Shakespeare, held between half a dozen heavily armed guards, looked at Boltfoot in astonishment. His assistant had described this place as it had been in daytime; he had not expected to find it like this. It had the glitter and life of a great hall of the nobility, but there the comparison ended. There was no elegance, no grandeur. The women had the abandon of whores, their flesh exposed to the elements without shame. Many of the men were stripped to the waist, their muscles and scars rippling to the rhythm of the minstrels. No soulful ballads here; this music came from the earth and had the tenor of battle and sex. Who were all these people?
The lead man appeared at the barn doorway, his petronel pointing down loosely. ‘Well, masters, fortune may yet be with you. He is in a fine humour this night and will talk with you.’
‘Are you afraid, John Shakespeare?’
They were sitting at a table in a room adjoining the great hall, away from the riotous carousing. Shakespeare had been given to understand that a wedding was being celebrated. It was a little quieter here, but the menace was palpable. This was Cutting Ball’s private apartment. More than that, it was the place where he dispensed terror. Shakespeare could sense it in the air; unspeakable things had happened here.
Two men stood behind Cutting Ball. Their bare arms were crossed, bulging snake-scarred muscles that clearly served as their escutcheon or livery, depicting membership of their master’s outlaw band.
And yet the strength of their arms and bulging chests seemed as nothing compared to the ox-like power and wolfish barbarity that emanated from the figure of Cutting Ball. He lounged back on a plain-backed chair as though he owned the world and all in it, as though a command to kill would arouse no more emotion in those eyes than an order for another cup of ale. He had clearly been whirling and throwing himself about like the rest of his crew, for his face was dripping in perspiration. He ran a hand through the greying edges of his long hair and, as he did so, the shining snake carved into his sweat-slick arm seemed to writhe like a living python.
‘I have heard your reputation, Mr Ball. I also know that you have no desire to enrage Mr Secretary, to which end I have left letters to be delivered to him informing him that I am coming here. These will be delivered should I disappear or should any harm befall me. If I judge correctly, you would not wish to provoke Sir Francis Walsingham.’
‘You presume much, Shakespeare. Well, I will hear what you have to say.’
‘I want access to Giltspur House.’
‘Do you? And what has that to do with me?’
‘The chief of guards is your man.’ For all he knew, every one of the guards belonged to Cutting Ball. Sorbus had not been certain on this. Shakespeare could not help wondering whether the strongroom holding the Giltspur fortune also held much of Cutting Ball’s own ill-gotten gains. But that was not something to refer to here and now.
‘Where did you hear this?’
‘From the lips of Abraham Sorbus, who now awaits the hangman.’
‘Ah yes, Sorbus. I recall the day he came here with a message from his master. Never have I seen such fear in a man’s eyes. Well, he is ripe for the noose for he is a sodomite and the woman is a whore. They will be no loss to the world.’
‘We are none of us guilt-free,’ Shakespeare said, looking Ball directly in the eye. ‘But they are innocent of the crime for which they will hang. I must get into the house to discover proof, for I know the name of the true killer: Arthur Giltspur. If I am correct, then he has stolen not just from his own family’s coffers but yours, too.’
Ball was silent for a few moments, then he flicked his fingers as a signal to the men behind him. ‘Go,’ he said. The men bowed to their master and hurried from the room. When the door had been closed, he jutted his forked beard at Shakespeare. ‘Continue.’
‘He has been skimming vast sums from the money you pay to the Treasury and then tampering with the entries in the black book. Nick Giltspur discovered what was happening and, for his pains, was silenced by his own nephew.’
‘What is your evidence?’
‘Arthur Giltspur had the motive – he had squandered his great fortune gambling. He had the means – for he must have become acquainted with Will Cane through Cane’s association with Abigail Colton, a lady’s maid in Giltspur House. And then, when he feared I was beginning to get too close to the truth, he tried to shoot me dead.’
‘And you are certain of this?’
‘I am staking my life on it by being here.’
Ball took his bollock-dagger from his belt and spun it in his fingers. The blade glittered in the candleglow. He twisted it and turned it, his eyes on it as though he would find answers there. ‘Arthur Giltspur, you say. He is a libertine, I grant you.’
‘You know him then.’
