A Murderous Affair Read online

  Our reverie was broken by one of the men walking to meet us.

  ‘Joseph Pinchkin, Captain of the Rotherhithe Watch, at your service sirs.’ He doffed his flea-bitten cap in our direction and then pulled his son roughly from the boat, giving him a clip round the ear for his trouble. A less inspiring ‘Captain’, one could hardly hope to encounter. ‘If you were pleased to follow me, the parcel is along ‘ere.’

  I prepared to disembark, mindful that my old boots had holes in them and thus determined to place my first footstep on dry land. I stood at the front of the boat, waiting for an opportune moment, but just as I thrust forth, a larger than average wave caught the boat, causing it to pitch sharply, and I fell face first into the freezing surf. Momentarily confused and disorientated, I scrabbled about in the mud, the water soaking to my skin, before I felt the wrench on my shoulders as Pinchkin Senior extracted me roughly from the water and heaved me onto the shore. I stood on the bank displaying a comedic mixture of stupefaction and anger, as the men of the Watch gaped at me and barely smothered their sniggering.

  Nesbitt, having successfully negotiated his way to dry land, hadn’t time for such niceties. ‘Come now, Lovat. Enough fooling,’ He strode off towards the ‘parcel’ letting me drip on the shore. So much for sympathy.

  ‘What in a Jesuit’s name is this about, Nesbitt?’ I asked tetchily, as I caught up with him, any lingering feeling of tiredness and drunkenness now thoroughly dispelled. ‘You drag me out here against my will, and don’t even have the decency to tell me why. I’ve had enough of your damn reticence.’ Despite his position in the household, Nesbitt wasn’t a blood relation, which still gave me some sense of superiority. Sensing the newly found edge in my voice, he looked at me coldly but thought better of a rebuke.

  ‘As I told you, a body in the river, Master.’ I decided to ignore his sarcastic stressing of the word ‘Master’, as he continued meaningfully: ‘There is suspicion of foul play, which is why we are here.’

  ‘How did this rabble connect the body with Robert?’

  ‘A posteriori …’ Nesbitt had practised as a lawyer before going into my brother’s service, and had an irritating habit of sprinkling his speech with legal phrases, ‘… they found this seal around the man’s neck.’ Nesbitt produced from somewhere under his cloak a seal attached to a thick, silver chain, which I recognised as sporting my brother’s insignia. ‘One of the men from the village identified it as your brother’s coat of arms and so, reasonably enough, sent word there. Sir Robert requested that you investigate the matter and report back to him forthwith.’

  The body was lying at the foot of the colourful column – twisted and inert. The face was badly disfigured and the clothes, although once rich in appearance, were badly torn. A closer inspection of the face showed one eye blankly acknowledging the sky – the other missing, revealing an open socket. All around the swollen, bloated hole, the flesh was cut and bruised and the man’s features were barely recognisable. From the gaping mouth a veiny, swollen tongue protruded, like some ancient creature that had died in its hole.

  I knelt down beside the man, drawn closer by a vague feeling of recognition, despite the disfigurement. I yanked the cloak, still grimly clinging to its owner, to one side, and, feeling the heavy, sodden material in my hand, it began to dawn on me. Despite the rough treatment it had suffered, I recognised the cloak with its fine red velvet and rich embroidery. A fresh glance at the shape of the cheekbones, the curve of the hooked nose and the colour of the skin, and I was certain.

  The dead man was, in a loose sense, known to me.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Under the glorious spreading wings of Fame,

  I saw a virgin queen, attired in white,

  Leading with her a sort of goodly knights.’

  (George Peele; The Arraignment of Paris)

  Sunday the 24th November 1588, the day before the Rotherhithe Watch had pulled the mangled body out of the Thames, had been the day of the Queen’s procession to St Paul’s Cathedral to celebrate victory over the Spanish. As God had been firmly on our side, it was only right that the Virgin Queen and an entourage of worthies should thank him in person, and I, and my fellow Citizens of London, line the streets to bear witness. It was also a holiday and the beginning of the Southwark Fair on Bankside, and thus a day that many of those same Londoners had long looked forward to with feverish expectation.

