Holy Spy

Book 7: John Shakespeare

by Rory Clements

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

For fans of C J Sansom and S J Parris, HOLY SPY features the Queen's Intelligencer John Shakespeare in the latest of Rory Clements' acclaimed and bestselling series of Tudor spy thrillers. Clements, winner of the Ellis Peters Historical Fiction Award, 'does for Elizabeth's reign what C.J. Sansom does for Henry VIII's' Sunday Times

In London's smoky taverns, a conspiracy is brewing: a group of wealthy young Catholic dissidents plot to assassinate Elizabeth, free Mary Queen of Scots - and open England to Spanish invasion. But the conspirators have been infiltrated by Sir Francis Walsingham's top intelligencer, John Shakespeare.

Shakespeare, however, is torn: the woman he loves stands accused of murder. In a desperate race against time he must save her from the noose and the realm from treachery. And then it dawns that both investigations are inextricably linked - by corruption very close to the seat of power . . .

Release date: September 24, 2015

Publisher: Witness Impulse

Print pages: 480

Sample

Chapter 10

Walsingham gazed at Shakespeare’s bruised head and winced. ‘I think Mr Mills rather overdid it.’

‘Sir Francis?’ Shakespeare could not conceal his irritation. Did he detect a dark smile lurking around the corners of his master’s usually dour mouth?

‘Forgive me. It was my idea. I felt it would not work if I told you beforehand, but I thought it would help.’

‘I am still unsure—’

‘I asked Mr Mills to organise a mild attack on you, in the sight of your fellow diners at the Plough Inn. He found three young apprentices and gave them a shilling each for their night’s work. They were supposed to knock you to the ground, throw insults at you and threaten you with a dagger. They were not supposed to damage you, but it had to be believable.’

‘They could have killed me!’

‘No, no. If it had got out of hand, Mr Mills would have called off his hounds. He was watching and directing them from the shadows. The idea was to show the others in your band of traitors and drinkers that you were truly one of them, suffering for the cause as they do. It worked, did it not?’

Not for the first time, Shakespeare tried to peer deep into Walsingham’s dark eyes and discern his true character, but it was a wasted effort. Perhaps his wife or children knew him well, but no one else was allowed into the secret corners of Mr Secretary’s devious soul. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It worked. A little too well. Babington had to rescue me.’

‘Well there you are. Safe and sound and a little closer to your prey.’

They were in Walsingham’s austere private room at his Seething Lane mansion. Having arrived home two hours before dawn, Shakespeare had managed no more than an hour and a half of sleep. Then he washed himself thoroughly and hastily ate a breakfast of eggs and ham, prepared for him by the new housemaid, while he caught up with the news from Boltfoot about his vain quest for those who knew Will Cane. Shakespeare heard the tale with interest.

‘Go to the watchman. Find this woman again,’ he ordered Boltfoot. ‘She must know something. But be wary. I fear you are more likely to be robbed than assisted.’

Boltfoot nodded. ‘I don’t think they liked me asking questions.’

‘Then employ subtlety, Boltfoot.’

‘Yes, master.’

Boltfoot grunted but Shakespeare could tell he was unhappy; perhaps he did not understand the word subtlety. Well, he didn’t have the time or inclination to explain it. He wanted answers and Boltfoot might now be well placed to find them.

‘And master, I must tell you that the watch and the whore now know that I work for you and where you live.’

‘That is of no consequence. I have nothing to hide. Keep up your good work. Someone must know the truth about Will Cane and this murder.’

He dismissed Boltfoot, finished his eating and strode down the street to his appointed meeting with his own master. Now here he was, learning that the attack on him outside the Plough had been ordered by Sir Francis himself.

There was a knock on the door and a messenger entered with a paper, which he placed on the table before Walsingham, then bowed and left.

Walsingham broke the seal and began reading. ‘Was Savage there last night?’ he inquired, not looking up from his letter.

‘At the Plough? No. I had expected him but he did not arrive. I will seek him out later today.’

‘He is losing his nerve.’

‘Do you have some information?’

Walsingham held up the letter. ‘Gifford said as much to Tom Phelippes. He told him that Savage is altogether too comfortable at Barnard’s Inn and makes no effort towards fulfilling his vow.’

‘Are Mr Phelippes and Gifford still at Chartley?’

‘Yes. Hopefully there will be movement there soon. But it is Savage that concerns me here and now. We cannot let him slip away. Keep his courage strong. Keep him zealous.’

