Holy Spy (29 page)

She laughed. ‘Indeed, I think him one for the fishes, brother. A fine notion. A fine notion, indeed.’

Walsingham rubbed his hands together. A smile crept over his sombre face. ‘This is a clever scheme, John. Well done, sir. Bring Mr Babington to me here on the morrow. In the morning, about eleven o’clock, before Privy Council. I will promise him the earth and all its pleasures.’

‘And Mr Poley?’

‘I shall send for him now. He will be here, fear not.’

They were in Walsingham’s offices at Greenwich Palace. The Principal Secretary had listened intently to the report of Harry Slide’s unmasking by Ballard and the desire of Babington and Salisbury to flee the country and had understood Shakespeare’s plan immediately.

Shakespeare took a breath. Now was the time to press an advantage. ‘In the matter of Mistress Giltspur, Sir Francis . . . might I beg more time? I have not uncovered the truth and I can feel it close to me. There are matters yet to be understood.’

‘Nick Giltspur was a good man – a helpful man. He was much admired by both Her Majesty and Lord Burghley.’

‘In what way was he helpful?’

‘He was rich and powerful. He offered assistance when required.’

‘Can you tell me more?’

‘It would not be diplomatic to say more. Suffice it to say that I would be most pleased if his assassin were brought to the scaffold. And if that is his wife, then so be it. But I want to know the truth.’

‘Then I have more time?’

‘Very little. But yes, if the Babington matter goes as planned, then you have a little more time.’

Shakespeare took his leave of Walsingham and walked through the halls of Greenwich Palace down to the river moorings. He was stepping into a tilt-boat for the journey back to London when he was stopped by an out-of-breath servant.

‘Are you Mr Shakespeare, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me, but Sir Robert Huckerbee sent me after you, for he desires the pleasure of your company. He is in his office adjoining Lord Burghley’s apartments.’

Huckerbee? Shakespeare had barely met the man and had scarce passed half a dozen words with him at the meeting with Walsingham and the other intelligencers. As he followed the servant back into the palace, Shakespeare struggled to think what Huckerbee might want that could not have been communicated to him by Walsingham. As far as he knew, Huckerbee’s only purpose in life was collecting, auditing and dispensing money on behalf of the Treasury.

The office was a world away from the austere chambers of Sir Francis Walsingham; walls hung with rich tapestries from Turkey and the eastern Indies, and cut flowers everywhere, their sweet scent cloying. Huckerbee had settles laden with cushions and a leaded window, thrown open to afford a view of the river. Was that how he had seen Shakespeare? Had he been watching for him, or had it been mere chance that he was spotted?

Huckerbee was sitting behind a large desk. He looked a great deal cooler than he had last time Shakespeare saw him, on the tennis court at Giltspur House. Not something to be mentioned, perhaps. He curled his smooth fingers to beckon Shakespeare forward into the room. Yet again, Shakespeare found himself irritated by the man’s haughty bearing. Was it his knighthood that made him assume superiority over his visitor, or something in his upbringing? To a man of modest birth, such entitlement was like a stray eyelash caught in the eye.

‘Take a seat, Mr Shakespeare. I hope you will allow me to pour you a goblet of Aquitaine brandy.’ Huckerbee reached for an ornate flagon.

‘No thank you, Sir Robert.’ Shakespeare remained standing.

Huckerbee smiled and poured himself one. ‘I won’t keep you, for I know you are a busy man, but I wished to talk with you about this.’ He put down the flagon and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘This is a bill of account from the misses Smith, known to you and employed by you as night-workers, I believe.’

‘They are whores, Sir Robert. Uncommon whores, but whores all the same.’

‘Quite, but it is not a word Her Majesty likes to be used about her palaces. I take it you have seen the invoice?’

‘I have seen no bills of account from the Smith sisters. I had believed they would be sending their reckonings directly to Mr Phelippes.’

‘No, that is not so in this case. As you know, he is back and forth between London and Chartley conjuring sense out of the Scots Queen’s ciphers. I am told that you are now the man in charge of these matters and therefore it follows that you take responsibility for authorising the payment, which I am required to counter-sign.’ He handed the paper across to Shakespeare. ‘Have I been misled, sir?’

Shakespeare took the paper.
To Beth and Eliza Smith, for services rendered, twenty sovereigns, gold. As requisitioned and agreed by Mr John Shakespeare, gent.
It was written in a fine sloping hand on good quality paper, dated and signed by both sisters. Twenty sovereigns was a vast amount; more than a skilled artisan could earn in two years.

‘I had no notion, Sir Robert.’ He looked up at Huckerbee and met his condescending gaze. ‘I knew they were costly, but they assured me that they always dealt with Thomas Phelippes and Mr Secretary, and that the price was always happily agreed by them.’ He placed the paper back on Huckerbee’s desk.

‘And you believed them, sir? You took the word of two notorious night-workers . . .
whores
? I cannot believe Mr Secretary has ever agreed such a sum. It cannot be justified.’ Huckerbee’s languorous front had been dropped.

Shakespeare stood his ground. ‘We needed their services. Mr Secretary told me to do what was necessary to keep Gilbert Gifford from taking flight. If the costs are excessive, then I shall answer to my master and if necessary I will order the sisters to re-submit their invoice. But that will be a matter for Sir Francis. Is that all? I have work to do.’ He turned to go.

‘Wait, damn you, I will not be brushed off.’