  I had left my lodgings early that morning and joined the larger-than-usual throng forcing its way along the narrow passage of the ancient bridge. My route took me past the little church of St Magnus the Martyr, at the foot of the bridge, through the bustling and noisy Billingsgate Harbour, before I darted away from the river up a thin, curving passageway, called Love Lane, which took its name in honour of the ladies who plied their trade there. It was a short cut which offered ample opportunities for escaping the city crowds, providing one could put up with the stench of refuse and the proximity to the rats that fed on it. I covered my face with my cloak and moved quickly, keeping to the wall to avoid the open sewer running down the centre of the lane. Fortunately, as the lane’s notorious itinerants avoided daylight like the plague, for once I wasn’t invited to engage in a bit of stair- work in some indignant inhabitant’s doorway. The most serious danger that early in the morning was being showered by a piss-pot emptied from one of the higher storeys on either side of the narrow alley – an illegal but all-too-common occurrence.

  My first port of call that previous morning had been a draper’s shop on Tower Street, the home of one of my few close friends, Harry Bucklesbury, or Buck as he liked to be known. The shop, belonging to Buck’s stepfather, catered to the clothing needs of gentlemen living in the affluent lanes north of East Cheap, but unlike many ‘sons’ in his position, Buck had so far avoided getting roped into the family trade. Instead, from an attic room not dissimilar to my own lodgings, Buck indulged his ambition of becoming a poet and writing plays for the burgeoning London theatres.

  On my arrival in the shadowy workshop, I politely greeted Buck’s stepfather, who I knew disapproved of me, and received a curt nod in response. The shop was quieter than usual and I surmised that the apprentices had been freed for the holiday. Buck’s father was an austere, hawkish man of about fifty, who was less than enamoured of Buck’s chosen career and never tired of reminding his stepson of his ‘duty’. Buck’s own father had died when the family lived abroad, and his mother had brought the children to London and re-married before being swiftly reunited with her first husband in the afterlife, following the requisite bout of fever. A young Buck, and his even younger sister Emmalina, had been left in the hands of a man who neither had time for, nor cared very much about their existence until, that was, they had become old enough to be useful. I had heard many uncomfortable tales of their cruel and neglectful upbringing, not all of which had been fashioned by a poet’s mind. There was certainly no love lost between Buck and his stepfather, and my friend was largely craving artistic success so he could escape the latter’s clutches.

  At the rear of the shop, I could see Emmalina sewing by the light of a window. Emmalina was the paste which just about held the family together. Numerous were the times that I had witnessed her diffuse a potential row between stepfather and stepson with a clever use of wit, or a disarming change of topic. She smiled at me, as I caught her eye, and before I could escape her gaze, called out to me:

  ‘Wherefore are you out so early, Master John? Are you going to the procession?’

  ‘Ay marry! If your brother’s awake and hasn’t been struck by the muse?’

  ‘He is awake and has already entertained a fine visitor this morning. Father was most upset that it wasn’t a customer. Weren’t you papa?’

  ‘Probably some good-for-nothing from one of the theatres,’ the old man mumbled grudgingly, fixing his eyes on me suspiciously. Buck supplemented his income from writing – or lack of it – by taking small parts in the plays of others, a profession considered to be on a level with whoring
or thieving by many of the better-heeled members of society.

  Emmalina had put down her work and joined her father on the opposite side of the counter. She reached over and quietly began doing up the highest buttons of my doublet with slender, delicate fingers. ‘There was a frost this morning, Master John. You need to wrap up warm, even if you are going to bathe in the warmth of Gloriana herself!’

  I meekly let her adjust the frilly ruff of my shirt, enjoying the attention. Until recently, I had regarded Emmalina as a slightly vexatious younger sibling, but lately had become aware of a quite different set of sensations whenever I encountered her, ones that her protective brother might not altogether approve of. I glanced at her furtively now, acutely aware of her breath on my neck. She brushed aside a thick tress of auburn hair and took a pin from between her teeth, with which she proceeded to sure up my doublet against the cold. Catching my enthralled gaze, she stretched her soft, coral-coloured lips into a broad, delectable smile.

