‘My name is John Shakespeare. I was once a friend of Mr Giltspur’s widow.’
‘You will have to tell me rather more than that, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I am a Queen’s officer, assistant secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham.’
‘And he is interested in Mr Giltspur’s murder, is he? I had not thought a common murder the territory of so great a personage.’
‘No, this is nothing to do with Mr Secretary. It is personal. But nor would I call it a common murder. Indeed, it is most uncommon – and inexplicable. As I said, Katherine Giltspur was a friend. I wish to know what happened and why, for I find it hard to believe that she hired someone to kill any man, let alone her husband.’
Sorbus breathed a dismissive sigh. ‘The facts are plain. Every man has heard them from the killer’s own mouth, and the absence of Mrs Giltspur must speak for itself. She ran away like a thief in the night on hearing of the death of her husband. What grieving widow would do that?’
‘I would come in a while and speak with you, Mr Sorbus. I would also speak with other members of your staff.’
‘That is not possible.’
‘Why? Do you have something to hide?’
‘Good day, sir.’ He jerked his chin towards the sentries. ‘Escort this man from the premises.’
Shakespeare felt deep frustration and helplessness as he rode away. The steward, Sorbus, had been uncooperative, but perhaps his own rejoinder had been a little too sharp.
The problem was that without Walsingham’s authority, he had no power of interrogation, nor warrant to enter Giltspur House; and Walsingham would hardly wish one of his principal intelligencers to be taking an interest in a domestic crime, however sensational and unusual it might be.
The rainstorm was now a distant memory and the day was fine. London looked its most beautiful and one could almost ignore the summer stench of the middens and sewage kennels as he rode the short distance along flower-lined streets. He tethered his horse beneath a spreading plane tree in the churchyard of St Paul’s, then went towards the cool crypt where the Searcher of the Dead did his work.
He had first met Joshua Peace in Warwickshire almost four years earlier. Joshua was the son of Mother Peace, who had been searcher in the county for longer than anyone could recall. Many had shunned her, fearing her as a witch or necromancer. It was a slur that also stuck to her son among the more ignorant of the rural peasantry, but the truth – as Shakespeare knew – was very different, for Joshua had travelled widely in the Italian lands and cities and had learnt much from the great artists and anatomists. That was why Shakespeare, with Walsingham’s agreement, had arranged for him to come away from Warwickshire and place himself instead at the service of the City of London.
Peace was pulling strands of tangled hair from the dead eyes of a woman’s corpse. He turned and smiled. ‘John, this is a pleasant surprise.’
‘Thank you, Joshua. I have not heard many welcoming words this morning.’ His eyes strayed to the mouldering body of the woman laid out on the slab. He quickly looked away, nausea welling up. ‘And if you have any potions for a cupshotten head then do not keep them from me.’
‘We could take some wine, if you wish. The Three Tuns serves a goodly vintage.’
‘Perhaps a cup of small ale.’
Peace removed his bloody apron and hung it from a hook embedded in the damp stone wall. ‘Come then – and tell me what has brought you here.’
At the tavern, they sat together in a small booth where they would not be overheard. ‘It is about my old friend Kat Whetstone.’
Peace’s eyes brightened. ‘Well, well, Kat. Yes, how is she? I have not seen her in an age.’ And then his smile faded. ‘I thought I heard that you and she-’
‘You are right. We are no longer together. In truth, Joshua, she left me. But that was many months ago and she has since been married and widowed – and has landed herself in great peril. I believe you examined the body of her late husband, Mr Nicholas Giltspur.’
Peace looked aghast. ‘Is she the widow? God’s blood, John, I had no notion.’
‘No, nor did I. But do you know the tale told of her?’
‘If she is Giltspur’s widow, then I fear I do. She has an appointment with the hangman, that much is certain.’
‘You have met her more than once. Do you believe her capable of so heinous a crime?’
Peace spread his hands helplessly. ‘I – I have no opinion on the subject. You are the one who knew her best, so I must be guided by you. Is she innocent, John?’
Shakespeare clenched his lips tight, then shook his head. ‘I suppose not, for why else would the murderer, Cane, say such things?’
‘And yet your face tells me that you do not believe her guilty, which is why you are here. You are hoping that I found something when I examined Giltspur’s corpse.’
‘I know you didn’t, for I have spoken to Recorder Fleetwood. Giltspur was slain by a single stab to the throat with a bollockdagger. That is the testimony you gave, is it not? And it accords with everything said by the witnesses and the killer himself.’
‘Indeed, and I still have the weapon. It was thrust from the left, beneath the extremity of the jaw, piercing both the great arteries. He knew exactly what he was doing and there is no doubt that it caused Mr Giltspur’s death. The blood drained from him as quickly as from a beast at the slaughter.’
‘Can I see the body?’
‘It has already gone for burial at St Mary, Aldermanbury.’
Shakespeare supped his weak ale and felt more refreshed than he had all morning, but no happier. ‘Then I fear there is nothing more I can do for her.’
‘And yet . . .’
‘Joshua?’
‘Finish your ale, John. I have something to show you.’
Chapter 11
The rotting corpse of the woman on the slab was still uncovered. Shakespeare tried to avert his gaze. Joshua caught his eye and laughed without malice, then placed a sheet over the dead woman.
‘Does the look of death and the stench never unsettle you, Joshua?’
‘I was born to it. My mother took me with her whenever she went into a house to examine a body, and I helped her. I feel no more uncomfortable with the dead than with the living.’
‘Few have your stomach, I think. Now tell me, what did you wish to show me?’
‘I have another corpse here, one that I think you should see.’
‘Not this woman?’
‘No.’
‘Then who is it?’
Peace hesitated as though unsure how far to trust his visitor.
Shakespeare soothed his worries. ‘Joshua, you well know that you can entrust me with anything – just as I once placed dangerous information into your safe keeping.’
‘Yes, of course. It was mere caution on my part. Wariness has become a habit with me over the years.’ He took a deep breath, then nodded quickly. ‘Very well, I bought the corpse from the Smithfield hangman.’
Shakespeare was yet more intrigued. ‘The body of Will Cane?’
‘Yes. I paid five shillings for it. I am sure you are as aware as I am that revealing this to anyone else could lead to a great amount of trouble, both for myself and for the executioner.’
‘Why? Why did you buy it?’
‘I wished to examine it.’
‘You will have to explain further. Surely, the cause of his death was self-evident – to wit, hanging by the neck until his breathing and heart stopped. I saw it myself. What could you have hoped to learn?’
Peace pushed open the door to the adjoining room, where he kept the tools of his trade and corpses awaiting examination. ‘Come through.’
Will Cane’s body was on a narrow wooden table. He had been sliced open from the throat, all down the chest and through his abdomen to his privy parts. His ribs had been pulled apart and fixed back with iron appliances, thus exposing his internal organs.
Shakespeare held back, disinclined to look too closely. ‘What have you been doing to him? He reminds me of a beast after the butcher has been at work.’