‘Colton, sir. But I am afraid I know little more about her. She was so highly recommended by Mr Tort that we did not consider it necessary to look into her family nor seek other references.’
‘Did you notice any of the men of the house taking an interest in her?’
‘No, sir. No, I did not.’
‘Neither servant nor master?’
‘No.’
‘Is it possible that she conducted a liaison with your late master before his marriage? Might he have been the father?’
‘I would say that nothing is impossible under God’s heaven, but in this case I would most certainly not believe it. In truth, Mr Shakespeare, I would stake my life on it. Mr Nicholas Giltspur is not the father of her child – and before you ask, neither am I.’
‘It seems you cannot stay away from me, John. Another corpse, another visit.’
Joshua Peace was looking down at the body of Oswald Redd, which was laid out on its back, blank eyes seeming to gaze up at the damp ceiling of the crypt beneath St Paul’s. The body, brought here by the grooms at Seething Lane, was now naked, the skin dull and clammy. And yet the hair, so red and striking in life, maintained its vibrancy.
‘Justice Young had some idea he might have been murdered. He thought to accuse me. Sadly for him, he had no evidence.’
‘Well, what do you think?’
Shakespeare held up a sheet of paper. ‘I rode here by way of Shoreditch and found this on Mr Redd’s worktable.’ He handed it to Joshua Peace, who read it quickly, then smiled at his guest.
‘That simplifies matters.’
‘Does it accord with your findings?’
‘Indeed. Of course, it is possible he was clubbed and thrown from the bridge, but I had already decided that he probably took his own life. The bridge’s footings protrude well into the water away from the piers, certainly further out than the rail. Any man who jumped at night would not see the footings and would most likely hit one before bouncing into the water. I would guess he hit the back of his head in the fall and that his death was quick and pain-free.’
‘Unlike his life.’ Shakespeare took back the proffered sheet of paper. They were clearly the words of a tormented man who had given up the struggle.
I pray God forgive me for what I am about to do and for the manifold sins of my wretched life. Whoever finds this, please take word to my brother Osric at Chigwell that I turn over my share of the farm and all properties within and without to his ownership and keeping. Though he may have difficulty understanding, tell him all is well and that I am at peace, and that I am with Mother and that he is to continue looking after the sheep. Also, I would ask that you go to the Paxtons, in the Glebe Farm, to the west, and ask that they look in on Osric from time to time and take his lambs to market when they are ready for slaughter. To this end, I leave the finder a sovereign. Tell Osric that I die in the certain hope that we will meet again, with Mother, in the hereafter. Pray for me.
Oswald Redd
The writing was scratchy and hurried, with many ink blotches. There was no mention of Kat. Perhaps his love had turned to loathing. She had abandoned him twice; perhaps he could no longer bear to utter her name.
‘Why did he kill himself ?’ Shakespeare asked. ‘Out of grief for lost love – or because of the burden of guilt for killing Nick Giltspur and condemning Kat?’
‘That really is your line of work more than mine, John. I examine the body, not the mind.’ ‘But I would value your opinion, as always.’ ‘Well, for a gage of ale, I would say the first option is the
most likely. Unrequited passion has turned many minds. Had he been guilty of murder and was going to his death, I think he might have confessed it in hope of a better hearing at the day of judgement.’
‘Worthy of a gage of ale.’ Shakespeare turned away from the body and lifted the latch on the door. Though he always enjoyed the company of Joshua Peace, he did not like his place of work. The cool dripping of the walls, the stink and stillness of death. As for the death of Oswald Redd and his reasons for taking his own life, perhaps Redd had deliberately avoided confessing to the murder of Nick Giltspur so that the finger of guilt would still be pointed at Kat. Some men’s desire for vengeance knew no end. And if that was the case, then it might now be impossible ever to prove her innocence.
Shakespeare rose from his bed. Something the old woman had said was spinning around his head like a child’s top. A few simple words that he had not considered of any relevance to his inquiry, and yet they had lodged themselves in his mind. What, precisely had she meant by them?
‘This family has done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined . . .’
What had the Giltspurs done for England? Caught fish to fill the nation’s bellies? Or was there something more, unspoken? He could find no answer in his own head and was not at all sure why it bothered him so. After all, they were a notable family, of wealth and distinction. The large vessels in their fishing fleets would always be ready to arm and join the fray in defence of the realm. Of course the Giltspurs had always helped England.
He sat in his chair, beside the shuttered window, trying to dispel the puzzle from his mind. He thought instead of Abigail Colton and continued to wonder about the father of her child. Why did she worry him so? It was because he was looking for a motive: jealousy, revenge, greed. A scorned lover might be goaded to horrors by any one of those violent emotions.
Every man in the Giltspur household must be under suspicion of being the father, of course: all the servants, the late Nicholas Giltspur, his nephew Arthur, even Sorbus. No, not Sorbus. Shakespeare doubted he ever looked at women in that way. Arthur Giltspur? Surely Arthur could find all the delightful female company he desired among the merchant classes or the young noblewomen of the royal court. He did not need to bother with maidservants, however pretty. His uncle Nicholas, on the other hand, had been older and less eligible; perhaps in the months before meeting Kat he had found comfort closer to home.
