John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy

by Rory Clements

  ‘First tell me where he lived.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll lead you there and you can pay your respects to Will Cane’s widow.’

  Boltfoot followed Aggy through the grim streets. This burgeoning city of dirt and squalor almost made Boltfoot wish he was at sea again. On second thoughts, anything but that.

  She turned southwards towards the Thames and the wharfs. Finally she stopped outside a small house at the end of a wood-frame, in a street a little way back from the riverside. She nodded her head to indicate the place, then walked on, turning westward to retrace her steps back to the Burning Prow. Boltfoot had already paid her five shillings under the threat that he would return and shoot her dead if he discovered that she had betrayed him. She hadn’t looked as though she believed him.

  Will Cane’s house was a surprise. It was not the house of a rich man, but nor was it the sort of hovel occupied by the very lowest. Perhaps he had been a man of some importance to Cutting Ball, a lieutenant who took a good share of their ill-gotten spoils and had set himself up. For a few minutes Boltfoot watched the front door. Then he walked down the small alley at the eastern end of the wood-frame, hoping to be able to see into the house from the rear. He cursed silently; the backyards were all walled and he had no view into the house. He was just pondering his next move when a water-bearer walked past and stopped, setting down his three-gallon cone-shaped barrel to stretch his aching back. Boltfoot noted the fine carving of the staves and the neatness of the hoops. He leant forward and ran a hand down the smooth surface appreciatively. Perfectly dry.

  ‘Fine cooperage. Not a leak on it.’

  ‘You a cooper then?’

  ‘Aye. Ship’s cooper.’

  ‘What’s the hagbut for then?’ The man thrust his sparsely bearded chin towards Boltfoot’s caliver. ‘Won’t be making casks with that.’

  ‘It’s for the shooting of Spaniards and Frenchies. I served my time aboard ships-of-war.’

  The water-bearer laughed. ‘You’re a pirate then.’ He was a small man – too small to be carrying such a heavy load.

  ‘Some have called me that. Others call me a true son of England.’ He touched the water butt again. ‘Got far to go with that?’

  ‘No, just round the corner. The Cane widow.’

  ‘Will Cane’s widow?’

  The water-bearer’s expression suddenly changed from open and cheery to nervous and guarded. ‘Why would you be interested, Mister Cooper? A man could die for inquiring into Will Cane hereabouts.’

  ‘So I believe.’ He picked up the water butt. ‘What say I deliver this to the widow Cane for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You see, Mr Water-bearer, I want a few words with her – but I have no wish to scare her. You can care for my caliver while I’m inside. And there will be a silver sixpence for you when I come out. I will merely tell her that you are abed with the sweat and that I am your cousin standing in for you. Now is that not fair dealing?’

  ‘What is this? What will you do to her?’

  ‘No harm will come to Mistress Cane, I pledge it. This is a matter it were best you knew nothing about.’

  ‘No. I won’t have it. You’ll get me killed.’

  Boltfoot smiled. ‘I think you don’t understand. The choice isn’t yours, Mr Water-bearer. I am borrowing your load whether you wish it or not. He reached into his soft leather purse and removed a sixpence. ‘Here, take it. There will be another when I come out.’

  The threat in Boltfoot’s voice was obvious. The water-bearer was clearly not a man of robust courage. His hand shook as he reached out and accepted the coin.

  ‘Good. Now what’s your name?’

  ‘Pearson. Tom Pearson.’

  ‘Well, Mr Pearson, I shall do all in my power to keep you alive.’ Boltfoot unslung his caliver and cutlass and placed them in the water-bearer’s arms. ‘Take those, go to the water stairs and wait for me.’

  The door was answered by a plump woman of no more than twenty years of age. Her clothes were plain but clean and well kept. Three small children, all under the age of five, clustered around her skirts.

  ‘Water, mistress.’

  ‘Where’s Tom today?’

