Holy Spy

Chapter 17

Shakespeare’s head told him that Kat probably was her husband’s killer; only his foolish heart and the evidence of the Searcher of the Dead suggested that she might be innocent – evidence that might yet prove irrelevant.

As for his examination of Oswald Redd, that had achieved nothing. Threats proved as worthless as entreaties. He had cursed the man for the sheep’s-head that he was and gripped his hand about his miserable throat. ‘You will not help me – which means you will not help Kat. And so I leave you to survive as you may, Redd. I care not a dog’s fart for your neck, but if you do not heed my warnings, you will be the cause of Kat’s death too.’ Releasing his grip on the man’s throat, he had pushed him in the chest so that he fell back against the huge puncheon cask, then turned away and stalked out into the night. There was no more to be done.

Now, in the pre-dawn gloom, he went downstairs to take his breakfast at the long table. At least there was good food to be had in this house since the arrival of Jane. She was already up, so he asked for bread and eggs, then demanded after Boltfoot.

‘He is already up, master.’

‘Fetch him to me if you would, Jane.’

Shakespeare took his place at the head of the table and nodded in greeting to Boltfoot as he hobbled into the room. It seemed to Shakespeare that his limp was more pronounced than usual, and he was certainly slower. His face was bruised and one eye was blacking over.

‘Good day to you, Boltfoot. How are your wounds?’

‘Healing, master. They are as nothing.’

He looked closely at Boltfoot’s injured face. ‘You look close to death, Boltfoot. Rest up for the day. Jane will care for you with hot broth. I will send her to the apothecary for lotions and herbs.’

‘Please, master, no. I have unfinished business.’

‘It will wait; remember, this felon Ball has threatened your life if you go east of the city. From all that we know of him, his threat must be taken seriously.’

Boltfoot’s face was set hard. ‘I cannot let this pass.’

‘What do you think you can do? Are you hoping to find Cutting Ball again? You were blindfolded, Boltfoot.’

‘I can find the whore Em. I am certain of that. If she is his sister, as I suspect, then she will surely lead me to him.’

‘And then what would you do?’

‘I will extract the truth from him.’

‘Boltfoot, there is a line where courage becomes foolhardiness. You will not be helping our cause if you cross it.’

‘But this is not about you and me, is it, master? It is about Kat . . . Mistress Whetstone. Who will save her if we do not?’

Ah yes, that was it. Boltfoot had been almost as distraught as Shakespeare when she left. He had always held a candle for her while knowing she was beyond his reach. Shakespeare managed a smile which he hoped evoked his sympathy, a shared anxiety. ‘At least wait until you are whole again. Then we will discuss our next step, calmly, when the heat has gone from your temper.’

Boltfoot said nothing, merely cast the same look at his master as he had done when defying him over the matter of hiring a new maidservant. Shakespeare saw it and knew the battle was lost. The only way Boltfoot would stay in this house today was if he were fixed to the wall by fetters. Shakespeare shook his head with a light laugh. ‘Take care, Boltfoot. You are worth nothing dead.’

Shakespeare sighed with relief as he arrived at the Holborn house at nine o’clock and ascertained that Gilbert Gifford was indeed still there. He and the Smith sisters were eating heartily, so Shakespeare joined them, for his breakfast had not assuaged his appetite.

‘Thank you, ladies,’ he said as he rose to go.

‘It was our pleasure, sir.’ Eliza gazed at Gifford. Her little pink pigling.

‘Mr Gifford, if you would accompany me, we have an appointment with Mr Secretary.’

‘I want them again tonight. Will you bring them here?’

‘First let us talk to Mr Secretary. He may have other plans. Come, sir.’

On their way to Walsingham’s Seething Lane mansion, Shakespeare called in at home briefly. Boltfoot immediately approached him. ‘A messenger came, master, not ten minutes since.’ He held out a sealed letter. ‘It is from Mr Tort.’

With his poniard, Shakespeare sliced open the red wax seal, unfolded the paper and read the short missive. Go to Aldermanbury at noon. Mr Arthur Giltspur has agreed to see you. Well, that was something, but it might be no more than the last turn of a card in a hand that was already doomed.

Taken alone, a conversation with the dead man’s nephew was unlikely to help. Shakespeare had to talk further with Kat. Now that it was clear her husband’s killer might have had a way to implicate her, he needed to hear from her own lips the names of all those who might have stood to benefit from his death and her downfall.

