Holy Spy (18 page)

‘And so you see, nothing is as it seems. The reason I am here this evening, Mr Tort, is to ask you to help me make the acquaintance of Arthur Giltspur, the dead man’s nephew. For if Kat did not do it, then we must find someone else who would have benefited from Nick Giltspur’s death and the execution of his widow. So far the only name I have is Arthur’s, which I heard from Oswald Redd.’

‘I cannot believe Arthur would do such a thing. He is a fine young man.’

‘Then you know him?’

‘Well, yes, for he was often at Aldermanbury when I had dealings with his uncle.’

‘Then arrange a meeting for me as soon as possible. The steward of the house has been most obstructive.’

‘Sorbus? Yes, he can be a little too protective of his domain. I will do what I can. And Mr Shakespeare, there is one other thing I should tell you.’

‘Yes?’

‘When Justice Young was questioning me, he mentioned your name.’

Somehow Shakespeare was not surprised, and yet he was angry. ‘Indeed? You think to tell me this now? Why did you not say aught when I arrived?’

‘I was unsure how you would react.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked me if I knew you. I could not think what to reply, so I confessed that I did.’

‘
Confessed
? As yet, it is not a crime to know me. What more did Young say? Did he mention why he was interested in me?’

‘He said that you and Katherine had . . . lived together. He did not express it in quite such decorous terms. He said that you must know where the
murderous trug
– his words – was hiding.’

Shakespeare snorted. Of course, it had been common knowledge among his neighbours and those he worked with in Walsingham’s employment that he had lived with Kat as man and wife for two years or more. But how had that information come to Richard Young’s attention? Shakespeare went through all those with whom he worked and wondered whether any of them might have informed Young. Mills? Gregory? Scudamore? Would any of them have gone out of their way to proffer such information? And if so, why?

What was certain was that he must now assume he was being followed wherever he went. He had probably been trailed here to Fetter Lane. In which case, if he could arrange a further meeting with Kat he would have to go to great lengths to ensure he lost his pursuers.

He stood up and strode towards the door. ‘As soon as possible, Mr Tort. I rather think Mr Arthur Giltspur might offer some insights to this wretched tale.’

‘I doubt it, but I will do what I can.’

He pushed open the front door and was about to step out into the night but stopped. He was face to face with Dominic de Warre . . .

Chapter 16

De Warre took a step backwards and, without thinking, affected an insincere smile, the sort men and women produce as a courtesy when confronted close up with a stranger. But then he must have realised that he recognised the face of the man opening the door, for his brow furrowed in surprise and puzzlement. Shakespeare rather imagined that his own expressions must be going through the same rapid alterations.

Why would Dominic de Warre, the young companion of Goodfellow Savage, be here at the home of Severin Tort?

‘Mr de Warre, what an extraordinary surprise.’

‘Likewise, Mr Shakespeare. Well met, sir. But why, pray, are you here?’

‘I might ask the same question of you. I was visiting my friend Mr Tort. He is helping me with a legal difficulty.’

‘Indeed? I had no idea you were acquainted. Severin Tort is the man I must call my stepfather, though it pains me so to do.’

Shakespeare was gathering his recollections of this young man from their meeting at Mane’s; fervent, indiscreet, dangerous were the three words that first came to mind. But he merely spoke a platitude. ‘Ah, so he is the man who advised you against a career in the law.’
And the man so concerned by your wild and untamed mouth.

‘The very same. And I shrug my shoulder and obey him like a dutiful stepson. Tell me, are you leaving or staying? Perhaps you are off to acquire a pistol to shoot one of the tyrants. Oh, I had quite forgot – you work for them, don’t you.’

Was he speaking in jest or deadly seriousness? Dominic de Warre’s young face was all innocence, but the rashness with which he spoke was terrifying. Such indiscretion in these dark days could cost any man his life, even one this young.

‘Your tongue will cost us all our heads.’

De Warre laughed. ‘Are you afraid, sir?’

‘I have no particular wish to die before my time, Mr de Warre.’

‘Then I will bid you farewell – and safekeeping.’ The young man touched his cap, smiled knowingly, and entered the house.

Shakespeare let him go. Questions buzzed around his head like bees about thyme, but they would have to wait. He looked along the street. It was about eight o’clock and still daylight. The street was not busy; in the warmth of the summer’s evening a group of children played with wooden swords and bows; a few gossips standing with their arms crossed about their motherly breasts talked of the day’s news; workmen strode home.

Among them, he could detect nobody that looked like a watcher. And yet he was certain that somewhere there was one.

He rode west along Fleet Street, past Temple Bar and into the Strand. After two hundred yards, he turned northwards into Little Drury Lane, where he reined in. The narrow street was deserted and he had a good view in both directions. He waited a few minutes until he was as certain as he could be that he was not followed, then carried on northwards until he joined Drury Lane itself.

Tugging on the reins, he arrowed north through a farm gate and rode along a bridle path across Lincoln’s Inn Fields, constantly looking over his shoulder. A few cows looked back at him and a cowherd sitting on a tree stump eating his bread watched him with disinterest. At Holborn, he took another farm track past Gray’s Inn and then on towards Clerkenwell. Every so often he stopped, to be sure that he was not pursued. North of Finsbury Court, he joined the thoroughfare of Hog Lane and rode slowly towards its junction with Curtain Close.

