Shakespeare's Spy (23 page)

“That’s so. I’m not certain ‘a would care to ha’ the son of an outlaw using his name, though.”

“Do you really suppose that matters to him? You once said yourself, it’s not your heritage that matters, it’s what you do with it.”

“Aye, well, so far I haven’t done much of anything, have I?”

I woke well before dawn the next morning but still had to hasten, for the walk to St. Giles was a long one and I could not abbreviate it by taking a wherry boat across the Thames. Though the ice in the middle of the river had broken up, there was still a wide border of it along the banks, too rotten to set foot upon.

By the time I neared St. Olave’s, its bells were already ringing prime. Yet even though I was late, and even though it meant going out of my way to do so, I could not resist passing by the church and pausing a moment to gaze at the steps where Judith was to have met me several days before. It was as though I hoped to find some trace of her still there—some small item that she might heedlessly have dropped, perhaps, or the faint scent of cloves lingering in the air. But of course there was nothing, not even the memory of a fond parting to console me. I hurried on.

I need not have worried about my tardiness. For all Mr. Henslowe’s talk of running the Fortune like a business, neither he nor any of the other players had arrived yet, only the tiring-man, who, fortunately, had been instructed to let me into Mr. Henslowe’s office.

Certain that I would not have the place to myself for long, I set to work at once—not on the script of
Timon
, but on the assortment of books and papers that lay upon the shelf. After a
few minutes of frantic searching, I found what I was looking for, at the back of the journal in which Mr. Henslowe had been writing the previous afternoon. So much the methodical man of business was he that he had labeled the page in a clerk’s precise hand so there could be no doubt about what it contained:

Cypher Key
. Beneath this heading he had set down in neat rows, as though he were doing accounts, the following:

I considered copying the symbols, but it would take so long that I risked being discovered. Instead I drew my dagger and ran the point of it down the left margin of the page; then I tore the cypher key from the book, tucked it inside my doublet, and returned the journal to its place.

Within half an hour I had finished translating
Timon’s
pas; sages of charactery into the queen’s English. After straightening up the pages and stacking them neatly on the desk, I dipped Mr. Henslowe’s pen into the inkwell and wrote carefully at the top of the first page:

Timon of Athens: A Lamentable Tragedie. By James
…

I hesitated only a moment before setting down the latter half of the rightful author’s name:
Pope
.

I was halfway back to the Cross Keys before the irony of what I had written occurred to me. Mr. Henslowe was so fearful of performing anything that smacked of Catholic sympathies. Imagine how distressed he would be, then, to discover that he had paid good money for a play composed by a Pope.

At least he could console himself with the fact that it had cost him only three pounds instead of the six we had agreed upon. No doubt I could have collected the other three if I had gone on pretending that the work was Mr. Shakespeare’s. But that would have been unfair, both to Mr. Henslowe and to Mr. Shakespeare. I had no qualms about keeping the three sovereigns I already had, however. Surely, even with all its faults, my play was worth that much.

The courtyard of the Cross Keys was the scene of more frenzied action than a French farce. The company’s two-wheeled carts sat in the yard, piled high with trunks full of costumes and properties. Ned Shakespeare stood in the bed of one of the carts, shifting the trunks a few inches this way or that, with an intent look upon his face, as though he were performing some essential task. When he spied me, his expression changed to one of astonishment. “What the devil are
you
doing here? I thought they’d given you the sack.”

“And so they did. But I’ve some unfinished business. Ha’ you any notion where I might find your brother?”

He jerked his head toward the second-floor balcony. “Up there—fetching all the stuff that doesn’t weigh much, I’ll wager.”

Mr. Shakespeare was, in fact, stuggling to drag his desk across the floor of the office. When I entered he gave a sigh of relief. “Ah, Widge; it seems you have the one quality essential to a player.”

“What’s that?”

“Good timing. Give me a hand with this infernal furniture, will you?”

“We’re moving back to the Globe, I take it?”

