Holy Spy

Chapter 10

Walsingham gazed at Shakespeare’s bruised head and winced. ‘I think Mr Mills rather overdid it.’

‘Sir Francis?’ Shakespeare could not conceal his irritation. Did he detect a dark smile lurking around the corners of his master’s usually dour mouth?

‘Forgive me. It was my idea. I felt it would not work if I told you beforehand, but I thought it would help.’

‘I am still unsure-’

‘I asked Mr Mills to organise a mild attack on you, in the sight of your fellow diners at the Plough Inn. He found three young apprentices and gave them a shilling each for their night’s work. They were supposed to knock you to the ground, throw insults at you and threaten you with a dagger. They were not supposed to damage you, but it had to be believable.’

‘They could have killed me!’

‘No, no. If it had got out of hand, Mr Mills would have called off his hounds. He was watching and directing them from the shadows. The idea was to show the others in your band of traitors and drinkers that you were truly one of them, suffering for the cause as they do. It worked, did it not?’

Not for the first time, Shakespeare tried to peer deep into Walsingham’s dark eyes and discern his true character, but it was a wasted effort. Perhaps his wife or children knew him well, but no one else was allowed into the secret corners of Mr Secretary’s devious soul. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It worked. A little too well. Babington had to rescue me.’

‘Well there you are. Safe and sound and a little closer to your prey.’

They were in Walsingham’s austere private room at his Seething Lane mansion. Having arrived home two hours before dawn, Shakespeare had managed no more than an hour and a half of sleep. Then he washed himself thoroughly and hastily ate a breakfast of eggs and ham, prepared for him by the new housemaid, while he caught up with the news from Boltfoot about his vain quest for those who knew Will Cane. Shakespeare heard the tale with interest.

‘Go to the watchman. Find this woman again,’ he ordered Boltfoot. ‘She must know something. But be wary. I fear you are more likely to be robbed than assisted.’

Boltfoot nodded. ‘I don’t think they liked me asking questions.’

‘Then employ subtlety, Boltfoot.’

‘Yes, master.’

Boltfoot grunted but Shakespeare could tell he was unhappy; perhaps he did not understand the word subtlety. Well, he didn’t have the time or inclination to explain it. He wanted answers and Boltfoot might now be well placed to find them.

‘And master, I must tell you that the watch and the whore now know that I work for you and where you live.’

‘That is of no consequence. I have nothing to hide. Keep up your good work. Someone must know the truth about Will Cane and this murder.’

He dismissed Boltfoot, finished his eating and strode down the street to his appointed meeting with his own master. Now here he was, learning that the attack on him outside the Plough had been ordered by Sir Francis himself.

There was a knock on the door and a messenger entered with a paper, which he placed on the table before Walsingham, then bowed and left.

Walsingham broke the seal and began reading. ‘Was Savage there last night?’ he inquired, not looking up from his letter.

‘At the Plough? No. I had expected him but he did not arrive. I will seek him out later today.’

‘He is losing his nerve.’

‘Do you have some information?’

Walsingham held up the letter. ‘Gifford said as much to Tom Phelippes. He told him that Savage is altogether too comfortable at Barnard’s Inn and makes no effort towards fulfilling his vow.’

‘Are Mr Phelippes and Gifford still at Chartley?’

‘Yes. Hopefully there will be movement there soon. But it is Savage that concerns me here and now. We cannot let him slip away. Keep his courage strong. Keep him zealous.’

Indeed, he had had such worries about Savage himself. Why would a man about to martyr himself for his faith be so diligent in his law studies? However, he did not voice his fears. ‘He is not a man to break his vow. Babington calls him “the Instrument”. Like a cat, he watches and waits his moment.’

Walsingham folded the paper and put it to one side. ‘The Instrument? Meaning what I imagine it to mean?’

‘That he is the instrument by which Her Majesty is to be assassinated. That is what one must assume, though no one has spoken openly of it, and certainly not Savage himself.’

‘They do not trust you well enough yet. Do you think they might turn on you?’

‘Thomas Salisbury might. He is certainly one of those with a desperate air. He intends to see this thing through. And last night there were two newcomers – two members of the Queen’s Guard. I fear their purpose.’

‘Ah, Tilney and Abingdon. Fear not, they will never again get within a furlong of Her Majesty. How many are there now in these Pope’s White Sons?’

‘At least twenty, perhaps twice that number. They come and go. Babington tries to recruit more members and, to that end, he takes inordinate risks. He is becoming increasingly careless, hence my own acceptance. But what else can he do? All the men he wants are members of the gentry or are at court or are associated with the inns of court. Every one of them could be a spy sent to watch him, but it is a risk he is willing to take. Perhaps he is too vain and foolish to believe he could be duped. As for me, he thinks it a great coup to have someone from inside your office. I am to be their dog, barking when you get too close.’