  ‘Took ill. A slight summer sweat. I’m his cousin.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Cooper. I never knew how hard Tom worked until this day. Thirsty work all this fetching and carrying.’ Boltfoot feigned exhaustion as he hefted the butt of water inside the front room of the house, watched closely by the large, inquisitive eyes of the children.

  ‘Put it in the corner near the empty, Mr Cooper, and sit yourself at the table. I’ll fetch you some ale.’ She disappeared out the back with the children in her wake.

  Boltfoot sat down and took in his surroundings. It was a comfortable, modest room with a settle and a table and a dresser displaying a variety of pewter pots and earthenware. It was not the sort of home he had expected of a lieutenant to the infamous Cutting Ball.

  ‘Here you are.’ Mistress Cane returned with a beaker of ale and handed it to Boltfoot. The three small children trailed behind her like ducklings.

  ‘Thank you, mistress, thank you. You have saved my life.’

  ‘I will tell you your life if you wish. Give me your hand.’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, I’ll not have superstition.’

  She smiled, then reached out and took his hand. He did not resist. She studied it for a minute, then looked up and met his eyes. ‘You will suffer great pain, Mr Cooper. But I say you will find much love.’

  He snatched his hand away. ‘You think me a fool.’

  She continued to smile, but said no more. He drank his ale, his head buzzing. He could not recall when a woman had last touched him. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I am sorry to hear about your husband . . .’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Are you? Why?’

  ‘Well, I heard—’

  ‘That he got himself hanged for murder?’

  Boltfoot nodded.

  ‘Mr Cooper, I must tell you that dying was the best thing Will Cane ever did for this family.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Tell me you are not one of Cutting Ball’s men come to spy on me.’

  ‘Do I look so villainous? No, mistress, my trade was always cask-making and repairing.’

  ‘You look villainous enough with your bruised face. But I have lived among thieves and killers long enough to know that appearances can deceive. Perhaps you are an honest man.’

  She sat down opposite him, looked into his eyes and sighed. ‘Will Cane was not a good man. No, that does not tell it well. He was a vicious brute and I fear he may have killed before. More than once, and most cruelly.’

  ‘And yet you married him.’

  ‘This is beginning to sound like an interrogation, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘Forgive me. I—’

  ‘It is no matter. I care not whether you are a Cutting Ball man or from the justice. I am beyond pain and fear. I married Will because he was handsome and dangerous. And because my father wished it.’

  ‘Why would your father have wished you to marry Mr Cane if he was as murderous as you say?’

  ‘Mr Cooper, you really are most inquisitive.’

  ‘It is the talk of Wapping and Whitechapel, is it not? They say a rich young woman paid Mr Cane to murder her husband. The whole world wants to know the truth.’

  ‘So it seems. And if you are wondering whether any of the blood money came into this house, then I can tell you that it did not. And I tell you this, too, Mr Cooper – I would not have accepted a penny of such ill-gotten silver even if it had been offered to me. I would be pleased if you would tell everyone you know this simple truth, for I do not like the stares and whisperings that I have noted at the market since Will was hanged.’

  The youngest child began to cry. The widow rose from her chair and scooped her up into her arms.

  ‘I will tell them. But Mistress Cane, h
ow will you survive without a husband? This house is small, but it is well appointed. Surely it will cost you dearly to rent?’

  ‘The house was my father’s and now it is mine. You asked me why he required me to wed Mr Cane. The truth is, he was a gambling man and fell foul of Cutting Ball. My father told me that if I did not marry Will Cane, who had taken a great fancy to me, then he would be killed. I was both scared and excited. Before the sickness wasted him, Will had the body of a god. What young girl would not wish to have such a fellow? My opinion changed rapidly when first he beat me. In the past year I have scarce seen Will, which was some relief. He had other women, one in particular, as he was pleased to tell me.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Two weeks since. He came to see the children.’ She seemed to stiffen. ‘Told them to be good little thieves and to let no man gainsay them. It is their good fortune that they were too young to understand a word he said to them. He told me he was dying and that we would not see him again. In truth I doubted he would last the week. Then he kissed the children and was gone.’