“Very perceptive. Take hold.” As we manuevered the desk out of the door and onto the balcony, he said softly, between grunts of effort, “Any success?”

“Aye. I’ve got the code.”

“Excellent.” He stood erect and rubbed at his old injury. “Let’s leave this for someone larger to wrestle with, shall we? Come.” We went down to the dark parlor, where Mr. Shakespeare, after ordering ale for both of us, drew from his wallet the coded message he had found on Mr. Henslowe. I, in turn, produced the cypher key and placed it before him. “Where did you find this?” he asked.

“I’ Mr. Henslowe’s journal.”

“He actually left you alone with it?”

“Aye. ‘A seemed to trust me. So did most of the Admiral’s Men. I feel a bit as though I’ve betrayed them.”

“Yes. I can see how you would. You also have that other quality that makes a good player—the ability to identify with others, to see things through their eyes. Unfortunately, you can’t very well be loyal both to them and to us.”

“I ken that. But why does being loyal to this company mean that I ha’ to hate th’ Admiral’s Men? Why must we be rivals, and not simply fellow players?”

“All the theatre companies in London want the same thing—as large an audience as possible. That means we’re in competition.”

“Isn’t there enough audience to go around? Besides, an all the theatres close down,
none
of us will have an audience.
Would it not be better an we all formed an alliance or something, to try and prevent that? Even oxen ha’ sense enough to pull together, instead of always trying to outdo one another.”

Mr. Shakespeare was regarding me with a rather startled look. Prentices did not ordinarily speak their minds quite so forcefully. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “It’s just … well, it puts me i’ mind o’ the way the Catholics and Anglicans are at each other’s throats, while the Puritans despise them both. How can they be such deadly enemies, when they all serve the same god? It seems to me that it’s the same wi’ us theatre folk: we all serve the same god. Do we not?”

Mr. Shakespeare was twisting his earring between thumb and finger, and staring thoughtfully—but no longer at me. His gaze seemed fixed on something far off, as though he were trying to see all the way to St. Giles and into the hearts of the Admiral’s Men. There was a long stretch of silence, during which the tapster brought our ale and I began to regret that I had been so outspoken. Finally, Mr. Shakespeare said, “You’re very persuasive with words, Widge. Perhaps you’ll make a playwright after all.”

“I hope to try. But not under the name of Widge.”

“William, then?”

“Nay. James.”

“Oh? Very well. I still favor William, myself, but James is a perfectly respectable name—especially as there’s likely to be one on the throne. I hope you didn’t choose it for that reason.”

I laughed. “Hardly. It’s after me father.”

“You’re taking his surname, too, I suppose?”

“Nay. I’ve decided—” I broke off. I had not yet told Mr. Pope of my decision, and he should certainly be the first to know.

“I understand,” said Mr. Shakespeare, even though I had not attempted to explain. “Now. Let us see if we can determine who our spy is, shall we?”

Because Mr. Henslowe’s code provided more than one symbol for each letter of the alphabet, it took some effort to decipher the message. As I completed each group of words, Mr. Shakespeare read it aloud. “Script of
Sejanus
finished … Company gone by vespers … I enclose key to …”

As the last few words emerged, letter by letter, Mr. Shakespeare trailed off, unable to speak them. I went back over the symbols, thinking perhaps I had translated them wrong. But there was no mistake. The final sentence read, “I enclose key to my brother’s office.”

M
r. Shakespeare sat motionless for a long while, staring at the words as though waiting for me to translate them yet again, into some form that he could comprehend. At last he said, so softly that I could scarcely hear, “Ned. I should have known.”

“So should I, after ‘a cornered me i’ th’ office that morning so early, wi’ so flimsy a reason. I
did
leave the key i’ the lock, then, and Ned made off wi’ it.”

Mr. Shakespeare nodded grimly. “I have no doubt that it was he who betrayed Father Gerard, as well.”

“But why would ’a do such a thing?”

