‘No. I need him alive.’ He tilted his head towards the Smith sisters. ‘Don’t let these two get away, Boltfoot.’ Crouching down, he swung himself into the hole feet first and began to slide, like a boy going downhill on a tray on snow. He gathered speed, then stopped as suddenly as he started. He reckoned he had slid down at least thirty feet, which meant he must have descended beyond and below the ground floor. He was underground in some sort of cellar. The air was dank and dusty. He held the lantern aloft and saw that it was a small circular chamber, no more than eight feet in diameter.
Three tunnels led away from the chamber. He muttered an oath. Which way had Giltspur gone in this warren? He held the lantern down to the dusty ground, looking for scuff marks to identify the route taken. But there were marks all around and none was more notable than the others.
All he could do was take one tunnel and see where it led. Crouching down, for the passageway was no more than five feet high, he stepped in and loped along. No time for caution. The tunnel forked after fifteen yards. He took the left way, ran for twenty-five yards more, then reached a bricked-up dead end.
He turned and ran back, taking the other fork. Again it reached a dead end. He had wasted valuable seconds. Panicking now, for time was desperate, he tried another tunnel, which was longer and curved to the right. At the end he spotted a pinpoint of light. He ran faster and finally came to a small door, which had been left ajar.
Shakespeare stepped outside into the night air and tried to gain his bearings. He was in a garden. Ahead of him was a wall with branches splayed across it, all bearing fruit. Beyond the wall he heard a familiar sound – horses whinnying. He had found the back of the stable block. Of course, where else would a fugitive head?
Rounding the wall, he found that he was correct. Two rows of stalls stood on either side of a flagstoned yard. A groom was just closing one of the stable doors.
‘Where is he?’
The groom turned with a hand to his chest, as though he had had one shock too many this night. His eyes went to Shakespeare’s sword.
‘Master?’ The groom backed away.
‘Mr Giltspur. Where is he?’
‘You have just missed him, sir. Rode away not two minutes since.’
‘Where? Which direction?’
‘Couldn’t say, master. Could have gone north or south, east or west. I’ve no way of knowing. Not my place to inquire.’
Shakespeare stalked past the groom to the gates which led out onto the street. The gate was locked. ‘Open this!’
The groom scurried after him with a ring of keys and unlocked the gate. Shakespeare stepped out and looked both ways. There was nothing, no clue as to where he had gone. He threw down the lantern and grasped the groom by the throat. ‘You must have seen which way he went – north or south?’ The groom was not a big man but nor was he weak. He wrenched himself free and rubbed his throat.
‘Well?’
‘Master, I know not – and even if I did I would not tell you, for my loyalty lies with Mr Giltspur.’
‘How do I return to the house from here?’
‘There is a back way.’ He tilted his chin towards the garden from which Shakespeare had just come.
‘Show me.’
Wicklow was unconscious. An old serving woman was applying bandages and herbs to his wound. A physician had been sent for. There was nothing Shakespeare could do to help, besides which he had other matters to deal with.
Not for the first time in recent days, he felt utter helplessness. With the flight of Arthur Giltspur all hope had gone. Given time, he might be able to make a case that his shooting of Wicklow was the act of a man with a great deal to hide, but he didn’t have time. He might, too, unravel the secrets of the black books which he now clutched. Dawn was approaching. To halt an execution would require nothing less than a confession of guilt by the true murderer or, at the very least, some material evidence, of which there was none.
He returned to Giltspur’s bedchamber. The Smith sisters were dressing with nonchalance. They displayed no fear of Boltfoot and his caliver, nor any interest in him, but smiled lewdly at Shakespeare.
‘How much do you know?’ He was having none of their wiles.
Eliza feigned a puzzled expression. ‘We know our trade, Mr Shakespeare, that is all. And we have been plying it.’
‘About the murder, the missing money, God damn you.’
‘And we know the price of good French brandy,’ Beth said.
‘Where is he? Where has Giltspur gone?’
‘We have no notion. We are night-workers, Mr Shakespeare. We do what is required of us and more and we take our money. We neither ask questions nor wish to know any man’s business. If you want to know more, ask his friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘Why, your paymaster, sir.’
‘You mean Walsingham?’
‘No, indeed not. We like Mr Secretary. He is an honest villain. It is the other one we dislike. To the world, he has the air of a noble but in private he has the evil-smelling ways of a shitshovelling gong farmer.’
‘What other one? Explain. I beg you, help me with this. Lives are at stake.’
‘Huckerbee, of course. He is the man to ask. They are as close as fish salted in a barrel.’
Sir Robert Huckerbee. The paymaster, the man who dispensed gold on behalf of Burghley. He collected it, too. Of course. He was the conduit for Cutting Ball’s ship tax. Burghley would always keep his own hands clean in such a matter.
That would have placed immense power into the hands of the unpleasant Huckerbee. Enough power for him and Arthur Giltspur to skim money together. Yes, he was in this with Giltspur. So, where was Huckerbee? Perhaps that was where Giltspur had ridden.
The chances were that Huckerbee was at court. He could never be far from his master, Burghley. But the court was now at Richmond in Surrey, a distance of some eleven or twelve miles. If Shakespeare left now . . .
No, it was impossible. He would still have to get powerful evidence and lay it before a senior judge or Privy Councillor and then return to London before the hangman did his dread work. There was nowhere near enough time for that. No man could ride or row that far and be back by dawn.
‘This is no help to me,’ he muttered angrily.
‘We are doing our very best, Mr Shakespeare, but you seem unwilling or unable to listen,’ Eliza said.
‘Sir Robert Huckerbee is here,’ her sister said. ‘In this house.’
Chapter 46
Shakespeare pushed open the door. The chamber was in darkness, but the smoke of snuffed candles hung in the air like a poor man’s incense.
He held the lantern aloft and looked around. A large four-poster bed dominated the room and its curtains were drawn. The soft breathing of sleep came from within. Shakespeare gestured to Boltfoot to relight the candles, of which there were ten or more spread around the chamber on table, sill and coffers.
When the chamber was fully lit, he pulled back the bed curtains. A woman lay there alone, beneath the covers, seemingly asleep. She wore no nightcap and her long hair was splayed across the pillows. He could not see her face, for she was on her side, facing away from him. Yet there was something familiar about her.
He touched her shoulder. ‘Wake up.’
She groaned groggily and pulled the blankets up to cover herself more. But Shakespeare had already worked out where he had seen her before and knew from the hastily extinguished candles that her sleep was but play-acting.
‘Get up, Abigail.’
She moaned again, but Shakespeare ripped back the blankets and sheets. Her body was naked, her pregnant belly swollen. She grasped at the bedclothes to cover herself and Shakespeare did not try to stop her. She huddled back against the head of the bed, her eyes aflame, staring at him with loathing.
‘I have come for Huckerbee.’