Holy Spy (44 page)

The lawyer closed his eyes. His teeth were now clenched tight and his lips were no more than a line, a gash in his face, as though he had words to spit out but his heart would not let him; as though his mouth would never open to utter words again.

Shakespeare lifted the latch and held open the door. ‘Well, sir, I think we are done here. We share a bond of care for Kat Whetstone, but that is all. If you will forgive me, I have work to do.’

Tort made no move to exit. He opened his mouth like a fish, but no words came out, only a sigh.

‘If you have something else to say, then speak, I entreat you, for the morning moves on apace.’

‘If I give you this, you must help me.’

‘Give me what? I told you, there is nothing I need from you. And nothing I can give you, for I have no knowledge of this conspiracy you claim to have uncovered.’

‘Then I must tell you what I know, but in doing so, I place my trust in the honour and decency that I hope to find in your heart. Help Dominic, I beg you. And if you ever make use of the information I impart, you can never say that it came from me.’

Once again, Shakespeare declined to speak, merely waited for Tort.

‘Very well.’ Tort nodded. ‘I am about to tell you a great secret. It is a matter of import that touches on the very governance of this land – and involves both the Giltspurs and the felon known as Cutting Ball.’

Chapter 37

Shakespeare listened in silence, astonished and yet believing. The tale Severin Tort told him was simple enough and credible, but agonising to listen to, for it seemed to eat at the very cornerstones of the England he believed he knew and loved.

‘Almost all of my practice as an attorney-at-law has been in the service of Nicholas Giltspur,’ Tort said. ‘Over a long period of years – since I was a young man – I have been entrusted with intimate knowledge of much that is private touching the family’s affairs. It is this position of trust that I am about to betray to you, though it cuts my conscience sore to do so.’

‘Continue, Mr Tort. What is this secret?’

‘What do you know of the criminal practices of Cutting Ball, sir?’

‘He extorts money from the merchants. Some say he demands one part in a hundred of every cargo landed in the wharfs of London, and that those who refuse to pay have their ships burnt or their merchandise destroyed. I know, too, that he and his sister run bawdy houses and take a portion of the whores’ earnings. I am sure they are guilty of many other crimes, including violence against the person. Even murder.’

Tort nodded. ‘You are correct in almost every detail. How, though, does such a man continue to prosper when you might expect him to be swinging from the Tyburn tree? How does he walk free when every other highwayman, cutpurse and footpad is rounded up and dispatched?’

‘It is a question I have asked myself, sir.’

‘Well, I can satisfy your curiosity. He is not arraigned, nor ever will be, because he is protected by powerful men.’

Shakespeare did not like the way this was going, but he needed to hear it out. ‘Please continue.’

‘I will explain. Yes, Ball takes one part in a hundred of every cargo landed from Katharine’s Dock to the bridge and beyond. Sometimes more. But he keeps only a small part of it, paying out nine parts in ten of his own portion to the Treasury of England. It is, if you like, an unofficial tax on the merchants by the Lord Treasurer, Lord Burghley.’

‘Is this true?’

Tort nodded, his face drawn. ‘Yes, it is true, though it pains me to say so.’

‘And this sum is over and above the common levies that all traders must pay at the Custom House?’

‘Over and above.’

‘Burghley is involved in this?’

‘Faithful, trustworthy, God-fearing, white-bearded Burghley himself. Elizabeth’s most loyal minister and England’s truest friend.’ Tort smiled. ‘Treating with the commonest of common criminals.’

‘God’s blood but that must be a vast amount of money.’

‘Much needed, I believe, for the Commons subsidies go nowhere near the amounts required to protect the realm. A great deal of these unofficial earnings are passed on to Mr Secretary to pay for his covert dealings. I doubt not but that your own wages come from this source.’

Shakespeare was reeling, but he wanted the whole story.

‘How does this involve the Giltspurs? Do you mean that they, too, have faced such extortion?’

‘No. They were excluded, because they had a much more important part to play in the enterprise. They were the linchpin that kept the wheel turning.’

Shakespeare was beginning to understand. Tort continued.

‘The Treasury could never be seen to be taking such ill-gotten gains. If the merchants learnt that the money extorted from them was, in effect, a tax, there would be uproar. They have often complained to the Privy Council of the activities of Cutting Ball and his crew and they become infuriated when nothing is ever done to stop the man. The excuse by Burghley is always lack of resources, empty coffers and not enough men. And then when pressured he makes promises that he will find a way to deal with the felon . . . promises that are never kept.’

‘Yet the merchants of London are powerful men.’

‘Indeed they are, and they must be kept sweet. Burghley, Walsingham and Her Majesty know that they need them. In truth they cannot do without them, for they provide the wealth of England. That is why the link from Mr Ball to Lord Burghley could never be made public.’

‘And so they needed a facilitator . . .’

Tort nodded. ‘That was Nick Giltspur. The money went from Cutting Ball to Nick and from Nick to Burghley. And before you judge him, I would say only this: Nick did not profit from the deal; he did it for England.’

‘But you, Mr Tort, you must have felt compromised. Was there no sense of shame, no guilt?’

