Holy Spy

Chapter 20

Just before the tide turned, when the race through the stanchions of London Bridge was at its tamest, Boltfoot took a boat downriver from the Custom House water stairs. He had his caliver slung over his back and his cutlass at his belt. He was not going unarmed again. Disembarking at St Katharine’s Dock, a mile downstream from the bridge, he made his way slowly and carefully along the narrow lanes to the Burning Prow. At the end of the street, not fifty yards from the bawdy house, he found a spot in the shade of a tree where he sat down and lit his pipe of tobacco. The smoke was rich and heady and went some way to ease the aches of his beating.

He had a good view of the entrance to the whorehouse, but the evening was still early and business was quiet. A few men came and either stayed to carouse or left with a woman to one of the rooms they used for their work. He was hoping the one called Em would turn up, but by nine o’clock there was no sign of her.

The other whore – Aggy, the scabby, ill-favoured one he had tried to engage in conversation – came out from the alehouse on the arm of a grizzled mariner. They sauntered northwards. Boltfoot put away his pipe, rose slowly from his place by the tree and followed them. Every few steps the couple stopped to kiss and fumble. The man’s eager hands lifted her skirts and stroked her inner thigh, while her hands went into his hose, accompanied by a great deal of grunting and slurping.

The next street was an alley of poor tenements and crumbling hovels where children in rags played in the dust and toothless gossips stood with their arms folded passing the time of day. Many of the houses were nothing but a tangled skeleton of blackened timbers, a commonplace hazard in this part of the city where half a dozen families might squeeze into a house and one accident with a knocked-over rushlight could lead to disaster. Aggy led her client into a leaning house that was isolated between two such burnt-out ruins.

Boltfoot found a spot where he could watch the doorway. The residents of the alley took one glance at his caliver and cutlass and decided not to interfere with business that did not concern them.

Half an hour later the mariner emerged, reeling as though he still had the rolling deck of a ship beneath his feet. Boltfoot smiled as the man strode away. He’d have no money left in his purse by night’s end. Boltfoot had seen it a thousand times. He unslung his caliver, loaded it and stepped through the doorway with the muzzle pointing ahead of him. He halted and listened, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. He heard a sigh and a scuffing of feet. She was in the room at the back of the house, behind the half-open door.

He pushed through, his gun at his chest. She screamed. The room was bare save a filthy mattress of straw. She was squatting over a tin basin, her skirts pulled up to her chest so that her bare legs and nether parts were obscenely visible.

Boltfoot ranged the caliver at her and tilted his chin. ‘I want to ask you a few questions, Aggy.’

She scrabbled backwards, grabbing the pisspot from beneath her as she did so, flinging it in Boltfoot’s direction. He ducked sideways, but the pot hit his left arm and sprayed him with her pungent urine, soaking his sleeve and splashing his cheek.

She cackled. ‘Ah yes, the dirty cripple. Come to play, have you?’

‘Back against the wall.’

She emitted another foul laugh. ‘Is that how you want me? Front or back?’

Boltfoot limped forward and pushed the muzzle of his weapon into her belly. ‘Move.’

She stayed where she was, pushing out her chest, defiance in her eyes. ‘How much you got, cripple? Shilling for a fuck, sixpence for a frigging. Told you before, didn’t I.’ She opened her mouth in a roundel. ‘Or this for nine pence. That’s a favourite with my sailor friends. Reminds them of the cabin boys, so they do say.’

‘Comely as you are, Aggy, I want nothing like that from you. What I want is information and I’ll pay you more than a shilling for it. Be straight and helpful and I’ll make it more than worth your while.’

‘Put up your evil-looking weapon and I’ll think about it.’

Boltfoot lowered the stock of his caliver to the rubble-strewn floor, dried his face with his unsoaked sleeve, and fished a handful of coins from his purse. ‘What’s there to think about?’ He proffered a few shillings to her. ‘That’s all you’re after.’

‘I’ve got to think about my lovely throat, which I don’t want slit.’

‘Who’d do that to you, Aggy?’

‘Em. Who else.’

‘So that’s why you wouldn’t talk to me back at the Burning Prow.’

She nodded, brushing down her stained skirts and pushing them between her legs to dry herself.

‘What’s she to Cutting Ball? She’s kin, isn’t she?’

‘Em Ball? She’s his sister. Everyone knows that. Where you been living all these years? Now hand over your purse if you want anything out of me.’

‘You’ll have half-a-crown if you tell me where – and with whom – Will Cane lived. And you’ll have another if you can tell me who paid him to kill Nicholas Giltspur. And don’t say his wife, because I won’t believe you.’

‘How do I know you won’t tell Em?’

