Holy Spy (33 page)

‘I would.’

‘Then I must find a way. In the meantime, let us to London, for I know you have had a most trying morning. We must look after you well, Mr Babington, for all our hopes rest on these fine shoulders of yours.’

Chapter 28

Walsingham stroked his coarse dark beard in thought. ‘I wonder whether I pushed him too hard. Do you think he might take fright and flee, John?’ Shakespeare shrugged non-committally. ‘That all depends on Robin Poley.’

‘He is slippery, is he not? I would not trust him.’

‘Not to all men’s taste, certainly. But those who are drawn to him cannot resist him. Mr Babington’s eyes lit like a beacon at the sight of Poley. Am I permitted to know more of his background?’

‘Robin? He was born a gentleman but penniless and had to go up to Cambridge as a Clare’s sizar, a time he clearly resents, waiting on his betters. He claims kinship to the Blounts by marriage and I know from Tom Phelippes that he once carried letters to the Catholic exiles in Paris on behalf of the damnable Christopher Blount. Blount even offered him money to kill my lord of Leicester. That is how far the Catholics trust him.’

‘But not all of them.’

‘No. But we only need the one – Mr Babington. And you say he is smitten.’

Shakespeare was silent.

‘Once again I see that you are squeamish, John.’

‘Perhaps my conscience is too fine. But these men are going to the scaffold and I struggle with their guilt. I know that Ballard and Savage are assassins and must be put down; I understand that well enough. But for the others, like the vain Babington, sometimes it seems to me that they are happily imbibing a summer cordial of youthful indiscretion, not knowing the poison it contains.’

‘They are not children. I grant you they are fools – but not such fools that they are unaware of the line between idle talk and treason.These men crossed that line long ago. Do you not think that I too have a conscience? I promise you this: if Babington balks at the final hurdle, I will allow him to slip away to exile. I will not have innocent blood on my hands.’

Shakespeare nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Remember, John, this is war. On the eve of battle, you may dine with your enemy in his camp. You may drink with him and enjoy his company. But come morning, you must kill him, for if you do not, he will surely kill you.’

Shakespeare knew it to be true. It was, indeed, the nature of war, and this was war. England’s enemies had made that plain enough.

‘And so, let us proceed. When you see Poley next tell him I want Babington to return to me in three days’ time. He is to bring him to me at Barn Elms. Soon after that, I will have Mary’s letter delivered to him. His reply – if he writes one – will tell us all we need to know.’

Shakespeare bowed and walked down to the quay to hail a boat for London. Gilbert Gifford should be waiting for him at Seething Lane, and he had a plan to put to him; the exposing of Harry Slide had left a dangerous hole in their surveillance of Ballard. He needed to take matters into his own hands, to push forward the plans of the conspirators.

As he was stepping into his craft, something made Shakespeare turn back and look up. At a leaded window, he saw the face of Sir Robert Huckerbee. Their eyes locked for a second, and then Huckerbee moved away.

One thing puzzled him: if Sir Robert Huckerbee had reported his so-called misuse of Treasury funds to Walsingham, as threatened, why had Sir Francis made no mention of it? And what was it about Huckerbee that enraged him so?

As Shakespeare walked up Seething Lane he saw six or seven men gathered outside his house. They were standing beside a handcart, laughing. One of them spotted him and pointed, then they all looked his way.

He walked on without breaking his stride, but jolted to a halt as he came within fifteen yards of the men, for he saw that their leader was Richard Young, magistrate of London. Hanging loose from the back of the cart was an arm, and it was attached to a body which had all the appearances of being lifeless.

Shakespeare’s heart stopped. Boltfoot. They had brought him the dead body of Boltfoot Cooper. For reasons which he did not understand, his hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. He breathed deeply and tried to maintain his composure. ‘What is this, Mr Young?’

‘I have a corpse, dragged not an hour since from the river by the bridge. It was brought to my attention as Justice of the Peace, for it is feared some foul play has been used.’

‘Why have you brought it here? Who is it?’

‘I believe it is a friend to you and your whore. Take a look, see if you recognise him.’

Shakespeare removed his hand from his sword and walked forward. The body in the cart lay on its front. His first close look told him it was not Boltfoot, but he did know the dead man. From the red of the lank hair and the shape and size and clothing of the body, he was almost certain that it was Oswald Redd. Shakespeare grasped the hair and pulled back the head to look at the face. Yes, it was Redd. There was no blood, obviously washed away by the waters of the Thames, but a large indentation in the back of the head was clearly visible. He lowered the head to the wooden boards of the cart.

‘Why have you brought him here?’

‘To see your reaction. You can tell a murderer by his eyes.’

‘Really?’ Shakespeare inclined his head. ‘So you must think he was murdered. What evidence do you have, Mr Young?’

‘It is plain to see that he was clubbed across the head. And you are my chief suspect, Shakespeare.’

‘Why would I kill Oswald Redd?’

‘That is for me to discover. Perhaps a falling-out of felons? Perhaps you fought over the whore’s dirty favours. Don’t think I am unaware that you two have been conspiring together to conceal the whereabouts of the notorious murderess Katherine Giltspur.’

‘You gibber, Young. You know not what you say.’

‘I know more than you think. I have been to a farm at Chigwell, not far from London, as have you. And I know what you did there. You took her away into another place of hiding and you burnt her dress. Did you believe a change of clothes would disguise the bitch?’

