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
‘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
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