Holy Spy

Chapter 29

Sorbus stood at the door of Giltspur House and sighed as though the weight of the world had suddenly descended on his narrow shoulders. ‘He is at Greenwich with the court, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I am not here to see Arthur Giltspur. I wish to talk with the maid, Abigail.’

‘I cannot admit you to the house without the express permission of my master.’

‘Then talk to his grandmother. She is the master in this house, I believe.’

Sorbus moved to close the door, but then appeared to reconsider. ‘Come in, Mr Shakespeare. I will speak to Mistress Giltspur. I believe she is awake.’

‘Thank you, Mr Sorbus.’ He looked at the retreating back of the steward. For the first time, he had not looked down his sharp nose at his guest. Why? Shakespeare was left on a settle in an oak-panelled anteroom. A footman appeared with a tray, bowed low, and poured a small measure of brandy into a fine Venetian glass. Shakespeare sipped at it. He did not have to wait long before Sorbus reappeared.

‘Mistress Giltspur would like to talk with you herself. Please come with me.’

Joan Giltspur was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, beside the window in her room. Her door was open, but Sorbus knocked at it anyway. The old woman’s head turned slowly and a slight nod indicated that they should enter.

‘Good day, Mr Shakespeare. Please come in. You may go, Sorbus.’

The steward bowed stiffly and left, closing the door behind him.

‘Mistress Giltspur, thank you for receiving me.’

‘Indeed, I was rather hoping you would come again. I have been thinking much since last you were here.’

The old woman was dressed in a gown of gold and red which must have been the height of fashion fifty years earlier. He looked down where the sunlight fell on her feet and was surprised to note that they were bare.

Her eyes followed his. ‘I can no longer abide shoes, Mr Shakespeare. Tell me, have your inquiries proceeded to any degree?’

‘They are by no means complete, but I believe I have made some little progress. I have come here today in the hope of talking to your maid, Abigail.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘Because I think she is with child and I would very much like to know who the father is.’

She moved forward in her chair. ‘Abigail? Who told you this?’

‘No one,’ he lied. ‘It was the look of her, the healthy blossom on her cheeks, the swelling of her breasts and belly. If I am wrong, then I can only apologise.’

‘Abigail!’ The old woman’s voice was surprisingly loud and piercing.

The maid came scurrying in from an adjoining chamber.

‘Yes, Mistress Giltspur? Yes, ma’am?’ Her eyes swivelled between her mistress and John Shakespeare.

‘Is this true?’ The old woman pointed a bony finger at the girl’s belly.

She hesitated a moment too long and then shook her head. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, what are you suggesting?’

‘Who is the father? If you do not give me his name, you will be out of this house within the hour. Do you understand?’

‘But I am not with child, ma’am.’

‘When were your last flowers?’

‘Not two weeks since. Please, ma’am, I beg you don’t dismiss me.’

‘Get out!’

Abigail gasped, then put her hand to her mouth, burst into tears and ran to the door. Loud sobs trailed back into the room.

Shakespeare put his hand up. ‘Mistress Giltspur, let me speak to her. I had not meant to bring this upon the young woman. We cannot even be sure my suspicion was correct.’

‘Of course it was correct. I must be losing my mind, Mr Shakespeare. I have no notion how I failed to note it before. She must be almost six months gone.’

‘Allow me a few words. At least we might discover the name of the father. Perhaps the offer of a reference or a few shillings to tide her over while she seeks another position . . .’ Shakespeare looked for some forgiveness in the old widow’s eyes, but saw only stone.

‘I thank you for bringing me this news, but now I must ask you to go.’ Joan Giltspur snorted. ‘It will be some grubby serving boy from the kitchen, or a groom from the stables.’

‘There is another possibility. What if Nicholas was the father? What if the babe she carries is your grandchild?’

Silence hung in the old woman’s chamber. The deep lines in her face showed every one of her eighty-one years. She pulled her lips back from her teeth, which were remarkably white for one of her age. For a moment it seemed she would speak, but no words came.

‘It is a possibility, is it not?’ Shakespeare broke the silence. ‘She is a very pretty young woman. If the child was conceived five or six months ago, then it would have been long before he met Katherine.’

‘This is scurrilous talk. How dare you! This family has done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined, and yet you have the temerity to suggest such a thing. Get out.’