Shakespeare looked Young straight in the eye and did not attempt to conceal his contempt. ‘Do you think it befits a man of supposed magisterial dignity to be wheeling a corpse about the streets of London? Take this body to the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s. Mr Peace will tell us all we need to know.’

‘I have more of a mind to take you to Newgate and hold you there for murder and for harbouring a murderer.’

‘Try it. Arrest me if you wish to feel the wrath of Mr Secretary. He will have you stripped of your office by day’s end if you interfere with me. You are a paltry maggot of a man,

Young. Now do as I say – take this corpse to Mr Peace.’

‘That sodomite necromancer? He knows nothing.’

Shakespeare grasped Young by the throat. As he did so, the six deputies moved towards him with menace, but did not attempt to drag him off. The words
Mr Secretary
clearly carried more weight than the authority enjoyed by Justice Young. ‘Just do as I say, Young, do your duty under the law. Or I pledge there will be consequences for you.’ He pushed Young and watched as he gasped for breath and stumbled into a pile of dung. Then Shakespeare turned away and walked through the men.

As he opened his front door Shakespeare glanced back to glimpse a scowl on the face of Justice Richard Young; the scowl of a man with a costly boot coated in steaming horseshit.

Boltfoot was brought up from the hold as the ship reached the wide estuary of the Thames. On deck the stink of fish was greatly reduced by the stiff breeze that billowed the sails above him. He looked to starboard and saw, ahead of him, the squat buildings and smoking chimneys of Gravesend, on the southern shore of the river. The town’s quays were full of ships, moored two or three deep, their masts and skeletal rigging singing in the wind. It was a town he knew, a town of chandlers and sail-lofts, taprooms and taverns, whorehouses and gaming rooms. If only he could land there now and catch the long ferry back to London.

His heart sank as the ship cut through the choppy waves and made no attempt to veer towards port, instead carrying on eastward towards the North Sea. His last hope of getting ashore had gone. He looked to larboard and astern and saw the other vessels in the flotilla, all under sail and maintaining good progress with the ebb tide.

‘Say farewell to England, Mr Cooper. You won’t see her again until Christmas.’

‘I’d make it worth your while if you could somehow get me ashore, Mr Turnmill.’

‘You know there’s no chance of that.’

‘At least tell me what ship this is. Who is her captain?’

‘You’re aboard the
Giltspur Falcon
and the captain is a gentleman out of Hamburg, name of Bootmann. Reinhard Bootmann.’

‘Giltspur? Is this a Giltspur ship?’ Was it mere coincidence that he should have been pressed into service aboard a Giltspur ship?

‘Aye, one of their finest and newest. Mostly they have smacks and ketches for the North Sea, but they have bought into these race-built galleons for the long runs to Iceland and the Grand Banks. She’ll be ready to carry cannon if ever called on. And if any ship in the flotilla can get to the Grand Banks and back, the
Falcon
is the one. But they’re all fair enough – as is Herr Bootmann. I’ve sailed with him ten years and he is a fine navigator and taker of fish. You’ll have a good share of the catch on the
Giltspur Falcon
.’

‘So what will happen now that Mr Giltspur is dead and gone?’

‘That’s the fear for all of us. His nephew knows nothing of fish nor ships and cares less. Who knows what will become of the fleets?’

‘And what do men say about the killing and the guilt or innocence of his widow?’

Turnmill laughed. ‘She’s as guilty as a bushy-tailed vixen with a fowl in her mouth.’

There had to be a way off this ship.
Had to be.
He tried again. ‘I have little money, Mr Turnmill. But I would give it all to you, with the promise of more, if you could but find a way for me to talk with the captain.’

‘Herr Bootmann won’t let you go. He needs you, for there is no other cooper aboard and only two others in the fleet. Had he not been offered your services, the whole enterprise might well have been delayed.’

Boltfoot dug into his purse and pulled out the coins. ‘Here. Take it. Try, I beg of you. This is not just my life. There is more at stake here – much more.’

As he spoke, a man was descending the companionway from the poop.

Turnmill cupped his hand and spoke into Boltfoot’s ear. ‘That’s the ship’s master, Maywether. Don’t cross him.’

Boltfoot looked up and realised his situation was not improving. He knew Maywether, all right. How in God’s name had a dirty, scheming rogue like Godfrey Maywether ever ended up as a ship’s master?

Maywether looked at Boltfoot coldly, then turned to Turnmill. ‘Mr Turnmill, stop your damned idling. Get this man to work.’

Gilbert Gifford was in the anteroom, smoking a pipe. He smirked as Shakespeare came in, having clearly seen the confrontation between Shakespeare and Justice Young from the front window.

‘Mr Gifford.’ Shakespeare looked at the pink pigling with a mixture of relief and displeasure. ‘I trust I have not kept you waiting too long.’

‘An hour, maybe two. I thought to enjoy the company of your young housemaid, but she scuttled away to her chamber.’

‘You remember my warning with regard to her.’

‘What little faith you have in me!’

‘You forget, I know a great deal about your appetites, Mr Gifford. I trust Jane at least served you some refreshment?’

‘Fear not. I have wit enough to find your casks. Now then, is it time to deliver the letter?’

‘Soon.’

He exhaled loudly to demonstrate his frustration. ‘When exactly? I cannot wait in London for ever.’

‘When Mr Secretary decides. It is up to him, no one else. In the meantime, I have another task for you.’