Chapter Thirteen

Dorothea Tate kept a lonely vigil outside Bridewell. A number of people had gone in through the gate, some in carriages, others on horseback, but nobody had come out. As evening shaded into night, she began to wonder if Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave were even inside the workhouse, but she did not abandon her post. The hope that one, or both of them, would ultimately appear, kept her huddled in the doorway on the opposite side of the road. The heavy stone in her pocket, she believed, would help her to avenge the murder of Hywel Rees. Once that had been achieved, Dorothea did not care what happened to her. She would be content.

Her position had rendered her vulnerable to various hazards. Stray dogs had bothered her, children had mocked her and a parish constable had chased her away for a while, but she quickly returned to her chosen spot. One passer-by had even tossed her a coin. As light began to fade, there had been less traffic on the street and the two watchmen who went past on patrol did not even notice the bundle of rags in the doorway. Obsessed by one ambition, Dorothea was not frightened to be alone on the street at night. Indeed, darkness helped her to merge with the stonework all round her and more or less disappear from sight.

She was not free from regret. Dorothea was sad that she had to flee from people who had befriended her at a time when everyone else turned away. Anne Hendrik and Nicholas Bracewell would doubtless be anxious on her behalf, and she was sorry about that, but she consoled herself with the thought that she was doing the right thing. Why should she expect others to exact justice for her when she could do so herself? She simply had to confront her detractors. That was the only way she would get true satisfaction.

She felt another pang of regret when the genial face of Owen Elias came into her mind. Delighted to hear another Welsh voice in the capital, it was he who had first come to their aid when Hywel’s performance as a counterfeit crank had been exposed. Her disappearance would disappoint and hurt Elias. He was bound to feel betrayed yet that could not be helped. Had she turned to him — or to Nicholas Bracewell — she knew that neither of them would have condoned what she was now planning to do. On the contrary, they would have done everything they could to keep her well away from Bridewell.

At long last, the gate was opened and a man emerged, leading a horse. Dorothea was on her feet at once, pulling the stone from her pocket in readiness. As soon as he mounted, however, and she could see him in profile, she knew that it was neither of the men for whom she lay in ambush. She returned to her place in the doorway and settled down once more. Her moment, she was certain, would eventually come.

Nicholas Bracewell’s disguise was effective. Even at such close range, Beechcroft did not recognise him. When the beggar flinched and spoke in a cracked voice, he was taken for what he appeared to be. The keeper raised his cudgel to strike.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

‘Tom Rooke, sir,’ croaked Nicholas.

‘When were you admitted to Bridewell?’

‘Today, sir.’

‘How did you get in here?’

‘I lost my way.’

‘He’s lying,’ snarled Beechcroft. ‘The room is always kept locked. He must have sneaked in earlier when I was in here myself.’ Sheathing his dagger, he stood back and snapped his fingers. ‘Beat him hard for his impudence.’

‘I’ll do so with pleasure,’ said the keeper.

Nicholas was forced to act. If he took the punishment, he knew that he would be beaten senseless then locked up more securely. Defence was vital. As the man wielded his cudgel for the first time, therefore, Nicholas dodged the blow, grabbed the tapestry and tore it from its pole so that he could wind it around the keeper. The two men then grappled fiercely. Beechcroft was astounded. The cowering beggar had suddenly turned into a vigorous man, who was patently getting the upper hand in the brawl. Beechcroft pulled out his dagger again and tried to stab Nicholas, but the latter simply twisted the keeper around so that he felt the point of the weapon in his shoulder.

Letting out a yell of agony, the keeper stumbled back, enabling Nicholas to wrest the cudgel from his grasp. Beechcroft continued to jab away without success. Nicholas pushed the keeper roughly to the floor and used the cudgel to knock Beechcroft’s dagger from his hand. When the latter made a dash for the door, Nicholas grabbed him by the arm, spun him round then shoved him with force against the wood. Panting with fear, eyes bulging from their sockets, Beechcroft had the uncomfortable feeling that he could identify his attacker.

‘I think I know you, sir, do I not?’ he said.

‘My name is not Tom Rooke,’ said Nicholas in his normal voice. ‘That much I’ll freely confess.’

Beechcroft goggled at him. ‘Nicholas Bracewell!’

‘The same.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to talk about the murder of Hywel Rees, and what that partner of yours did to a defenceless creature named Dorothea Tate.’

‘I had no part in that! I swear it!’

‘The girl told me that two men were involved. One of them held her down.’

‘That was Gregory Sumner, a keeper here. He assisted Ralph, not me.’

‘Yet you were the one who beat Dorothea,’ said Nicholas, holding the cudgel over him. ‘You pummelled the girl until her friend came to her rescue.’

‘I did not mean to hurt her,’ claimed Beechcroft, starting to tremble.

‘Then I’ll not mean to hurt you, when I beat the truth out of you.’

Beechcroft cringed against the door. ‘No!’ he begged. ‘Do not strike me!’

‘Then tell me what you did to Hywel Rees.’

