‘Topcliffe fair?’
‘If he likes you, he’d do anything for you. If you would damn the Pope and his legions to hell, like a good Christian should, then he is your friend.’
And what if he doesn’t like you, thought Shakespeare. What then? What if you are a Catholic priest or one who harbours them? Then he will tear you apart like a ravening beast and bathe in your blood.
‘What of the crown of holly?’
Scavager Billy laughed in his curious way. ‘That was Mr Topcliffe’s notion, too. He told the constable to arrange for it to be done. I think it was a jest of some manner. But he told us to say nothing and tell no one what he said. I pray to God I will not be in trouble with him now.’
Shakespeare looked at the man in despair. He was just the sort of callous, unthinking idiot that Topcliffe always used for his foul designs. Not innately wicked, merely malleable to an evil man’s will. Men like Billy had been the source of every tyrant’s power from the birth of the world.
‘Shall we take him to the gaol in Wood Street now, Mr Shakespeare?’ Boltfoot said.
‘No. Leave him be. Let him take his chances with Topcliffe. He might wish he had gone to the hangman instead ...’
‘Mr Sh-sh-shakespeare, what a pleasant s-surprise. And Mr Cooper, too. Welcome to my home.’
‘And good day to you, Mr Gregory. I trust you fare well.’
‘Well enough, Mr Sh-shakespeare. Well enough.’
They were at a modest wood-frame house not far from the Tower, a hundred yards from the river. It seemed to Shakespeare that Arthur Gregory had grown a little leaner in the two years since last they had met, but his face beamed as pink and jolly as ever.
‘Forgive me for disturbing your peace on Christmas Eve, Mr Gregory, but I wished to delve into the recesses of your memory. It will not take more than a minute or two of your time.’
‘Tether your horses and come in.’
The house had a small hall that was aflame with candles and richly hung with holly and ivy. A fragrant log fire raged in the hearth. Arthur Gregory’s coy, plump wife bustled in and greeted the visitors, but then scuttled out as quickly. A young serving girl brought in hot spiced wine.
‘S-s-so tell me,’ Gregory stammered. ‘What is this about?’
They had worked together back in the 1580s when both men toiled for Principal Secretary Sir Francis Walsingham. After Walsingham’s death, Gregory had gone to work for the Earl of Essex’s intelligence office, but had recently left his service. He had a subtle mind and careful hands; skilled in the opening of seals and closing them again so no one could tell.
‘Did a man named Giovanni Jesu ever cross your path?’
Gregory frowned, trying to recall.
‘A black man, in the retinue of Oxford?’
Gregory nodded and smiled. ‘Indeed. Yes, I remember. Walsingham took a great interest in him at one time in the early eighties. You must have been new to his s-service.’
‘Giovanni would have been very young in the early eighties.’
‘He was already s-s-spying, however. Mendoza had got hold of him.’
Bernardino de Mendoza was a schemer on a grand scale. He had been Spain’s ambassador to England until he was deported from the country in 1584 for his involvement in the Throckmorton plot against the Queen. As Shakespeare knew from intelligence reports, he was still alive, still conspiring to bring about England’s downfall, even though he was ailing and blind and retired to his house in Madrid.
‘What happened?’
‘Well, of course, Mr S-s-secretary threatened the boy and made him his own. He s-s-spied on his own s-spymasters.’
‘But what sort of information could a boy of sixteen or so have given to either Mendoza or Walsingham? That is what puzzles me, Mr Gregory.’
‘You must remember that Oxford was close to Her Majesty in those days, her most favoured pet. And the earl has – and had – a notoriously loose tongue. Giovanni listened to bed talk and brought letters, which I opened. In truth, I think there was nothing that we didn’t know, but it helped us confirm certain aspects of Oxford’s own persuasions, both in bed and church.’
‘He is a Catholic, is he not?’
‘That is a hard question. He c-certainly affected Papism to irritate old Burghley, whose ward he had been. You must know that he has always liked to outrage s-s-sensibilities. Anything to cause a stir. But was there more to it than that? I knew him before he went to Italy and when he returned I believe I detected a change in him. The earl might s-seem to treat life and religion as a great jest, but I rather think he could be a devout Catholic.’
