‘He’s not here. He went when the shooting started.’
‘No, he’s here.’
Boltfoot was already searching the room. He opened a coffer and poked around inside amongst the linen, then he looked under the bed but there was nothing save a truckle there. At last he came to a closed cabinet. He looked back at the woman in the bed and saw from her eyes that he had found his quarry. He aimed his caliver at the door and stood back.
‘Come out, Sir Robert, you have been discovered.’
For a few moments nothing happened but then the door began to open. The elegant figure of Sir Robert Huckerbee stood there, half clothed, wearing no shirt but only breeches. He had his back to the panelling at the rear of the cabinet. He was a wretched sight.
‘With your hands up, step out slowly. No sudden movements. Mr Cooper is a very good shot.’
Huckerbee raised his hands above his head and stepped down from his meagre hiding place. He began to protest in his courtly, languid tones. ‘I don’t know what any of this is about, Shakespeare. We heard shooting. I hid to protect myself. May I put my hands down now? Your man is frightening me.’
‘See if he is armed, Boltfoot.’
Boltfoot moved forward, the caliver still pointing at Huckerbee. With one hand, he patted the man’s breeches, then looked at his master and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Good. Now you may lower your arms, Sir Robert.’
‘You realise of course that this will all be reported to Lord Burghley and Mr Secretary. Do you really think you can treat me this way? Your career is over, Shakespeare.’
‘Speak when spoken to if you hope to live. I know what you and Arthur Giltspur have been doing so do not insult me by denying it. Now, you will write everything you know about the involvement of Arthur Giltspur and this woman in the murder of Mr Nicholas Giltspur, and the reasons for it. You will then come with me to Recorder Fleetwood’s house.’
‘I will do nothing of the sort.’
Shakespeare found himself laughing, though there was little enough to amuse him with the minutes vanishing like sand through his fingers. ‘Or, Sir Robert, I will take you from here to the presence of Mr Cutting Ball and you can face his brand of justice, for he does not like to be robbed. You may think you were skimming Treasury money, but I doubt Cutting Ball will see it that way. Nor will he like to hear that his man Wicklow has been shot and may die. The choice is yours – Fleetwood’s justice or Ball’s.’
Fleetwood’s house lay a little west of Aldermanbury at the junction of Foster Lane and Noble Street. The sun was not up but the sky was lightening across the rooftops to the east of town and the early risers were already going about their business, trudging to work, setting up market stalls, preparing for the day ahead. Many others were making their way east – and Shakespeare realised with a shudder that they were seeking a prime spot at a double hanging.
William Fleetwood, Serjeant-at-Law and Recorder of London, was still in a deep sleep when his four visitors arrived. With age, he found it ever harder to shift his grey head from his soft feather bed in the morning and today was no different.
As they waited at the door, Shakespeare could not take his eyes off the sky. It seemed that any moment dawn would break upon them and it would all be over. He knew the way things worked at Newgate; Kat and Sorbus would have eaten their final meal if they had the stomach for it, and would now be bound, standing in the courtyard ready to mount the cart that would haul them to the scaffold.
Here, at the door to the house, Sir Robert Huckerbee, gagged and with hands bound behind his back, stood beside him. Then came Abigail Colton, also bound and gagged. Behind them was Boltfoot, his caliver covering them in case they tried to run.
The maidservant returned to the front door. ‘Forgive me, master, we are having difficulty rousing Mr Fleetwood this morning.’
‘We’re coming in.’ He nodded to Boltfoot. ‘Take them to the parlour and remove their gags but not their bindings. I will go to Fleetwood.’
He pushed past the flustered maidservant who tried in vain to bar his way into the hall. ‘Where is his chamber?’
‘Please, master, Mr Fleetwood will brook no disturbance. I will lose my position if I allow you-’
Shakespeare was already moving away. He could hear snoring. Thunderous snoring. Like a hog in a storm. Without hesitation he ascended the wooden stairway and pushed open the chamber door. Fleetwood was lying on his back, his head and the top half of his face swathed in a linen nightcap. His mouth was open and his body rose and roared with a great drawing-in of breath. Shakespeare clapped his hands, then leant across the bed and shook the judge by both his shoulders. ‘Wake up, sir, wake up. I must talk with you.’
Fleetwood sat upright, scrabbling with his hand to remove the nightcap from his eyes. His mouth, which had closed, fell open again. ‘Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Your honour, Mr Fleetwood, I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, but I crave a most urgent favour of you: an immediate stay of execution for Katherine Giltspur and Abraham Sorbus. They are due to die within minutes.’
The old judge shook his head so violently that his nightcap fell off. ‘Impossible. They are guilty. The maid’s evidence was conclusive.’
Shakespeare pulled a sheet of paper from his doublet. ‘I can prove otherwise. I entreat you, sir, read this: there is no time to lose.’
‘Find my spectacles. Where are they? I cannot read a word without them.’
‘I have them here, master.’ The maidservant had followed Shakespeare to the chamber and now held out the round-framed glasses to Fleetwood. ‘They are cleaned and polished, sir.’
Fleetwood pushed the spectacles onto his nose, then flattened the paper and moved his nose to within four inches of it. His head moved from side to side quickly as he scanned the words.
I Robert Huckerbee, knight, do hereby testify that I have information pertaining to the murder of Nicholas Giltspur, gentleman, lately killed by stabbing in Thames Street. It is my certain knowledge that the crime was committed by one Wm Cane at the behest of Arthur Giltspur, gentleman, and that no blame can be attached to the deceased’s widow, Katherine Giltspur, nor his steward, Mr Abraham Sorbus. The aforesaid written this day with my right hand, my left upon the Holy Bible.
It was dated and signed. The hand was scratchy and unsteady and there were several blottings. ‘Where is Huckerbee now?’ ‘In your parlour.’
Fleetwood rose from his bed, assisted by Shakespeare with a hand beneath his elbow. ‘My quill and ink,’ he barked at the maidservant. ‘Quickly, girl, quickly. Have them ready in the parlour. And my seal and wax.’ He turned to Shakespeare. ‘First, I will talk with Sir Robert. Take me to him.’
‘Remove his bindings, Mr Shakespeare. And Mistress Colton’s. This is most irregular.’ He sighed. You make a sorry sight, Sir Robert.’
‘Indeed, your honour, but it is none of my doing. I beg you take no notice of that paper in your hand. It was written under duress, at the point of this brute’s gun.’ He thrust out his chin at Boltfoot and creased his mouth as though indicating something putrid and pleasant.
Neither Shakespeare nor Boltfoot made any move to remove the prisoners’ bindings.
‘With your hand on the Holy Book?’ Fleetwood peered above his spectacles at Huckerbee.
‘No, sir, I would not write lies with my hand on the Bible. I wrote that because I was ordered to and would have had my head blown off had I not. This man Shakespeare and his assistant are felons. They should be removed to Newgate forthwith.’
Shakespeare clenched his hands into fists. ‘You have seen the paper, Mr Fleetwood. I entreat you – on bended knee if you wish – to sign the stay of execution. If later you have doubts, then it can all be argued before you in your court of law and you can reverse your decision. But for the present, two innocent lives are at stake. If you do not sign the stay now, then your decision is irrevocable.’