The Man in the Snow (Ebook) (4 page)

 
‘There can be no doubt. I met him once, nine years ago.’

 
Elizabeth de Vere smiled sadly. Shakespeare wondered about her role as Oxford’s second wife. Was he kinder to her than he had been to Anne Cecil? Elizabeth, a former maid of honour to the Queen, had at least given him the son and heir he longed for. And if he enjoyed collecting things of beauty, then she must surely qualify.

 
‘My lady, if I may ask, what precisely was Signor Jesu’s position in this household?’

 
‘Ah, yes, a very good question, Mr Shakespeare, and one that is not easily answered. It is complicated, you see. Giovanni was the residue of another time and place. He emanated from the days when my lord of Oxford was a great deal more wealthy and well-favoured. Edward considered Giovanni an ornament. There were other such young men of talent and beauty whom he brought home from his tour of the Italies, but they all drifted away; Giovanni stayed. He was not servant, but nor was he guest.’

 
‘Did you know him well?’

 
‘We exchanged pleasantries, no more. Giovanni was one of the furnishings, if you like, an item I inherited when we married.’

 
‘Was he close to your husband?’

 
‘I would like to say that they were like brothers, but that would not be quite the truth. Edward was always a fool for a pretty face, be it male or female.’

 
Shakespeare bowed his head in appreciation of her candour. ‘Thank you, my lady. And might I speak with Dorcas Catton?’

 
‘Not tonight, Mr Shakespeare. As with my husband, I think you had better wait until the morning. But I will take you to the dead man’s room.’

Giovanni’s chamber was at the side of the house on the first floor. At any other season, it would probably have been pleasant enough, but on this winter’s night it was cold, the fire as dead as the man himself and the inside of the window frosted with filaments of ice.

 
The bed was a plain wooden cot ranged along one wall and neatly clothed in woollen blankets and a feather bolster. There were two old stools and a chamber pot. The dominant feature of the room was a picture on the wall to the left of the door. Shakespeare held up his lantern. Drawn in ink, with washes of colour, it depicted a city of waterways, perhaps his home town Venice. Beneath the picture stood a carved coffer with padlock.

 
‘Do you have a key to this coffer, my lady?’

 
‘No, why should I?’

 
‘Does one of the servants? Perhaps Dorcas Catton has it.’

 
‘I have no idea. I shall leave you to your searches and ask Stickley if he knows about any key.’

 
‘Perhaps you would also ask him to send my man Cooper up here to me.’

 
If Elizabeth de Vere disliked being ordered about in her own home, she did her best to conceal it. She smiled sweetly. ‘And you must feel free to sleep in this room tonight. Unless, of course, you have a fear of ghosts.’

 
‘This room would suit me perfectly. You are most generous.’

 
‘Good. Your man can sleep in the stables. And, Mr Shakespeare, I must tell you that this household will be celebrating Christmas as always, murder or no murder.’

 
After she left, Shakespeare began to scour the room, lantern in hand. The blankets on the bed revealed nothing. Shakespeare shook them, but all that emerged was dust. He turned over the mattress, felt it all over for secrets concealed within, then looked beneath the bed; the space was empty.

 
On a table by the window he found a comb, a razor, a pair of iron scissors, a large Latin Bible, quills and an inkhorn. He thumbed the pages of the Bible, which were unworn and had clearly seen little use.

 
There was a knock at the door and Boltfoot came in.

 
Shakespeare nodded towards the coffer. ‘We need to get this open.’

 
‘No one among the servants has a key.’ Boltfoot held up a crowbar. ‘But Stickley found this.’

 
‘Good man.’

 
A minute later, the coffer had been wrenched open and Shakespeare was peering inside while Boltfoot held the lantern. He pulled out a well-cut doublet, some hose, shirts and stockings, a small box with a pile of silver and gold coins. Shakespeare counted them. They amounted to three pounds, six shillings. Not a fortune, but a fair reserve of money.

 
‘What do you think, Boltfoot?’

 
‘Not much in the way of possessions for a man who has lived with the earl all these years.’

 
‘Perhaps someone has searched this room before us. Someone who took the key from him and opened this coffer. Someone who killed him with a shot to the back.’

 
As he spoke, Shakespeare spotted something on the floorboards, a glint in the light of the lantern. He bent down and picked it up. It was a small sliver of metal, no more than a quarter-inch long. He held it between his fingers, then loosened the ties of his purse and deposited it within.

 
‘What have you found, master?’

 
Shakespeare ignored the question. It could wait. ‘Tell me, Boltfoot, what did you discover in the kitchens?’

 
‘I found that there are those who loved Giovanni, and at least one who hated him.’

 
‘Dorcas Catton, I presume, is among those who loved him?’

 
‘Her child by him is the most lovely baby I ever did see. From the colour of the babe’s skin I would say there was no doubt he was the father. Yes, she loved him.’

 
‘How many servants did you meet?’

 
‘There are twelve in all. You met Dorcas the maid and Wat Stickley the steward. He is the chief man, and has been with his lordship for ever. The one who interested me was a Frenchman named Curly Marot, who has charge of the kitchens and among the others is reputed a great deviser of fine dishes. I did not take to him. There was something amiss in his approach to Dorcas. In truth I almost believe she loathed him. And he did not seem upset by the news of Jesu’s death.’

 
‘And are you certain it was news to him?’

 
‘No, master. No, I am not certain of that at all.’

 
‘Well, I shall seek out Monsieur Marot on the morrow. Come, let us take one last look around this chamber and then retire to bed. I believe you are being consigned to the stables.’

