Chapter Six

The days had not yet grown long, and I changed from the Cross Keys to the George Inn in Southwark. I ignored the old innkeeper when he asked if I were returning to Stratford so soon.

The George is an ancient inn, well constructed for the traveler. The galleries surrounding the yard could only be accessed by interior stairways. Once I was situated at the George, Ben left to let his wife know that he yet lived, lest she begin to sell his belongings. Anne Jonson was a delightful woman who had no fear of her giant husband. And she took every opportunity to let him know that.

I told no one but Jonson where I was going to stay. If I were attacked at the George, it would be because I was being followed. And if that were the case, I could not rely on Ben forever. Indeed, if that were the case, I might have few breaths left to take.

———

Without Jonson at my side, I passed back over London Bridge, ducking occasionally to avoid the trash and waste water being flung from the upper floors of the houses. When I returned to Stratford, I would demand to be bathed in hot, clean water to scrub the stench of London from my pores.

I did not need Ben Jonson for this trip. I was going to Will’s old lodgings on Silver Street, where he had let a room from Christopher Mountjoy, a tyrer, a maker of women’s headdresses. This was the matter that Burbage had mentioned. I knew little but that it had involved a betrothal and, some four years before, Will had been forced to return to London to give a deposition. Apparently he had earlier been pressed into service to arrange a marriage between Mountjoy’s apprentice, a Stephen Belott, and Mountjoy’s daughter. The apprentice was French as well. I did not like the French.

“So, the player is dead. Good riddance. Au revoir to him,” old Mountjoy said in a crackling voice weighted heavily in his native accent.

The old man certainly was ill-disposed towards Will. But he hardly seemed capable of arranging his death. Aye, he seemed barely capable of avoiding his own.

“He was poisoned, Master Mountjoy.”

The tyrer glanced at me and then hobbled across the shop to smack the hand of a young apprentice. “And you think I had some hand in that? Then you too are an idiot. You should visit my son-in-law, Belott. Shakespeare’s deposition did his cause far more harm than mine.”

His reply took me aback. “Then why do you hate him so much as to wish him dead?”

I thought for a second he would attack, so sharply did he turn his eyes on me. But then he shrugged. “What does it matter now? They are both dead.”

“Who? Who else is dead?”

“My wife, you stupid man. The player was bedding her. ’Twas she that involved him in the betrothal. I saw little of him except when his rent was due. Until the day I found him bouncing in my bed with my wife. That was why I turned him out. First, it was that Forman idiot and then the player. Mon Dieu! She must have serviced half of Saint Olave’s-at-Cripplegate!”

I would have paid good money to have spoken to Madame Mountjoy, but that was not to be.

For a moment, I felt as one with the old man. And I felt another thing.

He had no hand in killing Shakespeare. Mountjoy was just a bitter man whose life had not gone to suit him, and, I suspected, Shakespeare’s cuckolding him had simply added insult to the injury of his life.

I turned and left, even as old Mountjoy berated a poor apprentice, who had probably done nothing wrong but remind Mountjoy of another apprentice who had wronged him long ago.

Stephen Belott, Mountjoy’s erstwhile apprentice, operated a tyrer’s shop in St. Giles-without-Cripplegate, a ten-minute walk from his father-in-law’s house. Mountjoy had been but a miserable old man. Belott had been far more successful, at least in his trade. I saw that immediately from the trim and neat appearance of Belott’s shop front. This would demand a different approach.

I squared my shoulders and again entered the world of tyrers.

Tables ran around the room, filled with bobbin boxes, twisting wheels, spools of different gauges of wires. Tyrers used a stiff, coarse wire to form the frame for their complicated headdresses. That both Mountjoy and Belott were French was not surprising; it was a trade epitomized by French fashion.

Apprentices dashed about, some working the twisting wheels, some cutting and forming wire, some working with the precious silver and gold thread. The only sign of discord was a broken window.