‘She’s no friend of mine. See this?’ He pointed out the bruises on his face. ‘Her brother’s men did that to me. All I want to know is who killed Giltspur.’

‘Well, if it weren’t the widow, I don’t know who done it. But I’ll tell you where Will Cane lived for a sovereign.’

‘No. A crown. That’s my limit.’

She thrust out her grubby hand. ‘Give it to me, then.’

‘First tell me where he lived.’

‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll lead you there and you can pay your respects to Will Cane’s widow.’

Boltfoot followed Aggy through the grim streets. This burgeoning city of dirt and squalor almost made Boltfoot wish he was at sea again. On second thoughts, anything but that.

She turned southwards towards the Thames and the wharfs. Finally she stopped outside a small house at the end of a wood-frame, in a street a little way back from the riverside. She nodded her head to indicate the place, then walked on, turning westward to retrace her steps back to the Burning Prow. Boltfoot had already paid her five shillings under the threat that he would return and shoot her dead if he discovered that she had betrayed him. She hadn’t looked as though she believed him.

Will Cane’s house was a surprise. It was not the house of a rich man, but nor was it the sort of hovel occupied by the very lowest. Perhaps he had been a man of some importance to Cutting Ball, a lieutenant who took a good share of their ill-gotten spoils and had set himself up. For a few minutes Boltfoot watched the front door. Then he walked down the small alley at the eastern end of the wood-frame, hoping to be able to see into the house from the rear. He cursed silently; the backyards were all walled and he had no view into the house. He was just pondering his next move when a water-bearer walked past and stopped, setting down his three-gallon cone-shaped barrel to stretch his aching back. Boltfoot noted the fine carving of the staves and the neatness of the hoops. He leant forward and ran a hand down the smooth surface appreciatively. Perfectly dry.

‘Fine cooperage. Not a leak on it.’

‘You a cooper then?’

‘Aye. Ship’s cooper.’

‘What’s the hagbut for then?’ The man thrust his sparsely bearded chin towards Boltfoot’s caliver. ‘Won’t be making casks with that.’

‘It’s for the shooting of Spaniards and Frenchies. I served my time aboard ships-of-war.’

The water-bearer laughed. ‘You’re a pirate then.’ He was a small man – too small to be carrying such a heavy load.

‘Some have called me that. Others call me a true son of England.’ He touched the water butt again. ‘Got far to go with that?’

‘No, just round the corner. The Cane widow.’

‘Will Cane’s widow?’

The water-bearer’s expression suddenly changed from open and cheery to nervous and guarded. ‘Why would you be interested, Mister Cooper? A man could die for inquiring into Will Cane hereabouts.’

‘So I believe.’ He picked up the water butt. ‘What say I deliver this to the widow Cane for you?’

‘No.’

‘You see, Mr Water-bearer, I want a few words with her – but I have no wish to scare her. You can care for my caliver while I’m inside. And there will be a silver sixpence for you when I come out. I will merely tell her that you are abed with the sweat and that I am your cousin standing in for you. Now is that not fair dealing?’

‘What is this? What will you do to her?’

‘No harm will come to Mistress Cane, I pledge it. This is a matter it were best you knew nothing about.’

‘No. I won’t have it. You’ll get me killed.’

Boltfoot smiled. ‘I think you don’t understand. The choice isn’t yours, Mr Water-bearer. I am borrowing your load whether you wish it or not. He reached into his soft leather purse and removed a sixpence. ‘Here, take it. There will be another when I come out.’

The threat in Boltfoot’s voice was obvious. The water-bearer was clearly not a man of robust courage. His hand shook as he reached out and accepted the coin.

‘Good. Now what’s your name?’

‘Pearson. Tom Pearson.’

‘Well, Mr Pearson, I shall do all in my power to keep you alive.’ Boltfoot unslung his caliver and cutlass and placed them in the water-bearer’s arms. ‘Take those, go to the water stairs and wait for me.’

The door was answered by a plump woman of no more than twenty years of age. Her clothes were plain but clean and well kept. Three small children, all under the age of five, clustered around her skirts.

‘Water, mistress.’

‘Where’s Tom today?’

‘Took ill. A slight summer sweat. I’m his cousin.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Cooper. I never knew how hard Tom worked until this day. Thirsty work all this fetching and carrying.’ Boltfoot feigned exhaustion as he hefted the butt of water inside the front room of the house, watched closely by the large, inquisitive eyes of the children.

‘Put it in the corner near the empty, Mr Cooper, and sit yourself at the table. I’ll fetch you some ale.’ She disappeared out the back with the children in her wake.

Boltfoot sat down and took in his surroundings. It was a comfortable, modest room with a settle and a table and a dresser displaying a variety of pewter pots and earthenware. It was not the sort of home he had expected of a lieutenant to the infamous Cutting Ball.

