Sorbus the steward was already at the door of Giltspur House. He nodded to the guards to put up their swords and let Shakespeare through. ‘Follow me,’ he said tersely, leading the way with small, feminine steps into the depths of the mansion.
From the main part of the house, they crossed an inner courtyard which still had the feel of a monastic cloister, which it had been until the dissolution. Apart from the outside gateway, with its effigies of saints, it was the only part of the property that had retained traces of the house’s clerical history. Shakespeare guessed that the ornate central fountain and the fragrant flowerbeds that surrounded it were not the work of the monks.
What most struck him was the heavy security employed within the high walls of this house. There were guards on duty at every turn. Was this the way rich men had to live, in a fortress?
A long building sheltered the far edge of the quad. A dull clackety noise emanated from inside the building and Shakespeare immediately recognised it as the sound of a tennis match in progress. Sorbus opened a door and bade him enter the long penthouse gallery ranged alongside the court, then retreated without a word.
Shakespeare watched the game and listened to the reassuring sound; an echoing clatter as the hard little ball flew from strings and bounced off wood. At each end there was a man in a linen open-neck shirt. Their feet were soft-slippered and they both carried a racket of wood, strung tight with gut. One player’s shoulders were rounded and slumping as though the world would fall about him. He was at the server’s end and seemed older. The other man, to Shakespeare’s left, in the hazard court, looked calm and relaxed. Somehow Shakespeare imagined him to be young Arthur Giltspur.
The server struck the ball carefully, as though his life depended on it. The ball rose and fell in a gentle arc onto the penthouse roof, bounced three times then fell into the receiving court, only to be returned like a gunshot. The server, slow to react, managed to get the frame of his racket to the ball, but only with enough force to send it straight into the net. Shakespeare frowned; the server suddenly seemed very familiar. He found himself laughing – it was Huckerbee, the comptroller from the Treasury. It looked very much as if the self-satisfied patrician were being brought low.
‘Fifteen thirty,’ the receiver called, then spotted the newcomer. He held up his racket to stay his opponent from serving and walked towards the gallery and Shakespeare while the server, seemingly relieved to have some respite, set about collecting the balls that littered the bottom of the net.
‘Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Indeed. I take it you are Arthur Giltspur.’
‘A pleasure to meet you. Severin Tort told me of you. You are an assistant secretary to Walsingham, are you not?’
‘Yes, that is so.’
They shook hands. Giltspur had his racket in his left hand, sloping over his shoulder like a very short halberd. It was an old, well-used implement. The beads of sweat across his brow and exposed throat spoke of a hard-battled game.
‘Do you play, sir?’ Giltspur asked. ‘I am always looking for new opponents.’
‘It is my misfortune that I have never had the opportunity. From that last shot it would seem you have a great skill.’
Giltspur grinned. ‘At risk of being immodest, I would say that no man in England can best me. But I have yet to play young Robert Devereux, of whom I hear good things, so it may be my pride will come before a fall. Anyway, Mr Shakespeare, you are a young man. There is time enough to learn. I shall give you some words of advice when we are done. But first to business. I believe you have an interest in the tragic case of Uncle Nick.’
Shakespeare took in Arthur Giltspur’s appearance. He was an inch or two off six foot and had the lean, hard body of a sportsman. He wore his billowing linen shirt with the throat stays undone, so that his tanned and muscled chest was clearly visible. His face, beneath ribbon-tied fair hair, was friendly and open – the face of a young man with few cares in the world. Shakespeare guessed his age at twenty-four or so.
‘Come, Mr Shakespeare, let us go to my solar. This match has given me a raging thirst.’
‘Do you not wish to finish your tennis? I see your opponent is Sir Robert Huckerbee.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘He is an old friend of the family. Do you wish to pay your respects?’
Shakespeare looked across at Huckerbee and their eyes met. The comptroller looked back blankly. It occurred to Shakespeare that he did not enjoy being watched in his moment of humiliation. He turned away. ‘No, leave him be. Our acquaintance is merely professional.’
‘Well, he was very close to Uncle Nick.’ Giltspur laughed, then cupped his hand and whispered in Shakespeare’s ear. ‘I’m afraid his tennis is not what it was. Let us slip away. I think he will be pleased to retain his twenty-pound stake. He hasn’t had a game off me yet and we’re into the second set. I will just make my apologies and take my leave of him.’
Chapter 18
The Giltspur House solar was an exquisite room. High, noonday sunlight flooded in from two large casement windows, both of which were glazed. Giltspur opened the latches to let in some much-needed fresh air.
A servant arrived with a pitcher of cordial and placed it on a table near the window, then poured two cups, bowed and departed.
Arthur Giltspur sat on a cushion-covered settle and swatted at a fast-moving and very noisy bluefly with his racket. ‘Got it!’ He gazed down at the inert body of the insect and trod it down to ensure it was dead. ‘Did you note how I watched it before I hit it? It is the same with tennis. You must watch the ball at all times. You watch it when it is in the server’s hand and when he tosses it up. You follow its arc to the penthouse. You watch it as a cat watches its prey. You watch it as Mr Secretary watches England’s enemies . . .’
‘What do you know of Mr Secretary?’
‘No more than any man. I have seen him at court and I met him briefly at a guild banquet, but mostly I know him by repute. I give thanks that Her Majesty has his services. He labours in the dark sewer of political intrigue so that Elizabeth and her subjects may sleep sound abed at night. If you are one of his chosen, then I must respect you, too. But you are not here to listen to my musings. You are come about the death of
my uncle. You believe Katherine to be innocent, do you not?’
‘You seem well informed.’
Giltspur sipped his cordial. ‘Severin Tort has briefed me. He came to me late last night. I know all about you and Kat, as you call her. He told me you had some evidence that all might not be as the murderer claimed in court.’
Shakespeare nodded. Without mentioning Joshua Peace or his own meeting with Kat, he rehearsed what he knew and his own feelings about Kat’s character.
‘Then I think we have similar thoughts. I cannot believe Katherine commissioned Uncle Nick’s murder. She brought only joy and life to this rather cold and empty house.’
‘But she had cause to kill him, did she not, Mr Giltspur? Had she not been implicated by Cane, she would now be an exceedingly rich widow.’ He met his host’s eye, with meaning.
‘Say it, Mr Shakespeare. Say what you are thinking.’
‘I am thinking that you, too, would become very wealthy were your aunt disqualified from inheritance by reason of her crime.’
Giltspur smiled. ‘You believe the prospect of inheriting his wealth gives me a motive for the murder of Uncle Nick and the condemning of Katherine?’
‘Some might think so.’
‘What if I were to tell you that I am already very wealthy?’
Shakespeare said nothing, waited for him to continue.
Giltspur sighed. His eyes were amused, as though he were making merry at a schoolfellow’s expense. ‘Very well. Let me complete the picture for you. Of course, Severin Tort could have told you all this, but he is probably so long versed in the ways of lawyers that he is reluctant to say more than he has to, lest he be thought a betrayer of confidences. But this is the way it is. My father, Philip Giltspur, was Uncle Nick’s elder brother. They worked together and traded together and built up their remarkably profitable concern: the greatest fishing fleet in the realm. And when my father died ten years ago, I inherited his half. This house, too, is half mine, Mr Shakespeare. I have never wanted for anything nor could I possibly have need of more treasure. And before you ask, I loved Uncle Nick as well as I loved my own father. His death has hit me like the blow of a hammer – and I very much want anyone involved brought to justice.’