‘It would have no bearing on the case. His confession is all.’
‘A man who was dying – and knew it – might wish to leave his loved ones well provided for. For a sum of gold, he might be persuaded to kill a man and incriminate the man’s own wife. In such a case, I believe the second-in-line to the dead’s man’s inheritance might become the beneficiary.’
‘This is preposterous supposition. The squirmings of a desperate felon.’
‘No, Sir Francis. This is not mere supposition.’
Walsingham was silent. Whatever else he was, Shakespeare knew his master to be just; he could not work for him otherwise. At last he spoke, his voice a little less insistent. ‘If you have something to tell me, then say it.’
‘Will Cane’s body was riddled with cankers. He must have known with absolute certainty that he was within days of death. More than that, it is clear that he deliberately allowed himself to be arrested. He needed his day in court and his hour on the scaffold so that he could implicate Mistress Giltspur in the most public of ways.’
‘How do you know of these diseases in Cane’s body?’
Shakespeare had already said too much. Joshua Peace had enough trouble from those who called him necromancer without having the buying of corpses laid at his door.
‘Speak, John. You know something.’
‘Sir Francis, if I tell you certain matters, I would entreat you not to use them against the man they concern, nor tell them beyond these walls.’
‘I can give no such promise, but nor would I ever wish to see an innocent woman hanged. Speak honestly and I will listen.’
Shakespeare nodded. ‘Very well.’ In a few short sentences, he told his master all that he had learnt from Joshua Peace.
‘This certainly provokes thought. But there is more, is there not?’
‘Sir Francis?’
‘Come, come, John. If you wish my assistance, you must reveal the truth. What is this woman to you?’
‘I knew her as Kat Whetstone.’
Walsingham snorted. He knew the name well. ‘Now I understand. And you have seen the woman, I take it.’
A man could conceal nothing in Mr Secretary’s presence. ‘Yes,’ Shakespeare said simply. ‘Yes, I have seen her. She denies any involvement in the killing.’
‘Well, that is no surprise. Where is she now?’
‘I no longer know. I was in Shoreditch trying to find her. I need to hear more of her story. She must know who might have benefited from her husband’s death.’
‘Yes, I see that. How are you hoping to proceed with your inquiries? What would you have me do?’
‘Give me time to find the true killer. I swear I will not let Savage free of his obligation. I will find a way to bring Poley to Babington. And Gilbert Gifford will not flee.’
‘You realise you are already an accessory to murder. Your duty under the law is to arrest her and bring her to court.’
‘When I saw her I knew nothing of the murder nor the case against her.’
‘Who took you to her?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Cannot . . . or will not?’
‘Will not. Anyway, if I had allowed her to be arrested she would have been hanged before I had any chance to discover the truth. It may still be so. For all I know, Justice Young might already have her.’
‘Is she innocent?’
Shakespeare’s mouth turned down. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Good. I would be more concerned for your welfare if you had swallowed her story untried.’
‘I will not be gulled. I have been well trained by you – well enough to know that the heart of every man and woman conceals dark corners. It may be that she is guilty of the crime, in which case I will testify against her myself.’
Walsingham closed his eyes and placed his elbows on the table. His fingers were at his forehead, tapping. The chilly, severe room – a perfect reflection of its owner’s character in plaster and wood – was silent except for their breathing and the soft tap-tap of the fingers. A minute passed. Walsingham took a deep breath then opened his eyes.
‘I met this woman once, if you recall. I strode up to your house one morning.’
Shakespeare could not forget it. He had come down from his solar to find Mr Secretary in the parlour, sitting at the table, talking with Kat about the weather. And she was not showing him the kind of deference to which he was accustomed. Shocked and flustered, Shakespeare had not known what to say. But then Walsingham had spoken: ‘Mistress Whetstone has introduced herself to me and invited me in. I trust I am not intruding.’ ‘Indeed not, Sir Francis.’ ‘A small goblet of brandy would suit me well.’ And so Shakespeare had fetched the flask and poured three goblets, as though he were a servant. For the half-hour Walsingham was there, Shakespeare had been as taut as an anchor cable in a high wind. And yet her charm had won over the Principal Secretary and his sojourn seemed to please him. Finally he had stood up from the table and said, ‘John, I have quite forgotten why I came here. But I thank you for your hospitality – and yours, Mistress Whetstone.’ And then he had taken his leave.
