Free 4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm Page A

of them. Rudely, not one of them so much as acknowledged he was there. They were so finely dressed, even the streetsellers wore ancient wool trimmed with motheaten fur, not homespun russet. Once or twice Dodd thought he heard people snickering at him for his countryfied clothes. His neck stiffened and his face got longer and sourer by the minute as street after street seemed to conspire to bewilder him and drive him further from Somerset House.
    At last he stopped and decided to take the Courtier’s advice and head for the river. Once there he could follow the bank westwards, he thought, or even take a boat. That would be the sensible thing to do.
    Half an hour later he was wondering in despair where in God’s name the Londoners could hide a river. He had just passed the same overdecorated water conduit for the fourth time. Dodd used the little cup chained to it to take a drink, and leaned on the side to think for a bit.
    ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a nasal drone beside him. ‘You serve my Lord Hunsdon’s son, don’t you?’
    ‘Who wants tae know?’ growled Dodd, glaring suspiciously at the man. By God, it was the bald-headed manservant that had been trying to sell papers to the printer in Paul’s Churchyard.
    ‘Och,’ he snarled. ‘Were ye following me? Whit the hell d’ye want?’
    ‘N…nothing. Nothing, sir. Only…er…I’ve seen you pass by here three times now and it occurred…er…it seemed to me you might…er…’
    ‘Spit it out, man.’
    ‘…be lost?’
    Dodd decided to let the little man live, since what he said was true. ‘What of it?’
    ‘I…I could lead you back to Somerset House.’
    Dodd wasn’t going to fall for any more scurvy southern tricks. ‘Ay, to be sure. If ye dinna take me down some foul wynd and slip a blade in me.’
    The man looked shocked and offended. ‘Why would I do that? I’m no footpad.’
    ‘Ay, I mind ye. Ye’re Mistress Bassano’s singing servant, Will.’
    He coughed and made a reasonably graceful bow. ‘Will Shakespeare, sir, at your service.’
    Dodd thought it was a remarkably stupid name for a man with arms no thicker than twigs and sorrowful brown eyes like a spaniel, so he grunted.
    ‘Ay. I’m Sergeant Dodd. What’s the way back tae Somerset House, then?’
    They walked in silence through dizzying alleys and passageways under houses that actually met over the pavements, until at last they came in sight of the great galleon of St Paul’s moored amongst its attendant houses.
    ‘What was it ye were trying to sell tae the bookseller?’ Dodd asked. Will flushed and looked even more miserable than usual.
    ‘Only some verses.’
    ‘Poetry, eh? Ballads?’
    ‘Er…no. A classical theme, the sorrowful tale of Pyramus and Thisbe.’
    ‘Och,’ said Dodd, who had never heard of the story but wasn’t inclined to admit it. ‘And did the man no’ like it?’
    ‘Seemingly not.’
    ‘But ye found someone else to buy it, did ye no’?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, where are the papers then?’
    ‘I threw them in the Thames.’
    ‘What? That’s a powerful waste o’ paper.’
    Will shrugged. ‘I was angry.’
    ‘What did he mean about ye should stick to playing?’
    ‘I am—or I was until I lost my job when the theatre was closed—a player.’
    ‘I thocht ye were Mistress Bassano’s servingman.’
    Brown spaniel eyes stared into the distance and seemed to well with tears. ‘At the moment, sir, I am, yes. My Lord Hunsdon was kind enough to take me in when I…when everything went wrong.’
    ‘How did ye come to know the Lord Chamberlain?’
    Something subtly out of place crossed the would-be poet’s expression. ‘He had seen me acting with my Lord Strange’s troop and he’s a good friend to poetry; he said he thought my version of Henry VI showed great promise and he would be happy to tide me over until…until, well, my problems were solved.’
    The ugly flattened vowels had turned down at the end of the sentence, closing the door to more