Holy Spy (7 page)

The Recorder of London Mr William Fleetwood has sentenced the abhorrent Cane to be hanged by the neck until dead at Smithfield. A hue and cry for his accomplice continues, though it is feared she has travelled north to Yorkshire, whence she came. It is as though she has vanished into the air like a sprite
.
Any man or woman with knowledge of her whereabouts must reveal it or be themselves damned as accomplices to murder.

He put the paper aside. ‘Kat. You have no idea what manner of undertaking I am now involved in – a work that will involve me night and day for as long as I can plan. Give me one good reason to think I should divert myself, even for an hour, from my own endeavours.’

She tried to smile, but it didn’t work. She shook her head instead. ‘I can’t, John,’ she said. ‘I can’t give you any reason why you should believe me or help me.’

Chapter 7

Shakespeare rode back to London with Severin Tort. The storm had passed, leaving a bright, breezy afternoon with white clouds and a new freshness in the air. The two men talked of Oswald Redd.

‘He seems to me a man capable of anything,’ Shakespeare said. ‘He is at the edge of some precipice, unsure whether to cling on or plummet. Could Redd have been involved in the killing?’

‘I could imagine him wishing Giltspur dead and even compassing the act in a jealous rage, but what could he have had to gain from the blame being laid at Kat’s door? All his actions prove that he is desperate to keep her safe, yet now she faces arrest and execution.’

The two men fell silent. At Bishopsgate, Tort spoke again.

‘Can you do nothing for her?’

‘I wish I could, Mr Tort. I would dearly love to believe that she was innocent.’

‘I believe her, Mr Shakespeare. For what it’s worth.’

‘Yes, I know you do.’ She could make any man
want
to believe her. He knew her too well to doubt that, and yet not well enough to be sure of her guilt or innocence.

As Tort disappeared into the throng of tradesmen and carters, Shakespeare pulled on his reins and headed up between the fine houses of Foster Lane until he reached the junction with Noble Street. He brought his mount to a halt in front of a magnificent building. It was largely new-built and stood four storeys high, of brick and wood with a tiled roof topped by a dozen ornate chimney stacks.

The Recorder of London, William Fleetwood, welcomed Shakespeare into his comfortable withdrawing room. Despite the difference in social standing and ages – Shakespeare was twenty-seven while Fleetwood was grey and well into creaking old age – they had forged a friendship based on a shared desire for justice, a disliking for flummery and a loathing of treason. More than anything, they enjoyed each other’s company.

‘Look at this, Mr Shakespeare,’ Fleetwood said, removing his spectacles and laying a paper before him. He signalled to one of his many servants who brought over a selection of sweetmeats, while another poured two glasses of fine Burgundian wine ‘You must excuse my poor copy.’

Shakespeare read the words.

‘
No free man shall be taken or imprisoned or denied what is rightfully his, or made outlaw or sent to exile, nor will he be proceeded against with force except by the lawful judgement of his peers or by the law of the land
.’

‘Well?’

‘It’s Magna Carta, Your Honour.’

‘Of course it is, chapter thirty-nine – and I will not be subjected to
your honours
in my own home.’

Shakespeare laughed. It was an old jest between them. ‘Then it will be my
honour
to address you as plain mister.’

‘And so the thirty-ninth clause – what does it say to you?

‘It says, Mr Fleetwood, that no man may be punished without due process of law.’

‘A fine summation. You were a loss to the law when Mr Secretary snatched you away.’

‘What is your interest in the clause, Mr Fleetwood?’

‘Bridewell. It was given its charter as a house of work and refuge for the poor, but has become a prison by another name. As you know, Mr Shakespeare, I am not squeamish when it comes to administering the law of the land and will hang a dozen rogues and murderers in a day if necessary. But I will not execute or lash a man without evidence of guilt.’

Shakespeare drank some of the wine. In court, the judge was considered a hard man who believed himself fair and just; yet Shakespeare thought him unnecessarily harsh at times. Justice needed to be tempered with mercy. It was a point on which they were unlikely ever to agree, and he did not pursue it now: Fleetwood was in full flow.

‘The burghers order their squadrons of ruffians to lift men, women and children from the streets and take them to Bridewell for the mere fact of vagrancy without evidence of felony or misdemeanour, simply to clear London of its human night soil. No trial, not even an appearance before court. And once there, Mr Shakespeare, they are punished further by severe floggings at the whim of the keeper. If Magna Carta is to mean anything, then it must mean that Bridewell is unlawful in its present form. It is an abomination for English men, women or children to be punished without first being found guilty of some infringement of the law.’

Shakespeare nodded. ‘I agree entirely.’

‘It is the likes of Justice Richard Young and Mr Richard Topcliffe, MP, who feed this wickedness. They are such men as I would expect to find with forked prods in the deepest circles of hell.’

‘What can be done about the matter?’

‘I am composing a treatise, which I intend to lay before Her Majesty. I doubt it will be acted upon; the merchants of London will not allow it, for they are at their happiest when vagabonds and masterless men are gathered up and disposed of like rats. And who is strong enough to deny them when they feed the exchequer with gold and plate? Yet I must have my say, for if injustice is unseen it can never be corrected.’

Fleetwood took a piece of cake and thrust it into his well-fed mouth. His cheeks were red from the warmth of the room and the fervour of his argument. ‘Eat, Mr Shakespeare, eat. The cake is good!’