It was what Shakespeare had thought – and the reason he had wondered whether Mr Stickley, the steward, might be a priest. But how was Topcliffe involved? Shakespeare put the question to his host.
‘Ah, Mr Sh-shakespeare, that is one of the great joys of retirement: never having to have dealings with Topcliffe again. Oxford is one of those noblemen who drive Topcliffe to distraction, for they are untouchable. Men like the earls of Oxford and Southampton may harbour all the priests they wish and Topcliffe can never send in his pursuivants to arrest them, for they have too much power and influence. He believes both of them to be sh-shielding Jesuits for religion and to be keeping boys for pleasure. And as you must know, Topcliffe would happily take every last Papist and s-sodomite to Tyburn and nail them to a cross.’
‘And he might have known of Walsingham’s dealings with Giovanni?’
‘Most likely. Topcliffe was very useful and close to Mr S-s-secretary in those days. At the time he tried to persuade him that the Earl of Oxford was a traitor and that he was Mendoza’s man. He urged Walsingham to arrest him, but there was no proof. Topcliffe tried everything he could to find evidence against the earl. The question was put to every man and woman he interrogated and tortured, but he could find nothing. Nothing at all.’
Shakespeare listened intently and thought hard. This was the clue to it. But where exactly did it lead? If Topcliffe had killed Giovanni, why initiate an inquiry by sending the body to the Searcher of the Dead? What of Oxford? He was certainly capable of murder. Might he have discovered that Giovanni had spied on him and killed him in revenge?
Or perhaps the world of spying had nothing to do with it at all. Was this a crime of passion? There was at least one man within the manor at Stoke Newington suffused with enough jealousy and hatred to commit murder. Perhaps it was a simple falling-out of thieves. If Giovanni was clipping coins on a large scale, then he must have been involved with others. Clipping was a crime so profitable that men thought nothing of killing to control it. Shakespeare sighed. This was all far from done with.
Arthur Gregory made his guests sit down, glad of a chance to talk about old times. He asked about life in the service of Sir Robert Cecil.
‘He is a very different man from Mr Secretary,’ said Shakespeare. ‘And you must know that we still have Frank Mills with us.’
‘Ah, poor Frank. St-st-still being cuckolded by his harlot of a wife?’
‘It is worse than ever. I tell him he should leave her and find himself someone new, but he won’t have it. He says he loves her.’ Shakespeare laughed. ‘What is the use? There is nothing any man can do to help another’s marriage.’
‘And in the meantime you have a war of s-s-secrets to wage.’
‘I do. And now it is all Ireland.’
‘My sp-special interest.’
Of course. No one in Walsingham’s office had known more about the conflicts and alliances of the principal Irish clans than Arthur Gregory. ‘Are you happy in your retirement, Arthur?’
‘Yes ... yes, I am happy. Why sh-should I not be?’
‘No moments of tedium when you find yourself wishing to use your razor brain once more in the service of Queen and country?’ Shakespeare laughed. ‘The truth is, I could do with some little help over Ireland.’
‘You wish me to work for you?’
‘As a drudge, nothing more.’ Shakespeare laughed again
and looked around the well-appointed hall. Arthur Gregory clearly did not want for money. ‘There would be gold, of course. A little gold.’
‘I confess there are moments of tedium and languor in my life. What do you wish of me?’
‘To find me an Irishman – no, two Irishmen, unconnected to each other, to inveigle themselves into the clan of Tyrone. It is vital that they are not connected.’
‘Now that is a challenge.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘Indeed, Mr Sh-shakespeare. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to dust off my wit – or what little of it remains – and put it to some useful work. Knowledge, as we all know, is everything.’
Knowledge is everything. That was the first lesson that all who worked for Walsingham learned. And knowledge was always gleaned by having someone trustworthy in the enemy camp. Suddenly, Shakespeare felt hot. Knowledge. Of course. Not Giovanni Jesu. He was merely the messenger, the go-between. There was another traitor within the household of the Earl of Oxford, one of far greater importance to England’s foes.