Nicholas made the mistake of taking an eye off the wounded keeper. The tapestry in which he had been caught up had saved him from serious injury, muffling the impact of the dagger thrust. Blood had been drawn but it was only a minor flesh wound. Throwing off the tapestry, the man soon struggled to his feet. He dived at Nicholas from behind and got an arm around his neck, pulling him backward across the room. Beechcroft needed no second invitation to escape. He was through the door in a flash and locked it behind him. Nicholas, meanwhile, had to contend with a strong arm across his throat, squeezing the breath out of him. He pumped away with his elbows to wind his adversary then stamped hard on his toe to produce a howl of rage. The man released his hold. Spinning round, Nicholas cracked him on the head with the cudgel and sent him to his knees. A second blow knocked the man unconscious.

There was no sense in remaining in the room. Beechcroft would soon be back with armed men and Nicholas would be trapped. He collected the fallen dagger and stuck it in his belt. Apart from saving himself, Nicholas also wanted to take the two ledgers with him as additional proof of the mismanagement of Bridewell. Left in the room, they could always be hidden or even destroyed. Wrapping the books in the tapestry, therefore, he took them to the window and swung them up behind the gable. He then clambered after them and made his way along the roof, wedging his cargo behind one of the chimney pots, out of reach of any but the most intrepid climbers.

From down below, he heard the sound of the door being unlocked and of many feet rushing into the room. Beechcroft’s roar of anger was clearly audible.

‘Where the devil has he gone now?’

The banquet in the hall had reached the stage where couples were starting to peel off and adjourn to nearby rooms. Music still played, wine still flowed but only half of the guests remained at the table. While his partner went off to count the evening’s takings, Ralph Olgrave decided to sample the charms of Nan Welbeck, a sprightly young woman with long fair hair, who still had something of a bloom on her. He beckoned her over, took a first kiss then eased her onto his lap. Caressing her with one hand, he held his cup of wine in the other and took a long sip before handing it to her. Nan Welbeck drained it, laughed merrily then gave Olgrave a long, luscious, searching kiss on the lips.

It was not a moment when he wanted to be interrupted. Seeing his partner come bursting into the room, Olgrave was very annoyed and tried to wave him away, but Beechcroft was determined. He had an air of desperation about him.

‘I need to speak to you in private, Ralph,’ he said.

‘Not now, please.’

‘I must insist.’

‘And I must insist that you leave Nan and me alone,’ said Olgrave, glaring at him. ‘There’s nothing so important that it cannot wait until later.’

‘Yes, there is.’

‘Find yourself a woman and leave us be.’

‘You must come now,’ warned Beechcroft, grabbing him by the arm. ‘We have an unwelcome guest, Ralph. I’ve seen him with my own eyes.’

‘Oh, and who is that?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

Olgrave sobered at once. ‘How ever did he get in here?’

‘By posing as a beggar by the name of Tom Rooke.’

‘Excuse me, Nan,’ said Olgrave, moving her off his lap and getting up. ‘This business will not wait. Do not go away, my sweet, for I’ll soon be back.’ He blew her a kiss then hurried for the door with Beechcroft. Once outside, he turned on his partner. ‘Now then, Joseph. What’s this all about?’

‘Our survival.’

‘Do not talk such nonsense. What can one man do against so many of us?’

‘He broke into the counting house. He has our ledgers.’

‘What?’ cried Olgrave. ‘Both of them?’

‘Yes, Ralph. He stole them and hid them. I’ve hunted everywhere.’

‘Are you sure that it was that book holder from Westfield’s Men?’

‘As sure as I am that he holds our books now,’ said Beechcroft. ‘If the aldermen should ever see those accounts, we are both condemned.’

‘Calm down, Joseph. It will not come to that.’

‘I think that we should run for it while we can.’

‘No!’

‘Divide the money and get clean away.’

‘That’s lunacy.’

‘It’s the only way out. Stay here and we’ll both be arraigned. There’s more than enough for the two of us, Ralph. Come and take your share.’

‘I’ll not dream of it.’

‘But it’s what we’d always planned to do if we were found out.’

‘We’ve not been found out, you idiot,’ said Olgrave, taking him by the shoulders to shake him. ‘We have an interloper in Bridewell, that’s all.’

‘An interloper in possession of evidence that could send us both to prison.’

‘Only if he gets that evidence out of here. And how can he do that?’

‘I told you that this man would be a danger.’

‘Not when we’ve done the job that Gregory was sent to do,’ asserted Olgrave, taking out his dagger. ‘If this meddling fool is inside Bridewell, there’s no way that he can get out again. All the gates are locked.’

‘He managed to get in, Ralph.’

‘He’ll live to regret that, I warrant you. Now, where is the rogue?’

‘That’s the problem we face,’ wailed Beechcroft.

‘What is?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell has vanished.’

As long as he stayed where he was, Nicholas felt safe. Having climbed to the apex of the roof, he now lay on the outward slope so that he was invisible from the courtyard. The ledgers were stuffed up against a chimney and, even if it rained, they would be protected. Their disappearance was causing unrest. When he peeped over the ridge tiles, he could see a group of people in the yard, some with blazing torches, taking orders from Ralph Olgrave. The keepers dispersed to carry out a methodical search, leaving Olgrave alone in the courtyard with his partner. Their voices were raised in argument but Nicholas could not hear all that was said. Beechcroft pointed up at the counting house then ran towards the door that would give him access to it.