Shakespeare had not been fooled. Walsingham had not forgotten the purpose of his visit that day; he forgot nothing. The reason had been simple: word had reached him that his young intelligencer had a woman about the house and he wished to meet her. Nothing more. Clearly she had passed muster.
‘She meant a lot to you, I believe. For all that you were living in a sinful union, I liked her – and I was sorry to hear she had left.’
‘Thank you, Sir Francis.’
‘Forty-eight hours, John. You have forty-eight hours, but I will not call off Justice Young. If you are caught and arraigned as an accessory to murder, your neck will be in the noose – and I will not be able to save you.’
Sorbus the steward was already at the door of Giltspur House. He nodded to the guards to put up their swords and let Shakespeare through. ‘Follow me,’ he said tersely, leading the way with small, feminine steps into the depths of the mansion.
From the main part of the house, they crossed an inner courtyard which still had the feel of a monastic cloister, which it had been until the dissolution. Apart from the outside gateway, with its effigies of saints, it was the only part of the property that had retained traces of the house’s clerical history. Shakespeare guessed that the ornate central fountain and the fragrant flowerbeds that surrounded it were not the work of the monks.
What most struck him was the heavy security employed within the high walls of this house. There were guards on duty at every turn. Was this the way rich men had to live, in a fortress?
A long building sheltered the far edge of the quad. A dull clackety noise emanated from inside the building and Shakespeare immediately recognised it as the sound of a tennis match in progress. Sorbus opened a door and bade him enter the long penthouse gallery ranged alongside the court, then retreated without a word.
Shakespeare watched the game and listened to the reassuring sound; an echoing clatter as the hard little ball flew from strings and bounced off wood. At each end there was a man in a linen open-neck shirt. Their feet were soft-slippered and they both carried a racket of wood, strung tight with gut. One player’s shoulders were rounded and slumping as though the world would fall about him. He was at the server’s end and seemed older. The other man, to Shakespeare’s left, in the hazard court, looked calm and relaxed. Somehow Shakespeare imagined him to be young Arthur Giltspur.
The server struck the ball carefully, as though his life depended on it. The ball rose and fell in a gentle arc onto the penthouse roof, bounced three times then fell into the receiving court, only to be returned like a gunshot. The server, slow to react, managed to get the frame of his racket to the ball, but only with enough force to send it straight into the net. Shakespeare frowned; the server suddenly seemed very familiar. He found himself laughing – it was Huckerbee, the comptroller from the Treasury. It looked very much as if the self-satisfied patrician were being brought l
ow.
‘Fifteen thirty,’ the receiver called, then spotted the newcomer. He held up his racket to stay his opponent from serving and walked towards the gallery and Shakespeare while the server, seemingly relieved to have some respite, set about collecting the balls that littered the bottom of the net.
‘Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Indeed. I take it you are Arthur Giltspur.’
‘A pleasure to meet you. Severin Tort told me of you. You are an assistant secretary to Walsingham, are you not?’
‘Yes, that is so.’
They shook hands. Giltspur had his racket in his left hand, sloping over his shoulder like a very short halberd. It was an old, well-used implement. The beads of sweat across his brow and exposed throat spoke of a hard-battled game.
‘Do you play, sir?’ Giltspur asked. ‘I am always looking for new opponents.’
‘It is my misfortune that I have never had the opportunity. From that last shot it would seem you have a great skill.’
