Giltspur laughed loud. ‘That is Sorbus! He is the gatekeeper. He believes his main purpose in life is to keep the common rabble away from his master and his master’s family. I am afraid he has airs more haughty than a Hatton or Leicester. As far as he is concerned, you are the common rabble, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘How did he take to his master’s new bride? Was she, too, part of the common rabble?’
‘Oh, the commonest of common rabble. I saw the way he looked at her and how he affected not to hear her when she gave him commands or made requests of him. No, no, Katherine would not have been at all to Sorbus’s taste. The mere sound of her northern vowels must have given him an apoplexy.’
The house was not as big as Shakespeare had imagined from its wide frontage, tennis court and elaborate courtyard. Yet he considered it to be all the finer for its relative compactness; every room had been renovated or built anew with the wealth accrued by the Giltspur brothers. Even the extensive kitchens had a modern character. What was most surprising, however, was the number of servants. Shakespeare lost track of them, but estimated that there were twenty or more, which seemed a great number for a household that until recently had consisted of only Nicholas Giltspur, his new wife Kat, his mother and his nephew Arthur.
‘Has there been any trouble with any of the serving staff, Mr Giltspur? Has anyone been dismissed recently – someone who might perhaps bear a grudge?’
‘I think that most unlikely, but you would have to speak to Sorbus.’ They were walking through the hall. Giltspur raised his racket to point ahead. ‘And speak of the devil, there he is. Sorbus!’
Sorbus acknowledged the summons with a stiff little bow and walked with his precise, measured steps towards Arthur Giltspur, where he bowed again and said, ‘May I be of assistance, master?’
Of course, thought Shakespeare, this young man is now the steward’s master. How was the surly old retainer taking this change of circumstance? No, the word old was wrong. He might have been with Giltspur as long as his nephew could recall, but Sorbus was not old. Shakespeare put his age at about thirty-five. He was a stiff-shouldered little man with a nose as sharp as a sundial’s gnomon and a costly suit of clothes in unseasonal black broken only by the crisp white ruffs at his cuffs and collar.
‘Master?’
‘Mr Shakespeare here would like to ask you some questions. Do him the courtesy of telling him everything he wishes to know.’
‘Yes, master.’
The lack of conviction in Sorbus’s voice was deafening.
‘Did anyone among the servants bear a grudge against your former master?’
‘A grudge, sir?’
‘You know what a grudge is, do you not, Sorbus? It is a desire for retribution for some perceived hurt.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Shakespeare. Of course, I know what the word means, but I wondered why you should use it in respect of the servants. I run a well-ordered household. If a man or woman did not measure up to my exacting standards, they would be dismissed instantly.’
‘And such a one might have cause to feel vengeful towards this house and all in it.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
Shakespeare looked from Sorbus to Giltspur, who shook his head and laughed.
‘Really, Sorbus, I think you could be a little more helpful. Mr Shakespeare wishes to discover the truth about Mr Giltspur’s murder.’
‘So I am told, master.’
‘Who acted as Mr Giltspur’s valet?’
‘That was Thomas. He has now left, for he is no longer required.’
‘Do you know where he has gone?’
‘To Norwich, I believe, whence he came as a boy. Mr Giltspur here was most generous and agreed to a pension of five pounds a year.’
‘It was the least I could do,’ Giltspur said. ‘He loved my uncle as though he were his father. He was broken by the murder.’
‘What are your feelings towards Mistress Giltspur?’ Shakespeare turned back to Sorbus. ‘Might she be innocent?’ He watched Sorbus’s face closely but could detect nothing from his expression.
‘It is not my place to have an opinion, sir.’ The steward’s tone verged on insolence.
Shakespeare had had enough. ‘You may go.’ Sorbus bowed to Giltspur, but not his guest, then walked back in the direction from which he had come. Shakespeare watched him go, then spread his palms hopelessly.
‘I am sorry, Mr Shakespeare,’ Giltspur said. ‘Sorbus is a lost soul. He is trying to hold himself and this house together and he doesn’t really know how.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I am going to have to pension him off, and I think he realises it.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Come, let me show you my uncle’s rooms – and I shall see if Grandame will grant you a hearing.’
