‘Of course it was correct. I must be losing my mind, Mr Shakespeare. I have no notion how I failed to note it before. She must be almost six months gone.’
‘Allow me a few words. At least we might discover the name of the father. Perhaps the offer of a reference or a few shillings to tide her over while she seeks another position . . .’ Shakespeare looked for some forgiveness in the old widow’s eyes, but saw only stone.
‘I thank you for bringing me this news, but now I must ask you to go.’ Joan Giltspur snorted. ‘It will be some grubby serving boy from the kitchen, or a groom from the stables.’
‘There is another possibility. What if Nicholas was the father? What if the babe she carries is your grandchild?’
Silence hung in the old woman’s chamber. The deep lines in her face showed every one of her eighty-one years. She pulled her lips back from her teeth, which were remarkably white for one of her age. For a moment it seemed she would speak, but no words came.
‘It is a possibility, is it not?’ Shakespeare broke the silence. ‘She is a very pretty young woman. If the child was conceived five or six months ago, then it would have been long before he met Katherine.’
‘This is scurrilous talk. How dare you! This family has done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined, and yet you have the temerity to suggest such a thing. Get out.’
‘Of course I will go, but think on it. Why not Nicholas? She is a comely young woman and he was an unattached man. She would not have been the first maid to slip into her master’s bed of a night . . .’
‘And you believe this is something to do with his murder, Mr Shakespeare? Is that it?’
‘I don’t know. But I must look at all possibilities, and spurned love has led to many murders. But before I can even begin to think such things, I must ascertain the name of the father.’
‘Go to her. Tell her she can stay if she is honest with you. She will work in the kitchens. I do not wish to see her, but I wish to know the truth.’
Shakespeare found Abigail in her bedchamber, one of a number of small rooms in the extensive attics. She was sitting on a narrow cot with a thin mattress and meagre bedding. Her head was in her hands and tears streamed from her eyes. He sat down beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. The gloom was pervasive, for there was no window and the only light came through the open hatch.
‘Come now, Abigail, dry your eyes. I believe your mistress can be persuaded to relent.’ He tried to soften his voice.
The sobs were choking in her throat. Shakespeare had not expected such intensity of emotion. Suddenly his arm around her shoulders felt awkward, a little too intimate. He stood up. Still she did not raise her head from her hands or allow her eyes to meet his.
‘How long have you been here at Giltspur House?’
She did not answer, but kept on weeping.
‘I know you were lady’s maid to Mistress Katherine Giltspur. I can understand how dismayed you must have been at the events of a few days ago. It is all still a mystery, is it not? And that is the reason I am here – to try to solve this terrible puzzle. What I need from you is any information you might have; anything you might not already have mentioned, which is why I want you to tell me the name of your baby’s father. Perhaps he might know something. Anything you can tell me, however insignificant it might seem to you, could assist me.’
Her tears continued unabated. How was he to extract information from this woman? And then he seemed to hear a whisper through her sob.
‘Help me.’
The words were so quiet that at first he was not certain he had heard them.
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Help me, sir. I have done a bad thing,’ she whispered.
‘What have you done, Abigail? What bad thing?’
‘Please, Mr Shakespeare . . .’
‘Is this something to do with Mr Giltspur’s death? If so, it were better you speak now. Or are you speaking of the babe that grows in your womb? Is that the bad thing?’ He leant forward and took her face in his hands.
Briefly, Abigail’s moist red eyes met Shakespeare’s, then went back down, demurely, as though she were a virgin at the altar. She slid forward from the bed onto her knees. For a moment, he thought she was about to pray, but instead she clasped Shakespeare’s legs like a supplicant. ‘Please, sir. Please, help me.’
‘Yes, I will help you, but you must be straight and honest with me. Answer my questions truthfully and I will try to assist you. I ask again, what is this bad thing you speak of – do you mean the swelling of your belly? Or is there something else I should know?’
‘I will do anything. Anything.’
He tried to remove her arms from about his legs, to make her either stand up or sit back on the bed so that they could converse properly, but she held him tighter and nestled her tear-stained face into his groin, so that he could feel her warm breath through the wool of his hose.
‘Abigail, you must move away. This is not seemly.’
Her hands slid up the back of his legs and tried to venture into the gap between his thighs. ‘Abigail!’ He tried to wrench himself away from her, but she clasped him all the harder. Now her right hand went to the front of his hose and began to stroke him. He grasped her hand to pull it away and was astonished by her strength in resisting him. But he was stronger. With his other hand he gripped her upper left arm and forced her back onto the bed. She let out a strange laugh, half tearful, half insane.
‘Abigail, this will not end here. Tell me, the bad thing, what is it? Tell me now.’
She pulled back her shoulders and turned her head sharply to the left to shield her face from him.
For two minutes he stood and looked down at her. But she did not move, except for the occasional shudder, which might have been a residue of her tears or the convulsion of a laugh.
There was nothing more to be said. Without another word, he clambered through the hatchway and down the ladder.
He found Sorbus in the hall close to the front door.
‘Mr Sorbus, a word.’
‘As you will, sir.’
‘The maid Abigail, I wish to know more about her. She seems almost deranged.’
‘I fear she has not been herself since the recent events, Mr Shakespeare. And now I am led to believe that you think her with child.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Old Mistress Giltspur, sir. She is most displeased.’
‘So you suspected nothing, even when her belly swelled and her breasts grew?’
Sorbus cast his face into an apology. ‘I am but a man, sir, and a bachelor. The ways of women are a mystery to me. I do not notice things as others might. Indeed, as you might, sir.’
‘How long has she been in the house?’
‘A year. She was in service to Mr Tort. He had overheard me saying to Mr Nicholas that we needed a new housemaid and he said that he had a good girl who was surplus to requirements. And so we took her on. She did well and was promoted to lady’s maid when Mr Nicholas brought his new bride into the house.’
‘What is her family name?’
‘Colton, sir. But I am afraid I know little more about her. She was so highly recommended by Mr Tort that we did not consider it necessary to look into her family nor seek other references.’
‘Did you notice any of the men of the house taking an interest in her?’
‘No, sir. No, I did not.’
‘Neither servant nor master?’
‘No.’
‘Is it possible that she conducted a liaison with your late master before his marriage? Might he have been the father?’
‘I would say that nothing is impossible under God’s heaven, but in this case I would most certainly not believe it. In truth, Mr Shakespeare, I would stake my life on it. Mr Nicholas Giltspur is not the father of her child – and before you ask, neither am I.’