Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - Read Free

estimate it.’
    ‘Oh yes, I’ll do that. But Danby will pay it no heed.’
    The witnesses did not leave the premises for a day and two nights. An obliging Mrs Bull, owner of the house, bustled about bringing them food and ale, and provided a bed for them in another room. Two of the men slept on the outer sides of the bed, heads against the wall, while the third, Skeres, slept in between them, his booted feet against their ears, his farting, snoring bulk hogging much of the mattress.
    The body of Marlowe was as cold as earth by the time the sixteen-man jury of local Deptford yeomen was assembled in the room where he had died. The jurors stood along one wall, heads bowed and fearful, clutching their caps and looking anywhere but at the body. Then the coroner appeared, a dark and formal cape about his shoulders and a fur hat under his arm. He sat at the table and called the room to order for the Lord’s Prayer. At the coroner’s side, Richard Topcliffe, the Queen’s servant, took a seat, his white hair and dread face caught in the morning light from the little window.
    John Shakespeare stood close to the doorway. He glared at Topcliffe, who smirked back. What was Topcliffe doing here, close-coupled with the coroner? This inquest could be none of his concern.
    The proceedings were as Shakespeare expected; there was no one to gainsay the testimony of Poley, Skeres and Frizer, who all knew their lines well. William Danby, coroner to the royal court, then attending on the Queen less than a mile away in Greenwich, listened impassively. His manner was grave. He read Joshua Peace’s report, which had been placed on the table in front of him, then set it aside without commenting on it to the jury.
    For a moment, Shakespeare considered interrupting the inquest to point out the discrepancy over the time of the killing. But it would have been a waste of breath. Danby would merely have instructed the jurors to discount the testimony of Mr Peace, as he himself had done, and might well have thrown Shakespeare out of the hearing. And anyway, the hour of death, in itself, proved nothing. It was the manner of the killing that counted for all in this room.
    The verdict was a foregone conclusion: self-defence. The jurors – each of whom had been required to step forward in turn to view the body and the fatal wound at close quarters – had done the job required of them. Ingram Frizer was to be taken to the Marshalsea prison to see whether he should be charged or no. That was the prerogative of the Queen and her ministers.
    It was not the verdict which caused Shakespeare most consternation, it was the presence of the man who had sat at the coroner’s side: Richard Topcliffe – killer, torturer, rapist, blood-lusting dog with the ear of the Queen.
    The loathing between Shakespeare and Topcliffe ran deep. Their paths had crossed too many times over the years. Shakespeare had married a Catholic and Topcliffe wanted his blood. He wanted the blood of every Catholic in England. And who was to stop him when he had Elizabeth’s licence to act as priest hunter and persecutor? No man could oppose him, not even the Privy Council, because he was answerable only to her.
    As the jury shuffled out, Shakespeare approached the table. Danby was collecting up his papers.
    ‘You know, of course, Mr Danby, that they were all lying.’
    The coroner looked up, eyes wide, as if he had not seen Shakespeare before. ‘Mr Shakespeare?’
    ‘Frizer, Poley, Skeres. They concocted that story. And the time of the killing. You had Mr Peace’s note in front of you, yet you paid it no heed.’
    Danby bridled, though his indignation would not have alarmed a mole. Indeed, he was much like a burrowing creature with his dark cape, nervous eyes and twitching whiskers. ‘You presume much to speak to a royal officer so, Mr Shakespeare. In truth I would go further, sir; you presume a great deal to call in the Searcher of the Dead without my authority.’
    ‘If I had waited