Holy Spy (41 page)

‘Hence the beer and cakes, by way of celebration.’

‘Has Mr Secretary seen it yet?’

‘I have sent him word. He sent a message back that I should decode it first then bring it.’

‘Show me.’

Shakespeare took the deciphered letter. It was covered in blotches of ink and occasional crossings-out, but it was easy to read and understand. He grasped his beer and drank it halfway down in one draught. The letter was a lighted taper at the edge of a trail of black powder.

‘Is this all true?’

‘All true.’

‘Surely these are your words, Mr Gifford – you have merely counterfeited his writing.’

‘Not so. They are all Mr Babington’s own words – and encoded in his own fair hand. We have him, Mr Shakespeare. We have him as close-tied as a hog at the slaughter. And soon we shall have her.’

The letter began,
Most mighty, most excellent, my dread sovereign Lady and Queen, unto whom I owe all fidelity and obedience.
That alone would be enough to secure a death warrant for treason. But there was much more. The letter spoke of invasion plans, ports of entry, parties of rebels to welcome the invaders ashore, the deliverance of Mary from captivity and, most deadly of all, ‘the dispatch of the usurping competitor’.

Shakespeare read the words aghast. So vain, lazy Babington had poison in his heart after all. Walsingham had been right. He even spoke of sending ten gentlemen with a hundred followers to free Mary – and of having six ‘noble gentlemen, all my private friends’ prepared to kill Elizabeth.

And there was a postscript for Mary’s secretary, Gilbert Curl, begging information about Robin Poley.

Shakespeare handed the letter back to Phelippes. ‘God in holy heaven, sir. I think we had best take this to Mr Secretary without delay.’

‘Then you are impressed, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘I confess I had not seen such darkness in Babington.’

‘Then let us go now. You, Mr Gifford, will stay here until I return – and keep your pink little fingers away from my bride. All being well, you and I will be required to ride, separately, for Chartley this night.’

Shakespeare rose from the bench. How would the letter be received at Chartley, he wondered. Would Mary take the bait and reply in kind; or would she have the sense to simply throw Babington’s letter in the fire?

Chapter 35

‘Mr Scudamore, you will begin to clear the gaols. We must make space for many men.’ Sir Francis Walsingham was in businesslike mood. Ebullience could wait until they had the head of Mary Stuart on the block, but no one here in this small room in Greenwich Palace doubted that they were halfway there. All that was needed now was for the Queen of Scots to take the bait; Walsingham was certain she would do so. He had been studying her character these eighteen years and believed he knew her as well as any man.

‘Yes, Mr Secretary. How—’

‘Those awaiting hanging, dispatch. Send other priests to Wisbech, where they may rot. Free those petty criminals and recusants who are no danger to the commonwealth.’ He handed a sheet of paper with names on it to his clerk. Shakespeare saw the macabre heading:
Prisoners to be disposed of
. Walsingham continued his instructions. ‘Double the watch on the ports. It is said two Jesuits have arrived: Garnett and Southwell.’ He turned to Francis Mills. ‘Frank, you will find them and apprehend them.’

The atmosphere at this meeting was very different from that of the gathering when plans were first mooted. Now, at last, the impossible seemed almost probable. And imminent.

Phelippes ran a hand through his lank yellow hair and continually pushed his small round metal-rimmed glasses up along his slippery nose. It seemed to Shakespeare that he might dance for joy.

‘And you, Tom,’ Walsingham continued, jutting his beard in the direction of Phelippes. ‘Return home to Leadenhall Market with the letter and apprise Mr Gifford of our plans. You are both to ride for Chartley, but separately. Offer him whatever he wants, for I still expect him to slip away from our grasp. Let him know that he is in line for a magnificent pension from the Treasury. Threaten him, too – remind him that my reach is long if he should let us down.’

‘And the letter?’

‘You will retain possession for the duration of the journey. Only when you are in the county of Stafford will you pass it to him and he will take it direct to the brewer at Burton. He will brook no procrastination from the brewer. It must go in with the next delivery of beer, though he demand twice his usual fee. Threaten him, if need be. Go now.’

Phelippes puffed up his slender chest, bowed, threw sly, triumphant glances at all those present, then slid from the room.

Walsingham turned back to Mills. ‘Frank, I wish certain Catholic houses entered and disturbed. The Vaux house, Arundel in the Strand. That old fool Swithun Wells. The Copleys at Gatton. Hunt for priests on the pretext of looking for Southwell and Garnett. Use the services of Mr Topcliffe and Justice Young. Have them raise a standing squadron of pursuivants, fifty strong. I want them seen around London, their escutcheons and weapons visible and bold. But make sure they avoid the immediate families of the Pope’s White Sons.’

Shakespeare understood his reasoning. He wished to sow fear and confusion in the ranks of the conspirators. The committed hardliners would react to the provocation of night raids by bringing forward their plans for insurrection and firming their resolve. Those who vacillated or wished no part in the plot would melt away to their country estates and could be forgotten.

‘John . . .’

‘Mr Secretary?’

‘These Pope’s White Sons. Do they still trust you?’

‘I know not. Someone tried to shoot me last night outside my house.’

‘You look well enough.’

‘I was saved by the staff of our ward watch.’

‘Then be wary. I would rather you stayed alive for the present. Feed Babington little nuggets. Let him believe you to be indiscreet and on his side. Keep company with Savage and the others. Do not be deflected from your purpose. Their conspiracy must not decay on the vine, but nor must it come to fruition. Savage must not get anywhere near Her Majesty. The court moves soon to Richmond where she will walk in the gardens unaccompanied. I will post guards where I may, but she will never be safe there.’