Walsingham said nothing for a few moments. There was utter silence in the room. He was thinking. At last he sighed. ‘There are so many strands, John. Am I overreaching? The costs rise daily. I have never seen Sir Robert Huckerbee in such a sweat as he hands me Treasury gold and silver.’

Shakespeare knew that Walsingham did not expect a reply. Anyway, his own thoughts were elsewhere, specifically a loft room in Shoreditch.

‘Are you with me, John?’

‘Mr Secretary?’

‘For a moment, I rather imagined your thoughts to be drifting.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘Tell me more about Babington. He is married I believe.’

‘He has a wife but he has left her at the family home, Dethick Manor in Derbyshire, with their small daughter. As you know, he has spent most of the time since their marriage either in London or France, making mischief with the Scots Queen’s people. The fact of his marriage does not necessarily mean a great deal to a man such as Babington.’

‘And his closest friends are Tichbourne and Salisbury.’

‘Yes, he met Tichbourne in France. What we know of Tichbourne is that he comes of recusant stock in Hampshire. The whole family has been questioned about their popish practices. As I said, the one that worries me more is Thomas Salisbury. I thought for a moment last night that he meant to kill me.’

Walsingham shrugged. He did not expect his intelligencers to worry about a small matter such as their own lives. He carried on with his train of questioning. ‘Is there more than common friendship between Babington and these two men?’

Shakespeare understood the slant of Walsingham’s question. ‘Possibly. He now lives at Hern’s Rents in Holborn, but it is only a few months since he lodged with Salisbury near Temple. Whether they were bedfellows, I know not, if that is what you mean.’

‘That is precisely what I mean. Are they Christ’s fellows? Which brings me to my next question: do you think Babington would fall for Robin Poley’s charms? I want someone with him twenty-four hours in the day. You cannot be with him and keep a close watch on Goodfellow Savage, but Robin surely could.’

Robin Poley. It was a name that had come up before in recent weeks. Poley was a retainer of Walsingham’s daughter Frances and her husband Philip Sidney, and lived with the household at Mr Secretary’s country property, Barn Elms, a few miles upstream from London. What was it about this young man that made Walsingham believe he could be employed as an intelligencer? The only time Shakespeare had met him, he had seemed obsequious and ungenuine. However, he clearly had wit, charm and a handsome face. Most importantly, he was a Catholic – and known to be so among the papists of London. In short, Shakespeare realised, he was precisely the sort of shallow, garish man that Babington liked.

‘It is a possibility,’ Shakespeare said.

‘Let us see how we might introduce them. Think on it, John. If his inclinations are as I suspect, I doubt he will be able to resist young Robin.’

Shakespeare looked up at the house on Aldermanbury that had belonged to Nicholas Giltspur. Aldermanbury was perhaps the loveliest of London streets and this building only added to its lustre. It was a goodly sized, well-maintained mansion with an arched stone gateway that was carved with the effigies of saints; evidence of its clerical past.

Until half a century ago it had been part of a great abbey; now it had been renovated and beautified and was a rich man’s dwelling. But that man was dead and his widow was in hiding.

Shakespeare handed the reins of his horse to a groom and strode up the flagged path to the great double doors. They were fronted by two guards, each with drawn sword held aloft so that the blades made lines to the sky in front of their noses. As he approached, they clicked their heels.

‘I would speak with the chief steward,’ he said to one of the guards.

‘Wait here. I’ll fetch Mr Sorbus.’

The guard went inside, leaving Shakespeare outside with the other sentry, then returned two minutes later in company with a small man, as slender as a maiden. He wore the plain black coat, hose and falling band of a senior steward.

‘Yes?’ The word was curt and unhelpful.

‘Are you Mr Sorbus? I am inquiring into the death of Mr Giltspur.’

‘Yes, I am Sorbus. Who are you? What is your interest?’

‘My name is John Shakespeare. I was once a friend of Mr Giltspur’s widow.’

‘You will have to tell me rather more than that, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I am a Queen’s officer, assistant secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham.’

‘And he is interested in Mr Giltspur’s murder, is he? I had not thought a common murder the territory of so great a personage.’

‘No, this is nothing to do with Mr Secretary. It is personal. But nor would I call it a common murder. Indeed, it is most uncommon – and inexplicable. As I said, Katherine Giltspur was a friend. I wish to know what happened and why, for I find it hard to believe that she hired someone to kill any man, let alone her husband.’

