The Counterfeit Crank

Chapter Six

The meeting took place in a private room at the Queen’s Head because it gave them both quiet and privacy. Since the advent of Adam Crowmere, the inn had become much more popular and the taproom was in a state of happy tumult every evening. It was not just the quality of his ale, the standard of service or the charms of the buxom tavern wenches that brought in more custom. By a combination of hard work and warmth of personality, the new landlord had created a more joyous atmosphere at the inn. Everyone noticed it.

‘The taproom has truly come alive tonight,’ said Owen Elias. ‘It was never like this when our old landlord was here.’

‘No,’ agreed Lawrence Firethorn, pouring a glass of Canary wine for all four of them. ‘Under that ghoul, Marwood, it was more like a morgue. That fearful wife of his used to send shivers down my spine.’

‘Can you imagine sharing a bed with that old crone, Lawrence?’

‘She’d turn my prick to ice!’

‘Can we begin?’ asked Barnaby Gill, impatiently. ‘You may all have time on your hands but I have somewhere important to go.’

‘What’s his name?’ teased Firethorn.

‘There’s much to debate,’ said Nicholas Bracewell. ‘Shall we make a start?’

‘Aye, Nick. We must not detain Barnaby from the pleasures of the night.’

They were seated around a table on which a candle had been lighted to stave off the evening shadows. Its flickering flame threw a halo around The Siege of Troy, the play they had now all read. There were a number of sharers in the company but its policy was determined, for the most part, by Firethorn, Gill and Edmund Hoode. In the absence of the playwright, Elias had been invited to the table. Though not of equivalent status, Nicholas was always included in such discussions because of his wise counsel.

Firethorn was decisive. ‘I like the play,’ he said, slapping it with the palm of his hand. ‘Nick and Owen are of like opinion. I urge that we accept it.’

‘You are too hasty, Lawrence,’ said Gill, raising a finger. ‘We should not be so rash to part with our money until The Siege of Troy meets all our demands. Changes must be made.’

‘Of what kind? I call for no changes.’

‘Nor me,’ said Elias. ‘The only change that I would gladly make is the name of the author. A fine play it is, I know, but I wish that it had been penned by anyone but Michael Grammaticus.’

‘Yet he’s the only author who could have written it,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Even our own dear Edmund does not have that great a knowledge of history.’

‘I agree, Nick. My quarrel is not with The Siege of Troy. I take it to wrest the laurel wreath from Caesar’s Fall. No,’ he went on, ‘what troubles me is that we will have that mournful face watching us rehearse it. Michael is such lugubrious company.’

‘Ignore his presence. Think only of your role.’

‘That’s what I have done,’ said Gill, tasting his wine, ‘and my role falls short of perfection. It needs at least two more songs to give it body, and a jig in the last act.’

Firethorn bridled. ‘The last act belongs to Ulysses,’ he declared. ‘I’ll not have the audience distracted by your antics, Barnaby. You only follow where I lead.’

‘You will lead us into boredom if there’s no comedy in Act Five.’

‘What of the scene between the three servingmen? That must earn laughs.’

‘But I do not happen to be in it,’ said Gill, tapping his chest. ‘Why have a clown if he is not allowed to clown his way to the end of the play?’

‘Why have an author if you do not obey his dictates?’

Gill sneered. ‘Since when did you ever obey the dictates of an author, Lawrence? If it serves your purpose, you carve his work to shreds without a scruple.’

‘I make improvements, Barnaby, that is all.’

‘Then let me do the same.’

‘A fair point,’ said Nicholas, searching for a compromise. ‘Barnaby’s complaint is easily answered. Ask our playwright to amend the scene with the servingmen so that it involves the clown and all objections vanish. Is that not so?’

Elias congratulated him on having found the solution and Gill was mollified. With a little persuasion from the book holder, Firethorn was eventually reconciled to the idea. There were other scenes that aroused discussion but none that required any major alteration. They were soon able to move on to the scenery and the costumes. An hour later, it was all settled.

‘Good!’ said Firethorn, rubbing his hands together. ‘We can come to composition with Michael Grammaticus. I’ll have our lawyer draw up the contract.’