Shakespeare had to leave at once. The heat rushed up the nape of his neck. His thoughts were elsewhere, washing over him like a deluge. He knew now the motive for Giovanni’s murder. It all fitted, like fingers in a glove.
Dorcas Catton was in mortal danger. It wasn’t that the clue lay locked inside her mind, it was that Topcliffe and the killer believed it did. Whether or not she really knew the traitor’s name and had evidence against him was of no import. All that counted was that they believed she had the proof. One man was willing to terrorise her to secure her supposed secret knowledge; another was prepared to kill her to silence her for ever, just as he had silenced her lover.
And now ... now her very life hung by a thread. Shakespeare stood up abruptly. ‘My thanks to you, Arthur. We shall talk again in due course, perhaps after Twelfth Night. In the meantime, I wish you and your goodwife a merry Christmas.’ He spoke quickly and was already moving towards the door. ‘Forgive our over-hasty departure. Come, Boltfoot, we must ride like the furies …’
Chapter 10
From below, the sound of singing and chatter filled the manor house. Most of the servants and family were gathered for the decking of the hall with holly and to drink hot, spiced wine and wassail cider. It was the one time of the year that the earl and countess made merry with their retinue and joined in their feasting. This evening there would be dancing and card games and ballads a-plenty.
Upstairs, in a corner of his chamber beneath the leaded window, Wat Stickley prised up a floorboard and pushed his hand into the dusty space, feeling for the dag that he knew to be there. His hand found the cold metal. He gripped the stock and began to pull it from its hiding place. He could still smell the burnt gunpowder from the shot he had fired two weeks past. He looked at the pistol. Spanish made and paid for with Spanish gold and bearing the royal insignia of King Philip, it had been given to him by Don Bernardino de Mendoza eleven years ago in the week before he was cast out from England.
He weighed the weapon in his right hand, then thrust it back into its hiding place. This was the wrong weapon for the task. The killing must be done quietly. With a blade. He smiled.
He replaced the floorboard and walked over to the small coffer where he kept his possessions. The interior smelt musty and old. He delved deep beneath his pile of shirts and ruffs and hose and felt around until he found his dagger. It was long and sharp, its oiled steel glinting dully in the yellow candlelight.
Now he must seize his moment. It could not wait long. The maid might lose her fear and break her silence at any time. Did she know about him? Had Giovanni told her? It was a chance he could not afford to take.
He slipped from his chamber and walked to Dorcas Catton’s little room, where he knocked at the door.
From within came the high-pitched voice of Agnes Pooley. ‘Who is there?’
‘It is Mr Stickley.’
‘Come in, Mr Stickley, sir. The door is not locked.’
He entered the room. Agnes was standing with her back to the window, her ample frame huddled into a blanket against the cold. Dorcas was sitting on the bed, rocking her baby daughter.
Stickley spoke to Agnes. ‘You must go to the hall and join the festivities. It is not right that you be shut away on such an occasion.’
‘Dorcas needs me.’
‘Do you, Dorcas? Can you not spare your friend for an hour?’
‘You must go, Agnes,’ Dorcas said, not raising her head.
‘In truth, I would like to.’
‘Then come with me, Agnes,’ Stickley said. ‘Come now.’
Agnes looked at the mournful figure on the bed. ‘It is the babe’s first Christmas. Will you not take her to be fussed over?’
‘No. There is no joy for me.’
Stickley went across to the bed and touched Dorcas gently on the shoulder. ‘Dorcas, all of us understand your grief but it would indeed be a blessing if you could find it in your own heart to join our little celebration – on this night of all nights.’ She did not shy away from his touch. The blade felt heavy against his leg.
‘I cannot, Mr Stickley.’
He removed his hand from Dorcas Catton’s shoulder. ‘God be with you, dear Dorcas.’ He joined Agnes at the door and took one last glance back to the woman on the bed. He would join her again with his blade, soon. Very soon.
The going seemed almost impossible. With no light and deep snow and only a poor lantern to show their way, Shakespeare and Boltfoot rode more like snails than furies. Every step the horses took had to be measured, each yard of the way had to be gauged precisely to ensure they were on the highway.
