Shakespeare No More Read online

  Wait. Did I catch a flicker of panic in Southampton’s eyes? Yes, and it was more than a flicker.

  “Indeed,” the earl said with a nod. “Bacon and Coke are conducting the investigation. It is a most serious matter.”

  “I have been led to believe that if Will’s death is connected to London it is concerning that matter that would seem the most likely reason.”

  This time there was no missing the narrowing of Southampton’s eyes. He was wary, and he did not respond.

  “If your lordship would do me the favor of arranging an inter­view with Sir Francis and Sir Edward, I believe that I can satisfy my own enquiry, at least as to any London genesis for Will’s death, and return to Stratford on the morrow.”

  He was not sure of his course. “You are here quite early this morning, Master Saddler,” Southampton said, as his eyes gave him away. He did not know how to answer my request, and I could nearly see the thoughts flitting through his brain. To accede to my request could cause more problems than it solved. But it could also remove what he felt was an obvious threat, though I still could not fathom what secrets Will held that demanded his death. And, it was a simple enough request that to deny it would probably make me even more suspicious. Aye, I could see him considering that as well.

  Telling him the truth of the evening before did not harm me. “I found myself quite near here late last night and I took a room at an inn nearby.”

  After a moment, the narrow slits that were his eyes softened and relaxed. He had decided. With a flourish, he snatched a quill and piece of parchment.

  “I see your logic, and I think that these men will be as pleased as I at your diligence.” The hard edge in his voice belied the amity of his words. He was not certain that this was the best move, but neither could he see a way out of it. Bacon and Coke were well known for the independence of their thinking. And Southampton did not know whether Will’s name had arisen in their enquiry. I heard that in every word he spoke. “Perhaps,” I could almost hear him say to Wilkins and Jonson, “this constable who is so damnably hard to kill can be used to further our goals.”

  He finished his note, folded it and with a practiced series of moves, dripped hot wax on and impressed his signet ring into it. Lifting it up and blowing to cool the wax, Southampton held it out to me with just a minute shudder of hesitation.

  “Master Saddler, you are about to enter a world apart from that to which you are accustomed. Simple constables from Warwickshire seldom have cause to come before the likes of Francis Bacon and Edward Coke. That you so readily seek such a meeting says much for your courage. I am certain that a man such as you sees hope in their reputations as honest, just men. Remember this: all reputation is just someone’s opinion. And any opinion, anywhere, has little resemblance to the truth.

  “I will offer you this: after our encounter yesterday, I was reminded of an incident at court several years ago, right after His Majesty released me from the Tower. You know that your countryman had something of a hand in His Majesty’s new Bible?”

  “I was not aware.”

  “His Majesty was not pleased with some of the work that was done. He trusted Shakespeare to set it right, but that was not widely known. I have heard that some of the official translators, most especially Thomas Harrison at Trinity, took great offence at Shakespeare’s revisions.”

  This was something new. But I could not imagine religious scholars being driven to murder over such a matter. Then again, I knew little about such people. The laws and their fines dictated that we attend church, but if the truth be told, I had little interest in religion and less in the afterlife.

  “What had he done to raise the ire of Harrison?”

  Southampton waved the question away. “I did not care enough to find out, nor do I truly understand those people that do. I simply know that His Majesty was forced to call Harrison to court to calm him. See Lancelot Andrewes,” he advised. “He might know what the furor was about. But I distinctly remember hearing Harrison calling for Shakespeare’s death as a blas­phemer.”

  ———

  With that, I was ushered out of Southampton House and back onto the road. Southampton had told me that I would find Bacon at Gray’s Inn, back towards Newgate.

  Ahead, in the crowded lane, I saw a cart approaching, carrying four women, their heads shaved: harlots, being punished for their trade. Most likely, they had given some courtier the Great Pox. Aye, Will once told me that many noblemen owned stews, places where whores plied their trade. Sometimes I wished that I had used such women. Perhaps it would have made Peg’s betrayal hurt a little less. Perhaps not.

