The Heretics by Rory Clements

post. Shakespeare locked his fingers into a mounting stirrup to hoist him up. ‘There is some kind of jar in there, Boltfoot. Bring it down.’
    Boltfoot used his master’s hands as a step-up and quickly retrieved the jar.
    ‘There is something in it, master.’
    Shakespeare smiled. He had a good idea what it would be. He was correct. It was money – a great deal of money.
    ‘Come, Boltfoot, I think I know what all this is about. Let us take this jar. We will return here soon enough. First, we will go to the village.’
    They found a room at the Honest Brew, near the square-towered church in Denham. The inn seemed to be the only place in the village with any warmth, yet there were few drinkers. Shakespeare and Boltfoot settled into a booth near the taproom’s well-tended hearth. They would eat and drink and make some inquiries before taking to their beds.
    The landlord brought tankards of beer to their table, soon followed by beef puddings and peas.
    Shakespeare gestured the landlord to stay and talk, which he seemed happy to do for he was clearly not busy.
    ‘Strangers are always welcome in my house. Times are hard.’
    ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Shakespeare took out a sixpence and put it on the table. ‘You might be able to help us,’ he said. ‘We wish to know of the Denham manor house. Does no one live there these days?’
    The landlord stiffened. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘My name is John Shakespeare. I am on Queen’s business. Does that worry you?’
    The landlord laughed, but it seemed to Shakespeare that he was uneasy. With greasy fingers, he took the coin, thrusting it into his apron pocket. ‘No, that don’t worry me. What would worry me is if you were one of those demon-hunting priests come back to haunt us.’
    ‘So you are not a Catholic?’
    ‘No, that I am not.’
    ‘I am from the office of Sir Robert Cecil and I would like you to tell me all you know of the house and what went on there.’
    ‘Back in eighty-six, you mean? Those were ugly days. But, of course, it all came out at the time. Topcliffe, Justice Young and all the pursuivants moved in and cleared out the vermin. All been told before.’
    ‘But I wasn’t here, so tell me . Did the people of the village know what was going on at the house?’
    The landlord pulled at his wiry beard. At last he nodded. ‘I’m not saying I knew what was going on, but most folks knew all right, Protestants as well as Catholics. You understand that I never went to one of the exorcisms. But even if I had known – and, of course, I didn’t – who would I have told? It was Sir George Peckham’s estate, and he was sheriff of the county!’
    ‘But he isn’t there any more?’
    ‘Crown property now, they do say. Lost all his money on one of those New World ventures. Seems he had ideas of setting up a colony for English Catholics there. I think he fell foul of the recusancy laws, too. Twenty pounds a time for non-attendance at the parish church. That’ll ruin any man in short order. Peckham went deep into debt and the Queen’s lawyers took the house from him. It’s been shut up these five years.’
    ‘And the gatehouse?’
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘Who lives there?’
    ‘No one.’
    ‘We have just come from there and found food. Bread no more than two or three days old, and a fire outside.’
    ‘Someone passing through then, a vagabond.’
    Shakespeare cut a wedge of pudding with his knife and pushed it into his mouth, all the time looking hard at the landlord. There was no reason to disbelieve him, and yet he did.
    ‘Have I told you all you wish to know, master? I have work to do.’
    Shakespeare shook his head and gulped down his mouthful. ‘A few more questions, that is all. Did you ever know or hear tell of a girl named Thomasyn Jade?’
    The landlord hesitated, averted his gaze, then stared into Shakespeare’s eyes a little too long. ‘Yes, I knew of Thomasyn. How could I not?’
    ‘So you heard her story?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But did you