‘May I suggest one of its terms?’ asked Nicholas.

‘No,’ said Gill, flatly. ‘You have no voting power here.’

‘He ought to have,’ attested Elias, loyally.

‘Let’s hear him out,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick talks more sense than any of us.’

‘Then listen to my device,’ resumed Nicholas, picking up the play from the table. ‘The Siege of Troy is more than a work of high quality. Were we to turn it down, one of our rivals would surely take it up and use it to their advantage. What it proves is that Michael Grammaticus is an author we must nurture.’

‘Edmund said as much from the very start,’ recalled Firethorn.

‘Then he would approve what I advise. When you draw up a contract for this play,’ said Nicholas, ‘write into it that Westfield’s Men have first refusal on the next play that comes from the same pen. That way, we safeguard ourselves from poachers.’

‘Why stop at one more play, Nick? We’ll bind the fellow to us in perpetuity. Let it be set down that everything written by Michael Grammaticus is first offered to us.’ He patted Nicholas on the arm. ‘As always, you point us in the right direction.’

‘Nick gives us sage advice,’ said Elias. ‘Is it not so, Barnaby?’

Gill rose to his feet. ‘I was about to advocate it myself,’ he lied, ‘even though it is less like sage advice than common sense. If we are to lose Edmund, we need a playwright who can match his steady flow of work.’

‘Edmund will be back,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘He is not lost forever. He begins to show hopeful signs, Barnaby, as you would know if you deigned to visit him.’

‘I never sit beside a sick bed. It always upsets me.’

‘He would be well pleased to see you.’

‘And that is more than any of us would dare to say,’ remarked Firethorn. ‘Think of someone else for once, Barnaby. Go and call on Edmund.’

‘I’d not wish to look upon him in that parlous condition,’ said Gill, crossing to open the door. ‘I prefer to remember Edmund as he was, in his prime. To watch him dwindle away before my eyes is more than I can bear.’

He left the room and the others exchanged a knowing glance. Elias was the next to depart, anxious to join his friends in the taproom. Nicholas and Firethorn got up from the table. The actor-manager was pleased with the way their deliberations had gone.

‘Michael will still be here,’ he said. ‘Acquaint him with our decision and ride over any objections he may have to what we propose. If he wishes to ally himself with Westfield’s Men, he’ll do so on our terms.’

‘I’ll mention the changes that you require,’ said Nicholas, snuffing out the candle between a finger and thumb. ‘When they are made, I’ll take The Siege of Troy to the scrivener and set him to work.’

Firethorn sighed. ‘We lose one author but gain another. Is it a fair exchange?’

‘Nobody could replace Edmund Hoode. He brings so much more to the company than Michael ever will. And he’ll do so again,’ said Nicholas, hopefully. ‘This malady of his cannot last forever.’

Edmund Hoode was dozing when his visitor arrived but he soon awoke. Not expecting anyone to call that late in the evening, he was delighted to see his friend and to share in his good news. Michael Grammaticus had come from the Queen’s Head in a state of suppressed excitement, believing that only another playwright could understand how he felt. Hoode was thrilled for him.

‘These tidings are the best medicine yet, Michael.’

‘Nick Bracewell said that all who read The Siege of Troy enjoyed it greatly.’

‘If it reads well, it will play even better,’ said Hoode. ‘And Lawrence wants more work from that teeming brain of yours. That shows the faith he has in you.’

‘I hope I have the means to justify it, Edmund.’

‘No more of this modesty. A man who can write Caesar’s Fall is destined for the highest rewards. Take what is due to you.’

‘I will,’ said Grammaticus, a tear in his eye. ‘But enough of me,’ he added, briskly. ‘I am still a novice where you are a master. Nobody in London has written as many plays as you.’

‘If only I could remember how I did it!’

‘What mean you?’

‘That I have to take your word,’ said Hoode, ‘and that of my other friends. Since all of you praise my achievements, I must accept that they were mine to praise. Yet I’ve neither the memory to recall them nor the will to add to them. I’m done for, Michael,’ he confided. ‘Behold a posthumous playwright.’

‘Away with such thoughts! You are but resting between plays.’