  It took me but a short while to reach Gray’s Inn along High Holborn. Walking alongside a low brick wall, I recalled something that Southampton had mentioned about the inn. It had been Bacon who built the wall, back when he was treasurer of the society. A member of the inn himself, Southampton said that of all the Inns of Court Gray’s Inn was the oldest. Such claims, as far as I knew, could never be proven. At any rate, as I drew near the gate, I thought about what I had learned so far.

  The confluence of Overbury’s sudden death by poison, Will’s unexpected windfall, and then Will’s death, apparently by poison, spoke more loudly to me than anything. Add to that his unknown visitor from London, and I felt that this was the most fertile field in which I could plough. But the next step, once taken, could not be undone. These men were serious. They did not countenance fools.

  Why was I there? Was I truly doing my duty as a constable? Or had Will simply caught me up in the masque that was his life? I did not know. All that I knew was that I had come too far to stop.

  Moments later, after having given the note to Bacon’s secretary, I found myself ushered into his presence.

  ———

  Sir Francis Bacon was a clever man. Every bit the refined gentleman, rumour had it that he was the son of Queen Elizabeth and Robert Dudley. But, like the rumours of young Will Davenant’s parentage, there was no way to prove it. Still, reports of ill health had marked him all of his life.

  On this day, his cheeks seemed appropriately rosy as he sat studying some papers. He did not acknowledge my presence at first, but after a moment, he looked up and appraised me coolly.

  “Have we met…” he glanced down at the note “…Master Saddler?”

  “No, sir. We have not. I am a constable in Stratford-upon-Avon, enquiring into the death of the poet William Shakespeare.”

  Bacon blinked at me. “Why? I understand that he died of a fever some days ago.”

  “A week before his death, he called me to his bed and claimed that he was being poisoned.”

  At that, Bacon perked up. “Indeed?” He looked again at the note. “Saddler? Didn’t a man by that name die in a fire at the George in Southwark last eve?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “In truth? I was not aware.” I pushed forward my response. “I did not give Shakespeare’s claims much weight at the time, but a postmortem examination by his son-in-law John Hall, the physician, showed obvious signs of arsenic poisoning.”

  “Sit, Master Saddler,” he indicated a chair with his quill. “This is troubling news. I was well acquainted with Shakespeare. Aye, I considered him a good friend. I thank you for bringing this to me, but why here? This is certainly a Stratford affair.”

  “I have learned that about the time of Sir Thomas Overbury’s death, Will came into a great deal of money. Then all was quiet until you and Sir Edward began your inquiry.”

  Bacon’s expression grew stern. “Do you know why this enquiry has been brought, so long after Overbury’s death?”

  “Not precisely, my lord. I assumed new evidence must have appeared.”

  “Rumours, Master Saddler. Rumours that the king himself had a hand in Overbury’s death. He was forced to begin an enquiry to quell them.” He paused. “You seem intelligent. Perhaps you can be of service to Sir Edward and me.”

  My face flushed. Country constables did not get called to the service of men such as Ba
con and Coke. “In what manner?”

  “We are gentlemen, Saddler. We cannot simply speak with commons. They are ever on their guard. But a man of their own rank might coax important admissions from them.”

  A trickle of sweat grew under my collar. “Sir Francis, I am simply here to see if Shakespeare’s death bears any connexion to his dealings here in London.”

  “You yourself drew the connexion in the timing, Constable Saddler. I see no reason for you to balk at pursuing that line.”

  “Would I be your and Sir Edward’s servant in this?” In other words, would I have their authority?

  “Without doubt, though,” Bacon cleared his throat, “we would reveal such only in the case of absolute necessity.”

  And should I prove an embarrassment, they could just as easily disclaim any knowledge of me. ’Twas not a condition to be wished for. I should have listened to Hall, Smythe, and Southampton. But it was too late now.

  “Sir Francis, you should be aware that two attempts have already been made upon my person.”

