“Old friends, Mr. Shakespeare,” McGunn said. “They insisted you were the man to help us with this little task.”
The three were Francis Mills, Arthur Gregory, and Thomas Phelippes, all senior intelligencers with Walsingham in the old days. The last time they had all been together was five years since. They had been an effective if incongruous crew, each working directly for Walsingham rather than as a team.
The room was a mass of documents and books, a sort of library. What, exactly, was Essex trying to do here? Re-create Walsingham’s intelligence network?
Shakespeare looked at them each in turn. He shook Gregory by the hand but hesitated over Mills’s proffered hand, recalling the problems he had caused by being too close to Topcliffe. Phelippes did not rise to shake hands, but merely pushed his glasses up his pox-scarred nose and returned to his papers. Shakespeare thought it unlikely that either Mills or Phelippes had suggested his name to Essex or McGunn. Perhaps Arthur Gregory was the man.
“Mr. Sh-sh-shakespeare,” Gregory stammered. “It is a delight to s-s-see you once more.”
“And you, Mr. Gregory.” Shakespeare liked him. His face was as pink as a young pig’s, and he was clearly suffering in these hot days. His expertise lay in his careful hands and his uncanny ability to open a sealed letter, read it, and replace it so that the intended recipient was none the wiser. He also devised invisible inks and could easily reveal the supposedly invisible writings of others.
Mills was another matter. He and Shakespeare had been equals under Walsingham. Like Shakespeare, he was tall, but he was sticklike and more stooped than Shakespeare remembered him. He had been an interrogator, sometimes working together with Topcliffe in the Tower rack room. Mills would speak with soft, coaxing words while Topcliffe raged and foamed and turned the screws tighter on the rack and uttered unspeakable threats and obscenities. Yet this was not the sum of Mills’s abilities: he also had a cold, inquiring mind that could sift through the mass of intercepted correspondence from Spain and Rome and spot what was of importance. He was as valuable at a table of documents as he was in the tormenting chamber.
Phelippes, though, was the undisputed master of the intelligencer’s craft. His face was so pockmarked and unpleasant to look on beneath his lank yellow hair that children would shy away in fright, but his brain was as taut and beautiful as an athlete’s sinews. His talent was with ciphers and the breaking of them, be they French, Spanish, Latin, Greek, Italian, or English; it was Phelippes who had enabled Walsingham to bring Mary of Scots to the headsman’s block.
“Surprised, Mr. Shakespeare?” McGunn said. “You had not expected to find these old friends here, I would happily wager.”
“Yes, ‘surprised’ is the word.”
“Well, feel free to use their expertise, for I want this woman found. My lord of Essex will allow for no failure in this. You will find much of the information you need among these papers. Come and go at will, Mr. Shakespeare, and report to me what you find. Sooner rather than later, if you will. Good evening to you.”
Shakespeare watched McGunn leave the room, then looked about him. This was Walsingham’s old library, he was certain. All his old papers were stacked here, high on shelves and over tables-a great mass of secrets that any spymaster would kill for.
“Here, Mr. Sh-shakespeare,” Arthur Gregory said. “Come, perch yourself with me, for I have gathered some information for you.”
Shakespeare sat on a bench beside him. “How have you been keeping, Mr. Gregory?”
“Scratching a living, sir. Times have not been easy since Mr. S-s-secretary passed away, but I have found gainful employment with my lord of Essex.”
“And Mr. McGunn…”
Gregory stiffened at the name. “He comes and g-goes.” He took a deep breath as if trying to relax and control his stammer; also, Shakespeare thought, to change the subject. “Anyway, take a look at these papers if you wish. They may help your inquiries into the st-st-strange case of the lost colony.”
Shakespeare was not to be fobbed off so easily. “But I would wish to know a little more about McGunn, Mr. Gregory. Who is he-and what has he to do with all this?”
Gregory glanced around him, as if fearful of prying eyes. His voice lowered. “I can tell you this much, Mr. Shakespeare. He is a dangerous man and not one to gainsay.” He moved yet closer to Shakespeare’s ear. “He had young Jaggard working for him, looking for this Eleanor Dare. Mr. McGunn says nothing, his demeanor rarely changes, yet the boy went missing and McGunn was most aggrieved. That is where you came in. Mr. McGunn wanted the best inquirer in the land. He takes a great personal interest in the matter.” He caught Mills gazing at him and stopped. “I can say no more, except that we hear the boy is dead, murdered in the woods.”
Chapter 10
In the morning, Shakespeare reached out for Catherine. She wasn’t there. He jumped up from the bed, suddenly wide awake. He must have this out with her, settle things once and for all. He could not go on in this way.
She wasn’t in the nursery, nor in the refectory. He began to panic and found Jane, who looked uncomfortable.
“She has gone out, Master Shakespeare.”
“Gone where?”
“To find Mistress Bellamy, sir.”
Shakespeare mouthed a silent curse. This was madness. It had been Anne Bellamy who invited Catherine to the mass where Southwell was apprehended by Topcliffe. If he, Shakespeare, had not stood firm, she would now be in Newgate or some other putrid hole awaiting trial for treason. What did she think she was doing, going to see the Bellamy woman now? Was it not obvious to her that Southwell had been set up by Topcliffe and that Anne Bellamy was his instrument?
“She said she needed to find out the truth of what happened, Master Shakespeare.”
This was becoming too much. On arriving home from Essex House the night before, he had apologized to her. He had not admitted any wrongdoing, but he conceded that he had, perhaps, been insensitive toward her feelings; yes, it was important she be allowed to worship in whatever way she wished. But… it was the but that hung in the air between them. She thanked him for his apology, but said she would prefer to sleep alone for the present. There was no smile on her face, no warmth.
He had stayed awake for hours thinking of the day, thinking of what he had found in the turret room at Essex House: Gregory, Phelippes, Mills, and, perhaps most importantly, the collected papers of Sir Francis Walsingham, not lost at all but openly displayed. Clearly the three intelligencers were going through them in fine detail and cataloguing their contents. Did Sir Robert Cecil know of this? Had he known all along? Shakespeare began to fear he was being played like a mummer’s doll-but who was the motion-man, the puppet-master?
Arthur Gregory had shown him some Walsingham papers he had uncovered relating to Roanoke and the lost colonists. They charted the development of the little colony from its tentative beginnings. First there was the foray of 1584, when two of Ralegh’s captains found a land of fertile soil and friendly natives and returned to England with two captured chieftains, Manteo and Wanchese, who caused a sensation at court. The two captains spoke so highly of the land that Elizabeth agreed it should be named after her: Virginia.
The story did not run as smoothly as Ralegh had hoped. A second expedition under the command of Ralegh’s friend Sir Richard Grenville explored the region before leaving a garrison of 108 of the troops.
Their mission was to find gold and set up a base from which Spanish shipping could be harried. But the promised land had begun to turn ugly; there were violent clashes with the Indians.