The Man in the Snow (Novella) by Rory Clements

Author:Rory Clements
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-11-29T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

The snow had stopped falling but lay thick all along the road back to London. Few wagoners had ventured out this day, but those who had were finding the going hard. Drays and carts floundered and struggled to make headway, others were left abandoned at the side of the road. Gangs of men shovelled the snow to the sides; Boltfoot’s progress was slow and painstaking.

When at last he arrived close to the city wall at Bishopsgate, he spotted a ward constable standing by the gate, his halberd sloped over his shoulder. He wore heavy boots and a quilted leather jerkin and smoked a pipe as he oversaw the clearing of snow to keep wagons, a few farm animals and riders moving in and out of the city. Boltfoot approached him and reined in his mount.

‘How now, constable.’

‘Good day to you, stranger. Though not so good for any man in a hurry.’

‘You might be the one I seek.’

He blew smoke into the cold air. ‘Is that so?’

‘I would talk to the man who found a corpse near here of late. A Moor, shot dead and left in the snow.’

The constable seemed to stiffen. ‘And why would you wish to know about that?’

‘My name is Boltfoot Cooper. My master is John Shakespeare, from the office of Sir Robert Cecil. He is inquiring into the death.’

‘Well, you may tell your master that it has all been dealt with to the satisfaction of the justice and the sheriff. The dead man is unidentified and a known felon. The matter is closed.’

Boltfoot did not bother to point out the contradiction. ‘The matter is not closed. Nor is the man unidentified. He was a gentleman associate of the Earl of Oxford and a great favourite of the court. Now answer my question, constable, and save yourself pain.’

The constable’s mouth turned down sourly. ‘As I said, the matter is dealt with and the body is with the searcher to dispose of as he thinks best. If you wish to know more, speak to Mr Peace at St Paul’s.’

‘Would you defy the wishes of Sir Robert Cecil?’

The constable was about to turn away, but suddenly he bridled and pushed out his chest and braced his halberd. He was not a tall man, but he was powerfully built and looked like a fighter. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No, but I require your assistance.’

‘Cecil, eh? Don’t think you can scare me with your noble names, Mr Cooper. I have a name to give you if you wish, though you will not like it. Mr Topcliffe, that is the name I shall lay at your dirty crippled feet.’

‘Topcliffe?’ It was, indeed, a name to send alarums jangling through the brain of any man, and particularly Boltfoot. Topcliffe had more than once sworn to destroy Shakespeare and his family. A long-standing mutual loathing ran deep between the two men.

‘Aye, he is a friend of mine,’ the constable said. ‘And I can call on him any time I choose. He don’t take well to his friends being discomfited, and no more do I.

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