Free Holy Spy by Rory Clements Page A

better dish than Aggy there. One that washes and won’t fart in your face.’
    ‘Wait. Can I talk with you , mistress? Five minutes of your time and you’ll have a shilling. That’s all I want.’
‘Who are you?’ Suddenly suspicious.
    ‘That don’t matter. I want a little bit of information, that’s all. About Will Cane.’
‘You a friend of Will’s? You’re no law man.’
    ‘No, I weren’t his friend. Just want to know the truth, that’s all.’
‘And what might your name be?’
‘Cooper. By name and by trade.’
    ‘You’d better tell me your interest then, Mr Cooper. Elsewise, how will I know whether I can help you?’
‘Then you knew him?’
    ‘I didn’t say that. But I’ll tell you this: folks in these parts don’t like those that come around with questions.’
    ‘He’s dead, though. No harm can come to him now. Folks say he was a confederate of Cutting Ball.’
‘Cutting Ball, eh? Now there’s a tiger of a man.’
    Boltfoot looked at the woman’s eyes. Was she making merry of him? ‘You know something of him, mistress?’
    ‘Cutting Ball? No, no, Mr Cooper. That’s too dangerous for a maiden like me.’
    This woman was no more a maiden than Boltfoot was a bishop. He grunted his scepticism. ‘Anyway, it’s the woman I really want to know about . . . Mistress Giltspur.’
‘Who do you work for, Mr Cooper?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Not good enough. Try again.’
    ‘And I say again, it’s my business. But if you’ve got information, I’ve got silver for you.’
‘Mr Cooper, you look a fair fellow, so let me give you a little warning. Go home and keep your mouth sewn as tight as a seafarer’s shroud, else you’ll wake up with your throat cut one fine morning. Do you hear me?’
    ‘Aye, but—’
    ‘No buts. Take heed. I could have you taken from here right now, sliced open and dropped in the river. And when your body was washed up, no one would care a groat. So go. If you want a gage of ale, go to the Topsail, but don’t ask no questions there either, for you are delving into matters that are of no concern to you, nor any other common man with an interest in being alive.’
    And then she was gone, and Boltfoot found himself alone, standing beneath a lantern outside the alehouse. The scents of the river mingled with the stench of the dung-clogged street. Old memories came rushing back like the tide: the smell of pitch and brine, the feel of the rolling sea beneath scrubbed oak decking, the sawdust and shavings of the barrels he’d built for Drake and the crew of the Golden Hind as they laboured against hunger and exhaustion to cross the great Pacific and get home. Memories of a time he never wished to experience again in this life.
    He stood there for a minute, then began dragging his club foot down towards the Topsail Arms. What in God’s name did Mr Shakespeare expect of him? He must know that no one around these parts would open their mouth to a stranger. Once again he tried to make conversation, but the other drinkers looked at him as though he were an unpleasant piece of jetsam, then turned away.
    He tried the same method at the Old Wharf and at an alehouse that had no sign but which he knew of as the Bishop’s Prick. He moved on northwards, but even after a score of taverns he had still got nowhere. Tired and despondent, he decided there was no more to be done this night and set off to traipse along the path back towards the city.
    The way was ill lit and almost deserted. Boltfoot kept his hand on the hilt of his cutlass as he walked slowly, trying to avoid potholes and piles of waste. He had not brought his caliver; a gun would not have been welcome in the drinking holes he’d been visiting.
    He planned to enter the city by way of Postern Gate, the old entrance just north of the Tower, once a great arched building and now fallen into ruin, but he was stopped by a broad-chested watchman. The man approached him from behind, swinging his lantern and pushing the shaft