‘Of course I will go, but think on it. Why not Nicholas? She is a comely young woman and he was an unattached man. She would not have been the first maid to slip into her master’s bed of a night . . .’

‘And you believe this is something to do with his murder, Mr Shakespeare? Is that it?’

‘I don’t know. But I must look at all possibilities, and spurned love has led to many murders. But before I can even begin to think such things, I must ascertain the name of the father.’

‘Go to her. Tell her she can stay if she is honest with you. She will work in the kitchens. I do not wish to see her, but I wish to know the truth.’

Shakespeare found Abigail in her bedchamber, one of a number of small rooms in the extensive attics. She was sitting on a narrow cot with a thin mattress and meagre bedding. Her head was in her hands and tears streamed from her eyes. He sat down beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. The gloom was pervasive, for there was no window and the only light came through the open hatch.

‘Come now, Abigail, dry your eyes. I believe your mistress can be persuaded to relent.’ He tried to soften his voice.

The sobs were choking in her throat. Shakespeare had not expected such intensity of emotion. Suddenly his arm around her shoulders felt awkward, a little too intimate. He stood up. Still she did not raise her head from her hands or allow her eyes to meet his.

‘How long have you been here at Giltspur House?’

She did not answer, but kept on weeping.

‘I know you were lady’s maid to Mistress Katherine Giltspur. I can understand how dismayed you must have been at the events of a few days ago. It is all still a mystery, is it not? And that is the reason I am here – to try to solve this terrible puzzle. What I need from you is any information you might have; anything you might not already have mentioned, which is why I want you to tell me the name of your baby’s father. Perhaps he might know something. Anything you can tell me, however insignificant it might seem to you, could assist me.’

Her tears continued unabated. How was he to extract information from this woman? And then he seemed to hear a whisper through her sob.

‘Help me.’

The words were so quiet that at first he was not certain he had heard them.

‘What would you have me do?’

‘Help me, sir. I have done a bad thing,’ she whispered.

‘What have you done, Abigail? What bad thing?’

‘Please, Mr Shakespeare . . .’

‘Is this something to do with Mr Giltspur’s death? If so, it were better you speak now. Or are you speaking of the babe that grows in your womb? Is that the bad thing?’ He leant forward and took her face in his hands.

Briefly, Abigail’s moist red eyes met Shakespeare’s, then went back down, demurely, as though she were a virgin at the altar. She slid forward from the bed onto her knees. For a moment, he thought she was about to pray, but instead she clasped Shakespeare’s legs like a supplicant. ‘Please, sir. Please, help me.’

‘Yes, I will help you, but you must be straight and honest with me. Answer my questions truthfully and I will try to assist you. I ask again, what is this bad thing you speak of – do you mean the swelling of your belly? Or is there something else I should know?’

‘I will do anything. Anything.’

He tried to remove her arms from about his legs, to make her either stand up or sit back on the bed so that they could converse properly, but she held him tighter and nestled her tear-stained face into his groin, so that he could feel her warm breath through the wool of his hose.

‘Abigail, you must move away. This is not seemly.’

Her hands slid up the back of his legs and tried to venture into the gap between his thighs. ‘Abigail!’ He tried to wrench himself away from her, but she clasped him all the harder. Now her right hand went to the front of his hose and began to stroke him. He grasped her hand to pull it away and was astonished by her strength in resisting him. But he was stronger. With his other hand he gripped her upper left arm and forced her back onto the bed. She let out a strange laugh, half tearful, half insane.

‘Abigail, this will not end here. Tell me, the bad thing, what is it? Tell me now.’

She pulled back her shoulders and turned her head sharply to the left to shield her face from him.

For two minutes he stood and looked down at her. But she did not move, except for the occasional shudder, which might have been a residue of her tears or the convulsion of a laugh.

There was nothing more to be said. Without another word, he clambered through the hatchway and down the ladder.

He found Sorbus in the hall close to the front door.

‘Mr Sorbus, a word.’

‘As you will, sir.’

‘The maid Abigail, I wish to know more about her. She seems almost deranged.’

‘I fear she has not been herself since the recent events, Mr Shakespeare. And now I am led to believe that you think her with child.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Old Mistress Giltspur, sir. She is most displeased.’

