The plan then was for Shakespeare to take Gilbert Gifford to the Walsingham mansion in Seething Lane. If all had gone as hoped, the letter from the Scottish Queen to Babington would have been deciphered and resealed and would now be there, waiting. If it was as damning as Walsingham hoped, then the way ahead should at last become clear, the months of scheming brought to fruition. The question for Mr Secretary to answer was when and how to deliver the letter onward to Anthony Babington. Timing and method of delivery were all-important.
For the moment, Shakespeare had an evening stretching ahead of him and he planned to make use of it. First, however, he rode home, intending to take supper.
He tried the door, but it would not open. He pushed again. It must be bolted on the inside, for it would not budge an inch. Exasperated, he rapped his knuckles against the solid wood. From inside, he heard scurrying feet, then a small voice.
‘Who is it?’
‘God’s blood, Jane, it is John Shakespeare. Let me in!’
He heard the bolt sliding back, then the door opened. Jane stood before him, shaking and distressed.
‘Mr Shakespeare, sir . . .’
‘Jane, what is it? Why was the door bolted?’
‘Oh, master, I was afraid. A terrible thing has happened to poor Mr Cooper. He has been attacked.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He is in the parlour, sir. He has suffered sorely. I have just begun tending to his injuries as best I can.’
‘Come, let us go to him.’
‘Should I put the bolt back on the door, sir?’
‘No.’
Boltfoot was sitting on the settle, leaning forward, head in hands. He was naked from the waist up and his wiry mariner’s body was streaked with blood. His hair hung lank and sticky about his face. At his feet there was a basin of bloody water and blood-soaked linen towels.
‘Boltfoot?’
He looked up. ‘I’m sorry, master.’ His cheek was bruised and his left eye was puffed up. The blood was seeping from a gash above his left eyebrow.
Shakespeare sat on the settle beside his assistant and combed the hair from his face with his fingers. ‘What happened?’
‘I found Cutting Ball. He ordered me beaten and threatened worse.’
‘You found Cutting Ball? So he is real. I had almost thought him a mythical being.’
‘He’s real enough. A dangerous man.’
‘So I see. Are any bones broken?’
Boltfoot shook his head, then groaned. ‘No.’
‘I can send Jane for a physician.’
‘No thank you, master. She has been doing well enough cleaning me up. I have suffered worse in my life and I will survive this with an aching head.’
‘Where did you find Cutting Ball?’
Boltfoot groaned and put a hand to his shoulder. Shakespeare saw that it was bruised almost black. Boltfoot tried to laugh. ‘They beat me with sticks, like a dog.’
‘Take whatever time you need.’
‘Forgive me, master, but I cannot be sure where he was, save that it was north-east of London. I was led there, blindfold. All I can say is that Ball was in an old barn, well away from the highway, on farmland surrounded by woods. From the outside no man would have given the barn a second glance but inside it was like the hall of a manor. It seemed to me that he ran his empire of felony from there.’
‘A palatial barn?’
‘In the countryside north of Whitechapel. He was playing cards with some men and a couple of women. After my beating, I was blindfolded again and brought on a cart to Aldgate, where I was dumped and told not to go east of the city walls on pain of death.’
‘Are you certain you would not be able to find this barn?’
Boltfoot thought for a few moments. ‘It is not impossible. I tried to count my steps and note the changes of direction, but I was without sight for at least twenty minutes, so it is far from certain.’
‘Well, I won’t ask you to go back there for the moment. What did you learn?’
‘I learnt that he is a tyrant feared and respected in equal measure. I learnt, too, that he considered the assassin Will Cane his friend. One thing that is certain is that he is interested in the matter of the murder, for that was why he had me brought to him.’
‘Do you believe he was involved in the killing?’
‘He gave nothing away. But there was something that worried me . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘When I mentioned Kat, he called her a fine-favoured wench, from which I inferred that he knew her – or at least that he had seen her. I put this to him, and that was when his mood darkened. No man is allowed to put questions to Mr Ball, nor are they to refer to him by the name Cutting.’
Kat had mentioned nothing about knowing Cutting Ball, but then perhaps she had no knowledge of his link to Will Cane. Or perhaps she did. It was not inconceivable that they had met, and if they had, Shakespeare needed to know the circumstances.
‘There was one other thing, master. The whore’s bawd named Em was there among the band of felons surrounding Ball in his great hall.’
‘Tell me about her.’
‘She did not seem afeared by him and risked his ire by warning him to be wary of crossing you or Mr Secretary. He was displeased by the way she spoke and told her to get out, but still she was not scared. It seemed to me there was something between them.’
‘Man and wife?’
‘It is possible. Or brother and sister.’ He groaned again and slumped forward, breathing heavily.
‘That is enough for now, Boltfoot. We will speak more later.’
Shakespeare glanced over towards the door where Jane was hanging back. ‘Continue your nursing, please, Jane. Then give him broth and put him to bed.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘And Jane . . .’
‘Yes, master?’
‘I know this has been a trial for you. You have done well. Thank you.’
Boltfoot put up his hand. ‘There was one other thing, master.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was made to throw a dice for my life. I lost, but Ball spared me anyway.’
‘So he has the quality of mercy . . .’
‘I think not. He saved me because I am connected to you – and you are connected to Mr Secretary.’
Ninety minutes later, Shakespeare was at Severin Tort’s house in Fetter Lane, just west of the city wall. Tort was as neat and well kempt as ever, his silver hair parted and combed to perfection; but the tension in his eyes was evident.
‘Is something amiss, Mr Tort?’
‘No, nothing, sir.’
‘You look out of sorts.’
‘It is my boy. It is nothing. He finds fault with the world and speaks his mind too freely. He is not yet sixteen, but I fear for him. These are harsh days, as you must know as well as any man. But he is not your problem.’ Tort shook his head, too quickly. The movement betrayed his strung nerves. ‘Why are you here, Mr Shakespeare? Do you bring news?’
There was a brittle edge to the voice. Was Tort displeased by his arrival here unannounced? Shakespeare put the question to the back of his mind, to be revisited later. ‘Indeed, I do bring news,’ he said. ‘Much has happened but I fear I have no resolution.’ He took in his surroundings. Never had he seen a more well-ordered room. At the desk where Tort studied and wrote, his quills were neatly cut and laid out and his ink-bottle was placed precisely with no black drops staining the wood around it. Each item of furniture – his coffer and chair and settle – seemed to have been lined up like a disciplined army, likewise his books, of which there were many.
‘I do not have a great deal of time to talk, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Mr Tort, I have no time at all, and yet you have brought this matter to my attention and so at your instigation I am making inquiries.’
Tort hung his head, chastened. ‘Forgive me. It is just . . .’
‘Yes? Speak, man.’
Tort looked up and emitted a heavy sigh. ‘I had another visitor less than an hour since. The magistrate Richard Young, who is leading the search for Katherine. He came here with a band of pursuivants.’