‘Thank you.’
Kat and her husband had slept in separate chambers, connected by a double door, each of which could only be opened or locked from its own side.
‘Were the rooms always like this or was it an innovation created for the new bride?’
‘I have no notion. Never did I have cause to come to these rooms either before or after the wedding. I have only been up here once and that was since the murder, to see if Uncle Nick kept any vital papers secreted here.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Nothing. Look around the place while I go to see if Grandame will receive you.’
Shakespeare watched him go and wondered how he spent his time; he could surely not fill all his days with tennis. Was there a woman in his life? He had said that he realised he must now learn the trade of his father and uncle, but so far he did not seem overly concerned by such matters. Perhaps he had other interests to occupy him. Shakespeare made a mental note to question Severin Tort further, for he was clearly involved in the Giltspur corporation to a great degree.
Nicholas Giltspur’s chamber was large but not palatial, perhaps twenty-two foot square. The bed was big, however, with wonderfully carved posts and a silk canopy of rich reds and golds. The furnishings included a coffer and a small chest. Shakespeare tried them and discovered they were both unlocked and empty. He looked beneath the feather mattress, but there was nothing to be seen. At the side of the window there was a shelf with a few books, mostly either devotional or containing poetry. The only other one was A Discourse on the Variation of The Compass. As taught by Walsingham, Shakespeare flicked through the pages of the books to see if any papers were hidden there. Again, nothing. Either Mr Giltspur had lived a very austere and frugal life, or this chamber had been stripped since his death.
The very absence of evidence of Nick Giltspur’s life seemed somehow to signify that there were other secrets to be uncovered, somewhere. Surely even the bleak cells of anchorites contained indications of the life lived? All Giltspur’s chamber revealed was that he had had money enough for costly fabrics and that he used occasionally to dip into books.
Shakespeare walked through the double doors to Kat’s chamber. This was very different, a much more feminine room. Yes, this would have been a bower fit for the ambitious Kat Whetstone. The bed was smaller and less ornate, but there was evidence at least of human occupation here: combs and potions, a wig, an adjoining wardrobe stuffed with expensive gowns and shoes. Beyond that, there were no clues. He was looking out of the window, down onto the central quad, when Arthur Giltspur reappeared at his side.
‘Well, we have good fortune, Mr Shakespeare. Grandame has consented to see you briefly.’
‘Thank you. Tell me, sir, where is Katherine’s lady’s maid? I assume she had one. Has she, too, been dismissed?’
‘Indeed not. Katherine remains unconvicted by a court. I will hold any man or woman innocent until proven guilty. And so Abigail remains with us. She has taken over the duties of Grandame’s own maid, who is presently in her sickbed. In confidence, I would tell you that she is not expected to survive. As for Abigail, you will see her, too, in Grandame’s apartment.’
‘Good.’
‘Then follo
w me.’
Shakespeare hesitated. Something was troubling him. It was the book in Nick Giltspur’s chamber, A Discourse on the Variation of the Compass. The sea. Why had he not made the connection before?
‘Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Another question: have you heard of a man named Cutting Ball, a known villain?’
‘Yes, indeed. I believe it was said in court that the murderer, Cane, was his associate.’
‘And do you know anything of the way Mr Ball works?’
Giltspur’s brow creased. ‘What do you mean?’
For the first time Shakespeare thought he saw a fleeting crack in his engaging facade. ‘I mean the character of his criminal activities.’
Giltspur shook his head, the frown gone. Perhaps Shakespeare had imagined it. ‘Why, I suppose he cuts purses. Is that not what these people do?’
‘Oh, I fear he does rather more than cut purses. He likes to cut faces, too, and he cuts away the privy parts of men who displease him. Also eyeballs, I am told. But more than that is his interest in the fleets of the realm. It is said he demands one part in a hundred of all cargoes landed at the wharfs downriver from the bridge, and that his men burn out the vessels of any who refuse him. What I find myself wondering is whether the cargoes he targets would include the shiploads of fish your family lands. What do you think? Did he ever make demands of your Uncle Nick?’