‘So you suspected nothing, even when her belly swelled and her breasts grew?’

Sorbus cast his face into an apology. ‘I am but a man, sir, and a bachelor. The ways of women are a mystery to me. I do not notice things as others might. Indeed, as you might, sir.’

‘How long has she been in the house?’

‘A year. She was in service to Mr Tort. He had overheard me saying to Mr Nicholas that we needed a new housemaid and he said that he had a good girl who was surplus to requirements. And so we took her on. She did well and was promoted to lady’s maid when Mr Nicholas brought his new bride into the house.’

‘What is her family name?’

‘Colton, sir. But I am afraid I know little more about her. She was so highly recommended by Mr Tort that we did not consider it necessary to look into her family nor seek other references.’

‘Did you notice any of the men of the house taking an interest in her?’

‘No, sir. No, I did not.’

‘Neither servant nor master?’

‘No.’

‘Is it possible that she conducted a liaison with your late master before his marriage? Might he have been the father?’

‘I would say that nothing is impossible under God’s heaven, but in this case I would most certainly not believe it. In truth, Mr Shakespeare, I would stake my life on it. Mr Nicholas Giltspur is not the father of her child – and before you ask, neither am I.’

‘It seems you cannot stay away from me, John. Another corpse, another visit.’

Joshua Peace was looking down at the body of Oswald Redd, which was laid out on its back, blank eyes seeming to gaze up at the damp ceiling of the crypt beneath St Paul’s. The body, brought here by the grooms at Seething Lane, was now naked, the skin dull and clammy. And yet the hair, so red and striking in life, maintained its vibrancy.

‘Justice Young had some idea he might have been murdered. He thought to accuse me. Sadly for him, he had no evidence.’

‘Well, what do you think?’

Shakespeare held up a sheet of paper. ‘I rode here by way of Shoreditch and found this on Mr Redd’s worktable.’ He handed it to Joshua Peace, who read it quickly, then smiled at his guest.

‘That simplifies matters.’

‘Does it accord with your findings?’

‘Indeed. Of course, it is possible he was clubbed and thrown from the bridge, but I had already decided that he probably took his own life. The bridge’s footings protrude well into the water away from the piers, certainly further out than the rail. Any man who jumped at night would not see the footings and would most likely hit one before bouncing into the water. I would guess he hit the back of his head in the fall and that his death was quick and pain-free.’

‘Unlike his life.’ Shakespeare took back the proffered sheet of paper. They were clearly the words of a tormented man who had given up the struggle.

I pray God forgive me for what I am about to do and for the manifold sins of my wretched life. Whoever finds this, please take word to my brother Osric at Chigwell that I turn over my share of the farm and all properties within and without to his ownership and keeping. Though he may have difficulty understanding, tell him all is well and that I am at peace, and that I am with Mother and that he is to continue looking after the sheep. Also, I would ask that you go to the Paxtons, in the Glebe Farm, to the west, and ask that they look in on Osric from time to time and take his lambs to market when they are ready for slaughter. To this end, I leave the finder a sovereign. Tell Osric that I die in the certain hope that we will meet again, with Mother, in the hereafter. Pray for me.

Oswald Redd

The writing was scratchy and hurried, with many ink blotches. There was no mention of Kat. Perhaps his love had turned to loathing. She had abandoned him twice; perhaps he could no longer bear to utter her name.

‘Why did he kill himself ?’ Shakespeare asked. ‘Out of grief for lost love – or because of the burden of guilt for killing Nick Giltspur and condemning Kat?’

‘That really is your line of work more than mine, John. I examine the body, not the mind.’ ‘But I would value your opinion, as always.’ ‘Well, for a gage of ale, I would say the first option is the

most likely. Unrequited passion has turned many minds. Had he been guilty of murder and was going to his death, I think he might have confessed it in hope of a better hearing at the day of judgement.’

‘Worthy of a gage of ale.’ Shakespeare turned away from the body and lifted the latch on the door. Though he always enjoyed the company of Joshua Peace, he did not like his place of work. The cool dripping of the walls, the stink and stillness of death. As for the death of Oswald Redd and his reasons for taking his own life, perhaps Redd had deliberately avoided confessing to the murder of Nick Giltspur so that the finger of guilt would still be pointed at Kat. Some men’s desire for vengeance knew no end. And if that was the case, then it might now be impossible ever to prove her innocence.