He hesitated before replying, then shrugged. ‘If we are honest with ourselves, surely all taxation is money demanded with menaces. Were the tithe-gatherers of old any better than Cutting Ball and Nick Giltspur.’ They were not questions, but statements, for he truly believed the words he spoke. ‘If you did not pay your tithes, the punishment was severe.’

‘But you did not just
know
of this matter. You played a part, too, did you not? For Nick Giltspur would not have confided in you unless he had a purpose – and that purpose was that he needed your help.’

‘I was always Nick’s confidential adviser. He knew that he could turn to me and talk in complete confidence. Were he alive today, I would not be telling you this, for I never betrayed his trust.’

‘Tell me the truth then. I am thinking he asked you to assist him in some way? Is this not the case?’

Tort paced some more, and then stopped. ‘I oversaw the accounts, which were always complex. There had to be two sets of books. The trick was to keep one clean and the other secret. Nick was a busy man; he needed someone he could trust when the workload was too great. This was not something that could be entrusted to a ledger clerk.’

‘A remarkable state of affairs.’

‘Remarkable, indeed, Mr Shakespeare. And you will understand why you can never repeat what I have told you.’

‘Who, then, had access to the dirty ledger?’

‘Nick kept the books under lock and key. They were never allowed out of Giltspur House and so that is where I would work, when called upon to do so.’

‘What of his mother? What of Arthur?’

‘No. Not then. However, since Nick’s death, I do not know what has happened. There has been no call for me at the house.’

But this was not the whole story. A man was dead and a vast amount of gold and silver was missing. The link with Cutting Ball was proved; so there had to be some connection between the murder and robbery and the work that Nick Giltspur did for the Treasury.

‘Are you suggesting that Nick Giltspur fell out with Cutting Ball – and that Ball ordered the murder?’

‘I have no idea. It is a possibility – and for you to find out. But I know that something was worrying Nick in the days before he died.’

‘And the missing gold. Have you heard of that?’

‘Yes, indeed I have. Word travels in London.’

‘You know Giltspur House as well as anyone, Mr Tort. Who could have broken into the strongroom and removed it?’

‘No one.’

‘No one?’

‘Don’t you understand? The robber or robbers didn’t need to enter the strongroom. The missing gold and silver was never there. I believe it had already been stolen. The answer lies in the black books.’

As he rode towards Giltspur House, Shakespeare tried to make sense of all that Severin Tort had told him. Before taking his leave, the lawyer had begged once again for help in saving the life of his stepson. Shakespeare had, at last, clutched the man’s hands. ‘If there is anything that can be done, I will do it.’

But some things were still unclear: how had Nicholas Giltspur and Burghley made their unholy contract with Cutting Ball in the first place? More importantly, what – if anything – did this all have to do with the murder?

Tort’s revelation had opened the shutters on an unwholesome world of government deceit and official criminality, but it did not give a firm answer to the fundamental question: who killed Nick Giltspur and why? From what Tort was saying, someone must have got at the books, massaging the amounts received and passed on. But if the books had never left Giltspur House, that meant it had to be someone within the household: Nick Giltspur himself, his ancient mother or his nephew Arthur. Unless it was one of the servants – or someone who

had illicitly gained access to the house. Will Cane for instance?

Or the obvious one: Kat herself.

Shakespeare very much wished to talk with her again. He also very much desired to interrogate the sportsman Arthur Giltspur; fleet of foot and supremely competitive.

One thing that had become abundantly clear was the meaning of the words used by old Joan Giltspur:
This family has done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined . . .

Not just the conveying of men and messages in and out of the ports of Spain and France, but keeping the Treasury coffers full of extorted gold.

The sentries at Giltspur House looked at the would-be visitor as though he were an insect, then smirked at each other. ‘Ah yes, you are Mr Shakespeare,’ the chief of the two said. ‘I recall your face. How may I help you?’

‘I wish to see Mr Arthur Giltspur.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Then his grandmother, Mrs Giltspur.’

‘I am told she does not wish to be disturbed.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘One of the maids. Does it matter?’

‘Then I will speak with Sorbus.’

‘Sorbus? Sorbus?’ he turned to his fellow guard. ‘Do we know a Sorbus, Hubert?’

‘Wasn’t he that steward fellow, the one that got himself arrested this morning for harbouring a known felon?’ The second sentry grinned. ‘If that’s the man you want, Mr Shakespeare, sir, you’ll most likely find him just around the corner at the Counter in Wood Street. I do believe that’s where Justice Young took him.’

‘Sorbus arrested? What is the charge?’

‘Ask him yourself.’

Shakespeare moved forward. The sentries crossed their swords to bar his way.

‘You will pay a heavy price for your insolence.’

‘Not as heavy as you will pay if you try to move an inch further forward.’

The Counter in Wood Street was less than five minutes’ walk from the splendours of Aldermanbury and Giltspur House, but it might have been a world away, for it was a mean place, usually set aside for debtors and criminals awaiting trial. The keeper allowed Shakespeare into the gaol in exchange for sixpence. ‘Strange thing, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said as they walked through the dark bowels of the prison, ‘this man Abraham Sorbus is the only prisoner I got. Mr Topcliffe came around this morning and cleared out the rest. Two went to the scaffold and I know not what he did with the others.’