There was another name, too: Severin Tort, attorney-at-law. He had certainly known Abigail Colton, for she had been employed by him. Perhaps matters had become awkward or unpleasant; was that why he wished her to leave his household? Or perhaps Tort had been protecting someone else in his household . . .
In the office at Walsingham’s Seething Lane mansion, Frank Mills slid a transcript of the letter across the table. ‘There, Mr Shakespeare, read it.’ He managed to make each word sound grudging, as though it were not his place to be showing anything to this upstart.
Shakespeare took the decoded letter. It was written in the neat hand of Thomas Phelippes. He knew that the original of the letter – encrypted in letters and symbols – was in the safe hands of Sir Francis Walsingham.
Babington
My very good friend, albeit long since you heard from me,
no more than I have done from you, against my will, yet
would I not you should think, I have in the meanwhile, nor
will ever be unmindful of the effectual affection you have
shown heretofore to all that concerneth me. I have understood
that upon the ceasing of our intelligence there were addressed
unto you both from France and Scotland some packets for me.
I pray you, if any have come to your hands, and be yet in
place, to deliver them unto the bearer hereof, who will make
them to be safe conveyed to me, and I will pray God for your
preservation.
On June the twentyfifth at Chartley,
Your assured good friend,
Marie R
‘It says nothing,’ said Shakespeare. ‘She says she is sorry not to have written earlier and that she would like the letters he has in his possession. There is no declaration of subversion or conspiracy here. I am not surprised Mr Secretary has not yet had it delivered to Babington. He must have hoped for a great deal more.’
Mills grinned as though he understood something that Shakespeare did not.
Hunched and thin, his smiling mouth looked almost obscene. ‘It will do very well, for Mr Secretary has a plan and he wishes you to execute it.’
‘Continue, Mr Mills.’
‘What is remarkable is that I must brief you in this matter rather than perform the task myself.’
‘Perhaps Mr Secretary does not trust you.’ Shakespeare could not resist the barb.
Mills managed to flounce without leaving his seat. ‘And he should trust you, should he, given that you spend your days chasing across London on a some fool’s errand for a murderess?’
‘Get to the point, Mills.’
‘Very well. The point is this: Mr Gifford will prepare the way, just like Baptist John. It is a scheme of exquisite cunning. All Babington’s doubts will be washed away. And it all hinges on the persuasive powers of Mr Gilbert Gifford, whom you are to instruct most precisely.’
‘He is presently working his wiles on Ballard.’
‘Then remove him and send him to Babington – for he is the key. He is the one who must write to Mary and elicit an incriminating reply. I shall explain to you, Mr Shakespeare, just as my master at school taught me the rudiments of reading and writing. For that is how simple it is for one with the wit to see . . .’
Chapter 30
It was a perfect summer Sunday. The river was alive with traffic; families visiting each other, men and women escaping the stink of the city for a day in the meadows of Surrey, sportsmen with their fowling pieces heading to the woods upriver for some shooting. None of them would have noted the tilt-boat carrying Anthony Babington and his companion Robin Poley.
The two young men reclined at the back of the craft in the shade of the canopy, so close together that their thighs and shoulders touched, and yet neither of them sought to shift away from the other. Each held a cup of wine and, at their side on the bench, they had half a flagon. Their touching might have been yet more intimate, but for the watchful eyes of the tilt-boat’s rowers who toiled against the current while their clients took pleasure in the wine and the breeze blowing off the river.
Babington and Poley had hired the vessel at the Temple Stairs, having strolled there from Hern’s Rents; they had scarcely been out of each other’s company since their meeting at Greenwich Palace. Now they were on their way to Barn Elms, a journey that would take them two hours at the present rate of progress.
‘Perhaps they might row harder if we offered them a few pence more,’ Babington said, whispering into Poley’s ear.
‘Are you in a hurry?’
‘Yes, I am in a hurry – and a state of panic, Robin. I fear what Mr Secretary will say to me. I fear what he will ask of me. Am I not right to be afraid? Is he not Beelzebub made flesh?’
‘Then, dearest Anthony, why rush to meet the devil?’
‘Because I wish to get it over and done with.’
‘Like the child who hastens to his father for a birching! Anthony, you fear too much. Mr Secretary will have your passport, all signed and sealed.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
Poley held up the flagon. ‘Come, sup your wine and enjoy the day. Never has the Thames looked so beautiful.’
Walsingham did not have the passport. ‘I have not yet been able to secure Her Majesty’s approval, Mr Babington. She considers all matters, great and small, with the utmost care. Never was there a more discerning monarch. I will not hide from you that this, at times, can cause some frustration among her ministers and petitioners. I can only apologise to you; the matter is out of my hands.’
Babington somehow managed to prevent his shoulders from slumping and even achieved a discreet smile and modest bow of the head in acknowledgement.
‘I do believe, however, that I will be able to bring her around to my way of thinking. What I need from you today is a list of specific tasks you will be prepared to carry out on her behalf while you are in foreign lands. Such a list, I am sure, will tip the scales in your favour.’
‘Tasks, Sir Francis? What manner of task would Her Majesty require of me?’