  It was clear to Boltfoot that this woman knew nothing of the murder of Nicholas Giltspur, nor of Kat’s supposed role in it. ‘I am sorry. I had not meant to intrude on you at this difficult time.’

  ‘Oh, think nothing of it, Mr Cooper. It has been some welcome release to talk of these matters. I am all alone now, you see.’ She smiled at him again.

  There was silence for a moment and then he nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Standing from his chair, he made a move towards the door.

  ‘Do not go without the empty water butt, sir.’

  ‘No, no indeed.’ He stopped, hesitated. ‘Before I go, Mistress Cane . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not a water-carrier.’

  She smiled. ‘I didn’t think so.’

  Stumbling over his words, not certain how much to reveal, Boltfoot told her that he was investigating the death of Nicholas Giltspur on behalf of his master. ‘If as you say he was already dying then he had nothing to gain for himself by killing for money. In which case, you must understand why a man might wonder whether he wished to leave his widow or children provided for.’

  ‘But I have already told you that is not the case, Mr Cooper. And I have also told you I would not accept such money.’

  ‘Then who has the hundred pounds?’

  ‘His whore, of course. And she is welcome to it.’

  ‘Do you have her name?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Mr Cooper, and perhaps you and your master might be the means by which some justice will be meted out. Her name is Abigail and she is a lady’s maid in the house of the Giltspur family.’

  Chapter 21

  Harry Slide was struggling to recall a name. The face across the taproom had looked away too quickly. Why had the man been watching him? Now he was moving towards the door. Slide downed the last of his strong beer.

  ‘With your permission, Captain, I’m going out for a piss,’ he told Ballard, clapping the priest on the shoulder. ‘Then one more brandy and bed. Let us have an early night for we have a long ride tomorrow.’

  As he strolled towards the door, Slide was keenly aware of Ballard’s eyes following him. Clearly, he had not allayed his concerns – or Gage’s. Were they jittery because their mission had been so unsuccessful, or had he said something out of place? Well, they were stuck with him; and he would smile and reassure them as best he could.

  The stranger who had been staring at him reached the door just ahead of him. Slide gave him a slight push until they were both outside and closed the door behind them. ‘Do I know you?’

  The man met his eye in the light of the lantern. ‘I think not. But I know you, Mr Slide.’

  ‘Then you are mistaken, for my name is Bernard Maude. You are confusing me with someone else.’

  ‘Not so, Mr Slide. I would spot your reptilian face among a million in the fiery depths of Hades, so ingrained is it on my

  memory.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I was in service to the Earl of Shrewsbury.’

  ‘Sheffield Castle? What did you do there?’

  ‘That is no concern of yours. Suffice it to say that there was much talk about you after you left.’

  Slide remembered the Earl of Shrewsbury very well. In those days his lordship had been charged with keeping Mary Queen of Scots prisoner at Sheffield Castle. Yet he could still not identify this man. ‘What is your name, stranger?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that either. All you need to know is that I remember you well, though you went under another name for a while. And you need to know that I require money from you. Twenty pounds will shut my mouth. Or I shall tell your travelling companions what I know of you, which I doubt you want.’

  Slide considered taking out his dagger there and then and slitting the man’s throat, but they could be disturbed at any moment. He smiled instead. ‘Twenty pounds, you say?’

  ‘Twenty pounds, and I will not be haggled down.’

  ‘I might manage two pounds to make you leave me alone, but no more.’

  ‘Twenty. And if you refuse again, the price will go yet higher.’

  Slide was silent a few moments, then nodded. ‘Very well, but I do not have such money here in my purse.’

  ‘Then bring it to me in an hour, down at the stone footbridge. No one will see us there.’

  ‘Two hours. If you try to betray me I will make it very bad for you.’

  ‘Bring the money and I pledge you will never see or hear from me again.’