“For the same reason he served as Henslowe’s spy, and the same reason he stole costumes from the company. He needed the money—to pay off gambling debts, and bribe his way out of trouble with the law, and God knows what else.” He buried his face in his hands and sighed heavily. “
Money
,” he said, in the tone one uses for uttering a curse. “Would that it had never been invented.”

“Folk would only ha’ found something else to covet. Salted herrings, perhaps, or fern seeds.”

Despite his melancholy mood, there was a hint of amusement in the glance Mr. Shakespeare gave me. “Fern seeds?”

“Aye. Up Yorkshire way folk say that an you eat enough of them, they make you invisible. The problem is, they also make you puke.”

“I know the feeling.” He took several long swallows of his ale. “Would you be so kind as to send Ned in here? I may as well have done with it; it’s not likely to get any easier.”

Ned was still pretending to rearrange the load on one of the carts. When I told him that Mr. Shakespeare wanted to see him, he scowled. “What about?”

“Something about fern seeds, I believe.”

He gave me an incredulous look. “Fern seeds?”

I grinned. “That’s exactly what Mr. Shakespeare said.”

Ned stalked off, shaking his head, and nearly collided with Sam, who was hurrying across the courtyard toward me. “Widge! Gog’s blood! What brings you back here?”

“Shank’s mare,” I said, meaning my feet. “I’ve done meself out of a Fortune, you see.”

“You’ve quit already? Are you going to rejoin us, then?”

“I never actually left. It was all a sham, designed to get me into the Admiral’s Men so I might do a bit of spying.”

He aimed a blow at me, which I dodged. “You sot! You let me believe you’d been sacked!”

“I had to. We dared not let the truth be known lest Henslowe get wind of it, by way of his informant.” I did not let on, of course, that I had half suspected Sam of being that informant.

“Did you find the culprit out, then?”

I hesitated, unwilling to be the one to break the news, and then merely nodded.

“It’s Sal Pavy, isn’t it?”

“I can’t say. You’ll learn soon enough, I expect.”

“It’s him, though, isn’t it?” Sam insisted, but I would not be moved.

I surveyed the courtyard. “Where
is
Sal Pavy, by the by?”

“Still home in bed, being waited on hand and foot, and enjoying every moment of it, no doubt, while the rest of us are here working our arses off.”

“You don’t appear to be working very hard just now,” I observed.

“I’m trying to pry an answer out of you. I call that hard. Come now, you may tell me; it’s Sal Pavy, right?”

When we gathered for dinner, Mr. Shakespeare announced that Ned had quit the company. Though he did not specify the reason, it was clear that everyone knew, and that no one was surprised—except Sam, who shook his head and muttered, “I would have sworn it was Sal Pavy.”

“I would appreciate it,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “if the circumstances of Ned’s departure were kept among ourselves. I don’t wish to harm his chances of finding a position with another company.”

“I w-wonder whether there’s any th-theatre left in London that hasn’t already had a t-taste of him,” said Mr. Heminges.

“Probably not,” Mr. Shakespeare admitted. “He may have to go farther afield.”

“I ken a company i’ Leicester that may be able to use him,” I said. This drew a laugh from the others. They knew well
enough what company I meant—the very one that had sent me here to steal the script of
Hamlet
, and the one that had caused us so many problems, the previous summer, when we toured the northern shires.

Thinking of
Hamlet
had brought Julia, who had once been our Ophelia, to the forefront of my mind again. As we went back to loading the carts, I caught Mr. Heminges and asked whether he had tried to locate Tom Cogan. “R-Rob has,” he said. “I’ll let him t-tell you about it.”

Mr. Armin had been to Alsatia, Cogan’s home ground, to make inquiries. “Which,” he said, “was rather like climbing into a pit of snakes to inquire about one viper in particular. I got a lot of hisses and venomous looks and very little information. Eventually, though, I found a beggar who was willing to talk to me—for a price. According to him, Tom Cogan was placed under arrest several days ago, for stealing a gold bracelet from the queen’s treasury.”