Bearing torches, other keepers came trotting up to help in the search for the fugitive. Olgrave sent all but two of them to explore the rooms on the ground floor. Looking upwards, he studied the gable window of the counting house and reached a decision. When Nicholas saw him point to the roof, he knew that his hiding place had been discovered. He had either to find an open window on the exterior of the building, or wait to be caught. Lowering himself to the edge of the roof on the side above the Fleet, he went carefully along the edge from gable to gable, trying each of the windows. He soon found one that was open but, before he could swing down into it, a keeper came into it and saw his legs dangling down.

The alarm was raised at once. Nicholas had no means of escape. All that he could do was to scramble back up to the apex of the roof. Sitting astride it, he looked down into the courtyard where Olgrave was still standing. The latter could see his outline against the night sky.

‘Give yourself up while you can!’ he yelled.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas, boldly. ‘You’ll have to come and get me.’

‘You are trespassing on private property.’

‘My crime pales beside those that you have committed, Master Olgrave.’

‘Watch what you say, sir!’

‘Your days in Bridewell are over. You and your partner will be thrown out of here like the villains that you are. You’ll hang from the gallows — both of you.’

‘Seize him!’ shouted Olgrave.

Nicholas looked along the roof and saw that a short, stocky man was climbing out of a gable window some ten yards away. When the man got on to the tiles and steadied himself, he pulled a dagger from his belt. Making his way up the incline, he reached the apex and cocked a leg over it. Nicholas expected the man to move towards him but the keeper had another plan. Without warning, he suddenly hurled the weapon at Nicholas. The book holder swung quickly to the left but the dagger still grazed his arm. Though it was only a scratch, he put a hand to it to stem the trickle of blood.

Encouraged by his success, the man moved a few feet closer to his target before taking a second dagger from his belt. He was confident of hitting him this time. As the keeper raised his arm to throw, Nicholas snatched out his own weapon and used it to parry the missile that came hurtling towards him. It clattered down the roof and fell harmlessly into the river below. Nicholas then did something that amazed Ralph Olgrave and the others who were watching from the courtyard. Standing up on the ridge tiles, he stretched out his arms to aid his balance then walked nimbly along them as if strolling on firm ground. He threatened the keeper with his dagger.

‘Get down while you may,’ he ordered.

‘Keep off!’

‘Go now, and you’ll not be harmed.’

The man tried to obey. Losing his nerve, he tried to lower himself swiftly down the roof but his hold slipped and he tumbled backwards, rolling down the incline until he dropped over the edge. He let out a long scream of despair as he plummeted downwards. When his body hit the ground, there was an awesome thud, followed by a long silence. It was eventually broken by a command from Ralph Olgrave.

‘Fetch guns!’ he ordered. ‘Shoot him off the roof.’

Joseph Beechcroft heard the scream and rushed to the window of the counting house to look down. By the light of the torches, he could see the keeper’s body, twisted into an unnatural shape as it lay on the ground. Their interloper was still at liberty. Beechcroft did not wait any longer. Sensing that their reign at the Bridewell was nearing its end, he unlocked a cupboard and took out several purses, stuffing them into a leather satchel as fast as he could. Leaving his partner’s share of the booty intact, he locked the cupboard again and fled through the door, hurtling down the staircase. When he came out of the door at ground level, he had to step over the body of the dead man.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Olgrave.

‘Leaving while I can, Ralph. You should do the same.’

‘But we have him cornered. A pistol or a musket will soon bring him down.’

‘Yes,’ said Beechcroft, looking up. ‘In front of witnesses. There’ll be faces watching from every window. What they’ll see is murder. I’ll not stay.’

‘Hold!’ said Olgrave, grabbing his arm. ‘We can face this out.’

‘No, Ralph. It’s too late. The game is up.’

‘Why throw it all away?’

‘Let me go,’ insisted Beechcroft.

Pulling his arm free, he fled across the courtyard in the direction of the main gate.

Though she became increasingly weary, Dorothea Tate did not dare to fall asleep. Concealed in her doorway, she did not shift her gaze from Bridewell for a second, hoping and praying that her chance would somehow come. She reflected on the horrors she had suffered inside its walls, and thought once more of her dearest friend, stolen from her forever because he had tried to protect her. Dorothea also thought fondly of those who had given her succour in the wake of her loss. She was jerked out of her reverie by the sound of the gate of Bridewell, creaking back on its hinges. She was on her feet in an instant. Her eyes were now accustomed to the dark and she was able to pick out the shape of the rider who came out through the gate. Her spirits lifted. Revenge was at hand.