They were seated amid the apparent chaos of Walsingham’s office within his country manor at Barn Elms. The room was littered with piles of books, correspondence, maps and writing materials. Despite the summer, it was as chilly as Walsingham’s manner. He made no allowance for the warm weather outside, dressed all in black save the modest white ruff at his neck. And he was nowhere near as welcoming as he had been at his first meeting with Babington.
‘The tasks we spoke of before – word from the cities you visit, information about the people you meet, both the nobility and the common folk. But most particularly she would like to hear word of those Englishmen who have chosen exile and now plot against her. You know of whom I speak, I am certain: Dr Allen, Mr Persons, Dr Gifford at Rheims, the Jesuits. All the Jesuits, for they are betrayers of both God and man. And the snakelike Morgan, corrupt Paget and the Spanish intriguer Mendoza, who is England’s sworn enemy. Her Majesty would like your assurance that you will seek out these people, discover their movements and their conspiracies, and send intelligence of the same to us post haste. That is how these infamous beasts will be brought low. Is this well with you, Mr Babington? I am sure you would wish to help us in such wise.’
‘I can but promise to do my very best on Her Majesty’s behalf.’
Walsingham pushed a blank sheet of paper across to Babington, followed by a quill and inkhorn. ‘Then write down the details of your planned route. Whom you hope to meet and where, what letters of introduction you have. Add your mark and I will present the list to Her Majesty so that she will know how dearly you love her and how courageous you will be in defying her enemies.’
‘But Sir Francis, my plans are not so well formed. Initially, I had planned to go to Paris. But I know not how long I will be there, nor whom I will be able to meet. I have no letters of introduction.’
Walsingham sighed heavily. His dark, hooded countenance betrayed no good humour. ‘This will not do.’
‘I beg you, Sir Francis. I will do all that you ask and more – but as yet I am in no position to write down the precise details.’
‘What of the traitors in London?’
The question made Babington start. ‘Traitors, Mr Secretary?’
‘You know who I mean. The Pope’s White Sons: the young gallants you run with. The whole court knows of them. Some of them conspire against us. Will you bring me word of their scheming?’
‘I am sure I know no traitors, Sir Francis. A few men might speak too loudly and a little unwisely when cup-shotten, but they are harmless enough. No, there are no traitors among us.’
‘Then if they – and you – are harmless, you will not mind providing me with their names and their indiscretions. Yes, Mr Babington?’
‘Were I to hear of any indiscretions, I would bring them to your notice immediately, as would be my bounden duty.’
The Principal Secretary was silent, save for his laboured breathing. His eyes were fixed on his young guest, like a circling hawk staring at a fieldmouse a hundred feet below. ‘I have an idea,’ he said at last. ‘A way forward, perhaps. You are a handsome, charming young man, Mr Babington. I am certain I could persuade the Queen to give you an audience where you may explain to her why you desire this passport – and just what you can do for her in return. How does that sound to you?’
Babington was horrified. The last things he wanted were the Queen’s beady eyes and sharp, inquiring tongue examining him. ‘I – I – I am most flattered that you should think me worthy of such a signal honour.’ Even as he spoke, he knew Walsingham must see how flustered he was. How he sweated, how his hands quivered . . .
‘Good. I do believe you will be able to speak more freely with Her Majesty than with me, for she has a way of putting men at their ease, and I seem to be discomfiting you. I shall have word brought to you when a time has been arranged.’ Walsingham rose from his plain-backed chair and put out his hand.
Babington rose, too. He was being dismissed. Walsingham’s
hand was as cold as a winter’s day.
When Babington had gone, Walsingham clapped his hands twice. ‘You may come out of your hidey-hole, John.’
An inner door leading off from the Principal Secretary’s office creaked open and John Shakespeare emerged carrying a heavy black book and writing implements.
‘Did you hear it all?’
‘Yes, Mr Secretary.’
‘And you noted it all down?’
‘Indeed, I did.’
‘What did you think?’
‘He must be scared and bewildered. I find it hard to believe he will do what you hope of him.’
‘Then this will be a remarkable lesson for you, for I am certain he will do precisely as I hope; and more. Wait and see, John, wait and see. He thinks he has me. Even now he will be congratulating himself that he has triumphed over the Principal Secretary.’
‘I am not so certain, Sir Francis. Nor do I see how he can be persuaded to write a letter to the Queen of Scots in the manner you hope. Were I in his place, I would gather together what gold I could muster and pay for passage out of England without a passport – even at the cost of losing my estates and all my treasure.’
‘But you are not Anthony Babington. You are a man of wit and cunning. He is a vain young traitor who aspires to murder Elizabeth and raise up the Scots devil in her place. He thinks he will sit at her right hand. Perhaps he would like to be her Principal Secretary. His vanity and his treachery will most certainly be his downfall. Everything depends on Mr Gifford now. When he goes to him at Hern’s Rents tonight, it is important that Robin Poley is not there. Nor will it work if Babington’s companions Salisbury or Tichbourne are in attendance. Mr Gifford must have space and time to work on Babington alone. Then you will see the measure of the man. Then you will see what treason he is capable of.’
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