Giltspur looked perplexed. ‘What a strange question, Mr Shakespeare. And one you would have to ask Uncle Nick himself, which, of course, is impossible.’
Chapter 19
‘Grandame, allow me to introduce you to Mr John Shakespeare. Sir, this is my grandmother, Mistress Joan Giltspur.’
Shakespeare bowed low with the courtesy due to great age. Mistress Giltspur was in her bed, reclining against a bank of downy pillows. Shakespeare took her to be eighty, perhaps more – perhaps as old as the century itself. ‘It is my honour, ma’am.’
She waved him up with a brisk, bony hand. ‘Please stand up properly, Mr Shakespeare. I am not the Queen of England and nor am I feeble-minded.’
‘Forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive. It is I who must apologise for allowing you to see me like this. My mind is still there but my bones are brittle and afflicted by great pain. Now then, what do you want? Arthur tells me that you are an assistant to Sir Francis Walsingham and that you are investigating the death of my beloved Nicholas.’
‘That is so.’
‘He says you do not believe that Katherine was behind it?’
‘Indeed, I have my doubts.’
‘And she was once your paramour. Do I have it thus far?’
‘It seems you know everything about me.’
‘I doubt that very much. Sir Francis’s men tend to come with a great many secrets attached. So tell me, what is it you hope to discover?’
‘I want to know whether Katherine is innocent or guilty. And if she is innocent, who truly ordered the killing of your son. Nothing more.’
‘An admirable ambition. How can I help?’ Her voice was quiet but firm.
‘Perhaps you cannot. But as I said to your grandson, rich and successful men tend to have enemies. I would know the identities of your son’s enemies, for if Katherine is innocent, then the true killer must surely lurk among them.’
‘If you are seeking to find Nicholas’s enemies, then you are indeed on a hopeless mission. He was known for his charity, honesty and kindness, a faithful Christian of the reformed Church but with no animosity towards the old faith in which I was raised. A man of old-fashioned virtues, not often seen these days when men will crawl over each other for a few shillings. He treated those who worked for him with decency and allowed them their dignity. He would accept no cruelty aboard his vessels, and when a ship was lost he paid generous recompense to the fishers’ wives and children.’
‘Did you know much about the trade he pursued?’
‘How should I know about such things’ The old lady laughed, and then began to cough. Her grandson went to her side, but she brushed him away. ‘Water, Arthur. A sip of water. Don’t fuss so.’
He stood up from the bed. ‘Abigail!’
The maid, a plump and pretty young woman, came scurrying in. ‘Yes, Mr Giltspur?’
‘Bring a cup of water,’ Giltspur said.
‘And laudanum. I would have laudanum.’
The maid curtsied quickly. ‘Yes, Mistress Giltspur.’
When she had hastened away to fulfil her mistress’s demands, Shakespeare turned again to Giltspur. ‘Is that the Abigail who was Katherine’s lady’s maid?’
‘Yes. Grandame’s own maid is in a wretched way and will most likely go to God within a day or two. Abigail has taken on her duties.’
The old widow raised her hand. ‘It is my curse, Mr Shakespeare. I am doomed to outlive everyone I love, even my maid.’ Her cough was easing, but her voice still rasped a little. ‘I sometimes wonder whether God has forgotten about me. Do you know how old I am?’
‘I would not care to hazard a guess for fear of offending.’
‘Eighty-one, Mr Shakespeare. I am eighty-one. Sixty years ago I danced with the Queen’s father. He was charming to me and I knew he was trying to win me to his bed with pretty words, but I would have none of it, for though he had not then become the great killer that we now know him to have been, yet I saw the darkness in him and knew him for a cruel and capricious man.’
Abigail returned with water and a tincture of opium in a small silver goblet, which she handed to her mistress with great care.
The old woman sipped some water, swallowed the opium, then let out a great sigh of contentment. ‘Nicholas always told me I should refrain from laudanum, that it would be hazardous to my health. But to me, it is a blessing that relieves all pain. And you know, Mr Shakespeare, there really is very little danger of me dying young.’ She attempted to laugh again, but this time it was more a soft tinkle than the cackle of before. ‘Now, you asked me about enemies . . .’