Certain that it was Joseph Beechcroft, she ran to the middle of the road and pulled out her stone, flinging it hard at the rider as the horse cantered towards her. It struck Beechcroft in the chest, making him fall back and pull involuntarily on the reins. Skidding to a halt with a neigh of protest, the horse reared and threw him from the saddle. Dorothea dashed across to him and began to punch him with both fists. Beechcroft was dazed by the fall but was not badly injured. He soon recovered enough to defend himself, seizing her by the wrists to stop her assault. It was then that he recognised her.

‘We should have killed you along with your friend,’ he growled.

‘Murderer!’ she cried and spat in his face.

‘You little devil!’

He flung her away, wiped the spit from his eyes then got to his feet. When he saw her trying to pick up the stone again, he rushed across to twist it from her hand, then raised it high to dash against her head.

‘Stop!’ yelled a voice. ‘Leave the child alone!’

Beechcroft turned to see a group of men, hurrying towards Bridewell with lighted torches. One of their number, a stocky Welshman, was racing towards him.

‘Owen!’ cried Dorothea.

‘Is that you, girl?’ he asked in astonishment.

‘This is him. This is Master Beechcroft.’

‘Leave him to me, Dorothea.’

Dropping the stone, Beechcroft took to his heels but he did not get far. Elias soon overhauled him and jumped on his back to bring him down. Hitting the hard road with his forehead, Beechcroft was too stunned to fight back. Elias turned him over as two men arrived to shed light on the scene with their torches.

‘Arrest this one first,’ said Elias, ‘before I lose my temper with him.’

The commotion in the courtyard had aroused many spectators. Windows were opened so that inmates, and those who rented rooms at the workhouse, could see what was going on. Some of the guests had stumbled out of the hall to watch from the doorway. Ralph Olgrave tried to persuade them to go back to their banquet, but they were too inquisitive. They wondered why he was holding the musket that one of the keepers had fetched, and they were even more curious when they saw the corpse on the ground.

Nicholas watched it all from the apex of the roof, knowing that time was running out for him. Every means of escape has been cut off. The gable windows below him were either locked or guarded by keepers. It was only a matter of time before someone was brave enough to come after him. Nicholas might be able to dodge, or ward off, a dagger but he had no protection against a musket ball. Someone who could handle a gun could easily pick him off. Beechcroft may have fled in panic but his partner was still in charge, and there was no point in trying to reason with him. Olgrave wanted him dead.

Nicholas soon had vivid proof of the fact. A man emerged from one of the gable windows and pulled himself up with care onto the roof. Nicholas was close enough to discern the musket that was slung from his shoulder. He suspected that the keeper would have a pistol in his belt as well. All that he could do was to scramble as far away as he could. The man, meanwhile, groped his way up to the apex of the roof and sat astride it. He could now see his prey, moving away from him in the gloom. He reached for the musket. Nicholas looked back and saw the weapon being levelled at him. Flattening himself on the tiles, he tried to present as small a target as he could.

Tensing himself, he waited for the loud report as the musket was fired but the trigger was never pulled. Instead, a familiar voice reverberated around the courtyard as a trained actor opened his lungs to the full.

‘Where are you, Nick!’ shouted Owen Elias.

Nicholas looked down and saw uniformed men, coming into the courtyard with torches. Their sudden arrival had made the keeper with the musket hold his fire. The man did not dare to shoot while officers of the law were watching from below. Nicholas sat on the apex of the roof.

‘Is that you, Owen?’ he called. ‘I’m up here.’

Diu!’ exclaimed his friend, looking up. ‘What are you doing on the roof?’

Nicholas laughed with relief. ‘Waiting for you to come,’ he said.

‘Joseph Beechcroft has been arrested, and we have a warrant to search Bridewell and take his partner into custody. Where would we find Ralph Olgrave?’

‘Down there!’

Nicholas pointed at the man but Olgrave did not wait to be apprehended. Pushing aside the guests who stood in his way, he darted into the hall and slammed the door shut before locking it from the inside. Some of the officers ran to the door but their concerted strength could not force it open. Nicholas remained where he was. He knew that Olgrave would understand the folly of staying on the premises when a warrant for his arrest had been issued. The man would surely bolt. Soon afterwards, he saw a figure rush out of a rear door and make for the wharf. Olgrave was hoping to escape by boat.

Nicholas was off at once. Balancing on the roof tiles, he walked along them for several yards. Then he sat down and slid on his backside until he reached the gable window through which the keeper with the musket had climbed. He took a grip, swung down into the room then sprinted through the door. Descending the stairs at speed, he went along a passageway and tried every door to the rooms facing the Fleet River. When one finally opened, he found himself in a storeroom and he felt his way across to the window. He was through it in seconds and dropped to the ground.

Olgrave was a blob in the darkness, rowing frantically down river. Nicholas ran to the wharf and jumped into another boat that was moored there. Using an oar to push himself away from the bank, he gave chase. Olgrave heaved on the oars with all his energy but he was no sailor. The boat zigzagged its way crazily through the water. Behind him, Nicholas settled into a steady rhythm. Using the power of his thighs as much as the strength of his arms, he was soon rowing in a relatively straight line. While Olgrave splashed his way along, Nicholas made sure that the blades of his oars entered the water cleanly at the right angle to give him maximum thrust. He soon began to gain on the other man.

