Rory Clements - Holy Spy

Severin Tort was lean and short with a lawyer’s clever eyes. Too clever to trust, perhaps. He wore black, broken only by the white lawn ruffs at his throat and cuffs and the silver sheen of his hair. He had a strangely modest and restrained air about him for one accustomed to arguing cases against the most learned men in the realm.

Shakespeare proffered his hand in greeting. ‘Mr Tort, it is a pleasure to welcome you to my home. Naturally, I have heard of you.’

‘Indeed, and I have heard much of you, Mr Shakespeare. I know you were a Gray’s Inn man, which is my own alma mater. I must thank you for receiving me unannounced.’

‘Will you sit down? Mr Cooper will bring us brandy presently.’

Tort took a chair halfway down the long table. He sat neatly, his hands loosely clasped on the tabletop. ‘You will be wondering why I am here, but before I reveal anything I must tell you that it is a confidential matter. I would ask that you say nothing outside these walls.’

‘Mr Tort, that will depend on what you say. I cannot give you such a pledge without knowing more.’

Boltfoot brought in a tray with a flask of brandy and two glass goblets. Shakespeare nodded to him to leave and indicated that he should close the door after him. He poured a brandy for his guest and one for himself.

‘What if I were to tell you that it concerns Katherine Giltspur?’

Shakespeare frowned. The name meant nothing to him.

‘You probably know her better as Katherine Whetstone.’

The name hung there. It sucked the air from Shakespeare’s body. Had he heard correctly?

Tort repeated the name. ‘Katherine Whetstone. You do know her, I think?’

Know her? He knew the name as well as his own. Kat Whetstone. He had loved her. They had been lovers for over two years. ‘Yes, I know her – knew her,’ he said.

She had lived with him, in this house, and they were as good as man and wife. Indeed, he had begun to assume that eventually they would be married. And then one day he returned from his work in Walsingham’s office and she was no longer here. All she had left was a note. Do not look for me, John. This life of yours is not for me. We always knew that, which is why we never made vows. God be with you. Your loving Kat.

‘Good. It is as I thought, sir.’

The heat in the room was suddenly overpowering. Shakespeare looked into Tort’s shrewd eyes, seeking some clue as to his reason for being here. Did the lawyer know what he was doing, reopening this bloody wound? Even eight months away touring France, the Low Countries and the Italies had not repaired the tear in Shakespeare’s soul. He still thought of Kat every day. A glimpse of fair hair, a laugh in the street, any manner of looks and sounds could bring her lovely face to mind, for it had never faded from his imagining. He conjured up a smile for the benefit of his guest.

‘Kat Whetstone. Yes, of course I know her – but I have neither seen nor heard of her in two years.’ His voice was brisk with affected indifference. ‘I was surprised to hear her name.’

‘But you know her well?’

Shakespeare did not answer the question, though he could have said: We took some comfort and pleasure in each other’s company. Our bodies were as one. For that was what it was – comfort and pleasure and the joys of the flesh, but never love; not to her, surely never love. Why did he still try to convince himself thus? Of course he had loved her, although he had never told her as much. He framed a question of his own for Tort.

‘From her new name I take it she is now married?’

‘She is widowed, very recently.’

‘Married and widowed? This is sad news indeed . . .’

Tort’s surprise was clear. ‘Have you heard none of this? Her late husband was Mr Nicholas Giltspur, a merchant of great wealth and renown. Surely you have heard of their great riches? They have more gold and silver than any other merchant in London. And the Giltspur Diamond? Everyone must know of that. Mr Giltspur’s death is the talk of the city.’

Shakespeare had, of course, heard of the great diamond, but had heard nothing of the death, having travelled back and forth across the narrow sea these past weeks. He shook his head. ‘I have heard his name, though I have never met him. And I certainly know nothing of his death. I have been away much . . .’ He trailed off. ‘You mean, she is Nick Giltspur’s widow?’ He wanted to laugh at the irony. Kat Whetstone, who had pledged never to marry, had attached herself to one of the wealthiest men in England. But then his humour turned to dust as he began wonder why an esteemed advocate should be bringing such news. When did lawyers ever bear good tidings?

‘Have you truly not heard of the court case, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Court case? I know nothing of any death or any court case. I have been deeply involved in my work, Mr Tort.’ Trailing Gilbert Gifford from Rheims to Paris and Rouen – then to England, then back to France and finally, this week, returning once more to London; all the time ensuring that Gifford was content. These were matters that could not be discussed in this company. ‘And so the tittle-tattle of the streets has passed me by. But you have worried me. Please, tell me what this is about. Anything pertaining to Kat Whetstone will always be of interest to me.’

‘She has been married and widowed within the space of a two-month. Her husband was murdered last week. Stabbed with a long-bladed bollock-dagger near Fishmongers’ Hall, on Thames Street. The killer was caught at the scene of the crime and made no attempt to conceal his guilt. I would entreat you to brace yourself, Mr Shakespeare, for indeed I bring shocking news.’

Shakespeare downed his brandy, then poured himself another. Whatever was coming next, he did not want to hear it. ‘Continue, Mr Tort.’

‘The killer was a wretch named Will Cane. Not only did he confess his own part in the terrible deed but immediately implicated Mistress Giltspur. Under questioning and in open court, he said she had offered him a hundred pounds to kill her husband: ten pounds to be paid before the murder and ninety afterwards. He was quite clear and consistent on this – and he said it all without coercion of any kind.’

‘God’s blood, no!’

‘I am sorry, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Is this true?’

Tort nodded.

‘No,’ Shakespeare said, as much to himself as to the lawyer. ‘I cannot believe such a thing of Kat. It is preposterous. Beyond madness.’

‘No, well, neither can I believe it. But we are in the minority. To the rest of the world, she is the basest example of womanhood, a succubus and she-devil, a murdering hell-hag. She is now a fugitive, wanted as an accessory. Meanwhile, the killer is due to be hanged. If she is apprehended, she will doubtless follow him to the scaffold within days or hours – unless the mob gets to her first, for I fear they would tear her apart. And so she must remain hidden.’

Shakespeare was silent for a few moments, still trying to absorb the hideous news. Dozens of questions welled up, but one overrode the others. ‘I ask again, Mr Tort. Why are you here? Why have you come to me ?’

Tort sipped his brandy. ‘Mistress Giltspur has asked me to come to you, that is why.’

‘Then you know where she is?’ Shakespeare demanded.

The lawyer avoided the question. ‘She believes you have influence and powers of investigation . . . that you may be able to help her.’

‘Help her? How? She cannot believe I have any influence to remove a charge of murder.’

‘She has some belief – or hope, at least – that you could discover the truth behind this foul murder and clear her name. Before she is arrested.’

‘But if she is guilty, as it seems-’ He stopped in mid-flow. Kat – a murderess? There was a ruthless, ambitious streak to her