‘One man in particular interests me, though there may be others. A man known as Cutting Ball.’
‘Oh yes, we have heard of him, haven’t we, Arthur? Abigail? Is he not a Robin Hood or Jack Cade?’
Shakespeare studied the lady’s maid. She was a remarkably well-favoured woman with milkmaid skin and large breasts. How would she have got on with Kat? Shakespeare tried to imagine the two of them together; mistress and maid. Somehow it didn’t work.
‘There are exciting tales told of his exploits, mistress,’ Abigail said. ‘I have heard that men often admire him.’
How had Cutting Ball become a folk hero? ‘There is nothing valiant about Mr Ball. He does not steal from the rich to help the poor; nor does he seek to improve the lot of the labouring man. He steals from everyone to enrich himself and he murders and maims those who stand in his way.’
There was silence in the room and Shakespeare realised he had revealed himself a little too clearly. He looked at the woman in the bed. She was becoming drowsy, but there was something in her eye that told him she was playing with him. She knew very well who Cutting Ball was and what he did.
And then it struck him: she was not simply the doddering matriarch of this family. She was the very heart of its trading empire. If the Giltspurs had ever paid money to Cutting Ball to protect their ships from his malicious attentions, then she knew all about it. She knew everything. Arthur’s father and uncle had not built the clan’s great riches; they had merely worked for their mother, done her bidding, been the public face. Mistress Giltspur – Grandame – was the power in this household.
‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘I would value your opinion. Do you believe your daughter-in-law paid Will Cane to murder your son?’
Her breathing was more pronounced, almost a snore. A few words seemed to escape her lips, but Shakespeare could hardly discern them.
‘She will be asleep any moment,’ Giltspur said. ‘I think your questioning is at an end, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘D
id she say something? I could not catch the words.’
Arthur Giltspur smiled. ‘You will get nothing more from her now. When she is awake she is usually lucid. But then the laudanum plays games with her . . .’ He paused. ‘She wants the diamond. Sometimes she sleeps with it. She says it brings her comfort.’
‘The Giltspur Diamond?’
‘It is famous, I think. A rare piece. A diamond of one hundred carats, brought from the Africas. It hangs as the centrepiece of a necklet.’
‘Is it here with her now?’
Giltspur affected a puzzled expression. ‘Your questions go in remarkable odd directions, sir. She either has it with her or it is locked away in the strongroom. It is hers, so I know not.’
For a few seconds more, Shakespeare gazed upon the ancient, lined face and thought he saw the beautiful young woman whom Great Henry had held in his deadly arms. He imagined her wearing her great diamond about her neck, its brilliance catching the light and dazzling all eyes. He saw something else, too: Kat Whetstone, now Katherine Giltspur, fugitive and widow. Though separated by two generations, Kat and the old grandmother shared beauty, immense ambition and unstoppable willpower. When Nicholas Giltspur fell for Kat, he had found a replica of his mother.
‘Are you done with us, sir?’
‘I am, Mr Giltspur.’
Arthur Giltspur touched Shakespeare’s arm. ‘Grandame had hoped that Katherine would give her another grandson, to carry on the family enterprise. She despairs of me. The truth is, I have no interest in ships and the sea. Nor fish.’
‘You have never explained how you were freed from the Fleet gaol so early, Mr Maude. I was told that you were sentenced to three years for extorting money from the archbishop, yet it seems you served little more than half that time.’
Harry Slide was taken aback by the sudden turn of Ballard’s questioning. They had been consoling themselves with a well-earned meal after another fruitless day trying to extract pledges of support from Catholic gentry. No one in Nottinghamshire was interested. The lords and knights and burghers had land to be farmed, mines to be dug and, anyway, they all had seminary priests in residence to attend to their spiritual needs. The last thing they wanted was insurrection and civil war. Memories of the 1569 Northern Rebellion and the 1536 Pilgrimage of Grace were all too fresh. Each had ended in ferocious reprisals.
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