‘If only I could believe that.’

‘You must,’ said Grammaticus. ‘Two doctors have attended you and both foretell your recovery. Time and patience must be your nurses, Edmund. When your health returns, as surely it must, your mind will be as fruitful as ever. Why,’ he went on, ‘I can see an improvement in you since this very morning.’

‘True,’ said Hoode, sitting up in bed. ‘This afternoon, I was able at last to walk around the room. I sat in the window for an hour to watch people walk by. That cheered me more than I can say.’ His face crumpled. ‘But the feeling did not last.’

‘Why not?’

‘I tried to read my new play, Michael. I’ve three acts finished and a fourth begun. If I picked it up again, I thought, the juices of creation would run inside me again.’ He shook his head in dismay. ‘I was asking for a miracle.’

‘What happened?’

‘I could not read a line, let alone write one. A Way To Content All Women, that is the title. How cruel it now seems!’ exclaimed Hoode, looking down at himself. ‘I’ve not the strength to give one woman contentment. My manhood is but an empty husk.’

Grammaticus was curious. ‘You’ve three acts written, you say?’

‘And almost half of the fourth.’

‘There may be one way to get your new comedy finished, Edmund.’

‘I despair of ever seeing it upon a stage. The play is stillborn, Michael.’

‘Not if someone else were to give it life,’ said the other, thoughtfully. ‘I confess that I know little of how to content women but, it seems, I am entitled to call myself a playwright now. Let me put my meagre talents at your service,’ he offered, leaning over the patient. ‘I’ll be your co-author, if you wish, and finish the play with you.’

Rain fell throughout the night but it had eased by morning. When he left the house in Bankside, all that Nicholas had to contend with was light drizzle. The streets were glistening and he had to step around the frequent puddles that had formed. He had just crossed London Bridge when he caught up with another resident of Bankside.

‘Good morrow, Nathan!’ he called, quickening his stride.

Curtis turned round. ‘Well met, Nick!’ he said, adjusting the bag of tools over his shoulder. ‘I thought to make an early start today. There’s much to do.’

‘And even more when our new play goes into rehearsal.’

‘Is this the comedy promised by Edmund Hoode?’

‘Alas, no.’

Nicholas told him about the purchase of The Siege of Troy and explained what scenery and properties it would require. Curtis grumbled at the prospect of additional work until the book holder pointed out that extra hours would increase his wages. The carpenter nodded soulfully.

‘Give me all the work you can, Nick,’ he said. ‘I need the money.’

‘Not to lose to Master Lavery, I trust?’

‘No, I’ve told that particular Satan to get behind me.’

‘He does not look like Satan,’ observed Nicholas. ‘I found him to be a reasonable man. And he does not win at his table all the time. Master Lavery told me of his losses.’

‘All that I think of are my own losses,’ said Curtis, balefully.

‘When you asked for your wages, why did you not tell me how you went astray?’

‘I was too ashamed, Nick. It was a grievous fault. When I picked up those cards, I betrayed my family. All that I look for now is a chance to redeem myself.’

‘You are not the only one to say that. Hugh Wegges has made the same vow.’

‘There’ll be others who’ll suffer at the hands of Philomen Lavery.’

‘Then they must accept the blame,’ said Nicholas. ‘They’ve been warned. When he addressed the whole company about the danger, Lawrence did not mince his words.’

Curtis grinned. ‘He does not know how to mince his words.’

In spite of the drizzle, the market in Gracechurch Street was as busy as ever and the two men had to shoulder their way through the crowd. Amid the deafening noise, conversation was almost impossible so they did not even attempt it. They walked on and let the rich compound of smells invade their nostrils. Eventually, they turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head. George Dart came trotting obediently towards Nicholas.

‘I’m glad to see you here so early, George,’ said the book holder.

‘I know how much there is to do today.’ He looked at Curtis. ‘I’m sorry that I broke that stool yesterday, Nathan. It was an accident.’

‘It always is,’ moaned the carpenter. ‘Try to be less clumsy.’

‘I will. Oh, Nicholas,’ he went on, turning back to him. ‘You have a visitor.’