‘Here you are.’ Mistress Cane returned with a beaker of ale and handed it to Boltfoot. The three small children trailed behind her like ducklings.

‘Thank you, mistress, thank you. You have saved my life.’

‘I will tell you your life if you wish. Give me your hand.’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, I’ll not have superstition.’

She smiled, then reached out and took his hand. He did not resist. She studied it for a minute, then looked up and met his eyes. ‘You will suffer great pain, Mr Cooper. But I say you will find much love.’

He snatched his hand away. ‘You think me a fool.’

She continued to smile, but said no more. He drank his ale, his head buzzing. He could not recall when a woman had last touched him. He took a deep breath.

‘I am sorry to hear about your husband . . .’

She looked puzzled. ‘Are you? Why?’

‘Well, I heard-’

‘That he got himself hanged for murder?’

Boltfoot nodded.

‘Mr Cooper, I must tell you that dying was the best thing Will Cane ever did for this family.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Tell me you are not one of Cutting Ball’s men come to spy on me.’

‘Do I look so villainous? No, mistress, my trade was always cask-making and repairing.’

‘You look villainous enough with your bruised face. But I have lived among thieves and killers long enough to know that appearances can deceive. Perhaps you are an honest man.’

She sat down opposite him, looked into his eyes and sighed. ‘Will Cane was not a good man. No, that does not tell it well. He was a vicious brute and I fear he may have killed before. More than once, and most cruelly.’

‘And yet you married him.’

‘This is beginning to sound like an interrogation, Mr Cooper.’

‘Forgive me. I-’

‘It is no matter. I care not whether you are a Cutting Ball man or from the justice. I am beyond pain and fear. I married Will because he was handsome and dangerous. And because my father wished it.’

‘Why would your father have wished you to marry Mr Cane if he was as murderous as you say?’

‘Mr Cooper, you really are most inquisitive.’

‘It is the talk of Wapping and Whitechapel, is it not? They say a rich young woman paid Mr Cane to murder her husband. The whole world wants to know the truth.’

‘So it seems. And if you are wondering whether any of the blood money came into this house, then I can tell you that it did not. And I tell you this, too, Mr Cooper – I would not have accepted a penny of such ill-gotten silver even if it had been offered to me. I would be pleased if you would tell everyone you know this simple truth, for I do not like the stares and whisperings that I have noted at the market since Will was hanged.’

The youngest child began to cry. The widow rose from her chair and scooped her up into her arms.

‘I will tell them. But Mistress Cane, how will you survive without a husband? This house is small, but it is well appointed. Surely it will cost you dearly to rent?’

‘The house was my father’s and now it is mine. You asked me why he required me to wed Mr Cane. The truth is, he was a gambling man and fell foul of Cutting Ball. My father told me that if I did not marry Will Cane, who had taken a great fancy to me, then he would be killed. I was both scared and excited. Before the sickness wasted him, Will had the body of a god. What young girl would not wish to have such a fellow? My opinion changed rapidly when first he beat me. In the past year I have scarce seen Will, which was some relief. He had other women, one in particular, as he was pleased to tell me.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Two weeks since. He came to see the children.’ She seemed to stiffen. ‘Told them to be good little thieves and to let no man gainsay them. It is their good fortune that they were too young to understand a word he said to them. He told me he was dying and that we would not see him again. In truth I doubted he would last the week. Then he kissed the children and was gone.’

It was clear to Boltfoot that this woman knew nothing of the murder of Nicholas Giltspur, nor of Kat’s supposed role in it. ‘I am sorry. I had not meant to intrude on you at this difficult time.’

‘Oh, think nothing of it, Mr Cooper. It has been some welcome release to talk of these matters. I am all alone now, you see.’ She smiled at him again.

There was silence for a moment and then he nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Standing from his chair, he made a move towards the door.

‘Do not go without the empty water butt, sir.’

‘No, no indeed.’ He stopped, hesitated. ‘Before I go, Mistress Cane . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not a water-carrier.’

She smiled. ‘I didn’t think so.’

Stumbling over his words, not certain how much to reveal, Boltfoot told her that he was investigating the death of Nicholas Giltspur on behalf of his master. ‘If as you say he was already dying then he had nothing to gain for himself by killing for money. In which case, you must understand why a man might wonder whether he wished to leave his widow or children provided for.’

‘But I have already told you that is not the case, Mr Cooper. And I have also told you I would not accept such money.’

‘Then who has the hundred pounds?’

‘His whore, of course. And she is welcome to it.’

‘Do you have her name?’

‘Indeed I do, Mr Cooper, and perhaps you and your master might be the means by which some justice will be meted out. Her name is Abigail and she is a lady’s maid in the house of the Giltspur family.’