Rory Clements - Holy Spy

How long had she been gone, he wondered? Hours? Days? With her son Nicholas murdered, there was no one left in this house to care whether she was alive or dead.

Shakespeare and Boltfoot searched the room. They delved in coffers, beneath the bed, on shelves and in drawers. It was Boltfoot who spotted the small distinguishing line of the floorboards in the corner furthest from the window. It was a trapdoor set in the floor, but without any handle or grip to raise it. He thrust his dagger blade between the edge of the trap and the rest of the boards. The two-foot-square hatch sprang open. Shakespeare held the lantern above the hole, which was lined in scarlet satin. Two heavy books bound in black leather lay there.

‘So she had control of the books.’ But they would, of course, have been easily accessible to another when she was in her opium stupors.

Shakespeare pulled them out and flicked through the pages. The books were dense with small script. Masses of figures and words, much of it abbreviated and, possibly, coded. His heart sank. It would take an expert many days to sort out the truth secreted between the covers of these volumes.

They moved on, with Wicklow in close attendance. In the darkness and quietness of the early hours, the house seemed like an anteroom for the shades of death, inhabited by the ghosts of a once-great family, now fallen. From the top of a long wooden staircase, they heard sounds behind a closed door. Shakespeare stopped and looked at Boltfoot. ‘That must be Arthur Giltspur’s bedchamber. It seems he is both here and awake.’ He spoke in a low voice.

‘And judging by the voices, master, he is not alone.’

‘Mr Wicklow?’

‘I will wait down here. This is yours to deal with.’

Shakespeare and Boltfoot began to climb, on their toes, trying to remain silent. They were halfway up when the door burst open. Arthur Giltspur stood at the top of the stairs, lit from behind by the flickering glow of two dozen candles.

He was naked, brandishing two wheel-lock pistols, one clasped in each hand.

Boltfoot already had his caliver in his arms, primed. Without a second thought, he raised it and levelled it at Giltspur.

The peace of the night was broken by an explosion, then a second. Smoke engulfed the stairway. As it cleared, they saw that Giltspur was no longer there. He had retreated back into his room. Below them, at the bottom of the stairs, Wicklow was sitting on the floor clutching his chest. Blood was pouring through his fingers.

Shakespeare stepped down to go to the man but Boltfoot took his shoulder. ‘Leave him, master. The guards will help him.’

He nodded. ‘Did you get off a shot?’

‘No. They were both his. He’ll be reloading.’

‘Take him alive. He is worthless dead.’

‘I’ve seen that man before, Mr Shakespeare. He staked a thousand pounds on the throw of a dice that might have killed me.’

Shakespeare had his sword out, the blade honed and lethal. He was moving up the staircase, not knowing what he would meet. Did Giltspur have other pistols loaded? Boltfoot had his own gun square into his shoulder.

Giltspur’s chamber door was closed. The air was thick with the stench of burnt blackpowder.

Shakespeare’s eyes met Boltfoot’s. The first man through the door would be an easy target. He signalled with his hand and Boltfoot backed off, taking a kneeling position, his weapon trained towards the door. Heart beating like the sails of a mill in a gale, Shakespeare lifted the latch and pushed. The door was unlocked and swung open inwards. He flung himself flat back against the jamb, scanning the chamber. He could not see Giltspur. But there were two others there, women, unclothed

– and he recognised them instantly.

The Smith sisters were lying nonchalantly across the great tester bed, gazing at Shakespeare as though he were some curiosity that had made an entrance at the Circus Maximus for the delight of a Caesar. One was on her front, resting her chin on her elbows, gazing at him with interest but no fear. The other sprawled on her back across the pillows, her breasts pointing to the ceiling like ripe plums.

‘It seems you alarmed our friend,’ Beth said in her light, tinkling voice. ‘He left clutching his hose and shirt.’

Shakespeare glanced at them, then removed his gaze. He wanted Giltspur. Something caught his eye: a hole in the wainscotting. Two panels had been removed, revealing the opening to a hide or tunnel.

‘Stay here, Boltfoot. I’ll follow him.’

‘He’s gone, Mr Shakespeare. Forget him,’ the elder of the Smith sisters said, the one lounging back against the pillows. ‘Come join us on the bed, for we delight in making men’s pistols go bang. Do we not, Beth?’

‘Where, oh where, is our little pink pigling?’

Shakespeare strode across to the hole in the wall, his sword in one hand, lantern in the other. He held it into the darkness. A tunnel ran downwards like a chute; he could not tell how far it went. Was it a self-contained priesthole or an escape route? There was nothing for it but to go onwards.

‘If you must go, take the caliver, Mr Shakespeare,’ Boltfoot said.

‘No. I need him alive.’ He tilted his head towards the Smith sisters. ‘Don’t let these two get away, Boltfoot.’ Crouching down, he swung himself into the hole feet first and began to slide, like a boy going downhill on a tray on snow. He gathered speed, then stopped as suddenly as he started. He reckoned he had slid down at least thirty feet, which meant he must have descended beyond and below the ground floor. He was underground in some sort of cellar. The air was dank and dusty. He held the lantern aloft and saw that it was a small circular chamber, no more than eight feet in diameter.

Three tunnels led away from the chamber. He muttered an oath. Which way had Giltspur gone in this warren? He held the lantern down to the dusty ground, looking for scuff marks to identify the route taken. But there were marks all around and none was more notable than the others.

All he could do was take one tunnel and see where it led. Crouching down, for the passageway was no more than five feet high, he stepped in and loped along. No time for caution. The tunnel forked after fifteen yards. He took the left way, ran for twenty-five yards more, then reached a bricked-up dead end.

He turned and ran back, taking the other fork. Again it reached a dead end. He had wasted valuable seconds. Panicking now, for time was desperate, he tried another tunnel, which was longer and curved to the right. At the end he spotted a pinpoint of light. He ran faster and finally came to a small door, which had been left ajar.

Shakespeare stepped outside into the night air and tried to gain his bearings. He was in a garden. Ahead of him was a wall with branches splayed across it, all bearing fruit. Beyond the wall he heard a familiar sound – horses whinnying. He had found the back of the stable block. Of course, where else would a fugitive head?

Rounding the wall, he found that he was correct. Two rows of stalls stood on either side of a flagstoned yard. A groom was just closing one of the stable doors.

‘Where is he?’

The groom turned with a hand to his chest, as though he had had one shock too many this night. His eyes went to Shakespeare’s sword.

‘Master?’ The groom backed away.

‘Mr Giltspur. Where is he?’

‘You have just missed him, sir. Rode away not two minutes since.’

‘Where? Which direction?’

‘Couldn’t say, master. Could have gone north or south, east or west. I’ve no way of knowing. Not my place to inquire.’

Shakespeare stalked past the groom to the gates which led out onto the street. The gate was locked. ‘Open this!’

The groom scurried after him with a ring of keys and unlocked the gate. Shakespeare stepped out and looked both ways. There was nothing, no clue as to where he had gone. He threw down the lantern and grasped the groom by the throat. ‘You must have seen which way he went – north or south?’ The groom was not a big man but nor was he weak. He wrenched himself free and rubbed his throat.