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.’
‘Did the first blast have such a device?’
‘Not that is known.’
‘Perhaps they were experimenting in the second blast.’
‘It had occurred to me. It had also occurred to me that there must be few enough clockmakers capable of designing and constructing such a thing. Frank Mills is instructed to find the clockmaker but is making painfully slow progress. Do you know clockmakers, Nick?’
As if a key had clicked into a lock, Henbird’s attitude suddenly changed. ‘John, I have had a worrying thought.’
Shakespeare caught his friend’s shift in mood. ‘Does this mean something to you, Nick?’
‘Yes, I fear it does. My mind goes to the hellburners of Antwerp …’
Chapter 31
Boltfoot did not make it beyond the castle boundary before collapsing. William Sarjent found him slumped forward across a broken block of ragstone and helped him back into the tower. Now darkness had fallen and Sarjent was gnawing at a hunk of bread, washing it down with ale. He gave a little meat and ale to Boltfoot, but Boltfoot could not take much before the bile rose in his throat.
Sarjent’s eyes were fixed on Boltfoot, who sat in silence inside the desolate and derelict castle. ‘I think it only fair to tell you something, Mr Cooper,’ Sarjent said slowly. ‘I am an intelligencer working directly to Lord Burghley. I have been operating in secret, investigating the disappearance of gunpowder for some weeks. I had penetrated the secret militia of Mr Holy Trinity Curl and his treacherous band of malcontents long before you blundered in with your club foot. You should have told me what you were engaged on when you rode off from Three Mills. I could have saved you much pain. More importantly, I could have saved my inquiry. They are now alerted. You have done much harm.’
And you should have kept me informed, Boltfoot felt like saying to William Sarjent. But argument used up energy, and he had little enough of that to spare this night. What he did manage to say was, ‘How did you find me?’
‘I knew of this place already from my investigations. They train out here with powder. It is safe for them, for none come here but seabirds, a few stray sheep and foxes. I came here to spy on them — and found you instead.’
‘If you knew of Curl and his band, why have they not been broken up by pursuivants or the royal guard?’
‘Mr Cooper, you have been in this business long enough to know the answer to that: I had to find the source of the powder and I had to identify their chiefest man. Lord Burghley fears that powerful merchants, even men of nobility, are involved in this conspiracy. Knagg of Three Mills was supplying Curl with powder, but that hole has been plugged. Who are the puppet masters, though? How shall I find them now? My work is ruined by your bungling.’
Sarjent’s words had reason. Yet, even in his present weak state, Boltfoot’s instinct was strong. He did not like any of this, nor did he like Sarjent and his swaggering ways.
‘The Scots sorcerers, what have they to do with Curl and his band?’
‘Ah, the witches. They are not the common rump of Mr Curl’s rebellious band. I know something of them. They have another purpose.’ Sarjent took a swig from a flagon and passed it to Boltfoot. ‘I fear they have treated you most cruelly, Mr Cooper. Did you tell them aught?’
Boltfoot looked at him with mild contempt but said nothing.
‘Good. That is good. Then let us pool our knowledge and bring what we know to the Cecils, for I have reason to believe an attack of some nature, some insurrection, is coming, and soon.’
Boltfoot tried vainly to struggle to his feet. ‘Let us requisition a boat and make our way to London… we must make haste.’
‘We will, Mr Cooper. But surely you had already got word to Mr Shakespeare before you were brought here?’
‘Yes,’ Boltfoot lied without hesitation, as he had told the same lie to Warboys and Curl before being brought to this place. ‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare knows all about Curl and his band. And he will be mighty concerned about me by