Giltspur grinned. ‘At risk of being immodest, I would say that no man in England can best me. But I have yet to play young Robert Devereux, of whom I hear good things, so it may be my pride will come before a fall. Anyway, Mr Shakespeare, you are a young man. There is time enough to learn. I shall give you some words of advice when we are done. But first to business. I believe you have an interest in the tragic case of Uncle Nick.’
Shakespeare took in Arthur Giltspur’s appearance. He was an inch or two off six foot and had the lean, hard body of a sportsman. He wore his billowing linen shirt with the throat stays undone, so that his tanned and muscled chest was clearly visible. His face, beneath ribbon-tied fair hair, was friendly and open – the face of a young man with few cares in the world. Shakespeare guessed his age at twenty-four or so.
‘Come, Mr Shakespeare, let us go to my solar. This match has given me a raging thirst.’
‘Do you not wish to finish your tennis? I see your opponent is Sir Robert Huckerbee.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘He is an old friend of the family. Do you wish to pay your respects?’
Shakespeare looked across at Huckerbee and their eyes met. The comptroller looked back blankly. It occurred to Shakespeare that he did not enjoy being watched in his moment of humiliation. He turned away. ‘No, leave him be. Our acquaintance is merely professional.’
‘Well, he was very close to Uncle Nick.’ Giltspur laughed, then cupped his hand and whispered in Shakespeare’s ear. ‘I’m afraid his tennis is not what it was. Let us slip away. I think he will be pleased to retain his twenty-pound stake. He hasn’t had a game off me yet and we’re into the second set. I will just make my apologies and take my leave of him.’
Chapter 18
The Giltspur House solar was an exquisite room. High, noonday sunlight flooded in from two large casement windows, both of which were glazed. Giltspur opened the latches to let in some much-needed fresh air.
A servant arrived with a pitcher of cordial and placed it on a table near the window, then poured two cups, bowed and departed.
Arthur Giltspur sat on a cushion-covered settle and swatted at a fast-moving and very noisy bluefly with his racket. ‘Got it!’ He gazed down at the inert body of the insect and trod it down to ensure it was dead. ‘Did you note how I watched it before I hit it? It is the same with tennis. You must watch the ball at all times. You watch it when it is in the server’s hand and when he tosses it up. You follow its arc to the penthouse. You watch it as a cat watches its prey. You watch it as Mr Secretary watches England’s enemies . . .’
‘What do you know of Mr Secretary?’
‘No more than any man. I have seen him at court and I met him briefly at a guild banquet, but mostly I know him by repute. I give thanks that Her Majesty has his services. He labours in the dark sewer of political intrigue so that Elizabeth and her subjects may sleep sound abed at night. If you are one of his chosen, then I must respect you, too. But you are not here to listen to my musings. You are come about the death of
my uncle. You believe Katherine to be innocent, do you not?’
‘You seem well informed.’
Giltspur sipped his cordial. ‘Severin Tort has briefed me. He came to me late last night. I know all about you and Kat, as you call her. He told me you had some evidence that all might not be as the murderer claimed in court.’
Shakespeare nodded. Without mentioning Joshua Peace or his own meeting with Kat, he rehearsed what he knew and his own feelings about Kat’s character.
‘Then I think we have similar thoughts. I cannot believe Katherine commissioned Uncle Nick’s murder. She brought only joy and life to this rather cold and empty house.’
‘But she had cause to kill him, did she not, Mr Giltspur? Had she not been implicated by Cane, she would now be an exceedingly rich widow.’ He met his host’s eye, with meaning.
‘Say it, Mr Shakespeare. Say what you are thinking.’
‘I am thinking that you, too, would become very wealthy were your aunt disqualified from inheritance by reason of her crime.’
Giltspur smiled. ‘You believe the prospect of inheriting his wealth gives me a motive for the murder of Uncle Nick and the condemning of Katherine?’
‘Some might think so.’
‘What if I were to tell you that I am already very wealthy?’
Shakespeare said nothing, waited for him to continue.
