‘Please come here, Mr Shakespeare,’ the woman called from the carriage.
Shakespeare lowered his fist. He shook off Cordwright’s restraining hands, turned and strode angrily to the lady in the carriage, wiping blood from his face on to his sleeve.
‘I do not know what any of this is about,’ she said, ‘nor do I wish to. But I am exceedingly put out if, as you say, the poor man has been killed without benefit of judge or jury.’
‘This cannot end here. I would ask you to help me lift the dead man’s body so that I may remove it to a nearby town, where he can be properly identified and examined. The least he deserves is a coroner’s inquest.’
‘Then that is what we shall do. Solko.’
She nodded to the coachman. Solko picked up the body of Lamb and laid it across the back of Shakespeare’s horse.
The two would-be hangmen looked back with indifference. With the coachman’s assistance, Shakespeare mounted up in front of the corpse and bowed to the woman in the coach.
‘Thank you, my lady. And may I ask you once again – who are you?’
She smiled. It was a smile of such beguiling innocence that a more credulous man than Shakespeare might have been entranced. ‘My name is Eliska Nováková,’ she said, then retreated into the depths of her carriage.
Before Shakespeare had a chance to say another word, the coachman closed the carriage door, mounted his perch and lashed the horse forward.
Ormskirk was a small market town. Shakespeare stopped at an inn in the central square. This was no market day. The dusty space was almost deserted, save for an old man sitting against the inn wall, whittling a stick to pass the time. Above him, a painted sign swung slowly in the breeze, creaking. It bore a picture of an eagle, clasping a swaddled child in its talons.
Ignoring the old man, Shakespeare walked into the taproom where he found the landlord, a broad-bellied, grim-visaged man of middle years, and told him he had a body outside, a victim of murder. He demanded he send for the coroner.
‘He won’t come unless you pay him a mark. He’ll send his man to view and bury the body.’
‘Tell him I am an officer of the Queen. And while you’re about it, bring me the constable, too.’
‘You could be an officer of Christ himself and the coroner still wouldn’t come without his coin.’ The landlord suddenly noticed Shakespeare’s hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘But I’ll go and tell him what you say.’
‘The body will be in here.’
‘Not in my taproom, it won’t. You’ll bring me bad fortune, and I’ve enough of that already.’
‘You’ll have more if you don’t make haste.’
As the landlord shuffled out, his head hung in gloom, Shakespeare went and hefted in the body, which was surprisingly thin and light, and laid it on a table. As he waited, he looked down at the dead man’s face and recalled his last words.
You must save Strange … I beg you, save Strange.
What possible connection could there be between a deserter from Provost Pinkney’s militia and the Earl of Derby? The Earl of Derby, who until the death of his father, the fourth earl, the previous September, had been known as Ferdinando, Lord Strange. Shakespeare paced the room in frustration. He had been delayed long enough. It was imperative that he got to Lathom House to put the matter to Derby himself … and to carry Dr Dee away to safety.
At last the constable arrived with the landlord.
‘Where is the coroner?’ Shakespeare demanded.
‘Hunting duck. I left a message for him to come when he returns,’ the landlord said, eyeing the body in his taproom with distaste. ‘How long will that be there? Customers will be coming soon, thirsty yeomen. They won’t want to share their ale with a corpse.’
‘Is there somewhere else?’
‘Out in the backyard, there’s a workshop. Put him in there.’
‘You two – you and the constable – carry the body.’
Reluctantly, the two men lifted Lamb’s corpse from the table and carried it out through a postern door. Shakespeare followed them. It seemed to him that the constable was nervous. He was a big man, like most constables, with sweat on his brow and shifting eyes. So far he had said nothing, merely nodding in deference to Shakespeare.
‘What is your name, constable?’
‘Barrow, master. Constable Barrow.’
‘Do you recognise this dead man?’
The constable averted his eyes and did not reply.
‘What was his name?’
The constable said nothing.
‘I shall have this information from you, constable, whether you like it or not. I am on Queen’s business.’
The constable turned back and met Shakespeare’s eye. ‘Lamb. The man was Matthew Lamb, commonly known as Matt.’
‘What was he?’
‘A man of some private means. He was new to this area, came last year. Never wanted for a shilling or two, caused no trouble, so I had no dealings with him.’
‘Did he have no trade nor master?’
‘No.’
‘Where did he stay?’
The constable looked at the landlord, as though unsure what to say next.
‘Well, man?’
‘He had no permanent lodgings, master. He came and went … stayed here and there.’
Shakespeare began to understand. ‘Send a woman to prepare this body for the inquest and burial. I want her here quickly and she shall have threepence. In the meantime, leave me. I wish to examine him myself. Oh,’ he turned to the landlord, ‘and bring me a blackjack of your best bitter beer and some pie. Now go.’
Shakespeare removed the corpse’s doublet first. It had a wide, ragged hole in the side where Pinkney’s pistol had blasted its deadly ball. Beneath it, the dead man’s torso was tightly wrapped in a stinking horsehair undergarment, which crawled with lice. Lamb had been mortifying his flesh. It was as Shakespeare had suspected from Constable Barrow’s evasive responses: the dead man was a Roman Catholic priest, sent illegally from a seminary into England.
The door to the workshop opened wider and a thin, bright-eyed woman bustled in. ‘Good day, master, good day,’ she said cheerily.
‘Good day, mistress.’
‘Now, who have we here? Oh, Lord help us, it’s Father Lamb.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Indeed, sir. He was well known in these parts.’
‘What was he?’
‘From the Society of Jesus. Brought his ministry to many people in this district. Has anyone said words over him?’
‘Are you of the Roman faith?’
‘What if I am, master? That is between me and God.’
‘Indeed, mistress. All I wish is to get to the truth of this man and his untimely death.’
The woman moved closer to the woodworking bench on which Lamb’s body lay. Shakespeare liked her face; he could see that she must have been comely before motherhood and the years took their toll, but she retained sweetness and mirth.
‘Oh, poor man,’ she said, touching the hairshirt. ‘I had no idea he wore one of those. How could a man think for the constant pain and irritation in wearing such a thing?’
‘Tell me, mistress, what is your name?’
‘Goody Barrow, sir. I am the constable’s wife, whom you have met. Did he not say words over Father Lamb? Such a craven man, but we must abide with what we have.’
‘I believe there are many Papists hereabouts.’
‘It would be difficult to find any other than a Papist, sir. We hold to the old way here, the true way.’
Shakespeare was surprised to find how openly the woman talked of her Romish allegiance. ‘Do you not fear the consequences of recusancy?’
‘What consequences, sir? There are not enough Protestants in these parts to apply southern law, though Derby tries his hand when he can, for appearances’ sake.’