Sorbus breathed a dismissive sigh. ‘The facts are plain. Every man has heard them from the killer’s own mouth, and the absence of Mrs Giltspur must speak for itself. She ran away like a thief in the night on hearing of the death of her husband. What grieving widow would do that?’

‘I would come in a while and speak with you, Mr Sorbus. I would also speak with other members of your staff.’

‘That is not possible.’

‘Why? Do you have something to hide?’

‘Good day, sir.’ He jerked his chin towards the sentries. ‘Escort this man from the premises.’

Shakespeare felt deep frustration and helplessness as he rode away. The steward, Sorbus, had been uncooperative, but perhaps his own rejoinder had been a little too sharp.

The problem was that without Walsingham’s authority, he had no power of interrogation, nor warrant to enter Giltspur House; and Walsingham would hardly wish one of his principal intelligencers to be taking an interest in a domestic crime, however sensational and unusual it might be.

The rainstorm was now a distant memory and the day was fine. London looked its most beautiful and one could almost ignore the summer stench of the middens and sewage kennels as he rode the short distance along flower-lined streets. He tethered his horse beneath a spreading plane tree in the churchyard of St Paul’s, then went towards the cool crypt where the Searcher of the Dead did his work.

He had first met Joshua Peace in Warwickshire almost four years earlier. Joshua was the son of Mother Peace, who had been searcher in the county for longer than anyone could recall. Many had shunned her, fearing her as a witch or necromancer. It was a slur that also stuck to her son among the more ignorant of the rural peasantry, but the truth – as Shakespeare knew – was very different, for Joshua had travelled widely in the Italian lands and cities and had learnt much from the great artists and anatomists. That was why Shakespeare, with Walsingham’s agreement, had arranged for him to come away from Warwickshire and place himself instead at the service of the City of London.

Peace was pulling strands of tangled hair from the dead eyes of a woman’s corpse. He turned and smiled. ‘John, this is a pleasant surprise.’

‘Thank you, Joshua. I have not heard many welcoming words this morning.’ His eyes strayed to the mouldering body of the woman laid out on the slab. He quickly looked away, nausea welling up. ‘And if you have any potions for a cupshotten head then do not keep them from me.’

‘We could take some wine, if you wish. The Three Tuns serves a goodly vintage.’

‘Perhaps a cup of small ale.’

Peace removed his bloody apron and hung it from a hook embedded in the damp stone wall. ‘Come then – and tell me what has brought you here.’

At the tavern, they sat together in a small booth where they would not be overheard. ‘It is about my old friend Kat Whetstone.’

Peace’s eyes brightened. ‘Well, well, Kat. Yes, how is she? I have not seen her in an age.’ And then his smile faded. ‘I thought I heard that you and she-’

‘You are right. We are no longer together. In truth, Joshua, she left me. But that was many months ago and she has since been married and widowed – and has landed herself in great peril. I believe you examined the body of her late husband, Mr Nicholas Giltspur.’

Peace looked aghast. ‘Is she the widow? God’s blood, John, I had no notion.’

‘No, nor did I. But do you know the tale told of her?’

‘If she is Giltspur’s widow, then I fear I do. She has an appointment with the hangman, that much is certain.’

‘You have met her more than once. Do you believe her capable of so heinous a crime?’

Peace spread his hands helplessly. ‘I – I have no opinion on the subject. You are the one who knew her best, so I must be guided by you. Is she innocent, John?’

Shakespeare clenched his lips tight, then shook his head. ‘I suppose not, for why else would the murderer, Cane, say such things?’

‘And yet your face tells me that you do not believe her guilty, which is why you are here. You are hoping that I found something when I examined Giltspur’s corpse.’

‘I know you didn’t, for I have spoken to Recorder Fleetwood. Giltspur was slain by a single stab to the throat with a bollockdagger. That is the testimony you gave, is it not? And it accords with everything said by the witnesses and the killer himself.’

‘Indeed, and I still have the weapon. It was thrust from the left, beneath the extremity of the jaw, piercing both the great arteries. He knew exactly what he was doing and there is no doubt that it caused Mr Giltspur’s death. The blood drained from him as quickly as from a beast at the slaughter.’

‘Can I see the body?’

‘It has already gone for burial at St Mary, Aldermanbury.’

Shakespeare supped his weak ale and felt more refreshed than he had all morning, but no happier. ‘Then I fear there is nothing more I can do for her.’

‘And yet . . .’

‘Joshua?’

‘Finish your ale, John. I have something to show you.’