Giltspur sighed. His eyes were amused, as though he were making merry at a schoolfellow’s expense. ‘Very well. Let me complete the picture for you. Of course, Severin Tort could have told you all this, but he is probably so long versed in the ways of lawyers that he is reluctant to say more than he has to, lest he be thought a betrayer of confidences. But this is the way it is. My father, Philip Giltspur, was Uncle Nick’s elder brother. They worked together and traded together and built up their remarkably profitable concern: the greatest fishing fleet in the realm. And when my father died ten years ago, I inherited his half. This house, too, is half mine, Mr Shakespeare. I have never wanted for anything nor could I possibly have need of more treasure. And before you ask, I loved Uncle Nick as well as I loved my own father. His death has hit me like the blow of a hammer – and I very much want anyone involved brought to justice.’
Shakespeare still held his eye. Was there more there, inside him, unspoken? Surely a man brought low with grief would deny himself the pleasure of the tennis court. Would he not, too, adopt a more sombre aspect?
‘Again, I know what you are thinking. But I will not spend my days in black weeds. We live with death, and so it is my duty to live my life to the full. If you think the worse for me because of that, then so be it; but I refuse to play the hypocrite.’
‘I wish only to get to the truth, Mr Giltspur.’
Giltspur raised his palm. ‘Indeed, and it is your job to have suspicions. Mr Secretary pays you for your jealous mind. Think nothing of it. I desire every bit as much as you to find the truth of this matter. If Katherine is behind it, then she must pay the penalty. But if she is not, then we must clear her name and look further afield. You must look further afield, sir. But you are not alone. I will give you what little assistance I can.’
‘You could begin by telling me what you know of your uncle and his business dealings – and then I would like to be taken around this house. I would like to know more about the way he lived. Who makes up this household? I see you have many sentries, all armed, even within the house itself.’
‘The walls are ten feet high and yes, we do have guards, to keep out unwanted intruders.’ He raised an eyebrow in Shakespeare’s direction with meaning. ‘I think you can imagine why this is necessary.’
‘I believe the Queen herself does not have such security.’
‘Perhaps she does not have so much gold.’
Shakespeare pushed on with his questioning. How many servants did he keep? Were there other kinfolk here? ‘And I would like to know more about your uncle himself
. Was he married before? Did he have enemies? Most wealthy men do, Mr Giltspur. And if so, who might have wished him harm?’
‘Well, I can answer two of those questions straightway. Yes, Uncle Nick was married before, twenty-five years since. But his wife died in childbirth at seventeen years of age; the babe died, too, so he has no issue. I am told he loved his wife very much and that he could never bring himself to find a new wife – until he met Katherine and fell under her spell. She charmed him and he was beguiled. I am sure you know all about that, sir. At the time of his death, Uncle Nick was fifty-six, but he was no December fool falling for a May schemer. He knew what he was about.’
‘What other kinfolk did he have, apart from you?’
‘There is only one other relative here: my grandame.’
‘I would like to meet her.’
‘That may not be possible. While she has the constitution of a ploughhorse, she has taken the death of Uncle Nick very badly. I think she has aged ten years in a week. She scarcely stirs from her apartments. But as you are here, I shall send messages to her. She must wish this matter concluded satisfactorily, as much as you and I do. And she can only say no.’
‘Thank you, Mr Giltspur.’ He hesitated a moment, then forged on. ‘And what of your uncle’s enemies?’
‘I am sure there were people he loathed and others who disliked him. Which of us can honestly say otherwise? But in my uncle’s case, I could not name them. He was a genuinely likeable man. His handshake was his bond and to my knowledge he never reneged on it. I did not play a great role in the fishing fleet, but I never heard him speak ill of anyone with whom he had dealings.’
‘I have one more question for the present: what manner of man is Mr Sorbus?’
‘He had been with Uncle Nick for as long as I can recall. To tell true, I have no idea whether he even has a Christian name or not. We always called him Sorbus, nothing more.’
‘He seemed very reluctant to grant me access to you.’
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