Shakespeare took the paper. To Beth and Eliza Smith, for services rendered, twenty sovereigns, gold. As requisitioned and agreed by Mr John Shakespeare, gent. It was written in a fine sloping hand on good quality paper, dated and signed by both sisters. Twenty sovereigns was a vast amount; more than a skilled artisan could earn in two years.
‘I had no notion, Sir Robert.’ He looked up at Huckerbee and met his condescending gaze. ‘I knew they were costly, but they assured me that they always dealt with Thomas Phelippes and Mr Secretary, and that the price was always happily agreed by them.’ He placed the paper back on Huckerbee’s desk.
‘And you believed them, sir? You took the word of two notorious night-workers . . . whores? I cannot believe Mr Secretary has ever agreed such a sum. It cannot be justified.’ Huckerbee’s languorous front had been dropped.
Shakespeare stood his ground. ‘We needed their services. Mr Secretary told me to do what was necessary to keep Gilbert Gifford from taking flight. If the costs are excessive, then I shall answer to my master and if necessary I will order the sisters to re-submit their invoice. But that will be a matter for Sir Francis. Is that all? I have work to do.’ He turned to go.
‘Wait, damn you, I will not be brushed off.’
All pretence of cool urbanity was gone like a blast of wind on a still day. Shakespeare turned back. ‘Do you think to talk to me so? You are not my master.’
‘Indeed, I am your master in this, Shakespeare, for I control the purse that is paying for this ambitious scheme of the Principal Secretary. The Queen herself has me before her almost every day demanding closer control of Treasury funds – so you will hear me.’ Shakespeare said nothing, but waited. ‘Mr Shakespeare, am I not making myself clear?’ ‘If you have something to say, say it, for I have no time for such trifling matters.’
‘Trifling, you say? No time? I thought you had all the time in the world, pursuing your own interests around town, and all at the expense of the Treasury. I have heard it said, too, that you have been making use of the whores’ services yourself. Perhaps that is why their price is so outrageous. Would Mr Secretary like to hear that you are plundering Her Majesty’s coffers to pay for your peccadilloes?’
‘What exactly are you saying?’
‘You are misusing Treasury funds. There is an ugly word for it: embezzlement.’
‘That is slander, Huckerbee. You rave like a Bedlam fool.’ Shakespeare was angry now, but his ire was underlaid by anxiety. What exactly did Huckerbee think he knew – and who had been talking to him? Was the Queen herself really involved in this? He sniffed the air. Huckerbee kept his sumptuous display of roses in large urns about the room, but they could not conceal the stink of overflowing middens that was beginning to make this palace uninhabitable; the sooner the court moved on to the fresh air of Richmond, the better. But there was more than the stench of human waste in this room, there was the stink of double dealing, too.
‘I will be sending a report to Mr Secretary. You have not heard the last of this, Shakespeare.’
He should have walked out then, but he had to defend himself, even though he had nothing to hide. ‘Someone has been putting lies about. Who have you been talking to?’
‘My information is sound enough. You spend my money on your own pursuits.’
‘Your money?’
‘The money I dispense. Do not quibble with me, sir. I suggest you restrict yourself to government work or you will pay a heavy price.’
‘Mr Secretary will not be gulled by you. He knows my honesty. And if I am engaged in any other matters, he knows all about them, for I keep no secrets from him.’ Even as he spoke the words, he wished he had kept his counsel; he was defending himself like a schoolboy in front of an overbearing master. He had handed the advantage to Huckerbee.
The comptroller sat back in his chair. ‘Then all will be well for you, won’t it, Shakespeare?’ His voice had regained its composure. ‘If Mr Secretary is happy that you have been going about your own business in his time, then who am I to gainsay him? And if he is content that you use official funds for the swiving of a pair of costly whores, then so be it. But I will not be party to it.’
There was a knock at his door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
A bluecoat entered and bowed low. ‘My lord Burghley requests your presence, Sir Robert.’
‘Tell him I will be with him presently. A minute, no more.’ He waved an elegant hand at Shakespeare. ‘Go, sir. Take your boat.’ He screwed up the Smith sisters’ invoice and flung it at Shakespeare. ‘And take that with you, for I will not sign it off.’
Chapter 25
Richard Young, magistrate of London, circled the red-headed man on the stool. All the while he looked at his captive with a steady gaze. Had he been a cat and his prey a mouse, he would surely have batted it with a paw, claws extended.
Osric Redd was bound tight. His legs were secured at the ankles and his hands were tied behind his back. He was in the centre of the parlour in the farm that had always been his home and he had no idea what was going on, who these men were or what they might want from him. They kept asking the same question.
‘Where is she, Mr Redd?’
‘I told you. I don’t know. Why would I know?’
‘Because she was here.’
‘Aye, she was here. You asked me and I told you. But I told you, too, that she was gone, and so she is. I need to go to my sheep.’
Young approached Osric and stooped even more than usual so that he might meet his prisoner eye to eye. ‘I will break you asunder if you say the word sheep one more time, Mr Redd.’ Young was a poor-looking creature, his lips dry and downcast from a life lived without humour. He was not strong, but he did not need to be when he had a band of six men with him to do the brutish work of taking and holding men for questioning.
Without warning, Young pushed the bound man full on the chest. The stool toppled backwards and Osric fell with it, his head cracking on the dirt floor with a hideous thud. His chin smacked forward into his chest. Blood began to pour from his mouth.
‘Pull him up,’ Young ordered. ‘Wipe the dog’s dirty mouth.’
Two men bent forward and pulled the injured man and his stool back upright. His head lolled to the side and his eyes were closed. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose onto his shepherd’s smock. He immediately fell to the floor again, unable to keep his balance.
‘I think he’s dead, Mr Young.’
‘He’s not dead. I only gave him a push to jog his memory and loosen his peasant tongue. Give him water and a clip around the head, that’ll wake him.’
The man shrugged and and wandered off. Justice Young reached into his pocket and pulled out a kerchief, then thought better of it and put it back. Instead, he pulled out his dagger and cut a large strip of cloth from Osric’s woollen smock. He scraped the cloth across the injured man’s blood-soaked face. The blood smeared, but kept dripping.
‘Dirty dog. Look at him.’
One of his men returned carrying a wooden pail. ‘I found this outside, Mr Young. I wouldn’t drink it, though. They do say the plague is spread in water, so I won’t drink it for no man.’
‘It’s not for drinking, you dolt.’ Young snatched the pail and upended it over Osric’s head.
As the water washed down over him, Osric grunted and then opened his mouth and gasped.
‘There you are. Told you there was nothing wrong with the dirty dog, God damn him to hell.’
‘What do we do with him now? I don’t think he knows anything. He don’t look too well.’