‘Do I?’

Dart pointed to a figure curled up in a corner of the yard. Nicholas did not at first recognise her. Dressed in rags and soaked to the skin, Dorothea Tate got up nervously and came across to him. When she brushed the hair back from her face, Nicholas could see that she had been crying.

‘Please!’ she begged. ‘I need your help.’

By the time that Owen Elias arrived, Nicholas had calmed the girl down, taken her inside to dry off and bought her some breakfast. Dorothea consumed it hungrily. While she ate, Nicholas was able to take a closer look at her. She was not simply bedraggled. She was heavily bruised. Her temples were discoloured, her lip swollen and both her wrists had telltale marks of violence on them. Alerted by the message from the book holder, Elias came hurrying into the taproom.

‘George Dart said that you wanted me post haste, Nick.’ He saw the girl. ‘Iesu Mawr!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that you, Dorothea?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

‘What’s happened to you?’

‘She was out in that rain all night,’ said Nicholas.

‘Where’s Hywel?’

‘That’s what she was just about to tell me, Owen. Sit down and we’ll hear the tale together.’ Elias lowered himself onto a stool. ‘Dorothea knows nobody else in London. We are the only people she can turn to for help.’

‘We’re not people, Nick,’ said the Welshman, grinning at the girl. ‘We’re friends. We’ll do all we can for her and Hywel. He’s a fellow countryman of mine.’

They waited for Dorothea to speak but she was hesitant, unsure if she could trust two men whom she had only met briefly, and not certain if she had the courage to put into words the horrors that had befallen her. She looked from one to the other.

‘Bear with her, Owen,’ said Nicholas, softly. ‘She has suffered, as you see.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Do not speak until you are ready, Dorothea. Feel free to take your time.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You are very kind.’

‘Ask anything you will.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘Where have you been since last we saw you?’

‘In Bridewell.’

‘God’s mercy! No wonder you are cowed. What brought you there?’

‘We were arrested for begging in Eastcheap. We had no papers.’

Shivering as she recalled the experience, Dorothea told them about the arrest, the appearance in court, the whipping administered at Bridewell and the laborious work she was forced to do there. What made the place so intolerable was that she was kept apart from Hywel Rees. She could not sleep for thinking about him.

‘Did nobody tell you where he was?’ asked Nicholas.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I might never have seen him again if they had not made me go to that feast. I fought as hard as I could but it was no use. The keeper was too strong.’

‘What’s this about a feast?’ wondered Elias.

The words came out haltingly. ‘Some guests were invited to a feast in the main hall,’ she said, averting her eyes. ‘Gentleman from the city. I was told to please them or I’d be whipped again. The other women were set onto me. They tried to persuade me.’

Elias was disgusted. ‘Bridewell whores, eh? You do not belong with them.’

‘That’s what I kept saying,’ she explained. ‘But the women dressed me to look like them and I was dragged to the hall, protesting all the way. As we crossed a courtyard, Hywel saw me from his window. He was shocked.’

‘What did he do?’ asked Nicholas.

‘He tried to rescue me.’ Her face lit up for second. ‘How he escaped from his room I cannot tell you but I knew that Hywel would somehow come to my aid. I was in the hall, arguing still and being chastised by Master Beechcroft, when he burst in. As soon as Hywel saw what they were doing to me, he flung himself at Master Beechcroft and beat him to the ground. It took three men to pull him off.’

‘Who is this Master Beechcroft?’

‘One of the people who runs Bridewell.’

‘What did he do when Hywel was overpowered?’

‘He wanted revenge,’ said Dorothea, wringing her hands. ‘There was blood streaming from his nose and he was shaking with anger. If he’d had a weapon on him, think he’d have drawn it against Hywel. As it was …’ The words tailed off. Dorothea needed a moment to gather herself. ‘As it was,’ she continued, ‘he swore an oath then said something that made me catch my breath.’

‘What was it?’ asked Elias.

Her lips trembled. ‘Master Beechcroft said Hywel had caused enough trouble at Bridewell and that he’d not get the chance to cause any more.’ She shivered violently. ‘Then they took Hywel out and I never saw him again.’