Shakespeare rose from his bed. Something the old woman had said was spinning around his head like a child’s top. A few simple words that he had not considered of any relevance to his inquiry, and yet they had lodged themselves in his mind. What, precisely had she meant by them?

‘This family has done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined . . .’

What had the Giltspurs done for England? Caught fish to fill the nation’s bellies? Or was there something more, unspoken? He could find no answer in his own head and was not at all sure why it bothered him so. After all, they were a notable family, of wealth and distinction. The large vessels in their fishing fleets would always be ready to arm and join the fray in defence of the realm. Of course the Giltspurs had always helped England.

He sat in his chair, beside the shuttered window, trying to dispel the puzzle from his mind. He thought instead of Abigail Colton and continued to wonder about the father of her child. Why did she worry him so? It was because he was looking for a motive: jealousy, revenge, greed. A scorned lover might be goaded to horrors by any one of those violent emotions.

Every man in the Giltspur household must be under suspicion of being the father, of course: all the servants, the late Nicholas Giltspur, his nephew Arthur, even Sorbus. No, not Sorbus. Shakespeare doubted he ever looked at women in that way. Arthur Giltspur? Surely Arthur could find all the delightful female company he desired among the merchant classes or the young noblewomen of the royal court. He did not need to bother with maidservants, however pretty. His uncle Nicholas, on the other hand, had been older and less eligible; perhaps in the months before meeting Kat he had found comfort closer to home.

There was another name, too: Severin Tort, attorney-at-law. He had certainly known Abigail Colton, for she had been employed by him. Perhaps matters had become awkward or unpleasant; was that why he wished her to leave his household? Or perhaps Tort had been protecting someone else in his household . . .

In the office at Walsingham’s Seething Lane mansion, Frank Mills slid a transcript of the letter across the table. ‘There, Mr Shakespeare, read it.’ He managed to make each word sound grudging, as though it were not his place to be showing anything to this upstart.

Shakespeare took the decoded letter. It was written in the neat hand of Thomas Phelippes. He knew that the original of the letter – encrypted in letters and symbols – was in the safe hands of Sir Francis Walsingham.

Babington

My very good friend, albeit long since you heard from me,

no more than I have done from you, against my will, yet

would I not you should think, I have in the meanwhile, nor

will ever be unmindful of the effectual affection you have

shown heretofore to all that concerneth me. I have understood

that upon the ceasing of our intelligence there were addressed

unto you both from France and Scotland some packets for me.

I pray you, if any have come to your hands, and be yet in

place, to deliver them unto the bearer hereof, who will make

them to be safe conveyed to me, and I will pray God for your

preservation.

On June the twentyfifth at Chartley,

Your assured good friend,

Marie R

‘It says nothing,’ said Shakespeare. ‘She says she is sorry not to have written earlier and that she would like the letters he has in his possession. There is no declaration of subversion or conspiracy here. I am not surprised Mr Secretary has not yet had it delivered to Babington. He must have hoped for a great deal more.’

Mills grinned as though he understood something that Shakespeare did not. Hunched and thin, his smiling mouth looked almost obscene. ‘It will do very well, for Mr Secretary has a plan and he wishes you to execute it.’

‘Continue, Mr Mills.’

‘What is remarkable is that I must brief you in this matter rather than perform the task myself.’

‘Perhaps Mr Secretary does not trust you.’ Shakespeare could not resist the barb.

Mills managed to flounce without leaving his seat. ‘And he should trust you, should he, given that you spend your days chasing across London on a some fool’s errand for a murderess?’

‘Get to the point, Mills.’

‘Very well. The point is this: Mr Gifford will prepare the way, just like Baptist John. It is a scheme of exquisite cunning. All Babington’s doubts will be washed away. And it all hinges on the persuasive powers of Mr Gilbert Gifford, whom you are to instruct most precisely.’

‘He is presently working his wiles on Ballard.’

‘Then remove him and send him to Babington – for he is the key. He is the one who must write to Mary and elicit an incriminating reply. I shall explain to you, Mr Shakespeare, just as my master at school taught me the rudiments of reading and writing. For that is how simple it is for one with the wit to see . . .’