“Who are you? What do you want?” A tall, middle-aged man advanced on me from the back of the shop. His accent told me that this was Master Belott.

“I am Constable Simon Saddler—” I began, but Belott waved me off.

“You are here to investigate my broken window. Well, you and I, monsieur, we both know who did it. I complain to the Privy Council about the horrible prices charged by those with the monopoly on gold and silver thread; their knaves come and break my windows. I complain about that and you arrive. And nothing is done. Why should I waste time with you?”

“I am not here about your broken window, Master Belott.”

He stopped waving his hands. “Then why are you bothering me?”

“William Shakespeare was murdered in Stratford-upon-Avon. I am charged with investigating that murder. I know of his involvement in your lawsuit against your father-in-law.”

Belott, a man with a perpetually sour face, grimaced even further. “My sympathies to his family. But what has that to do with me?”

“I seek his killer. And I understand that his deposition in your lawsuit did not advance your cause.”

“His deposition was unimportant. I won my case.”

“But you do not deny that it worked against you?”

“I do not deny that he failed to remember many details; who could have after so long a time? But he swore that there were such promises made. Others swore as to their content. Why should I wish to kill him?”

“Perhaps he took advantage of your wife as well as your mother-in-law.” I swear that I do not know whence the words sprang. No one I had talked to had even hinted that Will had bedded the younger Mountjoy woman.

But rather than becoming enraged, rather than thrash me as he should have, Stephen Belott just laughed at me. “Perhaps he did. I have no idea. He swived every other woman in Saint Giles-without-Cripplegate and Saint Olave’s.”

“She was your wife! Care you nothing for the marriage vows?” I was the one incensed. Incensed beyond all reason.

Belott’s smile cracked his sour face. “You are too old a man to be such a fool. The marriage was about the partnership with old Mountjoy and the dowry. I will not deny that I have enjoyed my rights as her husband, but I am sure that many others have enjoyed her as well. Her mother was the same way.”

The French! I would never understand them.

Frustrated yet again, I turned to leave, but Belott’s voice called me back.

“You would be better served to see old George Wilkins.”

I turned. The name was familiar; someone had mentioned it in recent days. “Who is Wilkins?”

“He is a tavern owner. Marie and I stayed with him for six or eight months when Mountjoy refused to honour his promises.”

“What has he to do with Shakespeare?”

“They were colleagues, it seemed. In playwriting or whoremongering, I do not know which.”

Then, I remembered. Something Burbage had said about Wilkins and Shakespeare working on a play together. And about Wilkins being a scurvy type.

“Where may I find him?”

“His tavern now is at the corner of Turnmill and Cow Cross streets, in Clerkenwell. I wish you good fortune, for if you go into that district, you will need it.”

With those eerie words ringing in my ears, I started out immediately for the most notorious district of London.

———

’Twas but a short walk, yet Clerkenwell was an eternity removed from St. Giles-without-Cripplegate. The signs of its decline were everywhere: broken windows, unrepaired latches, darkened houses, attesting to their vacancy. No shops greeted me along the narrow streets, only pubs and stews. Cutpurses lurked on every corner. If I escaped here with my life intact I would count myself lucky.

Wilkins’s tavern was in a profitable location, at a busy corner. I entered the room, just now beginning to fill as night closed in around the city.

Finding an empty table was not yet difficult, and I slid into a seat. I cast about the dimly lit room but all that I saw were strumpets plying their trade and beaten-down men looking for a bit of pleasure. In one corner a man sat smoking some of that tobacco from the New World in a clay pipe. Instinct told me that he had stolen it from one of his betters.

A woman, more a girl actually, with heavy cosmetics, approached my table and leaned over. “What would you like?” Her hand squeezed my groin as if giving me a sample of the menu. I pushed it away, though I felt that familiar stirring.

“George Wilkins,” I answered.

Her lips, painted a bright red, curled into a frown. “He can’t do for you what I can.”