  He shrugged. “Then you should prepare for others.” Someone stirred at the door and I turned to see Sir Edward Coke, the Lord Chief Justice of England, enter. I hurried to my feet, but Coke took no notice of me.

  “Francis, we will be late for our hearing,” his gravelly voice grumbled.

  “This man is Constable Simon Saddler of Stratford-upon-Avon. He believes that the recent death of the poet Shakespeare by poison is related to our case.”

  Coke, the foremost jurist in all of England, raised his thick eyebrows. “Indeed? I did not know that he had died. How do you know that he was poisoned? And how could a simple player touch upon this matter?”

  The jurist’s disdain for me was unquestioned. He barely took notice of me.

  “Edward, I believe he could serve a purpose for us. We need someone to draw answers from the commons. He seems a likely sort for such a chore. We have but a month before the trial, and he may be our best, last chance.”

  Blood rushed into my face. I did not like being spoken of in such a manner. “I will accede to your request, gentlemen, but only because it seems the surest way to discover who killed Will Shakespeare.”

  I was not quite taking my life in my hands with my tone, but I was not far away.

  Bacon and Coke drew back in both surprise and outrage. For a minute, I expected Bacon, especially, to have me arrested. But then Coke exploded in laughter, respect creeping across his face.

  “By all the saints, Francis! I think we have found an honest man!”

  “An insolent one, for certain,” grumbled Bacon. “Still, he will serve us well, I think.”

  “If I am truly an honest man,” I said, “then I will serve the truth well.”

  “Just see that you perform your chores.”

  “And what would they be, Sir Francis?”

  “I assume you read?” Bacon asked.

  “Aye.”

  He scribbled something on a bit of paper. “Find these men, buy them drinks, get them to talk.”

  “About what?”

  Bacon looked to Coke who spoke. “We know that Sir Thomas was poisoned. We need to know who administered it. These men are warders at the Tower. They should know, but they have lied to us for fear of execution. You are of about their age and station. They may open up to you.”

  “So you wish me to be a spy?”

  “Call it what you will,” Bacon snapped. “Just do it.”

  “But what of my own investigation?”

  Coke coughed. “If you help us, you may find the answers you desire. To this date, Shakespeare’s name has not arisen. But what you say bears further investigation.” He paused. “You say Shakespeare himself alerted you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did he say how the poison was being administered? Do you know if he was purged?”

  “He did not say. But his son-in-law, John Hall, saw to his treatment and would know. Hall keeps detailed notes of all of his cases.”

  Coke and Bacon exchanged pointed glances, and I wondered at what they portended. “I have heard of this,” Bacon said. I was not surprised; Bacon had wide-ranging interests. “And you think that Hall kept notes on Shakespeare?”

  “I know that he did; I saw them myself—”

  “But you did not enquire further of him,” Coke interrupted.

  “No. Quite honestly, my lord, I did not believe Shakespeare enough then to ask for more details. I believed it to be the ramblings of his dying mind.”

  Bacon shook his head. “Even the mind of a dying Will Shakespeare was far more nimble than that of a country constable. He traveled with me abroad once as my secretary, you know, when the plague had closed the theatres.”

  I nodded. “He told me of it. Will’s mind was ever eager for such experiences.”

  “And too often they reappeared in his plays,” Bacon grumbled.

  “You will have deduced, Master Saddler,” Coke interrupted, “that the earl of Somerset and his wife, the countess, will be tried next month at Westminster Hall for their part in Overbury’s death. The case against them is far from compelling, and we have little time to make it so. A man named Weston has already been convicted and executed for serving Overbury poisoned food, but he did not act alone. Someone was directing his actions.”

  “And why would the earl and countess have any interest in this?”

  “They wished to marry then. But Overbury was close to Somerset and objected. With Sir Thomas out of the way the wedding could proceed.”

  My ignorance of the nobility must have been frustrating to Coke and Bacon. “How did King James become the target of rumour?”

