Black and Deep Desires by Graham Holderness

Author:Graham Holderness [Holderness, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-78535-064-1
Publisher: John Hunt Publishing
Published: 2015-09-25T00:00:00+00:00

Hell

30 October 1605. The Tower of London

Back in his cell after his examination by Sir Edward Hoby, William placed his hands on the embrasure of the window to stop them from trembling. Fear shook him, as a terrier shakes a rat. The effort of retaining his composure throughout the interrogation had been almost too much for him. Now the reaction was enough to shatter all his bulk, and end his being. He kept his face towards the window, in case anyone was watching him from behind the door.

He had been arrested at his lodgings in Silver Street the previous morning, and brought straight to the Tower. No charges, no accusations, no explanation. He was shown to a cell that surprised him by its relative opulence of light, and air, and modest though not uncomfortable furnishings of bed, and chair and table. It was very like the cell Harry Wriothsley, Earl of Southampton, had occupied during his long sojourn in the Tower after the fall of Essex. A nobleman’s quarters, rather than a dungeon for a peasant.

He was not, it seemed, to be mistreated with the usual privations of darkness, and damp, and short and musty straw. He had no idea why, having expected the worst. Unless this apparent gentleness was simply a tactic to put him off his guard, confuse him, render him easier to break. He was not left short of food, or drink; in fact he was liberally supplied with both. There on a sideboard lay bread, and cheese, and even a flask of brandy. Why this insistent but inexplicable hospitality? The most remarkable detail was the fact that all the books and papers from his lodgings had been gathered up, transferred wholesale and neatly laid out in his cell. Even the manuscript of Measure for Measure, that had lain half-finished on his desk, was now placed invitingly on the table under the window. There beside it were pens, and ink, and salt, and all the appurtenances of the writer’s craft. As if there were someone behind all this, who for some reason didn’t want him to stop writing …

From his interrogation he gathered that he had been betrayed to the authorities, but he could not imagine by whom. Unless it was that shifty new fellow, Frances Tresham. He had no inkling at all as to who wrote the letter, though as a “man of letters” he was the obvious prime suspect to be the conspiracy’s amanuensis. The letter was apparently sent to Lord Monteagle. A Catholic peer. Warned, for his own safety, to avoid the opening of Parliament. Was not Tresham a kinsman of his? Surely he was. That explained why Tresham should tip him off, but not why he, William, should have been the only one fingered for the crime. The others should be alerted, but he had no means of communicating with them. If he was the only one … Was the game up? Were the others here already, all kept isolated in their separate

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