“Perhaps not, but I wish to speak with him.”

“Cor, you’re from outside the city!” She draped her arm around my neck.

“You would wish me to think that you have never met anyone from the countryside? Please, my lady. Do not offend me. And,” I continued, reaching up and grasping the back of her neck in my hand, “return my purse or I will break your neck.”

With a clink, it fell on the table. “Now, go and fetch George.”

She shook my hand from her neck and flounced off through a door in the back.

George Wilkins was truly of the lowest sort. A strange dark brown streak marked the left shoulder of his old doublet. That was where he wiped his dagger, and the brown stain was a mix, no doubt, of food and blood, some of it human. His black hair was greying, and a number of scars marked his wrinkled face. In one ear was a large, dangling earring.

“You seek me?” The voice matched his face, deep and gravelly.

“If you be George Wilkins.”

He cast about, marking the patrons with his eyes, and then settled into the chair opposite.

“Aye. I am Wilkins. Who be ye?”

“Simon Saddler of Stratford-upon-Avon.”

His thick eyebrows jerked skyward. “And your business?”

“The player Shakespeare is dead.”

Wilkins shrugged. “I have heard. Good news travels quickly.”

“Indeed? You consider it good news?”

“Shakespeare was a thief, and I am being kind. But if you are from Stratford, surely you must know this.”

I chuckled. That someone of Wilkins’s ilk would call Will a thief defied belief. “He was murdered. I was told that you are the sort of man capable of such.”

And then it was Wilkins’s turn to laugh, revealing blackened teeth. “You are direct. I like that. So you think I killed Shakespeare?”

“I think that you may well have had reason. Now that I have spoken with you, I see that I was correct. What was it that he stole from you?”

“My words, Master Saddler. It was I who truly wrote many of his greatest plays.”

At that, I knew that Wilkins was as great a liar as he was a rogue. But that did not mean that he did not kill my friend. “In truth? You wrote Lear and Macbeth? How astonishing!”

Wilkins looked a little uncomfortable. “Perhaps not every word, but they would not have been half so great without my contribution. Upon that, you can rely. We wrote Pericles together. He often came to me for help.”

“Forgive me, Master Wilkins, but are you not a victualler?”

“So what if I am? Your Master Shakespeare held gentlemen’s horses when he first came to the city.”

“Quite right. Allow me to be blunt, Master Wilkins. William Shakespeare was poisoned, and I believe that you could have had a hand in this. A man of your parts was seen recently in the lanes of Stratford.”

“And you have an eyewitness that says it was me?”

“No,” I admitted. “But that does not mean it was not you.”

“It does not, as you say. Your Shakespeare angered many men, and women. Not just me. If you intend to question them all, you will be spending more than a few days in the city. I would plan on a few years.”

“That is not the Shakespeare that I knew,” I said in my friend’s defense.

“Then you did not know the Shakespeare of London. He was conniving and crooked. Those who would kill him are legion.”

“So you would have me believe. But I tend to think that you are just trying to obscure your own guilt.”

Wilkins’s eyes flashed. “You are a fool. Do you think that I will confess simply because you came here and asked? Take my advice, return to Stratford and trouble me no longer. I have nothing to say to you.”

“And you are a pimp. And I do not need your leave to pursue my enquiry.”

Wilkins jerked to his feet. “Perhaps not, but you may need my leave to stay alive. Get out!”

Two of his ruffians moved in from opposite corners. But Wilkins waved them off with both hands. “Master Saddler knows the way out.”

That this villain may have had a hand in ending Will’s life sent a white heat searing through me.

With his hands outstretched, I took a gamble and kicked him in the groin, hard and square, taking two steps back quickly while a groaning Wilkins, his eyes bulging, collapsed to the floor.

The ruffians descended on me.

Almost.