Helped by the current, Olgrave contrived to maintain a reasonable speed. He believed that, by the time that the officers had broken into the hall and searched that part of the building, he would be well out of their reach. But he had reckoned without the man on the roof, who had witnessed his flight. A shape slowly emerged out of the gloom behind him. As he struggled to guide his own boat, Olgrave saw to his horror that he was being followed by a stronger and better oarsman. He could not hope to stay ahead of him. Sweat was already dribbling down his face and moistening his shirt under the armpits. Fear made his heart pound like a drum.

Olgrave used one oar to turn the prow of his boat towards the shore, then he put all his effort into reaching it before he was caught. Nicholas changed course as well, gaining on him with every pull of the oars. He was less than fifteen yards behind now. Looking over his shoulder, Olgrave saw a landing stage ahead that served the stately residence of Durham House. When he got close, he let go of his oars and turned round to stand up in the boat. As soon as it thudded into the timber, he flung himself at the landing stage and tried to drag himself up.

Nicholas was soon after him, tying his own boat to one of the iron rings before jumping ashore to give pursuit. Breathing heavily, Olgrave swung round to confront him, tugging a dagger from its sheath and holding it aloft. The only way to shake off his pursuer, he accepted, was to kill him. When he recognised Nicholas, his desire for blood was quickened.

‘Give up your weapon,’ said Nicholas, as the other man circled him slowly. ‘You heard what Owen told me. There’s a warrant for your arrest.’

‘I’ll not be taken,’ snapped Olgrave.

‘There’s no way out for you.’

‘Or for you, sir.’ He slashed with the dagger but Nicholas eluded the blade. ‘You should have kept your nose out of our affairs, my friend. It will cost you your life.’

‘I think not,’ said Nicholas, dodging another thrust. ‘I’m not like Hywel Rees, You and your partner cannot bludgeon me from behind and throw me in the Thames.’

Olgrave smirked. ‘No, but I can stab you through the heart and watch you die at my feet,’ he said. ‘It’s no more than your meddling deserves.’

Nicholas danced out of the way as the dagger was aimed at his heart. He still had Beechcroft’s weapon tucked in his belt, but he did not even think of drawing it. He wanted to take Olgrave alive so that the man could be convicted of his crimes. To dispatch him now in the darkness would be to let him escape the full rigor of justice, and that had to be avoided. Nicholas reminded himself that here was a man who had raped an innocent girl without mercy and helped to murder her friend.

Jabbing with the dagger, Olgrave tried to move him backward towards the river so that the available space was cut down. He was only a tailor by trade but he still felt able to dispose of a man who appeared to be unarmed. He did not realise that Nicholas was a veteran of countless brawls with sailors. That experience had sharpened his instincts. Every time that Olgrave thrust his dagger, Nicholas seemed to know exactly where it would go and evaded its point. However, he was being manoeuvred slowly backward.

Olgrave ran out of patience. Unable even to wound his man, he suddenly dived forward to grab him by the shoulder, intending to ram the dagger into his body with the other hand. Instead, Nicholas caught him by the wrist and tried to twist the weapon from his grasp. Olgrave reacted swiftly, tripping Nicholas up so that fell down and pulled his attacker on top of him. They grappled furiously. Olgrave’s wrist was still held in an iron grip but the point of the dagger was only inches away from Nicholas’s face.

‘I’ll blind you first and kill you afterwards,’ boasted Olgrave.

‘Your luck has finally run out, I think.’

‘You are the one in need of luck, my friend.’

‘I doubt that, Master Olgrave.’

‘Die, you rogue!’

With a surge of strength, he pressed down hard but Nicholas was too quick for him again. He flicked his head aside so that the dagger embedded itself harmlessly in the timber, then he rolled Olgrave over and sat astride him to deliver a relay of punches. Getting to his feet, Nicholas dragged his adversary up after him. Olgrave was not finished yet. He flailed away with both arms until Nicholas hit him with a fearsome uppercut that sent him reeling backward. The next moment, Olgrave had fallen off the edge of the landing stage into the water. As soon as he surfaced, he began to thresh about wildly.

‘Help me!’ he begged. ‘I cannot swim!’

‘What help did you give to Dorothea Tate?’

‘For the love of God, get me out of here!’

‘Confess your crimes first,’ said Nicholas. ‘Did you violate the girl?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘And did you murder Hywel Rees?’

‘No, I swear it!’

‘Then stay in the river and drown.’

‘Spare me. I’ll tell all.’

‘Then say how he was battered to death.’

‘Three of us did it,’ admitted the other, expelling a mouthful of water. ‘My partner and I were helped by a man named Gregory Sumner.’

Nicholas was satisfied. ‘Then come out and join them in court,’ he said.

He retrieved one of the oars from his boat and offered the blade to Olgrave, who clung on tightly as he was pulled out of the Thames. Sodden and spluttering, the man was soon twitching on the landing stage like a giant fish.

‘Let’s get you back to Bridewell,’ said Nicholas.

