The old matriarch of Giltspur House had left her chamber and was waiting for Shakespeare in the hall. She was thin and frail, but she held herself at her full height with her shoulders back. In her hand she held a large bunch of iron keys.
‘I am delighted to see you up and about, ma’am.’ He bowed low.
‘Are you, Mr Shakespeare? I doubt you care a jot for my health. However, for myself, I wish I had been up and about, as you call it, rather sooner. Come with me. And you, Sorbus, bring a lighted candle.’
Shakespeare smiled to himself. Her tongue was as sharp as an adder’s and as commanding as a Caesar’s.
Without another word, he followed her through the ancient hall, then down a low, arched corridor which, Shakespeare imagined, must have once held the cells of the monks who lived here in another age.
At the far end of the corridor was a strongroom fronted by a heavy door which was reinforced with bands of iron and locked with a variety of bolts and padlocks. Two guards bowed their heads to Joan Giltspur. She ignored them and with her long bony fingers selected a series of keys and undid the locks, then, with more strength than he would have imagined, she pushed open the door.
The room, which was about eight feet by eight, had no windows. Shakespeare imagined the walls would be even stronger than the door; stone-built, probably three or four feet thick on all sides. This was a room for treasure.
‘The candle, Sorbus. Light the room, man.’
Sorbus stepped into the small cell and held up his candle. It cast a glow which enabled Shakespeare to see a coffer and two smaller chests.
The old woman pushed past Sorbus, elbowing him as she did so. Without ceremony, she unlocked the bolts on the coffer and pulled open the lid.
‘Come, Mr Shakespeare. Come. Take a look.’
Shakespeare advanced further into the room and peered into the coffer. The glint of gold and the sparkle of gemstones flashed their promise. Never in his life had he seen such riches.
‘How full would you say this coffer is, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘About a quarter full. You have remarkable wealth, ma’am.’
‘Do I, indeed? This coffer has been sore depleted, Mr Shakespeare. I have done an audit against the ledgers and the amount here does not accord with what is written. Indeed, great amounts of gold and silver coin are missing. My best estimate is that forty thousand pounds in coin and bullion is gone.’
The sum was scarcely credible. A man could almost buy a county with such riches. Peering into the chest, the glint of gemstones caught Shakespeare’s eye. ‘What of the diamonds and emeralds?’
‘The gems are almost all there. It is the gold and silver that is depleted.’
‘And your great diamond, ma’am?’
‘What do you know of that?’
‘It is famous. Besides, your grandson told me of it.’
‘Well, he had no cause to.’
‘So you still have it?’
‘Mr Shakespeare, will you please keep to the matter in hand. It is the theft of gold and silver that concerns us.’
‘Indeed. Had the locks been forced or broken?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Then who had access to the keys?’
‘I did,’ Joan Giltspur said. ‘And Nick. They were the only sets of keys. And since his death I have possession of both sets. No one else has ever been allowed in this room.’
‘What about your grandson?’
‘No, Arthur did not have keys. He has never shown the slightest interest in the fortunes of this family, so there was no need for him to have them. If ever he needed gold, all he had to do was ask Nick or me.’
‘You must have the house searched – thoroughly. Every nook of every servant’s room, beneath the boards and in the attics. Check the yards and gardens for freshly dug earth. This is an enclosed house so not easy for anyone to leave with such a quantity of treasure.’
‘No.’
‘No, ma’am?’
‘No, I will not have my house searched.’
‘Do you not wish to find your gold – and the person responsible?’
‘Of course I do. And I have summoned you here because I wish you to discover these things, Mr Shakespeare. Find the culprit and I suspect you will also discover the name of Nick’s murderer. For myself, I have only one name in mind: Katherine Whetstone. She must have somehow acquired use of Nick’s keys. Perhaps he found out. Perhaps that is why she killed him. Bring her to justice for me and I will reward you well.’
Chapter 34
Babington was putting the final touches to the letter. Gilbert Gifford had gone two hours since and left him with the chore of enciphering the thousand-word missive. Fighting the exhaustion of a night without sleep and a great deal too much wine, he slogged on through the morning, transfiguring his finely wrought words, character by character, into the secret code that would keep it safe.
Sometimes he wondered about this cipher. How secure was it truly? There were twenty-three symbols, each denoting a letter of the alphabet. Only the letters J, V and W were absent. In addition there were thirty-five symbols standing for whole words or, sometimes, whole phrases. To make things yet more complicated for any would-be codebreaker he used four nulls – symbols without meaning – and a separate symbol which signified that the next symbol equated to a double letter. Surely no man could break such a code. It was hard enough to read or write even with the cipher at his side. His valet tapped at the door, then entered. He did not look happy.
‘What is it, Job? I am mighty busy.’
‘A boy, sir. I told him to go away, but he would not. Says he has a letter for you.’
‘A letter?’
‘I told him to hand it to me, but he said he had to put it in your hand and no one else’s.’
‘Bring him in; and fetch him ale.’
Job frowned as though he must have misheard his master. ‘You wish to see him?’
‘Did I not just say so?’
‘Yes, sir. But I thought-’
‘Sometimes you think too much, Job. Now go and bring him to me.’
‘Very well, master.’
Babington turned over the draft letter and the encryption he was working on so that neither the words of the original nor the strange symbols of the secret code should be visible. A few moments later Job reappeared with a boy of about eleven years.
‘This is the boy. Are you sure you wish me to fetch ale?’
‘I am as certain of it as I am that you will have a birching by day’s end. Now go and do as you are told.’
As Job slunk away, Babington looked at the messenger boy. He was clean enough and bright-eyed. A small leather satchel was slung across his shoulder.
‘I am told you have a letter for me, boy.’
‘Are you Babington?’
‘I am indeed.’
‘What is your church-given name?’
‘Anthony. What is the meaning of such an impertinent question?’
‘I need to be sure you are the man I am looking for, which I now am – for I was told you dressed bravely and had a lordly manner. Here, take this.’ From his satchel he pulled out a sealed letter and handed it over. Babington received it with trembling hands. Was this truly the work of the blessed Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland and rightful Queen of England? He kissed the paper, scarce daring to break the seal. So Gilbert Gifford had spoken true; he had hardly dared believe it.
‘I was told that I should wait if you required me to, Mr Babington.’
‘Yes, please, do wait. I will have a letter for you to take whence you came.’
‘Then I shall be pleased to have the ale.’
‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Call me whatever you like. Boy will do.’
Babington nodded and gestured to the boy to sit at the far end of the room to wait. He had two paragraphs more to transcribe. Not much, perhaps, but it was a painstaking business and would take him the best part of an hour. First, however, he must give himself the pleasure of opening the letter he had received.