‘Yet the merchants of London are powerful men.’
‘Indeed they are, and they must be kept sweet. Burghley, Walsingham and Her Majesty know that they need them. In truth they cannot do without them, for they provide the wealth of England. That is why the link from Mr Ball to Lord Burghley could never be made public.’
‘And so they needed a facilitator . . .’
Tort nodded. ‘That was Nick Giltspur. The money went from Cutting Ball to Nick and from Nick to Burghley. And before you judge him, I would say only this: Nick did not profit from the deal; he did it for England.’
‘But you, Mr Tort, you must have felt compromised. Was there no sense of shame, no guilt?’
He hesitated before replying, then shrugged. ‘If we are honest with ourselves, surely all taxation is money demanded with menaces. Were the tithe-gatherers of old any better than Cutting Ball and Nick Giltspur.’ They were not questions, but statements, for he truly believed the words he spoke. ‘If you did not pay your tithes, the punishment was severe.’
‘But you did not just know of this matter. You played a part, too, did you not? For Nick Giltspur would not have confided in you unless he had a purpose – and that purpose was that he needed your help.’
‘I was always Nick’s confidential adviser. He knew that he could turn to me and talk in complete confidence. Were he alive today, I would not be telling you this, for I never betrayed his trust.’
‘Tell me the truth then. I am thinking he asked you to assist him in some way? Is this not the case?’
Tort paced some more, and then stopped. ‘I oversaw the accounts, which were always complex. There had to be two sets of books. The trick was to keep one clean and the other secret. Nick was a busy man; he needed someone he could trust when the workload was too great. This was not something that could be entrusted to a ledger clerk.’
‘A remarkable state of affairs.’
‘Remarkable, indeed, Mr Shakespeare. And you will understand why you can never repeat what I have told you.’
‘Who, then, had access to the dirty ledger?’
‘Nick kept the books under lock and key. They were never allowed out of Giltspur House and so that is where I would work, when called upon to do so.’
‘What of his mother? What of Arthur?’
‘No. Not then. However, since Nick’s death, I do not know what has happened. There has been no call for me at the house.’
But this was not the whole story. A man was dead and a vast amount of gold and silver was missing. The link with Cutting Ball was proved; so there had to be some connection between the murder and robbery and the work that Nick Giltspur did for the Treasury.
‘Are you suggesting that Nick Giltspur fell out with Cutting Ball – and that Ball ordered the murder?’
‘I have no idea. It is a possibility – and for you to find out. But I know that something was worrying Nick in the days before he died.’
‘And the missing gold. Have you heard of that?’
‘Yes, indeed I have. Word travels in London.’
‘You know Giltspur House as well as anyone, Mr Tort. Who could have broken into the strongroom and removed it?’
‘No one.’
‘No one?’
‘Don’t you understand? The robber or robbers didn’t need to enter the strongroom. The missing gold and silver was never there. I believe it had already been stolen. The answer lies in the black books.’
As he rode towards Giltspur House, Shakespeare tried to make sense of all that Severin Tort had told him. Before taking his leave, the lawyer had begged once again for help in saving the life of his stepson. Shakespeare had, at last, clutched the man’s hands. ‘If there is anything that can be done, I will do it.’
But some things were still unclear: how had Nicholas Giltspur and Burghley made their unholy contract with Cutting Ball in the first place? More importantly, what – if anything – did this all have to do with the murder?
Tort’s revelation had opened the shutters on an unwholesome world of government deceit and official criminality, but it did not give a firm answer to the fundamental question: who killed Nick Giltspur and why? From what Tort was saying, someone must have got at the books, massaging the amounts received and passed on. But if the books had never left Giltspur House, that meant it had to be someone within the household: Nick Giltspur himself, his ancient mother or his nephew Arthur. Unless it was one of the servants – or someone who
had illicitly gained access to the house. Will Cane for instance?
Or the obvious one: Kat herself.
Shakespeare very much wished to talk with her again. He also very much desired to interrogate the sportsman Arthur Giltspur; fleet of foot and supremely competitive.
One thing that had become abundantly clear was the meaning of the words used by old Joan Giltspur: This family has done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined . . .
Not just the conveying of men and messages in and out of the ports of Spain and France, but keeping the Treasury coffers full of extorted gold.
The sentries at Giltspur House looked at the would-be visitor as though he were an insect, then smirked at each other. ‘Ah yes, you are Mr Shakespeare,’ the chief of the two said. ‘I recall your face. How may I help you?’
‘I wish to see Mr Arthur Giltspur.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Then his grandmother, Mrs Giltspur.’
‘I am told she does not wish to be disturbed.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘One of the maids. Does it matter?’
‘Then I will speak with Sorbus.’
‘Sorbus? Sorbus?’ he turned to his fellow guard. ‘Do we know a Sorbus, Hubert?’
‘Wasn’t he that steward fellow, the one that got himself arrested this morning for harbouring a known felon?’ The second sentry grinned. ‘If that’s the man you want, Mr Shakespeare, sir, you’ll most likely find him just around the corner at the Counter in Wood Street. I do believe that’s where Justice Young took him.’
‘Sorbus arrested? What is the charge?’
‘Ask him yourself.’
Shakespeare moved forward. The sentries crossed their swords to bar his way.
‘You will pay a heavy price for your insolence.’
‘Not as heavy as you will pay if you try to move an inch further forward.’
The Counter in Wood Street was less than five minutes’ walk from the splendours of Aldermanbury and Giltspur House, but it might have been a world away, for it was a mean place, usually set aside for debtors and criminals awaiting trial. The keeper allowed Shakespeare into the gaol in exchange for sixpence. ‘Strange thing, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said as they walked through the dark bowels of the prison, ‘this man Abraham Sorbus is the only prisoner I got. Mr Topcliffe came around this morning and cleared out the rest. Two went to the scaffold and I know not what he did with the others.’
Shakespeare knew all too well why the gaols were being evacuated but said nothing. At the door to the cell where Sorbus was being held, he turned to the keeper. ‘Leave us now.’ The turnkey bowed and left, clutching his coin. Shakespeare gazed at Sorbus. He looked a sorry sight.
He was sitting disconsolate on the floor, his small legs in rusty irons, his normally immaculate clothes torn and coated in dirt and dust. His hair was awry and his face bruised. A drop of blood had trickled from his nostril and was now dried to a crust. He had either been dragged here or had been beaten and knocked to the ground. He was such a slender fellow, thought Shakespeare, that he could easily have been carried here like a child, under a strong man’s arm. And yet somehow, despite being brought so low, he still contrived to look stiff and aloof.
‘Mr Sorbus, I am sorry to find you here.’
At the prisoner’s side was a leathern blackjack and an empty platter. ‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare, so am I. I am told these fetters will lose their rust and gain a bright sheen if I am here long enough, which they doubt.’