Indeed, he had had such worries about Savage himself. Why would a man about to martyr himself for his faith be so diligent in his law studies? However, he did not voice his fears. ‘He is not a man to break his vow. Babington calls him “the Instrument”. Like a cat, he watches and waits his moment.’

Walsingham folded the paper and put it to one side. ‘The Instrument? Meaning what I imagine it to mean?’

‘That he is the instrument by which Her Majesty is to be assassinated. That is what one must assume, though no one has spoken openly of it, and certainly not Savage himself.’

‘They do not trust you well enough yet. Do you think they might turn on you?’

‘Thomas Salisbury might. He is certainly one of those with a desperate air. He intends to see this thing through. And last night there were two newcomers – two members of the Queen’s Guard. I fear their purpose.’

‘Ah, Tilney and Abingdon. Fear not, they will never again get within a furlong of Her Majesty. How many are there now in these Pope’s White Sons?’

‘At least twenty, perhaps twice that number. They come and go. Babington tries to recruit more members and, to that end, he takes inordinate risks. He is becoming increasingly careless, hence my own acceptance. But what else can he do? All the men he wants are members of the gentry or are at court or are associated with the inns of court. Every one of them could be a spy sent to watch him, but it is a risk he is willing to take. Perhaps he is too vain and foolish to believe he could be duped. As for me, he thinks it a great coup to have someone from inside your office. I am to be their dog, barking when you get too close.’

Walsingham said nothing for a few moments. There was utter silence in the room. He was thinking. At last he sighed. ‘There are so many strands, John. Am I overreaching? The costs rise daily. I have never seen Sir Robert Huckerbee in such a sweat as he hands me Treasury gold and silver.’

Shakespeare knew that Walsingham did not expect a reply. Anyway, his own thoughts were elsewhere, specifically a loft room in Shoreditch.

‘Are you with me, John?’

‘Mr Secretary?’

‘For a moment, I rather imagined your thoughts to be drifting.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘Tell me more about Babington. He is married I believe.’

‘He has a wife but he has left her at the family home, Dethick Manor in Derbyshire, with their small daughter. As you know, he has spent most of the time since their marriage either in London or France, making mischief with the Scots Queen’s people. The fact of his marriage does not necessarily mean a great deal to a man such as Babington.’

‘And his closest friends are Tichbourne and Salisbury.’

‘Yes, he met Tichbourne in France. What we know of Tichbourne is that he comes of recusant stock in Hampshire. The whole family has been questioned about their popish practices. As I said, the one that worries me more is Thomas Salisbury. I thought for a moment last night that he meant to kill me.’

Walsingham shrugged. He did not expect his intelligencers to worry about a small matter such as their own lives. He carried on with his train of questioning. ‘Is there more than common friendship between Babington and these two men?’

Shakespeare understood the slant of Walsingham’s question. ‘Possibly. He now lives at Hern’s Rents in Holborn, but it is only a few months since he lodged with Salisbury near Temple. Whether they were bedfellows, I know not, if that is what you mean.’

‘That is precisely what I mean. Are they Christ’s fellows? Which brings me to my next question: do you think Babington would fall for Robin Poley’s charms? I want someone with him twenty-four hours in the day. You cannot be with him and keep a close watch on Goodfellow Savage, but Robin surely could.’

Robin Poley. It was a name that had come up before in recent weeks. Poley was a retainer of Walsingham’s daughter Frances and her husband Philip Sidney, and lived with the household at Mr Secretary’s country property, Barn Elms, a few miles upstream from London. What was it about this young man that made Walsingham believe he could be employed as an intelligencer? The only time Shakespeare had met him, he had seemed obsequious and ungenuine. However, he clearly had wit, charm and a handsome face. Most importantly, he was a Catholic – and known to be so among the papists of London. In short, Shakespeare realised, he was precisely the sort of shallow, garish man that Babington liked.

‘It is a possibility,’ Shakespeare said.

‘Let us see how we might introduce them. Think on it, John. If his inclinations are as I suspect, I doubt he will be able to resist young Robin.’

Shakespeare looked up at the house on Aldermanbury that had belonged to Nicholas Giltspur. Aldermanbury was perhaps the loveliest of London streets and this building only added to its lustre. It was a goodly sized, well-maintained mansion with an arched stone gateway that was carved with the effigies of saints; evidence of its clerical past.

Until half a century ago it had been part of a great abbey; now it had been renovated and beautified and was a rich man’s dwelling. But that man was dead and his widow was in hiding.