  Harry Slide slipped from the truckle bed in the chamber he shared with Ballard and Gage. From their snoring in the large bed, he was certain they were both asleep. The strong ale and rounds of brandy had done their work. Without a sound, he made his way to the door, raising the latch carefully.

  Slide, on bare feet and wearing only his nightshirt, went out and pushed the door back so that he could slip back in as quietly as he had left. From downstairs he saw a light and heard muted voices; the last of the drinkers in the taproom.

  He descended step by slow step. If anyone crossed his path, he would sway as though intoxicated, say he needed fresh air. But no one came his way. Quietly he made his way to the back of the inn, through the kitchens, and exited the building into the stableyard, which was bathed in dull yellow light from a pair of wall lanterns. Somewhere from behind a stable door, a horse whinnied and stamped in its stall.

  Taking one of the lanterns, he crossed the flagstoned yard to the tack room, where he immediately found what he wanted. Then, more quickly now, he made his way out onto the expanse of lawn that led down to the little stone footbridge over the stream.

  Looking around to be sure he was not observed or followed, he pulled his linen nightshirt over his head and hid it behind a stone on the bone-dry grass. He estimated the two hours must be almost up. Stark naked, Slide edged down the grassy bank, then stepped into the chilly water and carefully placed the lantern beneath the arch of the bridge. He slid further into the water, and crept to his left, sinking his body like an eel into the reeds.

  And then he once more tested the strength of the harness chain he had borrowed from the tack room, wrenching it taut between his fists. It was more than strong enough for his purpose.

  Edward Manning had no intention of staying at the inn a moment longer than necessary. It was pure chance that he had been there, for he was riding post from York to Greenwich and had merely stopped for a change of horses and food. By trade he was a courier, riding all day every day and often by night. He knew these highways as well as any man in England.

  He also knew a great deal about the missives and documents sent by his masters in the north and at court. He was sworn to secrecy, of course, but vows were made to be broken. This meeting with Harry Slide was too good a chance to miss.

  Four years earlier, in 1582, there had been a flurry of traffic between Sheffield Castle and Oatlands Palace. In carrying the letters, Manning had discov
ered more than perhaps he should have done about the activities and methods of a certain Mr Harry Slide. Now was the time to put that knowledge to good use.

  Twenty pounds would set him up well. He already had money put away and this extra would allow him to go into business on his own account; establish his own staging post, with stabling and provender. No more night rides for him, no more aching balls and arse from fourteen hours in the saddle each day. Let others do the hard work.

  He led his horse down to the little stone bridge and waited. He didn’t trust Harry Slide and had no intention of dismounting.

  Slide heard the horse’s hoofs; then its snorting as it was reined in. He could just see it in the gloom; it was no more than seven or eight feet from him, at the side of the bridge. He waited a minute. There was no movement, nothing but the animal snuffling of the horse and the pat of a hand on a flank. ‘Come down.’ The words were little more than a whisper, but loud enough to carry at this time of night. ‘Come down. I have your

  twenty pounds.’

  ‘Slide?’

  ‘Yes. Come down here.’

  ‘Bring the purse up to me.’

  ‘No, I can’t be seen with you.’

  ‘I’m not moving. If you’re not up here in half a minute I’m riding away and your trickery will be exposed to your companions. What say you, Slide?’

  ‘Are you armed, stranger?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve got a sword and pistol and I know how to use them.’ No highwaymen had ever had any luck against him, nor would they.

  ‘Then bring your weapons down here and you’ll know you’re safe. I’ll give you what you want. But I won’t be seen with you. The choice is yours.’ Silence. At last, Slide heard the click of a powderhorn lid and the soft sound of powder being poured, and relaxed. All would be well.

  The man stopped at the cusp of the bank, then took his first tentative step down the grassy slope to the water’s edge. It was steeper than it looked. A man could lose his balance here. The stranger stopped, surprised by the glow of a lantern from beneath the bridge. For the merest second or two, his eyes and weapons were all aligned, pointing at the gaping arch of the bridge and the light. The very place where Harry Slide was not.