Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Where is this new body?’

Peace tilted his head. ‘Back there in an empty storeroom.’

‘Who summoned you to look at it? Was it Sir Thomas Lucy?’

‘No, Mr Shakespeare, Alderman Whateley asked me to look at it. He seems to think kindly of you and your judgement, unlike that crew out there.’

‘They are scared, that is all. Two unexplained deaths within days will unnerve any man or woman. They begin to look at their neighbours askance. They lock their doors at night when such a thing was never done before. Come, show me what we have.’

The body was laid out on a pile of empty crates. Shakespeare looked upon it with relief and the blood flowed back into his veins. It was not Badger Rench.

His first reaction lasted all of two seconds. His next reaction was one of astonishment. The corpse had only one arm and a hole where its nose should be.

‘Shot in the face at close range,’ Peace said. ‘No doubt at all what the cause of death is here. The arm was long gone. Even that dirty-dealing coroner could not dispute a finding that this man was shot dead with a bullet to the brain. As no weapon was in evidence, and as the muzzle must have been no more than six inches from his face, I suggest that murder is more likely than suicide.’

Shakespeare wasn’t really listening. He was trying to make sense of this. Surely this was the body of the Frenchman, Leloup or Seguin or whatever he called himself these days? He gazed down at the figure. Naked and pale, the body was that of a man in late middle years, perhaps fifty or so. The legs and arm were still muscled, but the belly, hairy and speckled with blemishes, was expanding. The prick hung sad and forlorn in a forest of grey.

‘Cover him, Mr Peace. Allow him some decency.’

Peace draped a linen sheet across the body’s nether regions.

‘Was he like this, naked?’

‘No.’ Peace pointed towards a stone shelf at the back of the store. ‘His garments and other accoutrements are over there. It occurred to me this man was not of common stock, for his clothes are good and he wore a silver pomander around his neck — something I have not seen since I was in Italy. People in these parts cope well enough without such things.’

‘I believe I know who he is. If I am correct — and I have a way of checking — then he is a Frenchman named François Leloup, an associate of the Duke of Guise.’

Peace raised his eyebrows, and then emitted a laugh of astonishment. ‘You are full of surprises, Mr Shakespeare. These are deep waters.’

‘It was said he had a nose like a wolf’s snout.’

‘No more.’

They both gazed at the bloody wound. Shreds of flesh and gristle hung loose where once there had been a proud nose.

‘Where was the body found?’

‘In the river, by the bridge. The constable, Nason, had it brought here. When I came out this morning, it was lying in a handcart in the yard out there. No one seemed to know who it was or what to do with it. I think it fair to say that no one wanted to make any decisions. Nason scurried off. I rather think he wished to carry the news to his master at Charlecote.’

As Peace spoke, Shakespeare rifled through the dead man’s possessions. A capacious riding cape, doublet of black and gold, shirt of fine white cambric with lace cuffs, fine knee-length hose, netherstocks and riding boots. Nothing too lavish or gaudy, nothing to draw the attention of strangers. He might have been a government officer, a lawyer or merchant. Such men usually travelled with servants to guard them and do their bidding, but at the Cutler’s Rest in Sheffield they had insisted Leloup had no lackey. He felt all the seams for hidden coins or papers, but there was nothing.

Beside the clothes, on a platter, there was a dagger with a jewelled hilt and the silver pomander that Peace had mentioned. Shakespeare picked up both items and studied them. They were fine artefacts, expensive. He returned to the body and examined the hand. No rings or other jewels.

‘Was there no purse?’

‘No. Nor any sort of baggage.’

‘Curious that the murderer took his other possessions, but not this dagger and pomander. They are items of considerable value.’

‘There was one other thing that interested me, Mr Shakespeare.’ Peace pointed his index finger at the chest of the man, and traced a line around the front and side of the body. ‘You see this line like a thin surcingle? And here, halfway up the ribcage, a small indentation in the flesh. No bigger than a farthing coin. It is clear he has kept something tied close to his body. Whatever it was, it has gone.’

‘It must have been something of extreme value. Will you wait here, Mr Peace? I want someone else to see the body.’

Kat Whetstone was dipping her spoon into a bowl at the long refectory table in the hall. She greeted Shakespeare with a smile. ‘This is the latest I have ever broken my fast in my life. Taste this.’ She held out the spoon. ‘Frumenty with little pieces of apple and raisins and cinnamon.’

‘Thank you, Kat, but no. I will eat later.’ He looked down at her seriously. ‘For the moment, please come with me. I must show you something.’

‘This is very mysterious, John. Do you intend taking me to your chamber to show me this wondrous object?’

Shakespeare was not in a mood for mirth. ‘A body has been found in the river near here. I want you to see it.’

She placed her spoon in the bowl, stood from the table and smoothed down her skirt.

Her dismay was clear enough to see. She put a hand to her mouth as though she would gag at the horror that lay before her.

‘Is it the Frenchman?’

She nodded hurriedly, and then turned away. ‘Yes, it is Monsieur Seguin. Even without. . even so horribly mutilated, I recognise him.’

Shakespeare was surprised. He had thought that Kat Whetstone did not have a squeamish bone in her body. She was tough, resolute and had the stomach of a hardened soldier. What was it about the death of François Leloup that so unsettled her? Was she afraid?

‘Who did this?’ She had retreated to the doorway and held her head averted from the corpse.

‘That is what I mean to discover. And to do so I need to find Buchan Ord. If you truly have the information that you promised Mr Cooper, then end your games now and give it to me without further delay. Ord must know something about this man’s fate.’

‘John, I have not been playing games. All I know is that they planned to meet here in Stratford.’

He looked at her coldly. ‘I believe you know more.’

She met his eye. ‘Very well. Perhaps I led Mr Cooper to think I had more detailed knowledge, for which I beg forgiveness. But one thing you cannot deny: Mr Seguin’s presence here — even in death — must indicate that Buchan is somewhere nearby. And it is my desire to find him as much as it is yours.’

The burial of Benedict Angel was a grim, dirty affair. The gravedigger excavated a ragged hole at the crossroads near the place where his body was found. His mother stood at the edge of the pit, her head hung low, her despair complete.

Few townsfolk had dared come, for they knew the dangers of being associated with papism or treason. Shakespeare and Boltfoot stood beneath an old gibbet, charred where someone had tried to burn it down many years ago. They were a few yards from the grave. Will, Anne and her siblings were there with Shakespeare’s father and mother. So were the Dibdales, who farmed the land near Hewlands and whose son was also a fugitive priest. A score of the braver souls from Shottery and Stratford stood their ground with courage, all too aware of the problems that could be heaped on their families by being recognised as papists.