It was a perfect summer’s evening and it would be light for at least another hour. The breeze was so slight that the sails of the Finsbury windmills scarcely had breath to turn. Despite the worries crowding in, he could not but think how glorious this English countryside looked on such a day. The prospect that men could conspire to break this peace and tranquillity, to slay the Queen and invite in a foreign power, was an abomination.

His horse snorted and pawed at the dusty earth. Shakespeare dismounted and allowed it to drink from a small pond, then tethered it to a tree and continued the last fifty yards on foot. He pulled his cap down low over his forehead as he walked past Oswald Redd’s house and gazed in through the ground-floor window, as any passer-by might do. He could see that Redd was at his workbench. There was no sign of Kat.

Twenty yards further on, in the lee of the Curtain playhouse, Shakespeare took a place against the wall of the tavern. The whole dusty street was alive with men enjoying a beer or cider in the evening sunshine at the end of their day’s labours. He ordered a tankard of small ale from a potboy, then drank thirstily, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on the entrance to Oswald Redd’s house.

He realised this could be a wasted effort, that Redd might simply close his shutters when the light went and retire to his bed for the night. But he didn’t think so. If Redd knew where Kat was, he was certain to go to her; there was a compulsion in him that would oblige him to see her whatever the risks, and to assist her. It was the same impulse that made Severin Tort put himself in harm’s way, and John Shakespeare too – though it pained him to admit it to himself. She had that effect on men, and she used it.

Redd emerged from his house just as dusk settled across the rooftops of Shoreditch. He turned left and walked at a steady pace in the direction of the playhouse. Shakespeare shrank back behind a group of drinkers and observed. Redd continued on past the tavern, going northwards, seemingly oblivious of danger, unaware that he might be stalked, for he did not look around.

Shakespeare waited a few moments, then followed at a distance of thirty or forty yards. Halfway along the lane, he slowed down. He was not alone. Another man, in vagabond rags, was ahead of him, on the other side of the narrow street, also following Redd.

The lane was crowded with playgoers, players, drinkers, outlaws and whores, all looking for amusement to stretch the balmy evening as far as they could, and that made it easier to follow Redd and the other pursuer, a small, bent man with a shining pate, stepping cautiously beneath the jettied overhangs to make himself less noticeable.

This man presented a major problem. If Redd was on his way to see Kat, then her whereabouts would be discovered by the pursuer, who would either arrest her there and then at the point of his sword, or report back to Justice Young. Shakespeare could not allow either eventuality to happen. He had to act, and fast.

The pursuer might be wearing rough clothes, but he was good at his job, for no man untrained in such matters would note him – and certainly not Oswald Redd, who clearly had no notion that he was being tailed.

Shakespeare’s hand went to his belt to grip the hilt of his poniard. No, he also had the bollock-dagger that had been used to murder Nicholas Giltspur. With its nine-inch blade, it was a great deal more menacing than the poniard. He drew the sharp-honed weapon, concealing its long blade alongside his sleeve, and quickened his pace.

Ahead of them, Redd was turning right on a track past the Curtain and the Theatre, which Shakespeare knew would lead him into the depths of Shoreditch with its hovels and stews.

Before the turning, there was some sort of cut-through, a narrow alley scarce wide enough to accommodate a horse and certainly not a wagon or cart. This was the moment to move. Shakespeare was at the stalker’s heel. He tapped his shoulder, causing him to swivel in alarm. But before the man’s hand could reach his dagger, Shakespeare’s blade was at his throat.

‘Draw your dagger and you will die.’ He rasped the words as he grappled with the pursuer. His left arm went around the shoulders of the man – who was almost a foot shorter than Shakespeare – and he wrenched hard, pulling him away from the thoroughfare into the passageway.

The man did not scream out, but he was struggling, fighting hard. Though he was a strong man for his size, Shakespeare was too powerful and forced him to the ground, the tip of the dagger still at his exposed throat. He held him down with a knee on his chest, then relieved him of his short-sword and knife.

‘Get off me!’

Shakespeare clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and put his own lips very close to his ear. ‘Do as I command,’ he ordered, ‘and you may yet live.’ He removed his hand from the man’s mouth, ready to clamp it again instantly if he shouted out or screamed.

‘I have no coin. Who are you?’

Shakespeare put a finger to his lips. ‘Say nothing. Just listen when I speak.’

The man had a length of cord about his waist in place of a belt. Transferring his knife to his left hand, Shakespeare used his right hand to unknot the thin rope and tug it free of his waist. He then ordered the man to turn onto his belly.

‘No.’

Shakespeare withdrew his knee from the man’s chest, stabbed the bollock-dagger into the ground then flipped the man over. It was as easy as turning a sick sheep. He pulled back the hands and arms and with a few deft movements tied them together hard, then bound his hands to his feet.

‘I do not have much time, so tell me now: who are you working for?’

‘I tell you this, he’ll do for you.’

‘Who? Young?’

The man said no more, merely grunted with pain as Shakespeare wrenched the knots tighter. There was no time for interrogation; he had to get away after Oswald Redd. He rose to his feet.

‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said.

An old man opened his front door and looked on the scene. ‘What’s this?’ he said, pushing out his chest as though remembering bouts from his youth.

‘Cutpurse,’ Shakespeare said. He picked up the bound man’s knife and short-sword and handed them to the householder. ‘Keep him at your mercy with those while I seek the constable. Do not listen to his stories for I know this felon to be a liar.’ He then nodded to the bewildered old man and began to run, trying to follow the route that he believed Redd must have taken.