‘I know that he has lost a great deal at the tables. This is true enough. But I had never thought he had the balls to kill. And even if he did the deed, that does not make Sorbus or the woman innocent. Perhaps they were all in it. Perhaps Arthur had his prick up the widow’s skirts.’
‘I need to find out the truth. I can only do so with your assistance, Mr Ball.’
‘If someone has been stealing from me, I deal with it myself.’
‘No. I must do it. Otherwise Kat and Sorbus will die. I must find the evidence this night.’
‘I care nothing for them. They are fartleberries on my arse. Let them hang.’ He began to rise, the discussion over.
‘One more moment, if you would, Mr Ball. Let me just say this: the man who ordered the deaths of Kat Giltspur and Abraham Sorbus has also expressed a powerful desire to hang you. So, you see, you do have something in common with the condemned.’
‘You mean Recorder Fleetwood. I have heard as much.’
‘He tells me he wants you in his courtroom so that he may sentence you to death. It is his life’s work.’
‘Perhaps I will do for him first.’
‘Before then, however, it would be good to thwart him in this case . . . for both our sakes.’
‘Indeed, I would see Fleetwood discomfited. No, I would see him rot.’
‘To help me now would sore vex him.’
Ball tapped the point of the bollock-dagger on the oak table, delineating an image of a noose. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will send my man Wicklow with you. Go into Giltspur House. Find this evidence if it exists. But be very careful; the strongroom is to remain untouched. And after this night, there will be no more cooperation between us, Shakespeare. As for the matter of the crippled cooper . . .’ He pointed the dagger at Boltfoot. ‘As for this beetle, he has deserted his post aboard the Falcon. I saved him once because of your connection to Mr Secretary. Take him with you now, but think on this: I am not inclined to save his skin again.’
Chapter 45
Shakespeare had no idea of the time, only that it was somewhere between midnight and dawn. No, that was not entirely true; he had heard the watchman calling the third hour. He had a precise knowledge of the time but could not bear to admit it to himself, for there was simply not enough of it. Not enough to do what needed to be done at Giltspur House, not enough to find a way of securing a stay of execution.
The ride here had been hectic and perilous along the dark paths east of London. They had driven their horses hard. Now they strode to the door of the fortress-like house, where the guards took one look at Shakespeare’s two companions – Boltfoot and a small, weaselly man named Wicklow – and stood back, fear in their eyes. It was Wicklow that engendered the terror. Shakespeare guessed that he was a senior lieutenant of Cutting Ball and was a great deal more deadly than he looked. He had been sent not merely to smooth Shakespeare’s passage but to protect Ball’s interests and to report back to his master.
‘Mr Shakespeare and Mr Cooper are to be admitted and have free range of the house, save only the strongroom.’ Wicklow’s orders from Cutting Ball had been concise and now he delivered them with equal sureness.
The guards bowed low and stood aside.
�
��And you, Mr Wicklow?’
‘I will accompany you so that the indoor guards do not bar your way. You have an hour, no more. Those are my instructions.’
He nodded. An hour would be more than enough. If they had found nothing in that time, then Kat and Sorbus were certain to die.
Their boots rang out on the ancient stone floors. Otherwise, the house was silent. At every corner, guards slid from the shadows, weapons at the ready, only to salute and shrink back at the sight of Wicklow.
They went to the old woman’s chamber. She was of venerable age, but Shakespeare would waken her nonetheless. He pushed open the door. The room was in darkness so he took a lantern from the wall outside and walked into the familiar room. He held the lantern over the bed.
She seemed so small and insignificant in her sleep. Was this the woman whose wealth had once been almost as great as the Queen of England’s, the woman whose beauty had stirred Great Henry? Neither the lantern light nor their footsteps woke her. Shakespeare touched her shoulder. It was cold to the touch. He put the back of his hand to her face: the coldness of death. He felt for a pulse in her neck and found none.
‘She’s gone, Boltfoot.’
Shakespeare saw two vials on the pillow beside her. They were empty. Beside the bed, her small silver goblet was upended. Perhaps she had finally decided she could no longer bear to outlive those who mattered to her. She had been killed by the very spirit of opium that she believed preserved her; he cursed beneath his breath. There would be no information or evidence from Mistress Joan Giltspur, the grandame of the family and its great corporation of fishing fleets.
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 e
nd 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.
‘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.
John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy Page 36