To one unversed in the labyrinthine twists and turns of his humours, Walsingham’s mood might have seemed unremarkable, for he did not shout or curse or hammer his fist. But Shakespeare knew him better than that; Mr Secretary was in an unholy rage, like the churning current beneath a placid sea.

‘This is falling apart, John. This infernal trinity – Babington, Ballard and Savage – where are they? Why are they not bringing the strands of their demonic plot together? If they were captains-general, their army would have turned tail or been slaughtered by now. Can none of them hold to the sticking-place? I am told Savage has become a model scholar at Barnard’s Inn and is devoted to his studies. Is he to be assassin or lawyer?’

Shakespeare soaked up the onslaught. Only when Walsingham had stopped talking and was silent for a few seconds did he reply. ‘They lack leadership.’

‘Then you provide it!’

‘I am not trusted enough.’

‘What of Babington? Has he not been placed in the lead role by Ballard? I had thought the others of these Pope’s White Sons followed him like sheep.’

‘Yes, but Babington is idle and with Ballard gone north, he drifts. As for Ballard himself, he wastes his energies in the futile cause of raising a Pope’s army. His head is full of bees. He promises the Spanish he can raise a force of sixty thousand English, when we know he is unlikely to rouse one Englishman from his slumbers.’

‘And Goodfellow Savage?’

‘Like an obedient, well-disciplined soldier, he is waiting for others to give him the order to strike. All I can say is this: he may procrastinate, but he will never betray his vow. He still means to do it; he merely awaits the time and the method.’ He paused. ‘But you have the letter from Mary to Babington now, Sir Francis. That surely will spur these men to action.’

‘You have Gilbert Gifford with you?’

‘He is in the anteroom. Would you have him take it to Babington this day?’

Walsingham gave a brisk shake of the head. ‘I will wait until Ballard is back. I want him to boast to Babington about legions of Englishmen rising in the north and foreign armies sweeping in to support them. Only then will he have the confidence to write back to Mary with a detailed plan. A plan she will seize on. A plan that will provoke her into writing to him yet again – and this time giving her backing to treason. That will be the letter that will give us her wicked head.’

‘I am anxious about Gifford. The longer we wait, the more likely he is to run; if we do not use him soon, I fear he will be gone.’

‘Then tell him straight. If he leaves now, then he is England’s enemy and will pay the price.’

‘Very well. And I am still giving thought to the idea of using Robin Poley. He would prod Babington on.’

Walsingham nodded gravely. ‘There is something of the snake about Poley. Can you introduce him to the plotters?’

‘I said I would find a way, and I will.’

Walsingham gripped the edge of the table and stood up. He pushed his dark, glowering face forward and glared at Shakespeare with eyes as cold as moonbeams. ‘Indeed? And do you have time for such inconsequential matters? I had thought your energies were all directed elsewhere . . .’

Shakespeare felt the prickles of hair rising on his neck. ‘You know what I am talking about, John Shakespeare. Do you think you can go about your private business in this town without my knowledge? How little you know of me after eight years in my service.’

‘I protest that I am not neglecting my duties. I cannot spend every minute of the day in the company of Goodfellow Savage. But I watch him nonetheless.’

‘How do you watch him from Shoreditch?’

There was no point in dissembling; Walsingham already knew far too much for that. ‘May I ask who told you I was there, Sir Francis?’

‘Frank Mills told me! You attacked and bound Jonas Shoe, who is one Mills’s men. He was working on behalf of Justice Young, trying to snare this monstrous widow, this Jezebel who has got the whole of London talking. Her Majesty is appalled that so wanton a murderess is still at large. Nicholas Giltspur was a good friend to her government and the murderess must pay the full and dreadful price. She committed a crime that is an offence to God and man and she will hang for it. So will anyone who assists her, before or after the fact! Do you now understand what you are playing with, John?’

‘And if she is innocent?’

‘Pah! The man who wielded the knife implicated her with his dying confession. There is no doubt. None at all.’

‘What if he was paid to do so? What if he was dying already?’

‘It would have no bearing on the case. His confession is all.’

‘A man who was dying – and knew it – might wish to leave his loved ones well provided for. For a sum of gold, he might be persuaded to kill a man and incriminate the man’s own wife. In such a case, I believe the second-in-line to the dead’s man’s inheritance might become the beneficiary.’

‘This is preposterous supposition. The squirmings of a desperate felon.’

‘No, Sir Francis. This is not mere supposition.’