Shakespeare handed the reins of his horse to a groom and strode up the flagged path to the great double doors. They were fronted by two guards, each with drawn sword held aloft so that the blades made lines to the sky in front of their noses. As he approached, they clicked their heels.

‘I would speak with the chief steward,’ he said to one of the guards.

‘Wait here. I’ll fetch Mr Sorbus.’

The guard went inside, leaving Shakespeare outside with the other sentry, then returned two minutes later in company with a small man, as slender as a maiden. He wore the plain black coat, hose and falling band of a senior steward.

‘Yes?’ The word was curt and unhelpful.

‘Are you Mr Sorbus? I am inquiring into the death of Mr Giltspur.’

‘Yes, I am Sorbus. Who are you? What is your interest?’

‘My name is John Shakespeare. I was once a friend of Mr Giltspur’s widow.’

‘You will have to tell me rather more than that, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I am a Queen’s officer, assistant secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham.’

‘And he is interested in Mr Giltspur’s murder, is he? I had not thought a common murder the territory of so great a personage.’

‘No, this is nothing to do with Mr Secretary. It is personal. But nor would I call it a common murder. Indeed, it is most uncommon – and inexplicable. As I said, Katherine Giltspur was a friend. I wish to know what happened and why, for I find it hard to believe that she hired someone to kill any man, let alone her husband.’

Sorbus breathed a dismissive sigh. ‘The facts are plain. Every man has heard them from the killer’s own mouth, and the absence of Mrs Giltspur must speak for itself. She ran away like a thief in the night on hearing of the death of her husband. What grieving widow would do that?’

‘I would come in a while and speak with you, Mr Sorbus. I would also speak with other members of your staff.’

‘That is not possible.’

‘Why? Do you have something to hide?’

‘Good day, sir.’ He jerked his chin towards the sentries. ‘Escort this man from the premises.’

Shakespeare felt deep frustration and helplessness as he rode away. The steward, Sorbus, had been uncooperative, but perhaps his own rejoinder had been a little too sharp.

The problem was that without Walsingham’s authority, he had no power of interrogation, nor warrant to enter Giltspur House; and Walsingham would hardly wish one of his principal intelligencers to be taking an interest in a domestic crime, however sensational and unusual it might be.

The rainstorm was now a distant memory and the day was fine. London looked its most beautiful and one could almost ignore the summer stench of the middens and sewage kennels as he rode the short distance along flower-lined streets. He tethered his horse beneath a spreading plane tree in the churchyard of St Paul’s, then went towards the cool crypt where the Searcher of the Dead did his work.

He had first met Joshua Peace in Warwickshire almost four years earlier. Joshua was the son of Mother Peace, who had been searcher in the county for longer than anyone could recall. Many had shunned her, fearing her as a witch or necromancer. It was a slur that also stuck to her son among the more ignorant of the rural peasantry, but the truth – as Shakespeare knew – was very different, for Joshua had travelled widely in the Italian lands and cities and had learnt much from the great artists and anatomists. That was why Shakespeare, with Walsingham’s agreement, had arranged for him to come away from Warwickshire and place himself instead at the service of the City of London.

Peace was pulling strands of tangled hair from the dead eyes of a woman’s corpse. He turned and smiled. ‘John, this is a pleasant surprise.’

‘Thank you, Joshua. I have not heard many welcoming words this morning.’ His eyes strayed to the mouldering body of the woman laid out on the slab. He quickly looked away, nausea welling up. ‘And if you have any potions for a cupshotten head then do not keep them from me.’

‘We could take some wine, if you wish. The Three Tuns serves a goodly vintage.’

‘Perhaps a cup of small ale.’

Peace removed his bloody apron and hung it from a hook embedded in the damp stone wall. ‘Come then – and tell me what has brought you here.’

At the tavern, they sat together in a small booth where they would not be overheard. ‘It is about my old friend Kat Whetstone.’

Peace’s eyes brightened. ‘Well, well, Kat. Yes, how is she? I have not seen her in an age.’ And then his smile faded. ‘I thought I heard that you and she—’

‘You are right. We are no longer together. In truth, Joshua, she left me. But that was many months ago and she has since been married and widowed – and has landed herself in great peril. I believe you examined the body of her late husband, Mr Nicholas Giltspur.’

Peace looked aghast. ‘Is she the widow? God’s blood, John, I had no notion.’

‘No, nor did I. But do you know the tale told of her?’