‘What happened to you?’ said Nicholas. ‘Were you forced to stay at this feast?’

‘No, I was taken away and beaten. A couple of days later, they discharged me.’

‘So soon? But you’d been sent there by a court.’

‘They do as they wish at Bridewell,’ she said, bitterly. ‘Master Beechcroft boasts about it. People come and go all the time. They had no need of me so I was thrown out.’

‘Yet they kept Hywel in there?’

‘No. He’s not at Bridewell. They told me so.’

‘Then where is he?’

‘I do not know,’ she cried. ‘That’s why I came to you. Something terrible has happened to Hywel. I sense it. He tried to save me and they punished him for it in some way. He was my only real friend in the world. I must find out what happened.’

‘Hywel was brave,’ Elias said, admiringly. ‘He tried to save you.’

‘But at what cost?’ asked Nicholas. ‘I do not like the sound of what we heard.’

‘No more do I, Nick.’

‘I think this Master Beechcroft will bear close inspection. If he’s empowered to run Bridewell, there are rules that must be obeyed. It’s a place where the poor are put to work, not a house for revelry and licence.’

Dorothea was pathetically grateful. ‘You’ll help me, then?’ she said.

‘Do not doubt it.’

‘We’ll find Hywel for you,’ vowed Elias. ‘You may rely on us, Dorothea. Apart from anything else, I want him to teach me the trick of counterfeiting the falling sickness. It may come in useful one day.’

But the girl was not listening. Overcome with relief, she burst into tears.

The spectators who stood in the yard that afternoon had their numbers reduced and their spirits dampened by the weather. Overhanging eaves gave those who sat in the galleries a degree of protection that was not shared by those below. Undeterred by the persistent drizzle, Westfield’s Men put their hearts and souls into a performance of The Maid of the Mill, a rustic comedy that drew much incidental humour from its many references to blazing sunshine. When the actors pretended to wipe sweat from their brow, they were merely brushing away the moisture that coated every face. The drizzle gave them other problems. It not only made the stage slippery, it soaked into their costumes and made them much heavier to wear.

The irony was that the weather finally improved as the play neared its end. When the maid of the mill was duly married in the final scene, the drizzle abated and the clouds began to drift away. The audience signalled its thanks by applauding the company with enthusiasm. Wet and weary, the actors trudged off to the tiring house. They were glad to have survived intact. Their troubles, however, were not over.

‘Where was he found, Adam?’

‘In a passageway at the back of the inn,’ said Crowmere.

‘Who did this to him?’

‘Nobody knows.’

‘Was all the money taken?’

‘Every last penny, Nick.’

Nicholas was disconcerted. At the end of each performance, one of his tasks was to collect the takings for the day. Gatherers had been positioned at the doors to take the admission fee and to charge extra, from those in the galleries, for a cushion to set on the hard benches. When the play began, one man, Luke Peebles, took charge of all the money so that he could hand it over to the book holder afterwards. Peebles was now seated in the taproom with his head swathed in a piece of blood-stained linen. He was still too dazed to remember much.

‘He was hit from behind,’ said Crowmere, regarding the man with sympathy. ‘The wound is on the back of his head. I bound it as well as I could.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas. ‘How do you feel now, Luke?’

‘My head still aches so,’ said Peebles, weakly.

‘Do you have any idea who attacked you?’

‘None at all, Nick.’

‘Was it one man? Two, perhaps?’

‘It happened so quickly,’ recalled Peebles, raising a hand to his skull. ‘I heard some footsteps then I felt this pain at the back of my head. The next thing I remember, the landlord was helping me up.’

Crowmere was angry. ‘I feel so guilty about this, Nick.’

‘Why?’ asked Nicholas. ‘It was not your fault.’

‘But it happened on my premises. I’ve a responsibility.’

‘It’s our responsibility to guard our takings, Adam. We do not look to you.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Crowmere, ‘I would like to offer remuneration. When Luke is well enough to tell us how much money was in his satchel, I’ll meet that amount out of my own pocket.’

‘Master Firethorn would not hear of such a thing.’