Walsingham was silent. Whatever else he was, Shakespeare knew his master to be just; he could not work for him otherwise. At last he spoke, his voice a little less insistent. ‘If you have something to tell me, then say it.’

‘Will Cane’s body was riddled with cankers. He must have known with absolute certainty that he was within days of death. More than that, it is clear that he deliberately allowed himself to be arrested. He needed his day in court and his hour on the scaffold so that he could implicate Mistress Giltspur in the most public of ways.’

‘How do you know of these diseases in Cane’s body?’

Shakespeare had already said too much. Joshua Peace had enough trouble from those who called him necromancer without having the buying of corpses laid at his door.

‘Speak, John. You know something.’

‘Sir Francis, if I tell you certain matters, I would entreat you not to use them against the man they concern, nor tell them beyond these walls.’

‘I can give no such promise, but nor would I ever wish to see an innocent woman hanged. Speak honestly and I will listen.’

Shakespeare nodded. ‘Very well.’ In a few short sentences, he told his master all that he had learnt from Joshua Peace.

‘This certainly provokes thought. But there is more, is there not?’

‘Sir Francis?’

‘Come, come, John. If you wish my assistance, you must reveal the truth. What is this woman to you?’

‘I knew her as Kat Whetstone.’

Walsingham snorted. He knew the name well. ‘Now I understand. And you have seen the woman, I take it.’

A man could conceal nothing in Mr Secretary’s presence. ‘Yes,’ Shakespeare said simply. ‘Yes, I have seen her. She denies any involvement in the killing.’

‘Well, that is no surprise. Where is she now?’

‘I no longer know. I was in Shoreditch trying to find her. I need to hear more of her story. She must know who might have benefited from her husband’s death.’

‘Yes, I see that. How are you hoping to proceed with your inquiries? What would you have me do?’

‘Give me time to find the true killer. I swear I will not let Savage free of his obligation. I will find a way to bring Poley to Babington. And Gilbert Gifford will not flee.’

‘You realise you are already an accessory to murder. Your duty under the law is to arrest her and bring her to court.’

‘When I saw her I knew nothing of the murder nor the case against her.’

‘Who took you to her?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Cannot . . . or will not?’

‘Will not. Anyway, if I had allowed her to be arrested she would have been hanged before I had any chance to discover the truth. It may still be so. For all I know, Justice Young might already have her.’

‘Is she innocent?’

Shakespeare’s mouth turned down. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Good. I would be more concerned for your welfare if you had swallowed her story untried.’

‘I will not be gulled. I have been well trained by you – well enough to know that the heart of every man and woman conceals dark corners. It may be that she is guilty of the crime, in which case I will testify against her myself.’

Walsingham closed his eyes and placed his elbows on the table. His fingers were at his forehead, tapping. The chilly, severe room – a perfect reflection of its owner’s character in plaster and wood – was silent except for their breathing and the soft tap-tap of the fingers. A minute passed. Walsingham took a deep breath then opened his eyes.

‘I met this woman once, if you recall. I strode up to your house one morning.’

Shakespeare could not forget it. He had come down from his solar to find Mr Secretary in the parlour, sitting at the table, talking with Kat about the weather. And she was not showing him the kind of deference to which he was accustomed. Shocked and flustered, Shakespeare had not known what to say. But then Walsingham had spoken: ‘Mistress Whetstone has introduced herself to me and invited me in. I trust I am not intruding.’ ‘Indeed not, Sir Francis.’ ‘A small goblet of brandy would suit me well.’ And so Shakespeare had fetched the flask and poured three goblets, as though he were a servant. For the half-hour Walsingham was there, Shakespeare had been as taut as an anchor cable in a high wind. And yet her charm had won over the Principal Secretary and his sojourn seemed to please him. Finally he had stood up from the table and said, ‘John, I have quite forgotten why I came here. But I thank you for your hospitality – and yours, Mistress Whetstone.’ And then he had taken his leave.

Shakespeare had not been fooled. Walsingham had not forgotten the purpose of his visit that day; he forgot nothing. The reason had been simple: word had reached him that his young intelligencer had a woman about the house and he wished to meet her. Nothing more. Clearly she had passed muster.

‘She meant a lot to you, I believe. For all that you were living in a sinful union, I liked her – and I was sorry to hear she had left.’

‘Thank you, Sir Francis.’

‘Forty-eight hours, John. You have forty-eight hours, but I will not call off Justice Young. If you are caught and arraigned as an accessory to murder, your neck will be in the noose – and I will not be able to save you.’