‘If she is Giltspur’s widow, then I fear I do. She has an appointment with the hangman, that much is certain.’

‘You have met her more than once. Do you believe her capable of so heinous a crime?’

Peace spread his hands helplessly. ‘I – I have no opinion on the subject. You are the one who knew her best, so I must be guided by you. Is she innocent, John?’

Shakespeare clenched his lips tight, then shook his head. ‘I suppose not, for why else would the murderer, Cane, say such things?’

‘And yet your face tells me that you do not believe her guilty, which is why you are here. You are hoping that I found something when I examined Giltspur’s corpse.’

‘I know you didn’t, for I have spoken to Recorder Fleetwood. Giltspur was slain by a single stab to the throat with a bollockdagger. That is the testimony you gave, is it not? And it accords with everything said by the witnesses and the killer himself.’

‘Indeed, and I still have the weapon. It was thrust from the left, beneath the extremity of the jaw, piercing both the great arteries. He knew exactly what he was doing and there is no doubt that it caused Mr Giltspur’s death. The blood drained from him as quickly as from a beast at the slaughter.’

‘Can I see the body?’

‘It has already gone for burial at St Mary, Aldermanbury.’

Shakespeare supped his weak ale and felt more refreshed than he had all morning, but no happier. ‘Then I fear there is nothing more I can do for her.’

‘And yet . . .’

‘Joshua?’

‘Finish your ale, John. I have something to show you.’

Chapter 11

The rotting corpse of the woman on the slab was still uncovered. Shakespeare tried to avert his gaze. Joshua caught his eye and laughed without malice, then placed a sheet over the dead woman.

‘Does the look of death and the stench never unsettle you, Joshua?’

‘I was born to it. My mother took me with her whenever she went into a house to examine a body, and I helped her. I feel no more uncomfortable with the dead than with the living.’

‘Few have your stomach, I think. Now tell me, what did you wish to show me?’

‘I have another corpse here, one that I think you should see.’

‘Not this woman?’

‘No.’

‘Then who is it?’

Peace hesitated as though unsure how far to trust his visitor.

Shakespeare soothed his worries. ‘Joshua, you well know that you can entrust me with anything – just as I once placed dangerous information into your safe keeping.’

‘Yes, of course. It was mere caution on my part. Wariness has become a habit with me over the years.’ He took a deep breath, then nodded quickly. ‘Very well, I bought the corpse from the Smithfield hangman.’

Shakespeare was yet more intrigued. ‘The body of Will Cane?’

‘Yes. I paid five shillings for it. I am sure you are as aware as I am that revealing this to anyone else could lead to a great amount of trouble, both for myself and for the executioner.’

‘Why? Why did you buy it?’

‘I wished to examine it.’

‘You will have to explain further. Surely, the cause of his death was self-evident – to wit, hanging by the neck until his breathing and heart stopped. I saw it myself. What could you have hoped to learn?’

Peace pushed open the door to the adjoining room, where he kept the tools of his trade and corpses awaiting examination. ‘Come through.’

Will Cane’s body was on a narrow wooden table. He had been sliced open from the throat, all down the chest and through his abdomen to his privy parts. His ribs had been pulled apart and fixed back with iron appliances, thus exposing his internal organs.

Shakespeare held back, disinclined to look too closely. ‘What have you been doing to him? He reminds me of a beast after the butcher has been at work.’

‘I dissect the cadavers of hanged felons to further my knowledge of anatomy. It seems to me that they may as well serve some useful purpose in death, for few have done much for the world in their short and wretched lives. The great anatomists of Bologna and Padua believe that once the inner workings of the body are understood, we will know how to cure its defects. And I agree with them.’

Shakespeare had no argument with Peace’s thinking, but he was concerned by the risk the searcher was taking. ‘Clearly, I will say nothing, Joshua. But you must be careful in this work. Have you thought of trying to join the Company of Barber-Surgeons? I do believe they have licence to dissect four criminals a year. Otherwise you are in peril, not least from the surgeons. There are already those who believe you to be a necromancer and there are many jealous of your position here. Be circumspect, I beg you. Like me, you have enemies to contend with in this town.’

‘Fear not, I take precautions.’

‘Then, Joshua, why are you showing me this body? What relevance can it have?’

‘Look more closely, John.’

He moved forward and gazed into the cavity of the dead man. He was repulsed by what he saw, for it did not look at all natural. Nothing was as he had expected. Attached to the organs, there were shapes and growths that no body should contain. He turned back to Joshua with a questioning frown. ‘Explain. What am I looking at?’

