Holy Spy (39 page)

She tutted again. ‘Oh, Mr Shakespeare, there is so much that you seem not to understand. You rail against me, and yet it was
I
who saved your man. He was set on a path to self-destruction and I rescued him.’

He slammed his fist into the oak-panelled wall. ‘Saved him? Rescued him? You abducted him and I know not what else. You say you esteem Walsingham and all who work for him, yet Boltfoot Cooper worked for me and, in so doing, served my master, too.’

‘Which is why he is still alive.’

Shakespeare forced himself to calm down. He cursed himself for his impetuosity. Where was the cold logic Walsingham so prized? He had barged in here with no thought except to rescue Boltfoot and now he had no way of knowing if this woman spoke the truth, although it was an elaborate tale for a lie. Maybe Boltfoot was indeed on some wretched fishing vessel headed for the Grand Banks across thousands of miles of ocean.

‘And so if you are done with me, good sir—’

‘No.’ There was still time to take control of the encounter. ‘There is the other matter. The reason Mr Cooper first came to you. What do you know of the death of Nicholas Giltspur? My man had discovered something, had he not? That was why he was made to disappear. So tell me about Giltspur and your foul confederate Will Cane. Tell me what you know about his liaison with the lady’s maid Abigail.’

‘I think it is time for you to leave, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I want answers.’

‘You are swimming in dangerous waters. There are matters here that do not concern you.’ She tapped on the door and two men immediately appeared, powerfully built men with bare arms carved with snakes, and weapons at their belts. ‘Mr Shakespeare is leaving.’

They stepped forward, but he was already moving. He had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of slinging him out onto the street.

‘I will return, madam.’

‘Then you will regret it.’

Chapter 33

As he walked through the dark streets into the city, Shakespeare attempted to connect everything he knew:

Nicholas Giltspur had been killed by Will Cane; his widow Kat had been implicated by Cane, but denied any part in the murder; Kat’s lady’s maid, Abigail, was mistress to Cane and was now pregnant – probably by him; Cane was a member of the villainous crew run by Cutting Ball and his sister Em; Em was bawd to the Smith sisters, now being used by Shakespeare to keep Gilbert Gifford happy.

So suddenly there was a link, however tenuous, between the murder of Nicholas Giltspur and the margins of the conspiracy surrounding Anthony Babington and the Queen of Scots. But what precisely was the nature of that link? Could there be something of greater moment in the murder of Giltspur than jealousy and avarice?

The old Giltspur widow had said her family had done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined. Walsingham had admitted that the Giltspur ships secretly carried men and messages to the northern ports of Europe.

There were other matters too that could not be ignored: the death of a love-crazed suitor, the curious behaviour of his simpleton brother.

It was all like a tangle of rope. Would he ever unravel its knots?

The lantern at the entrance of Seething Lane cast a welcome glow across the street. The watchman was trying to harry and jostle people to their homes, his mastiff straining at the leash and growling. He hailed Shakespeare with a wave. ‘Don’t know what’s becoming of London, Mr Shakespeare. It’s long past curfew but when I kick them up the arse and tell them I’ll have them in Bridewell, they laugh me to scorn.’

‘Well, I’ll be abed soon enough, Joe.’ Just as Shakespeare stepped forward to his front door, an explosion split the night air. He recoiled. No, not an explosion – a pistol shot. A spray of splinters had stung his face and he felt certain he had caught the wind of the bullet, but he had not been hit. All around him people were rooted to the spot in shock. A woman was cowering in the gutter, screaming.

‘God’s faith, Mr Shakespeare! I’m bleeding.’ He turned to see the watchman holding up his hand, blood dripping from his thumb. The man’s dog wagged its tail and licked the blood where it fell. Shakespeare turned back to scan the crowd and saw the assailant twenty yards away, standing stock-still in the doorway of the house opposite Shakespeare’s. He was trying to reload the weapon, pouring powder with steady hands. His head was cowled like a monk’s. Shakespeare started towards him, ripping the dagger from his belt. Realising he did not have time to load and fire, the assassin thrust the unloaded weapon into his belt and turned to run.

‘That’s him!’ Shakespeare shouted. ‘That man. Take that man.’

He flung himself forward at full sprint, but the shooter had ducked right, down a narrow passage between houses. Shakespeare ran after him, certain he would not be outpaced, ready to launch himself at the man. Ahead of him he could see the dark hood, blown back from his head, and the cloak billowing behind him, like a bat in the dusk. There was something in his movements that seemed familiar, but it was too dark to get a proper look and he could not place him.

In dismay, he realised that he was making no ground on the fleeing man. The pistolier was as fleet as a hound. By now he had reached the end of the alley and disappeared. When Shakespeare finally reached the corner, there was no sign of the man.

Somewhere in the distance, back in Seething Lane, he heard whistles. A hue and cry was being raised. It would be too slow and too late. He was the only chance they had of apprehending the would-be killer. Ahead of him, fifty yards away, he saw a slight movement and began running again. This time he gained ground easily but soon realised he was chasing a husband and wife, walking arm in arm. He rasped an oath. How could he have lost him? He thrust his dagger back into his belt and drew his sword and began a slow, meticulous search of the street in both directions. Surely the man could not have gone far. He, too, must be exhausted. Another member of the watch appeared. ‘Are you Shakespeare?’