‘God’s blood, Boltfoot, we are going to be too late.’ Even as Shakespeare said the words, he wondered if perhaps they were already too late.
Boltfoot emitted a low grunt and kicked the flanks of his scrawny, unwilling horse. ‘Perhaps you should go on ahead of me, master.’
Shakespeare said nothing. He would be happy to go ahead, but his own horse would go no faster. All they could do was continue to ride as best they could – and pray in silence.
Stickley slid from the hall unseen. On quick feet that belied his age and his apparent frailty, he walked through the house towards Dorcas Catton’s chamber. As he reached the door, the dagger was already in his hand. Without hesitation, he lifted the latch …
‘Good God, Mr Shakespeare, I thought we had seen the last of you!’ The Earl of Oxford stared at the newcomer through hazy, cup-shotten eyes, barring his way.
‘Leave him be, Edward,’ the countess said, pulling her husband to one side. ‘It is a time for charity.’
The earl was clearly drunk and stumbled back into the hall, clasping at a table for support.
His wife sighed. ‘Come in, Mr Shakespeare and we will find some mulled wine for you both.’
‘Where is Dorcas?’
‘Why, in her chamber, I believe.’
‘And Stickley?’
They looked about among the group of merry-makers. There was no sign of him.
‘What is this, Mr Shakespeare? You are frightening me.’
He ignored her and drew his sword. ‘Come, Boltfoot.’
The room fell silent and the revellers moved aside like an outgoing tide as Shakespeare led Boltfoot through the little throng towards the passage at the back of the house that led to Dorcas’s chamber.
As if from nowhere, the earl appeared in front of Shakespeare again, his own sword now drawn. ‘Halt, you damnable puppy! I will not have you striding through my house as though you were the master here.’
‘I am trying to save a woman’s life. Let me pass.’
‘No, Christ damn you, I will not.’
The earl lunged forward and stumbled to the ground. He had been pushed in the back by the octagonal muzzle of Boltfoot’s caliver. Boltfoot stood over him, his gun pointing down, directly at his heart.
‘Keep him there, Boltfoot.’ Shakespeare pushed on. He heard a cry and a cra
shing noise from somewhere above. Feet, heavy on floorboards, the sound of a struggle. He began to run, tripping up the stairwell.
Throwing open the door, he stepped in to the chamber, his sword-tip extended ahead of him. The light was dim, no more than one candle. Two figures were wrestling on the floor, gasping and growling. Two men. Dorcas was standing against a wall clutching her baby.
There was a lurch and twisting of bodies. One of the men threw the other one on to his back. Shakespeare saw that it was the French cook, Curly Marot, on top. He had one hand at Stickley’s throat, the other gripped the steward’s knife-hand at the wrist.
Shakespeare realised that Marot, though strong, would not be able to hold back Stickley’s long dagger. Suddenly the Frenchman’s grip slipped and the blade plunged into his upper arm. Marot cried out. As the dagger came away, ready to stab again, blood leapt out and spat into Stickley’s eye. He wrenched his thin face sideways and pulled back the dagger for the second strike.
The blade hovered. This time its trajectory would be better controlled. It would plunge into Marot’s throat.
Stickley was too slow. Shakespeare was already moving forward. With a low, arcing cut, his sword sliced through the air and struck the wrist beneath Stickley’s hand. The blade was sharp and slashed easily through flesh, tendons and bone. The dagger flew, spinning, across the room, its hilt still gripped by Stickley’s severed hand.
Blood rushed forth from both the men on the floor. Marot fell back, clutching his arm. Stickley groaned and rose to his knees. He looked about wildly and saw a baby’s swaddle band. Grabbing it with his left hand, he wrapped it furiously around the blood-drenched stump where his right hand had been. Wild-eyed, he tried to rise to his feet. For the first time, his eyes met Shakespeare’s.
Shakespeare kicked him backwards with the snow-soaked heel of his boot and the killer sprawled helplessly across the floor.
‘You are going nowhere, Mr Stickley. Nowhere but the gallows. And as for you, Monsieur Marot, I have yet to discover your part in this bloody mayhem—’
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