  ‘Won’t you let me accompany you? You could do with a chaste maid on your arm to give you some respectability.’ Before I could think of a suitably witty reply, her stepfather relieved me by pouring cold water on the suggestion.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous child. It may be an undeserved holiday for some’, that ‘some’ was Buck and I, ‘but there’s still plenty of work to do. If your idle brother won’t help us, we’ll have to do everything ourselves.’

  Just as he finished speaking, a shadow darkened the shop and the little bell above the door rang as someone entered. On seeing the newcomer, Emmalina released my collar, her expression changing abruptly from playfulness to apprehension.

  I turned to see who could have produced such a reaction. The man who had entered was not old but not exactly young either. His face was made up of large slabs of flesh, seemingly put together at random, out of which the only signs of life were tiny, moist eyes and a darting tongue. Nevertheless, he sported the rich clothes of a merchant, in particular showing off the black cloak which marked him out as a member of a guild. Emmalina’s stepfather’s reaction was in marked contrast to hers. He bowed obsequiously and held out his hand to the stranger.

  ‘Good day Master Shuttleworth, good day. I hope this fine morning finds you well.’

  ‘Quite well, thank you, draper. Business is advancing profitably now that we have seen off that Spanish mob. And how is your charming daughter?’ he leant across to Emmalina as he spoke, tongue darting across his lips. ‘Keeping her little lady’s fingers busy, I see.’

  She curtsied awkwardly, mumbled something under her breath and hurried back to her sewing, putting as much distance between herself and the stranger as possible. I stood there awkwardly for a second and then decided to make myself scarce.

  Buck was usually a late riser because of equally late nights spent pulling his hair out while staring at half written lines, the floor filling up inexorably with crumpled parchment. I was therefore surprised to find him sitting at his writing desk, quill in one hand and head in the other, eyes staring glazedly at a blank scroll.

  ‘Ah, Lovat,’ he greeted me, with an air of muted enthusiasm. ‘You witness the noble scene of a writer with a commission.’

  I looked at him quizzically. ‘The last I knew you were still working on your Roman tragedy. Don’t tell me old quatch-buttock Burbage is finally going to pay you for it?’

  Buck had been working on the same play for a number of months but, to his frustration, the theatre manager had consistently rejected it. Combined with his increasing fatigue at having to play bit parts in other writer’s plays, this rejection had recently been wearing Buck down to the point where I had started to become quite worried by his sudden plunges into depression or anger – usually manifested when locking horns with his stepfather.

  ‘Alas not, dear friend, although the incredulity in your voice betrays a worrying lack of faith in my talent. Not to mention the fact that ‘old quatch-buttock’ Burbage, as you so poetically describe him, could one day conceivably be the docket to my success.’ He looked at me sideways, his handsome face prematurely marked by fatigue, and I felt it prudent not to scoff.

  ‘No, this commission comes from an altogether loftier source. A young gentleman, shortly to be presented at court, has commissioned me to write an impresa. And what is more, and of much greater import, he is paying three shillings for the bounty of my genius.’

  ‘An impresa!’ I chuckled unkindly. ‘Next you’ll be writing odes for love-sick lawyers.’ An impresa was a gift presented to the Queen at the Palace of Whitehall by the knights invited to participate in the Accession Day Tilts celebrating the Royal Birthday. The Queen herself had instigated the practice and on the only occasion I had visited the palace, on a messenger-boy errand for my brother, I had witnessed a gallery leading off the Thames crammed with row upon row of pasteboard shields, each with their own obsequious, personal messages in Latin, designed to flatter or cajole the Queen. I remembered shuddering at the sight of them.

  ‘The only problem is that I can’t think of anything original to write and his high-and-mighty Lordship wants it by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘There’s little point asking for my advice, unless you want to test Her Majesty’s tolerance, and the strength of your own neck.’