‘Yes.’

‘Time to go home, master. There’s nothing to be done. We’ve got a hue and cry up, but the man’s long gone.’

‘And Joe?’

‘Bullet took a chunk out of his thumb and broke his staff in two. The thumb’s nothing his wife won’t be able to kiss better, but the staff is only fit for firewood. Come, sir, let me accompany you back to Seething Lane.’

Shakespeare gritted his teeth. By now the assassin could be in any one of a hundred streets in this maze of a town.

‘Master?’

‘Very well, I’ll come.’

Jane was most solicitous. She applied strips of linen to the watchman’s injured thumb and provided ale for him and the other members of the watch who had gathered in Seething Lane and were discussing the shooting like gossips at the birth of a baby.

‘Time to go about your business, gentlemen,’ Shakespeare said at last.

‘We’ll keep a guard in the lane until dawn. I do believe you were his target, Mr Shakespeare.’

Yes, he believed it too. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But a guard won’t be necessary. I can look after myself well enough.’ But why was he the target? Was this to do with Cutting Ball and the murder of Nick Giltspur – or had the Pope’s White Sons decided they didn’t trust him after all?

In the morning, Shakespeare was eating a large breakfast when there was a hammering at the door. Jane appeared. ‘The door, master. Should I answer it?’

‘Indeed, Jane, I doubt whether an assassin would knock before he entered.’

She bowed quickly then hurried off to open the front door. A minute later she was back, just as Shakespeare was finishing his eggs.

‘You have a visitor, master, a Mr Sorbus.’

Sorbus here? What could he want? Shakespeare patted his lips with his kerchief. ‘Tell him I will be with him shortly.’

‘Yes, master.’

In the anteroom, Sorbus looked stiff and uncomfortable. He afforded Shakespeare a perfunctory bow of the head. More a hen’s peck than a bow.

‘Good day, Mr Sorbus.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, sir. Thank you for receiving me.’

‘I had always thought it good manners to welcome guests.’

If Sorbus spotted the intended barb, he did not react to it.
‘Indeed, sir,’ was all he said.

‘This is a most unexpected visit. I had no idea you ever left Giltspur House.’
And I am most surprised you should deign to come to the lowly home of a commoner such as me.

‘My mistress sent me, sir. She would like to see you this morning. She says it is a matter of some urgency.’

‘Well then I shall try to find time for her. Is that all?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you may tell Mistress Giltspur I will do my best to be with her within the hour.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He made no move to go.

‘That will be all, Mr Sorbus.’

‘Before I do, sir, I thought it well to tell you that my mistress is in a tempest of rage.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘Indeed I do – but I think it best if she tells you herself. And there is one more matter. The maid Abigail Colton has gone.’

‘Gone where?’

Sorbus shrugged. ‘I know not, but she has taken all her belongings, so I do not expect to see her again.’

‘Someone must have seen her go.’

‘Oh, indeed, the guards at the door saw her. She cursed them roundly and then spat at their feet.’

Shakespeare was not surprised. She must have known that more questions would be coming her way. ‘Tell me, Mr Sorbus. Did you know that she was enamoured of Will Cane, the man who murdered your master?’

The steward recoiled. ‘No, sir, I did not know that. Is this true?’

‘I believe so, as does Mr Cane’s widow.’

‘Then I confess I am shocked. No, that is not a strong enough word; I am horrified, sir. And mortified that such a thing should happen under my watch. I had no notion.’

‘Had you never seen Cane about Giltspur House?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, sir. I would never have allowed such a man within the confines of the house or grounds. The first time ever I saw him was at Fishmongers’ Hall, the night he murdered my master. The fiend was red with poor Mr Giltspur’s blood. His hands, his face . . .’

Shakespeare looked at the steward closely, trying to spot clues to his honesty. If he was play-acting, he was a master of the art, for his revulsion at the murder seemed all too real. Yet still Shakespeare felt unsure. Sorbus harboured secrets. He would need watching.

The old matriarch of Giltspur House had left her chamber and was waiting for Shakespeare in the hall. She was thin and frail, but she held herself at her full height with her shoulders back. In her hand she held a large bunch of iron keys.

‘I am delighted to see you up and about, ma’am.’ He bowed low.

‘Are you, Mr Shakespeare? I doubt you care a jot for my health. However, for myself, I wish I had been up and about, as you call it, rather sooner. Come with me. And you, Sorbus, bring a lighted candle.’

Shakespeare smiled to himself. Her tongue was as sharp as an adder’s and as commanding as a Caesar’s.

Without another word, he followed her through the ancient hall, then down a low, arched corridor which, Shakespeare imagined, must have once held the cells of the monks who lived here in another age.

At the far end of the corridor was a strongroom fronted by a heavy door which was reinforced with bands of iron and locked with a variety of bolts and padlocks. Two guards bowed their heads to Joan Giltspur. She ignored them and with her long bony fingers selected a series of keys and undid the locks, then, with more strength than he would have imagined, she pushed open the door.

The room, which was about eight feet by eight, had no windows. Shakespeare imagined the walls would be even stronger than the door; stone-built, probably three or four feet thick on all sides. This was a room for treasure.

‘The candle, Sorbus. Light the room, man.’

Sorbus stepped into the small cell and held up his candle. It cast a glow which enabled Shakespeare to see a coffer and two smaller chests.