mine. Where is he?’