‘A body riddled with impostumes and cankers. His bowels, his liver, his lungs. The tumours are everywhere and are malignant. He must have been exceedingly weak. And look at his face. The blood from his mouth has come straight from the lungs.’ Peace ran a hand across the thin rim of hair that circled his own pate. ‘Do you understand now?’

Shakespeare nodded. He had seen the point Peace was making even as he spoke the words. ‘You are saying that he was dying anyway?’

‘There is no doubt about it. His appointment with the hangman merely hastened his death by a day or two – and saved him a great deal of pain.’

‘And he would have known that he was dying?’

‘He could not have thought otherwise. There was nothing any physician or apothecary could have done to save him. He would have been certain that his end was close and must have raised a great effort of will to carry out his mission to kill Mr Giltspur. To tell the truth, I am astonished he had the strength to make his way to Fishmongers’ Hall, let alone wield a knife. The trial itself, standing before the judge in Justice Hall, must have been torture. At the end, hanging would have been a blessing to him.’

Shakespeare looked more closely at the body. Wretched and emaciated, it was more bone and skin than flesh.

Peace stepped towards a shelf attached to the wall and picked up a weapon. Shakespeare took it from him and turned it over in his hands. It was an evil-looking thing that had done for Nicholas Giltspur. A narrow, slaughterman-sharp nine-inch blade protruded from a hilt-guard in the shape of a man’s balls and a hilt in the manner of an erect prick.

‘Can I take this?’

‘You are welcome to it, John.’

Shakespeare began to think aloud. ‘His mortal sickness would explain why he was unable to escape his pursuers. He only managed a few paces before they pulled him down. And the state of his lungs would explain his coughing fit at the scaffold. But how will this help Kat? Indeed, can we now deduce that she is innocent, or not?’

‘That is for you to work out. I merely deal in facts. All I can tell you is that this man died of strangulation by the noose, but that he would have died soon enough anyway. These are facts that would be of no interest to a court of law, even if I was in a position to present them. If you have had any dealings with Recorder Fleetwood, you will know that nothing will override a dying man’s testimony. To him such things are sacred. Why would a man who knows he must meet his maker in a few minutes go to his death with the mortal sin of a lie on his lips? As to Cane’s motives, that is for you to consider.’

Shakespeare did not need Peace’s help on the question of motive, for there was an obvious one: knowing he was dying anyway, Will Cane had agreed to commit murder fully intending to be apprehended and executed. Which meant he could not have been committing the crime for money, as he had claimed, but to destroy both Nicholas Giltspur and his wife. But why? Shakespeare rubbed his brow and felt the bruise where he had been kicked. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly. Perhaps there was another possibility that did involve money. What if Cane had been hired to commit the crime on the understanding that the money was to be paid to someone else after his death? Someone close to him like a wife, or child who would otherwise be left destitute once he was gone.

The question then was this: who else apart from Kat would have stood to gain from the death of Nicholas Giltspur? Only one person could answer that.

He rode to Shoreditch at a strong canter, weaving his horse in and out of the wagons and livestock with reckless haste. When he arrived at the house by the Curtain, he pushed open the door without knocking. Oswald Redd was at his workbench and turned in shock, evidently not pleased to see him.

‘Mr Redd, forgive my sudden intrusion. I have urgent business with Kat.’

‘How dare you walk in like this? You have interrupted my work. I must mend this gown by the next performance. Please leave immediately, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘It is not you I wish to see, Mr Redd, but Kat.’ His voice was low but pressing.

‘She is not here. Now go!’

‘Mr Redd, I have no intention of leaving until I have seen her. Is she in the loft?’

‘No, she is not here. No one is here. Now please be gone, sir.’

‘Then where is she?’

Redd looked as though he would explode. He was shorter than Shakespeare and armed only with tailoring tools, but his furious eyes suggested he would happily take on an army in his present mood.

‘Mr Redd, I do not wish to hurt you, but I will have my way.’

‘God damn you, Shakespeare, we have a safer place. She came here only to meet you. Do you think she would entrust the knowledge of her whereabouts to a Walsingham man?’

Had she really said that? Had she really not trusted him? Why, after all this time, did Kat still have the power to make him feel betrayed? He fought to contain his feelings, instead concentrating on Oswald Redd’s raw emotions. Rivalry would do neither of them any good – and would certainly not help Kat. He forced a little smile, intended to mollify his host. ‘Mr Redd, I am here to help.’

