‘John, I am sure you must know of the arrest and torture of Thomas Kyd before Marlowe’s death.’
‘Of course. He was one of those believed to be this Tamburlaine who wrote the attack on the strangers, which was posted outside the Dutch church. But I did not believe it for one moment. It was Francis Mills who ordered his arrest and hard questioning. Mills has a taste for torture, I fear. Perhaps it is revenge for the ill-treatment he has at the hands of his sluttish wife.’ Shakespeare could not help noticing that his brother’s hands were trembling and that his brow was deeply furrowed with concern.
‘You will know, too, John, that Tom Kyd had shared lodgings with Kit Marlowe.’
‘Yes, of course. It was much discussed.’
‘So when Kyd was arrested and the pursuivants searched his rooms, what were they looking for?’
‘Why, evidence linking him to the Dutch church tract. All they found, though, was some discourse on atheism, which is offence enough in the eyes of many. I believe he said it was not his paper, but Marlowe’s.’ Shakespeare snorted, without humour. He was bemused. ‘But Will, this was just one of many lines of inquiry into the Dutch church posters. A reward of a hundred marks was offered for information, and torture was sanctioned by the Privy Council. Few believed, however, that Marlowe was behind the posters, for why would he have named himself so clearly, knowing the penalty for such sedition?’
‘Perhaps the searchers were looking for something else when they tore apart Tom Kyd’s room and broke his body on the Bridewell engines of torment. Perhaps Poley, Frizer and Skeres were seeking the same thing when they took Kit Marlowe to a room in Deptford and killed him.’
‘What else could they have been looking for?’
‘I cannot tell you for the present. Suffice it to say that I know of it. I could add that there are some who do believe Poley, Frizer and Skeres were not the only ones present in that room when the killing occurred.’
‘Who else?’
‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Why did you not mention any of this before?’
‘You would have been compromised. It would have been your duty to seek out whatever Poley and the others were after, and then destroy it.’
‘You must at least tell me what manner of thing you mean. Is it written matter, some sedition?’
‘Not now. You will know soon enough.’
‘Coining, perhaps? Marlowe had much trouble with his counterfeiting activites when he was in Flushing. It was a weakness of his. Had he treasure hidden, false money, that they sought?’
‘Be patient.’
Shakespeare poured brandy for his brother from the jug left by Jane. ‘Will, beloved brother, if Marlowe was involved in counterfeiting the Queen’s coin or writing something of a seditious nature and you know what it is, you are already in peril. Nothing you can tell me will make your position more dangerous. You say they tortured Kyd and killed Marlowe because of it. Why would they stop there? The slightest suspicion that you know of its whereabouts could lead to your arrest, and worse.’
‘That is why I left London so hurriedly after the inquest. I had only stayed as long as I did to discover what came out in the testimony of Poley, Skeres and Frizer. I went home to Stratford, but I soon realised I could not stay there; I had to face up to this matter. These past days I have been in Shoreditch, for I had much to organise. I fear I did not hear of Catherine’s terrible death until now. My coming here to your home has had to be most quiet, and I must keep it that way.’
‘Someone is after you?’
‘It is possible.’
‘And is there some link to Catherine’s death?’
‘No, none that I know. John, come with me on the morrow and you shall discover all that I know.’
‘This disturbs me greatly.’
‘Yes, but I must ask you to trust me on this.’
Chapter 39
The keeper of the Marshalsea shook his head and rubbed his long, grease-streaked beard. ‘I am sorry, Mr Shakespeare. Ingram Frizer is no longer here. Got his pardon from the Queen yesterday and so I had to let him out.’
Shakespeare uttered a low oath. ‘Where did he go?’
‘I have his place of abode. I did write it in the black book. You are welcome to consult it, though whether he went there I could not say.’
The keys on the keeper’s belt clanged with every step through the echoing halls of the old prison as he led Shakespeare to his little room. ‘Here we are, master,’ he said at last as he opened the door, letting Shakespeare in first.
Shakespeare held a kerchief to his nose in disgust. There was a foul smell in here of cooking fat, which added a nauseous quality to the common gaol scents of ordure and sweat.
The keeper brought down the black book and opened it flat on the crooked table, where, judging from the stains, scraps and crumbs, he took his daily food.
‘There we go, sir. Admitted the second of June, killed a man in self-defence. Following inquest, to be held on remand awaiting decision of court in Chancery. Now he has had his formal pardon. Let me see, where did he abide?’ The keeper scratched his dirty, fat forefinger across the page. ‘Ah, there it is — not far from here, master. By the river, St Augustine Inn, my old father always knew it as. Now, though it is called Sentlegar House. Tenement building. Many of the worst sort live there, sir. You will find it hard by the Bridge House.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I wish you fortune of Mr Frizer, sir, for I cannot say I liked him much. A sly fellow, I would say. Not one to turn your back on, lest you wish a poniard in the kidney.’
Shakespeare was relieved to step out into the comparatively fresh air of Southwark. The streets were thronged with stalls selling goods from the world over, brought back by the great trading carracks. Spanish gold and fruits could be had here, wine from France, printed books from the German lands, furs from the Russias and spices from the Moluccas. Looking down Long Southwark to the bridge, he saw nothing but people, wains and farm beasts, packed tight in an endless stream. He shuddered at the thought of what might have been, had the hellburner done its foul work.
St Augustine Inn was less than a furlong from the gaol. Shakespeare walked straight in, for the door was open. A family of ten huddled in the first room he saw, a drab band of whores in the next. He asked after Ingram Frizer. No one would admit to knowing him. He looked in all the tenements. There were only poor families, whores and rats. Not a clue as to his whereabouts.
The windows were shuttered at Robert Poley’s splendid, timbered townhouse in Birchin Lane, just north of Lombard Street. Yet it was not entirely empty, for a housekeeper answered the door to Shakespeare.
‘I would speak with Mr Poley,’ Shakespeare demanded.
‘I fear he is not here, master,’ the woman said. She was an honest-looking woman in her thirties. Shakespeare looked at her questioningly and wondered why any decent goodwife would wish to work for a villain such as Poley.
‘When will he be back?’
‘He has left for the summer, master. Gone to the country to escape the pestilence. I just come here to dust and look out for the place while he’s away.’
‘Did he say which part of the country?’
‘Norfolk, I do believe. He said he would be travelling for a few weeks and that he might go to the Low Countries for a while. He has a friend with him, sir, one Nicholas Skeres.’
Shakespeare looked at the woman’s eyes yet more closely and could see no dissembling in them. So Poley and Skeres had left town, and Frizer was gone, too. Well, that was most convenient for them. Shakespeare cursed beneath his breath, then smiled at the woman and thanked her for her assistance. There was only one more place to try: Deptford.
It was a journey of no more than half an hour by tilt-boat. Shakespeare paid the watermen, then strode across the green to the fine house of Ellie Bull. He hammered at the door, with more than a hint of impatience. He was well aware that Cecil would be in a fury if he had any idea what he was about and would damn him for not devoting his time to the Scots prince or the Spanish woman. But since the arrival of his brother, there was this matter of Marlowe again, this murder; he was convinced of it. It had lain unquestioned too long.