The landlord grinned. ‘He’d not hear of it from Alexander, I know that. He’s the meanest man in Christendom. But you’ll not say that of me,’ he went on, solemnly. ‘This crime took place on my property. I’ve a duty here.’

‘The only duty you have is to serve your customers,’ said Nicholas, ‘and you do that very well. Look at the terms of our contract with the Queen’s Head and you’ll see that it absolves the landlord of any liability for losses that we incur. I am the one who feels guilty. I should have instructed Luke to have a guard with him when he collects up all the money.’

‘It’s never been needed before, Nick,’ said Peebles.

‘It will be in future. We’ll not put you in danger again.’

Nicholas was sorry to see the man in such evident pain. Peebles was short, slight and unarmed. Though still quite young, he was not robust. A blow that might only have stunned a tougher man had knocked him senseless. It was cruel to press him for details that were still too hazy in his mind.

‘Wait here, Luke,’ he advised. ‘I’ll find someone to take you home.’

‘Thank you, Nick.’

Nicholas turned to the landlord. ‘I’m sorry that this has happened, Adam. I can see how much it’s upset you. But talk no more of offering us money. We’ll bear the loss.’

‘Can I give you no compensation?’ asked Crowmere.

‘None. The matter is closed.’ He looked around. ‘Where is the girl I asked you to keep an eye on while we performed this afternoon?’

‘Dorothea is still in the kitchen.’

‘I warned her not to be a nuisance to you.’

‘The poor creature is too tired for that. She slept for hours.’

‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘She needed the rest.’

‘She’ll not be able to stay, I fear,’ said Crowmere. ‘I have hands enough to help in the kitchen and she’s not fit to serve in the taproom. Dorothea is far too timid for that.’

‘The girl will not be staying, Adam.’

‘What will become of her?’

‘I’ll find somewhere for her to spend the night,’ said Nicholas. ‘First, I must report this crime to Lawrence. He’ll not be pleased. We lacked numbers in the yard but the galleries were full and they bring in more money. We’ve lost a tidy sum.’

Crowmere was livid. ‘Find me the villain who did this and I’ll tear him in two.’

‘If I get my hands on him,’ said Nicholas, ‘there won’t be any of him left.’

Following his orders, Owen Elias went straight to Bridewell. Instead of sharing a drink with the others after the play, he thought only of a young man in jeopardy. The fact that Hywel Rees came from Wales put an extra urgency in his step. Nicholas had schooled him to curb his aggression, telling him that he would learn little by making intemperate demands. Elias had to be more devious. The notion appealed to him.

When he reached the building, he stopped to look up at its waning grandeur. Impelled by the best of motives, King Edward VI had granted the palace to the city of London to be used as a workhouse for the poor and idle. It was a handsome gift and, as he studied the looming proportions, Elias wondered at this example of royal benevolence. The irony was self-evident. Constructed for the mightiest person in the realm, Bridewell was now the home of the lowliest members of society. He went in search of one of them.

‘I am looking for a cousin of mine,’ he said. ‘Hywel Rees, by name.’

‘We allow no visitors here, sir.’

‘At least, tell me if he’s still held in Bridewell.’

‘Are you certain that he came here in the first place?’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘About a week ago.’

‘Then he is like to be still with us.’ The keeper who manned the gatehouse was a plump, officious man in his thirties with a face that might have been hewn from granite. It seemed incapable of expression.

‘Do you not keep records?’ pressed Elias, glancing at the ledger on the desk.

‘We do,’ said the man.

‘Then it’s but a simple matter to see if my cousin still resides here.’

‘This is no residence, sir. Bridewell is here to correct.’

‘Then open your ledger and find out if Hywel is being corrected.’

The man was stubborn. ‘I lack the authority to do that.’

‘Is it authority that you lack or the simple urge to help me?’

‘Go your way, sir. There’s no more I can do for you.’

‘But there is,’ said Elias with excessive politeness. ‘You can tell me your name. If, that is, your parents gave you the authority to do that. I’ll need to know who you are when I report to Master Beechcroft how obstructive you have been.’

‘I do what I am paid to do. Nothing more.’

‘Master Beechcroft may have other ideas. I am not here out of idle curiosity.’