They stopped short when a dagger magically appeared in my hand. I had been palming it in the last few minutes of talking to Wilkins, trying to decide whether to kill him on the spot or not. He would not be missed, and any high-born friends he had would be scrambling to deny him.

I backed out of the tavern slowly, with the other customers choosing to stay out of the fracas.

Once outside, I trotted a block away and stopped to catch my breath, keeping one eye on the tavern door. The day had ended some time before, and Clerkenwell was even more sinister at night.

I tensed, as the door swung open and a figure emerged.

Even in the darkness, I could see the swaying shadows of a kirtle. It was one of Wilkins’s women, the one who had acosted me.

She glanced up and down the street, uncertain, but then turned in my direction.

Just as she was about to run past me, I reached out from the shadows and snagged her hand.

“You seek me, mistress?”

“Master,” she said, her breathing jagged. “You take chances.” In the dim light spilling from a nearby house, I saw that she had her own dagger at the ready. “You are a friend of Will Shakespeare’s?”

“I am.”

“And he is dead?”

“He is.”

“Last month, a nobleman came to see George. They went to one of the rooms upstairs and George allowed no one else. But I took them a jug of strong beer, and I heard them discussing Shakespeare. Something about papers and that it might be too late. The next day, George left and was gone for six days. Last week, the noble came again. George left on the morrow and just returned yesterday.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Even in the darkness, I could see the twinkle in her eyes, or at least I thought I could. “The noble was Southampton. He comes here often. And they were discussing Shakespeare, and now he is dead. I needed little more.”

I looked at her in earnest now. Beneath the horrid cosmetics, she was a pretty girl. Young. Too young for a life like this. “Whence came you?”

“You mean, how did I end up with Wilkins?” She paused, and for a second I feared that I had hurt her feelings. “My parents died when I was twelve. I was sent to live with an uncle, and before I had been in his house a fortnight, he began coming to my room and touching me. I did not know what to do, and he said that it was natural. His wife caught him one night; she beat me and said I had tempted him. He kept coming back, and she caught us again, and this time beat me harder. I ran away. Eventually, I found myself here. Is that what you wished to know?” Her tone was one of challenge.

“If you would like to leave this life, come to me in Stratford. I can find you work there in a decent home, if that would suit you.”

She turned from me. “I am no longer fit for such work.”

“You are fit for whatever you wish to do. My offer stands open. And thank you for your help.” I looked at her carefully, seeing at last the girl beneath the paint. I pulled a crown from my pouch and pressed it firmly into her palm. An hour of pleasure in a stew could be had for twopence; the sum I had given her represented perhaps six months of what Wilkins would let her keep of that twopence.

Her eyes grew wide as she realized what her hand held. She stumbled backwards a step and then scampered back up the street and slipped into the tavern.

I leaned against the wall and thought about what she had told me. Could Southampton have conspired to kill Will? Why? In what damnable enterprise had he involved himself?

While I racked my brain, searching for an answer, I saw the door of the tavern open again. This time it was Wilkins himself who slipped out. I resolved to follow him. Undoubtedly, he was going to get counsel from his patron. Probably Southampton. And that might give me some leverage when I next faced the earl.

’Twas but a short walk to Southampton House, and that is exactly where Wilkins went. The guards at the gate did not even blink when the tavern owner brazenly walked straight through. Obviously, he was a frequent visitor.

And then a second man followed quickly on his heels.

My heart skipped a beat.

Ben Jonson.

I would have given half my wealth to know what those three were discussing. But I could see no way to eavesdrop. I did not know in which chamber they were meeting, and I was certain that if I tried to brazen my way in that I would find myself in a damp, dark gaol cell somewhere.

Suddenly, I was very tired. This day had been far too long already. There was little else that I could do. Even the walk back across the city to London Bridge and thence to the George seemed too tiresome a journey.

I found a simple tavern near Gray’s Inn and let a chamber for the night. One of Will’s muses touched me there. I took the chamber in the name of George Wilkins.