Sorbus the steward was already at the door of Giltspur House. He nodded to the guards to put up their swords and let Shakespeare through. ‘Follow me,’ he said tersely, leading the way with small, feminine steps into the depths of the mansion.

From the main part of the house, they crossed an inner courtyard which still had the feel of a monastic cloister, which it had been until the dissolution. Apart from the outside gateway, with its effigies of saints, it was the only part of the property that had retained traces of the house’s clerical history. Shakespeare guessed that the ornate central fountain and the fragrant flowerbeds that surrounded it were not the work of the monks.

What most struck him was the heavy security employed within the high walls of this house. There were guards on duty at every turn. Was this the way rich men had to live, in a fortress?

A long building sheltered the far edge of the quad. A dull clackety noise emanated from inside the building and Shakespeare immediately recognised it as the sound of a tennis match in progress. Sorbus opened a door and bade him enter the long penthouse gallery ranged alongside the court, then retreated without a word.

Shakespeare watched the game and listened to the reassuring sound; an echoing clatter as the hard little ball flew from strings and bounced off wood. At each end there was a man in a linen open-neck shirt. Their feet were soft-slippered and they both carried a racket of wood, strung tight with gut. One player’s shoulders were rounded and slumping as though the world would fall about him. He was at the server’s end and seemed older. The other man, to Shakespeare’s left, in the hazard court, looked calm and relaxed. Somehow Shakespeare imagined him to be young Arthur Giltspur.

The server struck the ball carefully, as though his life depended on it. The ball rose and fell in a gentle arc onto the penthouse roof, bounced three times then fell into the receiving court, only to be returned like a gunshot. The server, slow to react, managed to get the frame of his racket to the ball, but only with enough force to send it straight into the net. Shakespeare frowned; the server suddenly seemed very familiar. He found himself laughing – it was Huckerbee, the comptroller from the Treasury. It looked very much as if the self-satisfied patrician were being brought low.

‘Fifteen thirty,’ the receiver called, then spotted the newcomer. He held up his racket to stay his opponent from serving and walked towards the gallery and Shakespeare while the server, seemingly relieved to have some respite, set about collecting the balls that littered the bottom of the net.

‘Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Indeed. I take it you are Arthur Giltspur.’

‘A pleasure to meet you. Severin Tort told me of you. You are an assistant secretary to Walsingham, are you not?’

‘Yes, that is so.’

They shook hands. Giltspur had his racket in his left hand, sloping over his shoulder like a very short halberd. It was an old, well-used implement. The beads of sweat across his brow and exposed throat spoke of a hard-battled game.

‘Do you play, sir?’ Giltspur asked. ‘I am always looking for new opponents.’

‘It is my misfortune that I have never had the opportunity. From that last shot it would seem you have a great skill.’

Giltspur grinned. ‘At risk of being immodest, I would say that no man in England can best me. But I have yet to play young Robert Devereux, of whom I hear good things, so it may be my pride will come before a fall. Anyway, Mr Shakespeare, you are a young man. There is time enough to learn. I shall give you some words of advice when we are done. But first to business. I believe you have an interest in the tragic case of Uncle Nick.’

Shakespeare took in Arthur Giltspur’s appearance. He was an inch or two off six foot and had the lean, hard body of a sportsman. He wore his billowing linen shirt with the throat stays undone, so that his tanned and muscled chest was clearly visible. His face, beneath ribbon-tied fair hair, was friendly and open – the face of a young man with few cares in the world. Shakespeare guessed his age at twenty-four or so.

‘Come, Mr Shakespeare, let us go to my solar. This match has given me a raging thirst.’

‘Do you not wish to finish your tennis? I see your opponent is Sir Robert Huckerbee.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘He is an old friend of the family. Do you wish to pay your respects?’

Shakespeare looked across at Huckerbee and their eyes met. The comptroller looked back blankly. It occurred to Shakespeare that he did not enjoy being watched in his moment of humiliation. He turned away. ‘No, leave him be. Our acquaintance is merely professional.’

‘Well, he was very close to Uncle Nick.’ Giltspur laughed, then cupped his hand and whispered in Shakespeare’s ear. ‘I’m afraid his tennis is not what it was. Let us slip away. I think he will be pleased to retain his twenty-pound stake. He hasn’t had a game off me yet and we’re into the second set. I will just make my apologies and take my leave of him.’