Anne Hendrik was so thrilled to see Dorothea again that she kissed her on both cheeks. The girl burst into tears and gabbled her apologies. It was late when Nicholas arrived back in Bankside with her, but Anne did not mind being roused from her bed to welcome them. To have them both safely returned was more than she had dared to hope. Dorothea began to tell her story until exhaustion made her eyelids droop. Anne put her to bed then came back into the parlour, where Nicholas was still sitting.

‘I never thought that we’d see her again,’ she said.

‘I am sorry to bring a problem back to your door, Anne.’

‘It relieves my mind to know that she is alive and well. And Dorothea may not be a problem for long. I’ve a neighbour who is looking for a servant girl. If we can teach her what to do,’ suggested Anne, ‘we may find a new home for her. And she will not lack for a young friend. Jan Muller, my apprentice, is quite smitten with the girl.’ She sat beside Nicholas. ‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘Tell me what really happened.’

‘Owen is the hero, Anne. He rescued both Dorothea and me.’

‘What was she doing outside Bridewell?’

‘Remembering what happened inside the place.’

Calmly and with typical modesty, Nicholas told her about his own adventures in the workhouse, and the subsequent arrest of Beechcroft and Olgrave. He recalled the fight on the landing stage.

‘Is it not strange?’ he said. ‘Ralph Olgrave was so afraid of drowning that he would rather be hauled out of the water to face certain death on the gallows.’

‘You mentioned something about ledgers.’

‘They were account books for Bridewell. One was accurate, and the other a tissue of lies concocted to fool any inspectors. When I got back there, I collected them from the roof where I’d left them. Yes,’ he added with a laugh, ‘and I helped down the poor keeper who was stranded up there. He managed to get up on the roof with a musket to shoot me, then lacked the courage to climb down again.’

‘You should have left him there, Nick.’

‘I saw one man fall to his death. That was enough.’

‘All is now settled, then.’

‘Not quite, Anne.’

‘What more remains?’

‘Some unfinished business at the Queen’s Head,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to borrow your horse again for I have to be at the inn soon after dawn. Otherwise, I may miss him.’

‘Who?’

‘A man who was hoping to sneak away tomorrow with a large amount of money in his purse that he obtained by trickery.’

‘Trickery?’

‘Cards and dice, Anne.’

‘What’s the fellow’s name?’

‘Philomen Lavery.’

Philomen Lavery was up early to eat a frugal breakfast before packing his bags. There was a tap on the door of his room and the landlord let himself in. He pumped Lavery’s hand appreciatively.

‘I am sorry to see you leave,’ he said.

‘It would be foolish to stay any longer, Adam.’

‘Where will you go next?’

‘Back to St Albans, I think. Then on to Bedford.’

‘Do not forget us in Rochester,’ said Crowmere. ‘It’s two years since we last saw you at The Red Lion. I expect you back again one day.’

‘I’ll be there,’ promised Lavery. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Nothing, my friend. All debts are settled.’

‘Then I’ll bid you farewell and steal away.’

‘Let me help you,’ volunteered the landlord, picking up one of the bags.

‘Thank you, Adam.’

Lavery reached for the other bag and the large satchel beside it. When the two men turned towards the open door, however, they found their way blocked by Nicholas Bracewell. Quite unperturbed, Lavery produced one of his innocuous smiles.

‘If you wish to play cards,’ he said, softly, ‘you come too late. I must away.’

‘We need to have words, Master Lavery,’ said Nicholas.

‘About what?’

‘A pupil of yours, now working in Bridewell.’

‘A pupil? I’m a merchant, sir, and not a schoolmaster.’

‘Yet you taught this particular lad well,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name is Ben Hemp and you instructed him in the art of making false dice.’

‘Dice?’ repeated Lavery in surprise. ‘But I know nothing of dice. I devote myself to a pack of cards, as many of your fellows will testify.’

‘I’m told that dice were also rolled on your table last night, Master Lavery, and that you won game after game. When you faltered,’ Nicholas went on with a meaningful glance at Crowmere, ‘your confederate inherited your good fortune.’

‘Are you accusing me, Nick?’ said the landlord.

‘The two of you worked together from the start.’

‘I’d never even met Master Lavery until he turned up at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Oh,’ said Nicholas, ‘I suspect that you and he are old partners. You bring in the gulls and your friend cleverly fleeces them. By using an accomplice, he makes it appear that he does not win all the time. That would only attract suspicion.’

‘These are vile allegations,’ warned Lavery with vehemence. ‘Especially when you have no proof to back them up.’

‘It lies in one of those bags. Wherever you keep your marked cards and your false dice, there’s proof enough of your villainy. Be glad that I’m the one to find it, Master Lavery,’ said Nicholas. ‘Were some of my fellows here instead, you’d not escape without a sound whipping.’ He turned to Crowmere. ‘Neither of you.’

‘I thought that we were friends, Nick,’ protested the landlord.

‘It was only a counterfeit friendship.’

‘Did I not arrange a feast for Westfield’s Men?’

