The Heretics by Rory Clements

they made way for him and he commanded the oarsmen to row him to Gravesend with all haste. The journey was long and tiresome and when he arrived, he saw that he was too late. The Ruth was already being unloaded.
    ‘The investors would not wait another day,’ Captain Roberts said, as they sipped wine from Bordeaux in his cabin. ‘I had no option in the matter but to let her be discharged and lay off most of the crew.’
    ‘You could have said Sir Robert Cecil ordered the cargo impounded.’
    The captain smiled. ‘Indeed, I might, but the investors included Sir Robert’s own father, Lord Burghley, as well as the Earl of Essex and the Mayor of London. Since this war started, French wine sells at a fine price. Investors want their money in their coffers, not wallowing in casks aboard ship. And after Mr Topcliffe’s visit, I had no more cause to delay.’
    ‘Topcliffe was here?’
    ‘Why, yes, not twenty hours since. Sent by Sir Robert Cecil like your good self, sir. And I hope I do not speak out of turn in saying it was a most uncomfortable experience for all concerned.’
    ‘God’s wounds, Mr Roberts! Tell me what happened.’
    ‘He lined up the crew, called them papist dogs and threatened them with the rack if they did not speak out and denounce the traitors among them. We were all mighty bewildered.’
    ‘What did he discover?’
    ‘Nothing. He scared all the men into utter silence.’
    So with Shakespeare away and Mills incapacitated, Cecil had panicked and brought in Topcliffe. He was the last person to extract information by subtle means.
    ‘However,’ Roberts continued, ‘all may not be lost. When things had calmed down, I made some inquiries of my own among the crew, and I did find one man who knew the dead mariner, though not as a friend. He begged me not to reveal this information to Topcliffe.’
    ‘Don’t worry. His name will not be revealed to Topcliffe by me. Where is this man now?’
    ‘Still with us, grumbling at being kept from the bawdy houses and drinking dens. His name is Jed Yorke. He is an ordinary seaman. Wait here and I will have him brought to you.’
    ‘And I would like to see the dead man’s box, where the letter was found.’
    ‘Of course. I have it here.’
    Roberts called in a midshipman and sent him to get Yorke, then fished under his bed, which was short and narrow, seeming scarce big enough for a child of twelve. He fetched out scraps of wood that had once been the box, a cup, a tin eating vessel and a knife.
    ‘That’s it, Mr Shakespeare – or all that remains of it after the the searchers broke it apart.’
    Shakespeare examined the objects. They were cheap, everyday things, without markings on them. The box was no more than firewood.
    The midshipman returned with Jed Yorke, an unremarkable man with long whiskers and a brow lined by a great many sea-winds. He bowed in deference to the captain and then to Shakespeare, clutching a felt cap tightly.
    ‘Mr Yorke,’ Shakespeare said, ‘I believe you knew the dead mariner.’
    ‘Yes, master. He called himself Franklin Smith.’
    ‘Did you doubt that was his real name?’
    ‘I doubt it of all mariners, sir. Many seafarers have reason to go under aliases. Wives they never wish to see again, justices they wish to escape . . .’
    ‘I understand. Tell me, what did you make of Mr Smith?’
    ‘He was not a seasoned mariner, sir. He did not know the ways of a ship. I would say he could not tell a capstan from a keel.’
    ‘Indeed.’ Shakespeare turned to the captain. ‘Where is the corpse, Mr Roberts?’
    ‘Fifty fathoms deep, Mr Shakespeare. Stitched in canvas and buried at sea.’
    ‘And his clothes?’
    ‘Dispersed among his crewmates.’
    ‘And his crewmates are all gone. Mr Yorke, did you have any of his apparel?’
    ‘Only his cap, master.’ He held out the cap. ‘This.’
    ‘What is it worth?’
    ‘It is a poor thing, in truth. No more than a groat.’
    Shakespeare took the cap and examined it. He slit it