‘I do not need your help.’

‘If you do not cooperate with me, then you will be harming what little chance Kat has of escaping the noose.’

‘Why do you want her?’

‘As I said, I have urgent business with her – information that may be to her benefit. Questions to ask . . .’

‘Then tell me – and I will pass it to her. Or if you prefer, write a letter for me to deliver.’

‘No. I want to see her.’

Redd shrugged, immovable.

‘Mr Redd, you have to trust me.’

‘No, Mr Shakespeare, I do not.’

Shakespeare was finding it increasingly difficult to stifle his fury. This was going nowhere. Perhaps Redd was lying; perhaps she was still here, hidden. He drew his sword and held it loosely at his side, not threatening but as a warning should Redd decide to attack with scissors or some other utensil. ‘I am going up through the house. I believe she is here.’

Redd turned away, realising perhaps that his poor choice of implements could not compete against an unsheathed sword.

Shakespeare climbed the ladder to the first floor and searched. He looked about the rooms, calling her name softly. Unless there was some prepared hiding place, she could not be concealed here; and, anyway, why would she not come out on hearing his voice?

He ascended the ladder to the loft, which was almost dark, lit only by the light from the hatchway. He had no candle, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he saw that there was nowhere she could be hidden. Nor had she been living here. The space smelt dank and musty. Cobweb curtains had been knitted across the rafters and purlin. As he looked about in the dim light it became obvious that the room had never been inhabited and was used merely as storage for stage properties and costumes. Angrily, he descended the ladders to the ground floor where Redd was cutting a strip of woollen cloth with his iron scissors.

‘God’s blood, Mr Redd, I need information if I am to help. I have reason to believe now that Kat may be telling the truth, that Will Cane’s accusation was false. And if this is so, as I hope and pray, then it means someone else was behind the murder. What I need from Kat is this: who else might have had a motive? Who stood to gain from Nicholas Giltspur’s death and Kat’s execution?’

Redd put down the scissors and crossed his arms across his chest. ‘If that is all you wish to know, then the answer is simple. Giltspur’s nephew, Arthur, will inherit all his wealth if Kat is disqualified. Arthur Giltspur, that is the man you want.’

‘Do you know him? Where will I find him?’

‘With some slut, most like. Try the stews of Southwark. Or else go to Giltspur’s mansion in Aldermanbury, for Arthur was part of the household.’

‘Does Kat believe he is behind the murder?’

‘All she knows is that it was not her. Nicholas Giltspur was a man of immense wealth. Any such man will amass enemies as fast he he gains pearls.’

‘And you, Mr Redd . . . you must have had cause to wish him harm, for did Kat not leave your bed for his? Perhaps you wanted vengeance on Nicholas Giltspur. Perhaps, too, you wished to bring Kat to her doom for betraying you so callously.’

Redd looked at Shakespeare as though he were mad. ‘Hurt Katherine? How little you understand the human heart. Can you not tell that I love her? I would do anything for her . . . including killing you. Now go, sir, go.’

Chapter 12

As Shakespeare walked along Camomile Street, he spotted the red and white spiralling on the pole outside a newly painted frontage in the centre of a wood-frame building.

Mane’s of Bishopsgate was the prime barber shop for the modish young men of London, a place to be seen and to converse over a goblet of brandy during the daylight hours. A place, too, of notoriety for the talk here was careless and subversive.

Babington was already there, along with many of those from the Plough Inn feast. There was a hubbub in the large front room where the barber and his assistants did their work amid high excitement and much laughter. Shakespeare estimated there were at least thirty young men present, including some who had not been at the dinner but whose names he noted mentally. He spotted half a dozen women among the menfolk and wondered who they were; sisters, most likely.

One thing was certain: they were all defiantly Catholic.

Many of the assembled members of Babington’s band of friends drank their spirits and gossiped loudly. Others lounged in the barber’s chairs, having their beards and hair dressed. Chidiock Tichbourne stood up from one of the chairs and admired his new-cut beard in a small mirror. He spotted Shakespeare and hailed him with a wave of the looking glass.

‘Take this chair, Mr Shakespeare, take a chair and allow Mr Mane to trim you. A shorter cut is this year’s mode. There is no finer barber in all of London. He will curl you or poll you, to suit your humour.’ Tichbourne stroked his own newly shaved beard, which was trimmed to a point, and gazed at it once more in the looking glass