‘You did,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but you made us pay for it ourselves when you stole the takings for one of our performances. And your friendship was seen in its true light when you made off with half our wardrobe.’

Crowmere turned puce. ‘I deny it!’

‘Then perhaps you can explain this, Adam.’

Nicholas stepped into the room so that the massive frame of Leonard could come into view in the doorway. Across his arms, he was holding a velvet cloak, two velvet gowns and a mayoral robe.

‘There’s much more besides in that chest,’ he announced.

Crowmere flared up. ‘What were you doing in my room, you oaf?’

‘Searching the one place that you somehow forgot to search,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Leonard acted on my instructions. I thought that our wardrobe might still be here somehow, and you were the only person who could possibly have it. Just think, Leonard,’ he said. ‘If you had not found these costumes, you would have carried them downstairs in that chest when the landlord left us. We’d never think of looking for them in his tavern in Rochester.’

‘Let me say now that I had nothing to do with the theft of your wardrobe,’ declared Lavery, righteously. ‘That was Adam’s idea.’

‘Be quiet, Philomen!’ said the landlord.

‘I’ll not be arraigned for your crimes.’

‘You’ve committed enough of your own,’ noted Nicholas. ‘I fancy that the Queen’s Head is only the latest inn where you have tricked money out of honest purses. I hope that you enjoyed your stay here.’

Lavery grinned unashamedly. ‘It was a profitable visit.’

‘Then you’ll have some pleasant memories to take with you to prison.’

Crowmere thought only of himself. His confederate was too puny to fight his way out but the landlord was a strong man. Pretending to concede all the charges against him, he offered his hand to Nicholas in congratulation then brought it up suddenly to push the book holder in the chest. He lunged for the door but Leonard stood in his way. When he tried to shove him aside, Crowmere had the costumes thrust in his face. He was then lifted bodily by Leonard and tossed back into the room with ridiculous ease. Falling to the floor with a thump, he stared up resentfully at the man he used to employ.

‘Why did you do that, you lumbering fool?’ he demanded.

Leonard shrugged. ‘Nick is my friend,’ he said. ‘You pushed him.’

Lawrence Firethorn could not remember a time when he had been so happy. Reconciled with his wife, he was the manager of a theatre company that had its wardrobe restored, its stolen money repaid, its playwright returned from his sick bed and its book holder back in charge. It even had an exciting new play, The Siege of Troy, to present that afternoon. The final rehearsal went so well that the diminutive George Dart only dropped his spear once by mistake, and took four minor roles without ever getting them confused. As they broke for refreshment, Firethorn came bounding over to Nicholas Bracewell.

‘I sense another triumph in the air, Nick,’ he said, confidently.

‘I always thought it a fine play.’

‘Thanks to you, its fine author now gets credit. Otherwise, we would be staging a tragedy by a counterfeit playwright. The real tragedy is that Stephen Wragby was the one to die while Michael Grammaticus lived.’

‘Wish no man to an early grave, Lawrence.’

‘Why not?’ said Firethorn. ‘I’d happily dig the graves of Philomen Lavery and that crafty landlord, then bury their bodies while the two of them were still breathing.’

‘They are not here to vex us any more,’ observed Nicholas.

‘Thanks to you again.’

‘Leonard helped me, remember. He discovered our wardrobe.’

‘Hidden away right under our noses,’ said Firethorn, snorting. ‘Have you ever met a more audacious rogue than Adam Crowmere?’

‘Yes, I have. Two of them, in fact.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave,’ said Nicholas. ‘Both of them, born liars, cheats, thieves, lechers, embezzlers, murderers and much more. It gives me great pleasure to send them to the gallows.’

Firethorn was vengeful. ‘I’d have Crowmere and Lavery dangling beside them,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Yes, and if there was any rope left, I’d make a noose for Michael and that poisonous Doctor Zander.’ He put a companionable arm around Nicholas’s shoulder. ‘You’ve had a busy time of late, Nick, filling the city’s prisons.’

‘Each one of those villains deserves his new residence.’

‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias, overhearing them. ‘Do not forget to include Gregory Sumner. He’s behind bars as well. His confession will drown out all the lies of his egregious masters. We did the city good service by revealing what was happening behind the walls of Bridewell.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘But only because we met a counterfeit crank.’

‘What we met was a true Welshman. No man can counterfeit his nation.’

‘We’ll need to do so this afternoon,’ argued Firethorn. ‘I’ll be a warlike Greek and you’ll be a worthy Trojan. Beware, Owen. I’ll besiege your Welshness.’

‘Never!’ said Elias.

‘I’ll pelt your Celtic heritage.’

‘Over my dead body!’

‘Let’s move this quarrel into the tiring house,’ said Nicholas, easing the two men away. ‘We need to clear the stage. Our audience will be here ere long. Do not let them see you in costume until the play begins or you rob us of surprise.’

‘True, Nick,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘But Owen and I will not quarrel.’

‘No,’ said Elias. ‘We’ll settle this dispute with swords.’

‘Swords or leeks?’ taunted the other.

‘Both, Lawrence!’