‘Can the move not be delayed?’

‘Have you no sense of smell, John? It is high summer and this palace has become a stinking jakes. We have already been here far too long. She harangues the Lord Chamberlain every day to bring forward the move, not delay it. We leave by week’s end.’

‘What of Robin Poley?’

‘He has done well, has he not? Two days ago, Anthony Babington had set his heart on a life of quiet contemplation and poverty in a monastery. Now he is raising a hundred men to attack Chartley. This is Robin Poley’s influence.’

Perhaps, thought Shakespeare. It had been his own suggestion that brought Poley into the intrigue in the first place. And yet he was inclined to believe that Gilbert Gifford had the greater influence. It was almost as if he had taken the damning letter to Babington fully written and had merely said, ‘Make your mark here.’ But such a thing would be unthinkable. Would it not?

As he passed through the elegant hall that faced the river, Shakespeare was taken aback to see Arthur Giltspur, his tennis racket slung over his shoulder, deep in conversation. Yet why should he be surprised to see him here? He was a wealthy young man and had friends among the nobility, so of course he would come to court. And from his racket and attire of loose chemise and soft shoes he had clearly been playing a set or two. Perhaps he had finally managed to get his match against the dashing young Earl of Essex. Now that would be a contest to see.

It seemed a good time to talk to him about the gold missing from the family coffers. It was possible he had some ideas, however vague. Perhaps, too, he had heard of the disappearing lady’s maid Abigail and her connection to the murderer Will Cane. Shakespeare turned and began to walk in his direction and almost immediately stopped dead in his tracks.

The man Arthur Giltspur was talking with was Sir Robert Huckerbee, who was also dressed in loose-fitting clothes suitable for tennis.

Shakespeare quickly turned away, certain he had not been seen by them. He rounded a corner, leant against a wall and breathed in deeply. His heart was pounding, as though he had stumbled on something shameful. What was he thinking? Why had he avoided them? Why had he not wished them to see him?

He pushed away from the wall, held back his shoulders and strolled once more into the hall. Arthur Giltspur was alone now and walking away. Shakespeare hastened after him and tapped him on the shoulder.

Giltspur turned at the touch and a smile lit up his handsome face. ‘Why, Mr Shakespeare, what a pleasure, sir.’

‘Good day, Mr Giltspur. I saw you deep in conversation with Sir Robert Huckerbee and did not wish to intrude.’

‘Hah! He still believes he can beat me, poor fool. No, I shouldn’t speak so, Sir Robert is not a bad tennis player. In truth he taught me the game, but the novice now outstrips the master, which vexes him greatly.’ He laughed and clapped a hand around Shakespeare’s shoulder. ‘Come, sir, let us find a beer, for after my exertions I have a thirst to quench – and you can entertain me.’

Shakespeare was about to decline the offer, but instead he nodded. ‘Yes, I will, Mr Giltspur.’

Giltspur raised a hand and a footman hurried over. ‘A pitcher of beer and a pair of blackjacks. We’ll take it outside by the river.’

The footman bowed low and backed away. ‘Cover your nose, Mr Shakespeare and let us find a spot beside the Thames and watch the ships glide by.’

‘Mr Giltspur, did you know your grandmother summoned me?’

Giltspur lounged back on his elbows, his lean legs swinging over the edge of wharf. ‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare, I did. I am not such a sybarite that the whole world passes me by. Frankly, I am shocked and appalled. Did Katherine really rob us?’

Shakespeare took a deep draught of his beer, which was too warm to be truly refreshing. He looked out across the Thames, which here was turbid and dark. He watched as a bark, heavy-laden and wallowing, drifted upriver on the rising tide, its sails full with the blustery wind. Closer to shore the bloated body of a black-and-white cat rose and fell on the swell, in a tangle of human waste and detritus. ‘I don’t know, but I would like to find out. Did you also hear about Abigail Colton and Will Cane?’

‘Words fail me, sir. Sorbus insists the man never set foot on our land, but I do not know whether to believe him. If such men have been wandering around Giltspur House, then none of us can sleep easy in our beds.’

‘You see, what worries me, Mr Giltspur, is how Kat – Katherine – gained access to the strong room and how she was able to remove so much gold and silver unseen. From what I know of Giltspur House, you have many guards. How would she effect such a crime undisturbed? Nor can I understand how she did it without the aid of an accomplice. So much precious metal would be no easy thing for a young woman to drag away. Unfortunately, your grandmother refused to sanction a search of the house, which might have revealed much.’

‘And who would do the searching? She would never allow strangers to trample across her property.’

Perhaps, thought Shakespeare, there were too many other secrets concealed within those walls.

‘You believe then that she did not work alone?’ Giltspur continued. ‘You seem to be saying this Will Cane was her partner in the crime of robbery as well as murder.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But the implication . . .’

‘Was yours to read. For myself, the whole thing is a maze or puzzle. Cane said he was offered a hundred pounds. From what I know he was quite specific about that. That does not sound like a man taking a share of thousands of pounds. Nor does it explain why he killed your uncle or why he was so quick to implicate his so-called acomplice, Kat.’

‘Your point is taken, but the riddle is far from solved. I still find myself wondering whether Cane and Katherine were . . .’

He hesitated, then spoke the word low. ‘Lovers. If he was in the

lady’s maid’s chamber, why not the lady’s too?’

‘Do you believe that, Mr Giltspur? For I do not.’