One of the soldiers returned and saluted his sergeant. ‘There is no sign of any Spanish woman. Five servants and that creature.’ He indicated Jones, who skulked behind his master. ‘That’s all.’
‘Where have you taken her, Topcliffe?’
‘I have told you all I know. She left of her own free will.’
‘Keep these two here, in this strong room, sergeant. I will talk with the servants.’
As Shakespeare left the room, he caught sight of Topcliffe from the corner of his eye, whispering close to the soldier’s ear. ‘Queen’s servant, sergeant. I shall have your entrails in my blazing cresset for what you have done this day.’
The sergeant whispered back with equal venom. ‘We’re all Queen’s servants here, Mr Topcliffe. Now stow you unless you want my sword up your arse.’
Shakespeare found himself smiling.
Half an hour later, convinced by the servants that Ana Cabral had, indeed, left Topcliffe’s house, Shakespeare despatched the guard back to Greenwich Palace with a message for Cecil. He left one of their number outside Topcliffe’s door.
Shakespeare mounted his grey mare and headed for the city. He felt a bitter satisfaction at the damage and humiliation he had inflicted on Topcliffe. It had been good to see the defiant courage of the sergeant, uncowed by Topcliffe’s threats, where others trembled merely at the mention of his name.
It was almost dark as Shakespeare rode, but he needed to see Henbird.
He found him in bed at his fine home in St Nicholas Shambles, nursing two yellowing black eyes and a mass of other bruises about his face and body.
Shakespeare looked at him aghast. ‘What happened, Nick?’
‘A Mr Bruce, a noxious Scotsman, came here, said he was a friend of yours… asked me the whereabouts of Walstan Glebe.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him nothing. He seemed most discontented. He said he had heard from certain intelligencers that I had him. I rather felt Mr Bruce might have killed me, here in my own home, had my servants not intervened.’
‘I am sorry, Nick. I feared he might be led to you. Where is Glebe now?’
‘Safe in my cellar still, locked beneath the trapdoor. Is that why you’re here?’
‘No — unless he has told you more.’
‘He has said nothing. I suspect he has nothing more to tell, for you have wrought great fear in him. I am sure he would squeal like a piglet if he had aught to squeal about.’
‘I’ll deal with him in good time. It’s Baines I want for the moment. Do you have a way to him? I must tell you, he is not what he seems.’
Henbird attempted to laugh, but winced and thought better of it. ‘Who is what they seem in this world we inhabit, John? Here.’ He tried to rise from his bed. ‘Help me up. I need more brandy.’ With Shakespeare’s assistance, Henbird struggled up from his sickbed and waddled to the door, where he bellowed for liquor. With great effort he went across to his table and sat down beside it on the bench, which creaked beneath his weight. ‘So, what have you discovered about Rick Baines?’
‘He’s also known as Laveroke.’
‘Ah, the man you mentioned before. The one who spoke with Glebe about this prince of Scots. Was that really Rick Baines?’
‘He took us all for gulls, and we fell for it.’
‘Baines always had a talent for being someone else. Who told you this, John?’
‘Our Scots friend, Rabbie Bruce. I would not trust him on much, but I believe him on this. I have reason enough…’ He grimaced, thinking back to the deep, turbid waters of the Thames, the gulping in of foul river water as Baines, or Laveroke, tried to drown him. He shook his head to dispel the memory. ‘The question now is — how do we get to him?’
‘The only way is to put word out on to the street.’
‘Do it. Let it be known you must have his whereabouts — without his knowledge. Offer ten pounds. I will find the money from Cecil.’
‘As you will, John. There is no harm in trying.’
The servant brought brandy. He poured a large measure for Henbird and, at his own insistence, a far smaller one for his guest. Shakespeare looked out the window. It was late. Night had fallen. ‘There is also the matter of the merchants and Oliver Kettle. Did you discover more?’
‘Nothing. I told you. They are rich, powerful men. They close up like English footmen on the field of battle. There is nothing there and will be nothing unless you have them all arrested and brought to the Tower for questioning. Would Sir Robert like that?’
Shakespeare knew the answer to that well enough. This realm was dependent on trade; no minister would get away with such a move against the great merchants.
‘We could have them followed, find out with whom they deal.’
‘John, they are mere money men, they have no part in any of this. If they were more than that, they would not be handing over a few shillings at a public banquet. They were giving silver to this man because they liked what he said, not because they were actively engaged in insurrection. Their gift was of little more consequence to them than your gift of a farthing to a beggar.’
‘And Kettle?’
‘No sign.’
Shakespeare sipped his brandy. He said nothing. All avenues were closing down. Mills had got nowhere with his search for a clockmaker, Ana Cabral was missing, probably ensconced in the safety of Essex House with Perez — and where was Boltfoot?
Other names crowded in: Topcliffe and his curious connection with the Scotsman, Bruce; the men in Ellie Bull’s room in Deptford — Poley, Frizer, Skeres — there had been no word of them since the inquest, nor any clue as to their motive.
Shakespeare felt he was in the middle of some teeming hell. A picture came into his mind, a diabolical painting he had once seen while travelling in Brabant on a secret errand for Mr Secretary back in the early eighties. He recalled the name of the artist, Mijnheer Bosch. He had never seen the like of this strange picture. It was full of demons, iniquity and punishment; men and women consigned to damnation. Now, as he thought of it, Catherine was there at its centre, her beautiful face so faint he could scarce make out its features. He shook the unbearable vision from his mind.
‘Nick, this is bleak. We fear an attack is imminent, an onslaught far worse than anything yet ventured… and yet I make no progress.’
‘Tell me more, John. Confide in me.’
Shakespeare gazed at him. His battered face looked like a windfall apple that had been kicked by boys and was turning to mush. Henbird could be trusted; his face told its own tale. ‘It is true, I need your help. Our enemies attack on all sides. I fear I am missing something. We must find him.’
‘The prince of Scots?’
‘The tale is bruited all around court.’
‘The city, too. People in the ordinaries and taverns speak of little else. I have heard it said that certain great nobles of the Romish faith are plotting how they may proclaim him King of England.’
‘Do you have names?’
‘The usual. Southampton, Lord Strange, Northumberland, the imprisoned Arundel…’
‘This is all conjecture, yes? Mere tittle-tattle.’
‘Perhaps, but it does amaze me how quick such talk spreads. Suddenly a word said in jest turns to established fact. One ember will start a forest fire.’
Shakespeare sighed heavily. ‘And do the gossips talk of a link between this pretender prince and the powder outrages?’
‘How could they not?’
Shakespeare paused. He had to trust Henbird. He needed him. ‘I can tell you, Nick, that five thousand pounds of gunpowder is missing. Five thousand pounds to spark the flame. Perhaps more than that. What will they do with such an amount?’
Henbird’s eyes widened. Such an amount could wreak havoc. ‘Have you discovered anything from the first two outrages, John?’
Only that I no longer have a wife, he almost said. Instead he nodded grimly. ‘Joshua Peace found some metal fragments. He believes they came from a clock, that the powder in the second blast was lit by a timing device. Frank Mills is supposed to be finding the artificer.’