Still bickering, the actors went off, leaving Nicholas to make sure that everything was ready for the performance that afternoon. When the stage had been set for the first scene, he checked that the gatherers were at their posts, and that all the properties stood in readiness in the tiring house. Returning to the yard once more, he saw that the first two spectators were already taking their seats in the lower gallery. Anne Hendrik had brought Dorothea Tate to take her first excited look at Westfield’s Men.

An hour later, they were only a tiny part of the large crowd that had descended on the Queen’s Head to watch The Siege of Troy. Surrounded by his entourage, Lord Westfield was in his usual place, quite unaware of the vicissitudes endured by his company. Two people who did have some insight into what the troupe had suffered sat side by side in the upper gallery. Doctor John Mordrake and Margery Firethorn made an unlikely couple but they had been invited along at the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell to see a new play being launched upon the choppy waters of a demanding audience.

Margery’s principal interest was in her husband, but Mordrake was more concerned to see how his patient fared. Recovered enough to take a supporting role, Edmund Hoode was overjoyed to be back with his fellows and, from the moment that he entered in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue, it was clear that his doctor had effected a remarkable cure. Like Caesar’s Fall, by the same author, The Siege of Troy recounted a story that had been told on stage many times. Where it outshone rival versions, and where it rose above Stephen Wragby’s other play, was in the quality of its verse, the delineation of its characters and the sheer verve of its action.

A decade of war was displayed at the Queen’s Head. Lawrence Firethorn was a wily Ulysses, spinning seductive webs of words, while Owen Elias was a defiant King Priam. Richard Honeydew found pathos and cynicism in the role of Cressida. James Ingram was a commanding Agamemnon and Frank Quilter, a bellicose Ajax, teased and tormented by Barnaby Gill’s prancing clown. Mistakes were inevitably made but they went unnoticed by the audience as the play swept on from scene to arresting scene. In the final act, when the huge wooden horse made by Nathan Curtis was wheeled out of the stables where it had been concealed, it earned the biggest cheer of the afternoon.

Appropriately, it fell to Edmund Hoode, who had suffered the worst ordeal because of his unique position in the company, to deliver the Epilogue that he had written to replace that by Michael Grammaticus. Standing in the centre of the stage, relishing his moment, he declaimed the speech to the sound of music.


‘Our tale is told of Trojan and of Greek,

Of ancient malice, treachery and meek

Surrender to a wooden horse, a toy

Whose silent neigh brought down the walls of Troy.

Upon these boards, false Cressida has walked,

Ulysses hatched his plots, Achilles stalked

The gallant Hector with a shameful plan

To murder him by ambush. Every man

Was traitor or betrayed. This self-same flower

Of perfidy and lies has left its dower

To each succeeding age. It charms our mind

And with its scent makes all of us go blind.

We do not see what stands before our eyes

Until it is too late. Deceit now thrives

And forgery runs wild. This Grecian trick

Has spawned a thousand ruses just as quick

To steal our purses or to take our lives.

The innocent go down, the cheat survives.

For proof of this, behold our little stage,

Where you have seen the bloody battles rage

And mighty generals meeting face to face

While cunning politicians swift embrace.

You let illusion take its benefit

For we, your actors, did but counterfeit.’

Alexander Marwood was a picture of dejection. The high hopes that had taken him to Dunstable had been dashed. After sitting interminably beside his dying brother, he did his best to put aside old enmities, only to learn, when the will was finally read after the funeral, that he had been left nothing at all. Accompanied by a vindictive wife, who blamed him for wasting their time, he travelled back to London in great discomfort on their cart. Not even the sight of the capital could inspire him. Having left a brother who had betrayed him, he was going back, with a wife he feared, to an inn he hated and an occupation that he despised.

They reached Gracechurch Street towards the end of the afternoon, just in time to watch the happy crowds pouring out of the Queen’s Head to remind the landlord that he would have to contend with the actors who loathed him almost as much as he detested them. It was a heavy cross to bear. He and Sybil drove into the yard in grim silence, furious at the noise of revelry that was coming from the taproom. It sounded as if a riot was taking place there. Marwood jumped down from the cart and rushed off to save what he could of his inn before what he believed was an unruly mob got completely out of hand. But, when he charged into the taproom, a miracle occurred.

The noise ceased instantly and everyone turned to look at him with a respect that bordered almost on reverence. During his absence, Westfield’s Men had been assailed by a whole series of setbacks, testing them to the limit of their tolerance. Much of their suffering had been inflicted by Adam Crowmere, the very man engaged to replace their old landlord. He and his false friendship had now gone. Alexander Marwood was back to revile them as before but they found that strangely reassuring. Whatever his faults, the landlord was sincere. He was no counterfeit.

With a spontaneous release of affection, the whole company clapped and cheered him to the echo. Lawrence Firethorn even went so far as to hug the man warmly and kiss him on his pate. Marwood was overwhelmed by his reception. Against all the odds, he was wanted. As the ovation continued, and as the actors patted him warmly on the back, he was caught up in the spirit of the moment. For the first time since his wedding night, he put back his head and laughed with unreserved joy.

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