black bear cloak, a very welcome gift from the New World presented to him by Walsingham at Christmas last. It was a generous gesture and typical of Walsingham in his dealings with those he loved or for whom he felt responsible. He had taken Shakespeare into his employment nine years earlier, when he was a young lawyer newly arrived in London from the Midlands. Shakespeare’s master at Gray’s Inn, Paul Ballater, was a friend of Walsingham and had recommended his pupil for the post, thinking the younger man more suited for practical work than endless dry books. I see you looking out the window when your mind should be on precedent law, John, Ballater had said. Take my advice and go with Walsingham. You will find no better patron in all of England. Shakespeare had seen the truth in this and had not hesitated in accepting the post. He had suffered few pangs of regret, though Walsingham—the world called him Mr. Secretary—was an unbending driver of men.
The constable brought him back to the present. I believe this fire was set deliberate, Mr. Shakespeare, he said. When it caught, at midnight, the house and thatching suddenly went up into flames. I am told it was as if a taper had been put to powder, sir. George Stocker, the bellman, was here very quickly.
Where is he now?
At home not far away, sir, abed. He sleeps by day.
Fetch him.
The burnt house stood in a row of a dozen or more frames that had clearly been thrown up quickly in three or four acres of uncultivated land. Shakespeare recognized it as part of the expansion outward from London into what was recently open country to the north of the wall, past Spital Fields toward Ellyngton Ponds. The encroachment was everywhere. The ruined house had not been well built. It looked hastily erected by the landowner, and Shakespeare guessed its purpose was to house incomers from the shire counties; there was good money to be made providing lodging for skilled men who had any sort of work. The city was growing fast with men moving from all parts of the country and from over the water, either seeking wealth or escaping persecution in France or the never-ending war in the Spanish Netherlands. London could no longer contain all those who would live there.
Under the eaves of the stabling near the house, four vagabonds, all of them men and sturdy beggars by the look of them, lay beneath woolen rags on the bitter ground, sleeping off a night of strong ale. They looked like the sort of people no one wanted, the sort who could not get a bed without thieving the where withal, and later, most likely, swinging on the fatal tree at Tyburn for their trouble.
Wake them up, Boltfoot. But keep them here. I want to question them.
Boltfoot dismounted from his horse and approached the gang. With his good foot he kicked them one by one in the ribs and pulled them to their feet, ordering them not to move on pain of a flogging. They moved stiffly in the cold but made little protest; the sight of Boltfoot’s short-muzzled caliver—a light musket—slung around his back and the cutlass hanging loosely from his right hand was enough incentive to keep all four standing obediently in their tatters, shivering.
The bellman, George Stocker, arrived with the constable from the direction of Shoreditch. He was still adjusting his smock, having been raised from his slumber, and his bell clanked as he walked. He was a well-fed man with a belly like a pig ready for the shambles.
Tell Mr. Shakespeare what happened, George, the constable ordered.
Stocker removed his hat. His beard was thick and full of goose grease and his brain was clearly as slow as only a bellman’s could be. He grunted some indeciperable greeting, then began his story. I did ring my bell hard and loud, sir, and called out. Folk came from out their beds in the houses around, sir, and drew water from the well in pails. We did douse it quite quickly, sir …
Stocker glanced at the constable, who nodded. Go on, George. Tell the master what you told me.
I did find … Sir, I do not know whether I should say this for it feels like a sin to talk of it.
I believe you found a body. Is that right?
Stocker tensed and looked down at the rough earth beneath his paltry-shod feet. There was the body of a young woman, sir. Unclothed,