Rory Clements - Holy Spy

‘Well?’

‘Master, I know not – and even if I did I would not tell you, for my loyalty lies with Mr Giltspur.’

‘How do I return to the house from here?’

‘There is a back way.’ He tilted his chin towards the garden from which Shakespeare had just come.

‘Show me.’

Wicklow was unconscious. An old serving woman was applying bandages and herbs to his wound. A physician had been sent for. There was nothing Shakespeare could do to help, besides which he had other matters to deal with.

Not for the first time in recent days, he felt utter helplessness. With the flight of Arthur Giltspur all hope had gone. Given time, he might be able to make a case that his shooting of Wicklow was the act of a man with a great deal to hide, but he didn’t have time. He might, too, unravel the secrets of the black books which he now clutched. Dawn was approaching. To halt an execution would require nothing less than a confession of guilt by the true murderer or, at the very least, some material evidence, of which there was none.

He returned to Giltspur’s bedchamber. The Smith sisters were dressing with nonchalance. They displayed no fear of Boltfoot and his caliver, nor any interest in him, but smiled lewdly at Shakespeare.

‘How much do you know?’ He was having none of their wiles.

Eliza feigned a puzzled expression. ‘We know our trade, Mr Shakespeare, that is all. And we have been plying it.’

‘About the murder, the missing money, God damn you.’

‘And we know the price of good French brandy,’ Beth said.

‘Where is he? Where has Giltspur gone?’

‘We have no notion. We are night-workers, Mr Shakespeare. We do what is required of us and more and we take our money. We neither ask questions nor wish to know any man’s business. If you want to know more, ask his friend.’

‘What friend?’

‘Why, your paymaster, sir.’

‘You mean Walsingham?’

‘No, indeed not. We like Mr Secretary. He is an honest villain. It is the other one we dislike. To the world, he has the air of a noble but in private he has the evil-smelling ways of a shitshovelling gong farmer.’

‘What other one? Explain. I beg you, help me with this. Lives are at stake.’

‘Huckerbee, of course. He is the man to ask. They are as close as fish salted in a barrel.’

Sir Robert Huckerbee. The paymaster, the man who dispensed gold on behalf of Burghley. He collected it, too. Of course. He was the conduit for Cutting Ball’s ship tax. Burghley would always keep his own hands clean in such a matter.

That would have placed immense power into the hands of the unpleasant Huckerbee. Enough power for him and Arthur Giltspur to skim money together. Yes, he was in this with Giltspur. So, where was Huckerbee? Perhaps that was where Giltspur had ridden.

The chances were that Huckerbee was at court. He could never be far from his master, Burghley. But the court was now at Richmond in Surrey, a distance of some eleven or twelve miles. If Shakespeare left now . . .

No, it was impossible. He would still have to get powerful evidence and lay it before a senior judge or Privy Councillor and then return to London before the hangman did his dread work. There was nowhere near enough time for that. No man could ride or row that far and be back by dawn.

‘This is no help to me,’ he muttered angrily.

‘We are doing our very best, Mr Shakespeare, but you seem unwilling or unable to listen,’ Eliza said.

‘Sir Robert Huckerbee is here ,’ her sister said. ‘In this house.’

Shakespeare pushed open the door. The chamber was in darkness, but the smoke of snuffed candles hung in the air like a poor man’s incense.

He held the lantern aloft and looked around. A large four-poster bed dominated the room and its curtains were drawn. The soft breathing of sleep came from within. Shakespeare gestured to Boltfoot to relight the candles, of which there were ten or more spread around the chamber on table, sill and coffers.

When the chamber was fully lit, he pulled back the bed curtains. A woman lay there alone, beneath the covers, seemingly asleep. She wore no nightcap and her long hair was splayed across the pillows. He could not see her face, for she was on her side, facing away from him. Yet there was something familiar about her.

He touched her shoulder. ‘Wake up.’

She groaned groggily and pulled the blankets up to cover herself more. But Shakespeare had already worked out where he had seen her before and knew from the hastily extinguished candles that her sleep was but play-acting.

‘Get up, Abigail.’

She moaned again, but Shakespeare ripped back the blankets and sheets. Her body was naked, her pregnant belly swollen. She grasped at the bedclothes to cover herself and Shakespeare did not try to stop her. She huddled back against the head of the bed, her eyes aflame, staring at him with loathing.

‘I have come for Huckerbee.’

‘He’s not here. He went when the shooting started.’

‘No, he’s here.’

Boltfoot was already searching the room. He opened a coffer and poked around inside amongst the linen, then he looked under the bed but there was nothing save a truckle there. At last he came to a closed cabinet. He looked back at the woman in the bed and saw from her eyes that he had found his quarry. He aimed his caliver at the door and stood back.

‘Come out, Sir Robert, you have been discovered.’

For a few moments nothing happened but then the door began to open. The elegant figure of Sir Robert Huckerbee stood there, half clothed, wearing no shirt but only breeches. He had his back to the panelling at the rear of the cabinet. He was a wretched sight.

‘With your hands up, step out slowly. No sudden movements. Mr Cooper is a very good shot.’

Huckerbee raised his hands above his head and stepped down from his meagre hiding place. He began to protest in his courtly, languid tones. ‘I don’t know what any of this is about, Shakespeare. We heard shooting. I hid to protect myself. May I put my hands down now? Your man is frightening me.’

‘See if he is armed, Boltfoot.’

Boltfoot moved forward, the caliver still pointing at Huckerbee. With one hand, he patted the man’s breeches, then looked at his master and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Good. Now you may lower your arms, Sir Robert.’

‘You realise of course that this will all be reported to Lord Burghley and Mr Secretary. Do you really think you can treat me this way? Your career is over, Shakespeare.’

‘Speak when spoken to if you hope to live. I know what you and Arthur Giltspur have been doing so do not insult me by denying it. Now, you will write everything you know about the involvement of Arthur Giltspur and this woman in the murder of Mr Nicholas Giltspur, and the reasons for it. You will then come with me to Recorder Fleetwood’s house.’

‘I will do nothing of the sort.’

Shakespeare found himself laughing, though there was little enough to amuse him with the minutes vanishing like sand through his fingers. ‘Or, Sir Robert, I will take you from here to the presence of Mr Cutting Ball and you can face his brand of justice, for he does not like to be robbed. You may think you were skimming Treasury money, but I doubt Cutting Ball will see it that way. Nor will he like to hear that his man Wicklow has been shot and may die. The choice is yours – Fleetwood’s justice or Ball’s.’

Fleetwood’s house lay a little west of Aldermanbury at the junction of Foster Lane and Noble Street. The sun was not up but the sky was lightening across the rooftops to the east of town and the early risers were already going about their business, trudging to work, setting up market stalls, preparing for the day ahead. Many others were making their way east – and Shakespeare realised with a shudder that they were seeking a prime spot at a double hanging.