Shakespeare bowed curtly and walked to the door. Cecil watched him go, deep foreboding in his careful eyes.
Sending Boltfoot and Andrew back to the family, Shakespeare went alone to Mortlake. Cold rage had supplanted the unreasoning fury he felt before. He still had violence in his heart but now he considered the consequences beyond the act. He could not implicate Boltfoot and Andrew in this.
At first the door to Bartholomew Ickman’s opulent dwelling was not opened. Finally, at the third beating of his poniard and fist against the oak, he heard a shuffling of feet from inside and the door was opened. A serving woman stood there in apron and smock.
‘Mr Ickman is not here, master.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Gone. He left soon after noon.’
‘Where is his manservant?’
The woman looked from side to side, as though fearing she might be overheard.
‘Speak, woman.’
‘He left soon after, sir. I think …’ She hesitated.
‘Yes?’
‘I think he has fled, master. In truth I do not know what is going on this day. Others have run away, too. There is a great fear, sir.’
For a moment, Shakespeare wondered whether the woman was going to break down in tears. He pushed past her into the house and strode from room to room. He went to the solar where he had met Ickman and Topcliffe. The hall echoed with silence. The whole place seemed deserted. What in God’s name was going on here?
The serving woman was still cowering by the door when he returned.
‘I will be back,’ he said. ‘Tell your master that there is no hiding place on earth from me.’
Two men were standing by the river. Shakespeare recognised them instantly. Provost Pinkney and his giant of a sergeant, Cordwright. They were watching him and he noticed that they both smiled.
He walked over to them and they made no attempt to avoid him.
‘Mr Shakespeare, we meet again,’ Pinkney said. ‘How fares private soldier Woode? Itching for blood and steel?’
‘He fares well enough.’
Shakespeare turned to Cordwright. The last time he had seen him, he was wasting away in a Weymouth gaol cell. Now he seemed almost back to his immense strength.
‘And how did you slip the hangman’s noose, Mr Cordwright?’
Pinkney laughed. ‘Takes more than a gaol cell to hold my sergeant.’
‘So it appears. Well, Mr Pinkney, it seems a mighty coincidence to find you here. Are you friends of Mr Ickman? Perhaps you lay fires for him.’
‘Indeed not, Mr Shakespeare. We are here because our word is our bond, as always. Small tasks for great gentlemen. No, indeed not, we are no friends of Mr Ickman, though it would be fair to say we have made his acquaintance.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Why, I believe he is in the woods. Did he not venture into those woods yonder for his morning perambulation, Mr Cordwright, along that path?’
Pinkney nodded towards the thick woodland that stretched away from Ickman’s property.
‘Yes, sir, Provost Pinkney, I believe he did.’
‘But enough of common chatter, Mr Shakespeare,’ Pinkney said. ‘Our work here is done and we must be away. Be so good as to convey my greetings to private soldier Woode.’
Shakespeare had already noted two horses tethered to a tree close by. Pinkney and his sergeant walked towards them, mounted and rode away slowly in the direction of London, without turning back. Shakespeare watched them depart, then followed the path into the woods.
The body of Bartholomew Ickman hung from the branch of a tree, swaying gently in the breeze. Shakespeare gazed upon his grotesque face without emotion. The dead man was wearing the buttercup silk doublet he had worn in the fields of Lancashire, divining for treasure with Dee. His arms were unbound and a stool was on its side close to his dangling feet as though he had stood on it and kicked it away to take his own life. But Shakespeare knew better. He had a very good idea how Ickman had died.
Chapter 51
DR JOHN DEE was waiting when Shakespeare arrived back at his brother’s rooms in Shoreditch. Shakespeare glared at him with angry disdain.
The old alchemist was dressed in his flowing gown once again. He stood rigidly, with his back to the window, and looked nervous. Shakespeare wondered why he was here. He did not wish to see this man; he had enough problems of his own to contend with.
‘I was told I might find you here,’ Dee said tentatively. ‘Your Dowgate neighbours.’
‘Why are you here, Dr Dee?’
‘I heard about your home. The blaze … a terrible mishap.’
‘It was no mishap. The fire was deliberately set. It was arson, attempted murder of three adults and four children. It was a monstrous act.’
‘I know. That is why I am here. I can keep silent no longer.’
Will was out at the playhouse. Andrew and the children were in the other room with Jane. Boltfoot was here, though, eyeing Dee with wary curiosity. Shakespeare turned to him.
‘Boltfoot, please bring Dr Dee some wine. I think I wish to hear what he has to say. Sit down, Dr Dee.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But I must warn you to be straight with me. I have little patience today.’
Dee sat on the hard wooden settle. His beard was growing again and he looked much like his old self. He folded his hands in his lap, his voluminous sleeves draped across his thighs. He closed his eyes, as if summoning up some divine energy to enable him to say what had to be said. Shakespeare watched him closely, and waited.
‘Here.’ Boltfoot handed Dee a beaker of sweetened wine.
Dee opened his eyes, took the beaker, sipped it, then put it on the settle at his side.
‘What I am about to say does not come easy, Mr Shakespeare. But at the hazard of my immortal soul, I must tell you certain things.’
Shakespeare watched and listened, but said nothing.
Dr Dee produced a paper from his sleeve. ‘This is the letter you found about the person of Father Lamb. When I was at Chevening, Mr Mills showed it to me, for it meant nothing to him. He thought to try whether my intellect would fare better.’
‘And did it?’
Dee nodded his head gravely. ‘I told Mr Mills that I could not understand it, that it was all about birds and seemed meaningless. But that was a lie. In truth, I saw instantly what it meant. It was an acrostic of sorts, and the words leapt from the page at me. Look now, examine the initial letters of the verse you uncovered.’
‘Hand me the letter.’
Dee leant across and placed the paper in Shakespeare’s hands. He gazed at the hidden words that had been revealed by heat.
‘The killing birds wait in line. The hawks edge nearer, even as golden eagles under soaring eyries dive. Malevolent dove, evil nightjar, baleful ibis and twisted hoodcrow toss overhead, preying on insects, shrews or newts. Let dogs fester, orphans rot, ere rooks lay down and die.’
Shakespeare took a quill from his brother’s table and dipped it in an inkhorn. He scratched the initial letters of the message on a piece of blank paper, then examined what he had written:
TKBWILTHENEAGEUSEDMDENB
IATHTOPOISONLDFORERLDAD.
The letters seemed to have neither sense nor reason, except for one word that stood out like the back-end of a boar among sows.
‘I see the word poison in there, nothing more. Explain to me, Dr Dee.’
Dee shifted close and placed his long forefinger on the paper, smudging the wet ink.
‘At the beginning and end there are nulls, blanks – letters that mean nothing. That is why Mills could not see it. Reading from the H, the first two words become clear – Heneage used. You then have four sets of initials for names: MD, EN, BI and TH. After that, it clearly says to poison LD.’