  ‘You know Lovat, for one so closely related to aristocracy, you display an alarming lack of respect for the finer points of society. I think the strength of your own neck will be tested long before mine.’ With this comforting thought, Buck brightened considerably. ‘No, I intend my young knight to curry great favour with Her Majesty before entering battle.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘The Honourable Richard Hardwick, eldest son of Sir Christopher, merchant adventurer, entrepreneur and erstwhile favourite of good queen Beth.’

  ‘Hardwick? You jest. With a name like that it will be difficult not to offend.’

  ‘He certainly is a poperine pear of a young gent.’

  ‘Stuck up you mean? Well, let’s just hope the little pillicock gets his cardinal’s cap knocked off during the jousts!’

  ‘Providing he coughs up first, eh?’ He gave me a sideways glance. ‘Money, that is.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Buck went back to staring at the blank sheet of parchment. After a few moments of glassy-eyed consideration, he let out a big sigh and turned back to me. ‘How’s the Pointer?’ he asked wearily.

  The Pointer, owing to the shape of his nose, was the nickname we gave to our master, John Wolfe, at the publishers where we had met and occasionally worked, translating foreign texts into English. We both had strong Latin but my specialities were Greek and French, Buck’s Spanish, Portuguese and German. Buck supplemented his meagre acting wages by putting these translation skills to work, but he hated doing that almost as much as playing ‘third lady in waiting’. He had failed to turn up to work the whole of the previous week, feigning illness.

  ‘As sharp as ever,’ I replied. ‘Your absence was duly noted.’

  ‘It’s of no consequence. When Vespacia is finished I won’t have to work for the old gown anymore.’ Vespacia was the mooted title of Buck’s supposed hit play. Feeling overwhelmed with the hopelessness of my friend’s prospects, a wave of sympathy came over me.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’d better get this other matter out of the way first. Where’s your Lily’s? I reached for the Latin grammar book on a shelf above the desk. ‘Remind me, what’s the Latin for cocksure, upstart, prick?’

  * * *

  Buck and I had left his lodgings at midday, having drafted an impresa that we hoped would satisfy young Hardwick, and walked westwards to join the huge crowds flocking to the Queen’s procession. The truth was that neither of us had much enthusiasm for the event itself, and I had more or less been ordered to attend by my brother – ‘to demonstrate the love of the common man for his sovereign’ was how he had put it, conveniently forgetting that we were of the same noble blood – but it was an excuse to venture abroad across the city on a day
of feverish excitement. Buck had convinced himself that it would be good research for his play, and I had convinced myself it would be fun to cavort around the city for the day, like a Flemish tourist.

  On the way we collected Greville Mortimer, a friend of Buck’s, from the Old Swan Inn on the corner of Thames Street and Old Swan Lane. Greville and Buck were old school pals but Greville had only recently returned to London after spending time abroad and I barely knew him.

  The Old Swan was the lowest class of ordinary, but an attractive option because it had been given special dispensation for pipe drinking. Tobacco was still a relatively new phenomenon, and was regarded with suspicion or awe by many, although fashionable young men considered it a social necessity. The strange apparition of smoke being breathed into and expelled from another man’s mouth was still a novelty for most citizens, and when we reached the tavern we had to shove our way through a crowd of ragged children who had gathered at the bowed window to marvel at the strange goings on inside.

  To our dismay, Greville had already made a head start on the day’s revelry and was loudly pursuing an argument with a dangerous-looking gentleman over a game of dice. Greville had lost but was refusing to pay his debt on suspicion that the other man’s dice were loaded. This was a common enough accusation but it was better to be absolutely sure of one’s ground before launching into the kind of verbal assault that Greville had embarked on. Knives had been drawn on both sides and the situation was threatening to escalate. Buck and I quickly extricated Greville by settling the debt of two shillings, and hustling him into the open.

  The procession started on the Strand, entered the city at the newly restored Ludgate and proceeded up Ludgate Hill before arriving at St Paul’s for the service of celebration. A display of fair blue cloth in the distance announced that we were getting close to the procession route. Glimpses of St Paul’s showed it swathed in colour from the captured flags of Spanish galleons. The streets in the vicinity had been expurgated for the event, with the usual array of beggars, disbanded soldiers and street hawkers nowhere to be seen.