  Again, Bacon and Coke exchanged knowing glances. “The king favoured the marriage, reluctantly, but Overbury was powerful. And, quite honestly, His Majesty did not care for the man.”

  “But surely these rumours could be dismissed as nonsense.”

  “These are uncertain times,” Coke said. “Even frivolous rumours cannot be left unanswered. Let me explain to you how important this matter is to His Majesty. He said to me in no uncertain terms, ‘Spare neither sex, nor honour, nor degree, place nor persons till you come to the root.’ ”

  That was plain enough. “And you believe that one of the men on this list can offer evidence that will implicate Somerset and his wife to the exclusion of the king?”

  Bacon nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly, Master Saddler.”

  I rose. “How may I reach you when I have something to report?”

  Both men shrugged. “Simply call on us here. We are jurists; you are a constable,” Coke answered. “It might be helpful to both our causes if you couched your questions in terms of your enquiry into Shakespeare’s death.”

  “I doubt that warders of the Tower will have information relative to his poisoning, but I take your meaning.”

  Bacon stood then and clapped me on the back. “Your success will not be forgotten and, with good fortune, you will resolve both your problem and ours.”

  As I turned and left the chamber, Coke’s voice echoed behind me. “Watch behind you, Master Saddler. The next time it may not be an arsonist trying to burn you in your bed.”

  ———

  Minutes later I was back in the road outside of Gray’s Inn, fighting the crowds and considering my unsettling interview with Bacon and Coke.

  I had come to London to try to discover who killed William Shakespeare, yet now I was manipulated into being an agent for the Lord Chief Justice of England and his jurist partner in a different murder that seemed tangled in the garments of the king. What had I done? And why had I so readily done it?

  I had gone to see them to gain information from them. Now, it seemed that they had turned the tables on me. That they knew much was obvious. Little, it seemed, escaped them.

  I did not think that I had been intimidated by the pair, but perhaps that was just my own amour-propre seeking salvation. Perhaps I was more provincial than I thought.

  An hour later, at the Merma
id, Ben Jonson said, “Of course you are a provincial.”

  Chapter Eight

  How could you think otherwise?” Jonson was truly amused. I ignored him and took up my beaker. On my way to the Mermaid, I decided that it was wiser to keep Jonson close about me. I did not fear him physically, but the more often he was in my company, the less time he would have to plot my demise. But he was a complicated man, and when I appeared, as if risen from the grave, he showed no sign of ­surprise.

  “He is right,” Richard Burbage added. Richard had come across from Southwark on one of the myriad of wherries plying the river. He seemed stronger today.

  “And you pair would be as out of place in Stratford as I am in London,” I said finally.

  “Not exactly,” Jonson said. “We frequently travel in the country when the plague strikes the city. We are not so unused to country customs.”

  “There is a difference, Ben Jonson, between living in a place and visiting there. Much is forgiven visitors that is not tolerated in residents. But that is not important.”

  “No,” Burbage agreed. “What is important is why you agreed to involve yourself in this madness.” To punctuate his mood, Richard slammed his tyg, a many-handled drinking mug, on the table. I never really understood the vessel; a tankard only needs one handle. “Do you not realize that involving himself with these same people may have led to Will’s death? Yet, here you are, diving in head first. No good will come of this!”

  Ben Jonson’s response was to rip the list of names that Bacon had given me from my hands. He motioned to a ne’er-do-well sitting at a nearby table. Ben read him the list and whispered something in his ear.

  “He will return soon with the whereabouts of these men, but I know one of them. He is a good man but afraid of his own shadow. Words will not come easy for him.”

  I glared at Ben. His arrogance was hard to take in more than small bites. And I was not certain that I wanted him present when I attempted to question these men. After the events of the previous evening, his deep interest in this matter could scarcely be written off to grief over Shakespeare. At least I found that hard to believe. And if I were to truly pursue this matter, I would not stop with just the list that Bacon and Coke provided.