Dowty sniffed. ‘As I said, you’re not from these parts. I’d inquire after one Lamb, if I were you, and then you can stop wasting my time and yours around these kitchens.’
‘Tell me about Lamb.’
‘He’s a dirty Jesuit. Been sniffing around Lathom and Ormskirk for months, like a fox around a chicken coop. He’s the one wants the earl dead – revenge for turning in their snivelling messenger boy Hesketh. They swore the earl would die in pain if Hesketh was taken to the scaffold, and now you see it happening. If it’s not witchcraft, you tell me what it is. Because it’s nothing he ate, I’ll promise you that.’
Shakespeare did not mention that Lamb was dead.
‘What of Mistress Knott?’ he said.
‘What of her?’
‘Do you know her?’
‘I know of her. His lordship has visited her on occasion. She lives in Lathom village. I reckon her harmless enough. Makes charts, I’m told. And if that makes her a witch, then so is Dr Dee, for does he not study the stars and make charts, too?’
‘She mentioned strange things happening. A giant of a man, a crone, a wax effigy. Did you see any of those things?’
Dowty laughed. ‘There was a large farmer, fair bit taller than you. Maybe even six and a half feet tall. Does that qualify as a giant? He had ideas about stopping the hunt riding over his new-sown field, which caused much merriment. But I know nothing of any crone, nor no wax effigy.’
Suddenly there was a clanging. A man in an apron was walking through the kitchens, swinging his bell like a night watchman.
‘That means we have to get food on the tables, Mr Shakespeare. A hundred or more hungry souls to be fed this morning.’
Shakespeare met his eyes and tried to read them. Why was this man being so obstructive? Did he have something to hide?
‘We will speak again in due course,’ he said. ‘I wish to know more about you, Mr Dowty.’
The dining hall was empty of guests. Half a dozen bluecoats stood at their stations, shoulders held stiffly back. Shakespeare sat down in the middle of the long oak table that took up most of the length of the hall, and proceeded to eat his fill of bread, eggs, bacon and cheese.
Feeling a good deal better, he did not linger but went back to his bedchamber to complete his morning wash and to dress himself properly. He was surprised and worried to discover that Oxx and Godwit were not at their posts outside the room.
Pushing open the door, he found, too, that Dr Dee was gone. On the table was a note, written in a fluid hand.
‘Mr Shakespeare, fear not. I have not been abducted, but have gone questing in woodland two miles north-west of Lathom House, accompanied by Mr Oxx, Mr Godwit and diggers. I will return before five of the clock.’
It was signed Δ – the delta of the Greek alphabet, Dr Dee’s signature. Shakespeare was alarmed. He knew of Dee’s lifelong pursuit of buried treasure, but how was he to be protected – even by men as sound as Oxx and Godwit appeared to be – in the middle of a country wood?
Cursing Dee for a fool, he washed, dressed and hurried out.
At the foot of the stairs, in the great hall, Shakespeare was astonished to see the Earl of Derby up from his sickbed and fully dressed. He was walking slowly, on the arm of his wife, the Countess Alice. She wore a simple day dress of cream and pearl. It was the earl’s attire that caught the eye – a beautiful cerise doublet with sleeves slashed to reveal the family’s eagle-and-child crest, intricately woven in thread of gold. Behind them walked three magnificent greyhounds.
Shakespeare bowed. ‘My lord, I am delighted to see you up from your sickbed.’
He was not so delighted by the earl’s appearance. His face was sallow, his dark, wavy hair now lank and slicked down. He had always had a squint, his eyes seeming to watch two places at once, but there was usually a keenness and life to them; now they lacked lustre and wit. His beard, once neat-trimmed, was like a dark-red hedge.
‘I am weak as a new-born babe, Mr Shakespeare. I am wasted almost to nothing.’
‘Your sickness, sir …’
‘It eased in the night, thank the Lord. I have had no convulsions or vomiting for some hours and, what is more, I slept. Even better is that I have pissed. A whole river of piss, that carried away my pain. I think the curse is lifted.’
‘The whole house has prayed, Mr Shakespeare,’ the countess said. ‘It is the power of prayer that has saved my lord.’
‘What do your physicians say?’
‘Those fools? They say I am cured. It is the first true thing they have said this week. Mistress Knott will not have it, however.’
The countess patted his arm. ‘I do not know why you ever listen to that mad woman, Ferdinando.’ She smiled. ‘Come, it is a fine morning. Come and sit in the sun and see if you can sip some cordial.’
Shakespeare bowed again. ‘I would speak to you, if I may, when you are fully recovered, my lord.’
‘As you will, Mr Shakespeare. I believe there is some alarm concerning the good Dr Dee?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then we will speak anon. Allow me a few hours to get back my strength. I trust you will stay with us long enough to view your brother’s new trifle? We have delayed too long and it shall be performed tonight.’
His wife shook her head, almost imperceptibly. ‘I think we should leave it a day or two, Ferdinando – you will be too fatigued.’
The earl tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat. ‘Do not listen to her, Mr Shakespeare,’ he croaked. ‘I believe my wife thinks me made of glass.’ He patted one of the greyhounds and stroked its sleek head.
Shakespeare watched them walk away. It occurred to him that there were many who would happily break that glass. His instinct was to take Dee now and ride with him to Kent, but his reason told him he must stay a little longer. The last, dying warning of Father Lamb seemed to toll like a funeral knell for Derby.
Chapter 10
THE EARL’S YOUNGER brother, William Stanley, came out of Cole’s office as Shakespeare was about to bang at the door to gain admittance. Shakespeare bowed to him, but he simply nodded curtly and hurried on.
As he walked away, William Stanley cut a commanding figure. Unlike his older brother, he was a man of bearing with gracious parts, tall and slender with short-cropped dark hair and a hot aspect that would serve well on the field of battle. Shakespeare wondered why he had not acknowledged him. They knew each other well enough. Stanley had travelled extensively in Italy, France and Spain during the mid-eighties and had brought much valuable information to Sir Francis Walsingham’s attention. Well, Shakespeare would need to speak to him in due course. Cecil had suggested there was bad blood between the brothers.
Shakespeare watched him a moment, then turned away and entered Cole’s office.
‘I would like to resume our conversation, Mr Cole. And I will need the assistance of yet another of your men.’
If Cole was put out by being barged in on, he was too much the lawyer to show it. ‘As you wish, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘The earl has made something of a recovery, it seems.’
‘The household is overjoyed. I do not mind telling you, sir, that we had feared for his very life.’
‘And I see his brother is here.’
‘He came from the Island of Man at Easter.’
‘I had not known the brothers to be on speaking terms.’
‘It is not my place to comment on such matters, Mr Shakespeare,’ Cole said, a little stiffly. ‘But I can tell you in honesty that I have detected no ill-will these past days.’
Shakespeare said nothing, but looked around. There were shelves of ledgers and correspondence; the whole workings of this complex and costly household were contained within this small room.