All pretence of cool urbanity was gone like a blast of wind on a still day. Shakespeare turned back. ‘Do you think to talk to me so? You are not my master.’

‘Indeed, I
am
your master in this, Shakespeare, for I control the purse that is paying for this ambitious scheme of the Principal Secretary. The Queen herself has me before her almost every day demanding closer control of Treasury funds – so
you
will hear me.’ Shakespeare said nothing, but waited. ‘Mr Shakespeare, am I not making myself clear?’ ‘If you have something to say, say it, for I have no time for such trifling matters.’

‘Trifling, you say? No time? I thought you had all the time in the world, pursuing your own interests around town, and all at the expense of the Treasury. I have heard it said, too, that you have been making use of the whores’ services yourself. Perhaps that is why their price is so outrageous. Would Mr Secretary like to hear that you are plundering Her Majesty’s coffers to pay for your peccadilloes?’

‘What exactly are you saying?’

‘You are misusing Treasury funds. There is an ugly word for it: embezzlement.’

‘That is slander, Huckerbee. You rave like a Bedlam fool.’ Shakespeare was angry now, but his ire was underlaid by anxiety. What exactly did Huckerbee think he knew – and who had been talking to him? Was the Queen herself really involved in this? He sniffed the air. Huckerbee kept his sumptuous display of roses in large urns about the room, but they could not conceal the stink of overflowing middens that was beginning to make this palace uninhabitable; the sooner the court moved on to the fresh air of Richmond, the better. But there was more than the stench of human waste in this room, there was the stink of double dealing, too.

‘I will be sending a report to Mr Secretary. You have not heard the last of this, Shakespeare.’

He should have walked out then, but he had to defend himself, even though he had nothing to hide. ‘Someone has been putting lies about. Who have you been talking to?’

‘My information is sound enough. You spend my money on your own pursuits.’

‘
Your
money?’

‘The money I dispense. Do not quibble with me, sir. I suggest you restrict yourself to government work or you will pay a heavy price.’

‘Mr Secretary will not be gulled by you. He knows my honesty. And if I am engaged in any other matters, he knows all about them, for I keep no secrets from him.’ Even as he spoke the words, he wished he had kept his counsel; he was defending himself like a schoolboy in front of an overbearing master. He had handed the advantage to Huckerbee.

The comptroller sat back in his chair. ‘Then all will be well for you, won’t it, Shakespeare?’ His voice had regained its composure. ‘If Mr Secretary is happy that you have been going about your own business in his time, then who am I to gainsay him? And if he is content that you use official funds for the swiving of a pair of costly whores, then so be it. But I will not be party to it.’

There was a knock at his door.

‘Come in,’ he said.

A bluecoat entered and bowed low. ‘My lord Burghley requests your presence, Sir Robert.’

‘Tell him I will be with him presently. A minute, no more.’ He waved an elegant hand at Shakespeare. ‘Go, sir. Take your boat.’ He screwed up the Smith sisters’ invoice and flung it at Shakespeare. ‘And take that with you, for I will not sign it off.’

Chapter 25

Richard Young, magistrate of London, circled the red-headed man on the stool. All the while he looked at his captive with a steady gaze. Had he been a cat and his prey a mouse, he would surely have batted it with a paw, claws extended.

Osric Redd was bound tight. His legs were secured at the ankles and his hands were tied behind his back. He was in the centre of the parlour in the farm that had always been his home and he had no idea what was going on, who these men were or what they might want from him. They kept asking the same question.

‘Where is she, Mr Redd?’

‘I told you. I don’t know. Why would I know?’

‘Because she was here.’

‘Aye, she was here. You asked me and I told you. But I told you, too, that she was gone, and so she is. I need to go to my sheep.’

Young approached Osric and stooped even more than usual so that he might meet his prisoner eye to eye. ‘I will break you asunder if you say the word
sheep
one more time, Mr Redd.’ Young was a poor-looking creature, his lips dry and downcast from a life lived without humour. He was not strong, but he did not need to be when he had a band of six men with him to do the brutish work of taking and holding men for questioning.

Without warning, Young pushed the bound man full on the chest. The stool toppled backwards and Osric fell with it, his head cracking on the dirt floor with a hideous thud. His chin smacked forward into his chest. Blood began to pour from his mouth.

‘Pull him up,’ Young ordered. ‘Wipe the dog’s dirty mouth.’

Two men bent forward and pulled the injured man and his stool back upright. His head lolled to the side and his eyes were closed. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose onto his shepherd’s smock. He immediately fell to the floor again, unable to keep his balance.

‘I think he’s dead, Mr Young.’

‘He’s not dead. I only gave him a push to jog his memory and loosen his peasant tongue. Give him water and a clip around the head, that’ll wake him.’

The man shrugged and and wandered off. Justice Young reached into his pocket and pulled out a kerchief, then thought better of it and put it back. Instead, he pulled out his dagger and cut a large strip of cloth from Osric’s woollen smock. He scraped the cloth across the injured man’s blood-soaked face. The blood smeared, but kept dripping.

‘Dirty dog. Look at him.’

One of his men returned carrying a wooden pail. ‘I found this outside, Mr Young. I wouldn’t drink it, though. They do say the plague is spread in water, so I won’t drink it for no man.’

‘It’s not for drinking, you dolt.’ Young snatched the pail and upended it over Osric’s head.

As the water washed down over him, Osric grunted and then opened his mouth and gasped.

‘There you are. Told you there was nothing wrong with the dirty dog, God damn him to hell.’