 
Boltfoot grinned. ‘It cannot be colder there than this ice chamber.’

Chapter 5

Shakespeare slept fully clothed, huddled in blankets that did little to stave off the cold. An hour before dawn, he woke. He thought he heard a distant cry. He rose to piss in the pot, then heard the noise again. A dull scream – somewhere in the house. No, not
in
the house, but outside. Throwing open the shutters, he looked out, but could see nothing other than the ever falling snow. He thought he heard voices, muffled and indistinct.

 
Swiftly, he lit his lantern, pulled on his boots, picked up his weapons and slipped from the chamber.

 
The boards creaked beneath his feet. Somewhere deep in the house a baby wailed, but that was not the sound he had heard. Downstairs, he made his way to the back of the rambling building and found a passage through to the kitchens. A back door gave out on to a courtyard and the stables. He spotted a figure across the way and tensed.

 
‘Master.’ The word was barely more than a whisper, but it carried.

 
Shakespeare nodded. It was Boltfoot, standing at the barn door, caliver in his arms. A rushlight on the flagstone by his feet cast an eerie glow. He nodded back to Shakespeare as he trudged through the snow towards him.

 
‘What is it, Boltfoot?’

 
‘I thought I heard screams. When I came out there was nothing. No one. I was wondering whether to come for you. Did I imagine it, master?’

 
‘Your ears did not deceive you. There
were
screams – and voices.’

 
They stood a moment and listened. A loud whinnying broke the silence, then a cry and another voice, deeper and fainter. The sounds came from the front of the house. Shakespeare began to run, the lantern swaying with strange bursts of light and shadow. Boltfoot limped behind him.

 
At the front of the manor, they spotted movement in the snow, some fifty yards away, near the avenue of trees that led from the house to the road. Shakespeare drew his sword and advanced. There was another scream, then a sob. A squat figure, cowled and dark, faced Shakespeare for a few moments, then edged away and broke into a loping run.

 
‘Stop!’ Shakespeare shouted, but the figure had disappeared into the snow. He heard the light clink of stirrups and spurs, a slap and the soft sound of hoofs in snow. And then, as if from nowhere, a bay horse and its unidentifiable rider burst from the curtain of white, wheeled in front of him and in an instant was gone, vanished into the downy snow.

 
‘Look. There,’ Shakespeare said, pointing to a line of quickly filling footprints.

 
They did not have to follow the trail far. Shakespeare held out the lantern. By its yellow light, he saw a woman lying curled like a new babe, naked, in deep snow, her skin pink and stark against the white.

 
‘Oh, no ...’

 
Though the face was turned away from him, Shakespeare recognised her instantly as the maidservant Dorcas Catton. She was motionless. Nearby was a white linen nightgown, cast aside and torn, as though it had been ripped or cut from her body.

 
Shakespeare knelt beside the figure. He was about to touch her, fearing that she was dead, when the slender body shuddered and a great sob came from her. Suddenly, her whole form was shaking.

 
Shakespeare handed the lantern to Boltfoot and bent forward again, laying the shredded and discarded night-garment over her for some cover, however inadequate. ‘Dorcas, are you injured?’

 
She was shivering and weeping, gasping through tears. She looked at him, wide-eyed, clutching the ragged gown to her breast.

 
‘Let me help you up.’ Gently, he put his arms under her and lifted. She weighed almost nothing. As he turned, he saw lights flickering at the front of the house, as it woke to the unfolding drama.

 
Shakespeare carried Dorcas towards the front door, where the countess stood, in a blue velvet gown, her hair covered in a lawn night-cap.

 
‘What in God’s name is going on, Mr Shakespeare?’

 
‘That is what I intend to discover, my lady ...’

A fire was set and beeswax candles were lit in the withdrawing room, casting a warm aura as Dorcas was helped to a settle, wrapped in a blanket and surrounded by cushions. Her fair hair was lank from the snow and fell about her face in tails. From the jagged cut marks on her nightdress, which now lay on the floor, it was clear to Shakespeare that the garment had been slashed from her body with a blade. She was shaken but not badly injured. The only sign of the violent assault was bruising on her arms and neck where she had been dragged into the snow. How had the assailant got her there? Had she been pulled from her bed – or was it someone she knew who had arranged to meet her outside the house?

 
‘Who did this to you, Dorcas?’ the countess said, her voice quiet but firm.

 
‘I must go to the baby.’

 
‘The baby is well. Agnes is looking after her. First you must tell us what happened.’

 
Dorcas clutched the blanket tightly around her slim body. She did not raise her head and would not meet the eyes of her mistress or Shakespeare.

 
‘I know you are dismayed, my dear, but you really must tell us what you know. There was a horseman. It was clearly the man who did this to you. You knew him, didn’t you?’

 
Dorcas said nothing. She was shivering with cold and shock. Shakespeare moved to crouch down in front of her so that their faces were level. He tried to seek her eyes behind the strands of wet hair, but they were closed and she would not look up. ‘Is this something to do with the death of Giovanni?’ he asked, his voice gentle. ‘Was this the man who killed him? If you know something, it would be best for you to tell us.’

 
She burst into great retching sobs. Shakespeare thought she was more terrified than anyone he had ever seen.

 
‘Talk to me, Dorcas. If you are in danger, I will protect you.’

 
‘I want my baby.’

 
Shakespeare looked towards the countess.

 
She gave a brisk shake of the head. ‘I will summon Agnes. She can take Dorcas to her room and stay with her and the child until she is ready to talk to us. Perhaps a few hours’ sleep might help ...’