‘No, sir?’

‘A place this size must be expensive to run,’ said Elias, ‘and I know that charity is solicited. If my cousin Hywel is still here — and if I can find someone with the authority to verify that — I’ll make a donation out of my own purse. Will you turn me away and lose all hope of my money?’

The keeper stared at him blankly. Elias was smartly dressed and he had a faint air of distinction about him. His request could be easily met even though the keeper was forbidden to volunteer information to strangers. If the Welshman’s enquiry were spurned, there could be awkward repercussions. The man’s resolve weakened.

‘What was the name again, sir?’ he asked, opening his ledger.

‘Hywel Rees, convicted of vagrancy.’

‘Was he alone when he was brought here?’

‘No,’ said Elias, ‘a friend was with him. A young girl called Dorothea Tate.’

‘I think I may remember them.’ He used a finger to run down a list of names. ‘Here’s one of them. Dorothea Tate. She was discharged yesterday.’

‘What of my cousin?’

‘No longer here, sir. According to this, he left Bridewell days ago.’

‘Then why is there no sign of him? He’d surely have come first to me.’

‘Would he?’ said the man, suspiciously ‘If you are so concerned for his welfare, you could have saved him from being arrested in the first place. What sort of man are you to let a cousin of yours beg for a living on the streets?’

‘A repentant one,’ replied Elias, conjuring up a look of contrition. ‘You are right to chide me, my friend. When he came to me for money, I turned Hywel away and I’ve been overcome with remorse ever since. It’s such a shameful thing that a member of my family should end up in Bridewell.’ He glanced at the ledger. ‘Why was he discharged?’

The book was slammed shut. ‘Never mind, sir. He has gone.’

Dorothea Tate was so unaccustomed to generosity that she could not believe that it was happening. Since she had turned up at the Queen’s Head, she had been fed, comforted and treated with a respect she had never known before. Two men with whom she had only a fleeting acquaintance had immediately come to her aid, and the landlord had shown her indulgence as well. Suddenly, she glimpsed a different world. Dorothea feared that her good fortune could not last and, when Nicholas Bracewell invited her to return to his lodging, she resisted the idea strongly. In the past, most men had only sought her company for one vile purpose. What had made Hywel Rees so different was his kindness and consideration. Where others tried to molest her, he offered her protection.

It took Nicholas some time to persuade her and she set out with misgivings. She felt excited at being rowed across the Thames for the first time, though the foul language of the waterman made her cheeks burn. It was when they plunged into Bankside that her apprehension grew. It was a haunt of desperate men and the kind of shameless women she had met in Bridewell, standing brazenly in tavern doorways to beckon custom. Nicholas hustled her on until they turned into a quiet street. The houses were much bigger here and thatch had been replaced by tile. They stopped outside a door.

Dorothea drew back. ‘I’ll not go in alone with you,’ she said.

‘I do not expect you to,’ he replied. ‘Wait here a minute. I’ll not be long.’

Nicholas let himself into the house and closed the door behind him. Left alone in the street, she mastered the impulse to run, telling herself that he had shown her nothing but kindness. Though he had exposed Hywel’s deception at their first encounter, Nicholas had also saved them from a beating in the street. She had to trust him. If he had designs upon her, they would have been made clear by now yet he had treated her throughout with paternal concern. There was something else that influenced her. Everyone who spoke to Nicholas Bracewell at the Queen’s Head did so with fondness and respect. That was the clearest indication of his upright character.

When the front door opened, she expected him to come out again but it was an attractive woman who appeared. She took the girl gently by the shoulders.

‘Come in, Dorothea,’ she said with a welcoming smile. ‘My name is Anne. Nick has told me all about you. There’s shelter for you here until we find your friend.’

‘Something has happened to Hywel. I fear for him.’

‘He may yet be safe. Do not torment yourself with anxious thoughts,’ said Anne, leading her into the house. ‘God willing, your friend is still alive and well.’

It was the hand that gave him away. Looped around a piece of driftwood, the arm seemed to be clinging on desperately. As the piece of timber bobbed in the dark water of the Thames, the white hand broke the surface time and again to wave farewell to life.