Fleetwood would not let him leave without sampling the delicacies of his kitchens, so Shakespeare took a sweetmeat. ‘Thank you, I will.’

‘You know, Mr Shakespeare, you are not only a great loss to the law but I truly believe you would have made a fine judge. A little too soft, sometimes, but rigorous and fair . . . like me. Sometimes I think I am but a voice lost in the wind against the likes of Young and Topcliffe.’

‘Without your voice, England would be a poorer place.’

The judge brushed the compliment away with a sweep of his hand, sending cake crumbs flying. ‘I do not need flattery. You are here for a purpose are you not? You have not called at my humble home to taste apricot cake, I assume.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘Indeed. I wanted to ask you about a case you recently tried at Justice Hall. The matter of Will Cane for the murder of Mr Nicholas Giltspur.’

‘May I ask your interest?’

‘I used to know Giltspur’s widow. I have seen in the broadsheets that she is implicated, which surprised me, I confess. It does not sound like the Katherine I knew.’

‘Really?’ Fleetwood sat forward, his sharp little eyes alive with interest. ‘Describe her to me if you would. In court, she was painted by Cane and the prosecution as a devil whore.’

‘Well, she was never a saint, that is true. But devil? Whore? Neither of those words would have suited Katherine Whetstone, the name by which I knew her. In the days of our acquaintance, I would have called her an adventurer – an adventuress if there is such a word. She had a great desire for wealth and position and a remarkable beauty with which to acquire it. But I could not imagine her stooping to murder.’

Fleetwood took more cake, grinned and patted his ample belly. ‘I must work hard to fill this cavern,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘It seems forever empty!’ He paused, then nodded. ‘Very well, what do you want to know?’

‘What evidence was given against her? Was it conclusive, in your judgement?’

‘I don’t suppose you know where she is, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘If I knew where she was, it would surely be a felony not to reveal it.’

‘That does not answer my question, but we will let it pass for the moment. Was the evidence conclusive? Indeed it was.’

‘Perhaps you would describe the course of events as they were outlined to you.’

‘The facts were straightforward. Mr Giltspur was dining at Fishmongers’ Hall. It was a great feast, I am told. When he emerged at about midnight, his steward Sorbus and others of his retinue were waiting to convey him home by his carriage. As he stepped towards the coach, his killer moved out of the shadows and thrust him a single deadly blow to the throat. The weapon was a bollock-dagger with a nine-inch blade. So violent was the thrust that the blade pierced poor Mr Giltspur’s throat from beneath the left crook of the jaw to the right. The killer removed his weapon and dropped it in the street. Mr Giltspur died within a minute in a floodtide of his own blood. This was all confirmed in a report from the searcher.’

‘And the killer?’

‘He managed no more than twenty paces as he tried to escape up New Fish Street. He was brought down and apprehended by Mr Giltspur’s servants. At no time did he bother to deny his guilt and he immediately revealed that the dead man’s widow had contracted him to do the evil deed. “Hundred pounds she said I’d have. Ten before and the rest on proof of death,” were the words he used, as I recall. The servants all confirmed this. And Cane said the same to me himself, from the dock.’

‘Did he name the woman who had hired him?’

‘Yes, he did so at the scene. Then later at Newgate and also in my courtroom. There can be no question of her identity. He said it plain and described her in detail, down to the gap between her teeth and the mole on her wrist, all of which were agreed upon as distinguishing marks by those who knew her.’

‘And did he say how she came to meet him?’

‘No, he refused to say more, only that he had been to Giltspur House, in Aldermanbury, and that she had admitted him to her bedchamber, where the transaction had been settled.’

‘And that is it?’

‘That is it. He swore all this on the Holy Book and asked mercy of God. I sent him down and he was dispatched yesterday at Smithfield. I fear the punishment was not adequate to the crime, which I consider to have been among the most heinous I have tried. For a wife to kill a husband must always be considered petit treason.’ He leant forward and touched his guest’s hand. ‘Mr Shakespeare – John – I fear that if you are looking for some hope that your friend is innocent, then you are to be sore disappointed. The case against her is simple and clear. When she is caught, she will hang.’

‘So it seems.’ The old judge could have no concept of how heavy-hearted he felt. This was raw, gut-churning news. He had one last question. ‘Was anything known about the killer, Cane?’

‘The constable told me he was an associate of Cutting Ball and his crew. Certainly the use of the bollock-dagger as a weapon would bear this out, for they all carry them, as though it were their livery. I imagine that if you wished to find a hired assassin, Cutting Ball or his villainous friends would be a good place to start.’

Cutting Ball. Shakespeare winced. A name to be feared. It was said he took a share of all the crime proceeds north of the river from Whitechapel to the Isle of Dogs – and that he handed down his own brand of outlaw justice to any man or woman who dared defy him. A justice that involved more pain than even the Tower torturer could manage to inflict. He stood up. ‘Thank you, though I fear you have brought me no joy.’

Fleetwood heaved himself to his feet. ‘Cutting Ball,’ he said. ‘Now there is a man I would dearly love to have before me in the dock. God willing, the egregious Mr Ball will be apprehended and brought to my sessions house in Old Bailey, where I may send him to his doom.’ He rubbed his plump hands together. ‘And I hope and trust this will occur one sunny day soon.’

Chapter 8

‘Boltfoot, have you heard of a man named Cutting Ball?’

‘Yes, master. I do believe every man and woman in London town knows of him.’

‘What have you heard?’