The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Nine

Alexander Marwood was a self-appointed martyr. A man who was terrified of women married one of the most fearsome members of the breed. A person who hated responsibility and loathed riotous behaviour owned the largest and most volatile inn along Gracechurch Street. A creature who detested all plays and players found himself host to one of the best theatre companies in London. A natural recluse with an abiding contempt for mankind was daily surrounded by hundreds of abominable faces. A reluctant father spent much of his waking hours guarding the virginity of a nubile daughter. An already seriously balding individual presented himself with regular excuses to tear out the remaining tufts from his unlovely scalp. Marwood’s life was death by crucifixion.

He felt another nail being driven through his palm.

‘A prudent landlord should always look for profit.’

‘I have enough manure at the Queen’s Head, sir.’

‘We offer your patrons a delight, Master Marwood.’

‘Not on these premises.’

‘But this yard is ideal for our purposes.’

‘We have all the dancing nags we require.’

‘Nimbus is a king among horses.’

‘Crown him elsewhere.’

Cornelius Gant was meeting stiff opposition from the emaciated landlord. The more that Marwood was pressed, the more he retreated into a twitching hostility. Cavernous eyes glared. Lids fluttered violently like agitated butterflies. His slight, angular body arched and shuddered its refusal. Gant tempered his argument with rank flattery.

‘You are highly regarded, sir,’ he lied extravagantly. ‘Many say that the Queen’s Head is without a peer. Your ale is much praised and your hospitality commended. When people think of Mine Host, they think of Alexander Marwood.’

‘Away with these jests!’

‘Your inn is always full, your patrons always happy.’

‘Do not spoil my trade with your low tricks.’

‘Nimbus and I seek only to increase it.’ Gant applied some real persuasion. ‘Six hostelries have already given us licence and each one has begged us to return. We have put money in their purses, Master Marwood, and added a lustre to their name. Ask of us at The Feathers in Eastcheap. Go to the Brazen Serpent. Seek a report from the Antelope. They and three others will attest our merit.’

Marwood stole a glance at Nimbus then studied the owner again with unabated suspicion. Something told him that he would be widening the scope of his martyrdom if he acceded to this strange request. His twitch took up residence on his left ear and made it vibrate like the wing of a hummingbird.

Gant tried once more. ‘Do you not stage plays here?’

‘Against my better judgement.’

‘And do they not put money into your coffers?’

‘Not enough!’ wailed Marwood. ‘They will never yield enough to pay for the tortures I undergo in housing them.’

‘Westfield’s Men must give you a sizeable rent.’

‘Only when I hound them for it.’

‘Let me offer mine in advance, sir …’

Marwood was speechless. The uncouth old man in the garb of a long-discharged soldier was holding out a bag of coins. He was actually willing to buy the right to put his horse through its paces in the yard. Whatever happened during the performance, the landlord could not lose. He trapped the hummingbird ear with one hand then appraised Nimbus afresh. Cornelius Gant jingled the coins. The deal was struck.

There was no delay. Gant produced a trumpet and blew a wild alarum to gain the attention of all who lounged within earshot of the yard. When his musicianship expressed itself in the beating of a small drum, he drew dozens more out into the open air and sent Nimbus prancing in a circle on its hind legs. By the time that Gant had finished pounding and Nimbus had finished prancing, over two hundred people had formed a circle around them and more were drawn in from the street outside. The real performance could begin.

It was unerring. The precision of the dancing and the brilliance of the counting display astounded all present but their open-mouthed wonder was relieved at intervals by some inspired clowning. Cornelius Gant allowed himself to be nudged, tripped, butted, bitten, trodden upon and buffeted in a dozen different ways. At one point, Nimbus even rested his front hooves on its master’s shoulders to draw him into a comic dance. When Gant took his bow, the same hooves struck his buttocks with such force that he was propelled forward into a double somersault. Turning from foe to friend, the horse gripped the old man’s collar to drag him upright once more. And so it went on.

The performers had their audience enthralled. Gant felt the familiar surge of power. Repelled by the animal-baiting he had witnessed at Paris Garden, he was yet ready to inflict pain on himself but not on his horse. It was the audience who felt the quiet gnash of his teeth and the gentle flick of his whip. They were his. He controlled their pleasure and dictated their response. Delaying their laughter with some elaborate comic business, he could introduce discomfort. Keeping them in awe for extended periods, he could separate them from the relief of applause. The men, women and children who watched the act might be joyfully absorbed but they were also drained by the cruel suspense, taxed by the multiple unpredictabilities and punished by a cunning sadist.

At the climax of his act, Gant shot the horse dead and put a bullet into the heart of everyone there. Nimbus expired with such realism that a hushed silence fell upon the yard, broken only by the sobbing of women and the cry of a terrified child. The horse stayed motionless long enough to gain full pity and instil full pain then it leapt to its feet again and danced a merry jig. Pandemonium ensued from the massive swirl of emotions that took place.

The hat of Cornelius Gant had never been filled so quickly and so generously. He collected five times what he had paid the landlord in rent. Marwood was dumbfounded. The performance had brought thirsty mouths into his yard and nimble servingmen had sold a large quantity of ale to the spectators. Nimbus had been a sound investment. There had been none of the dreadful risks associated with Westfield’s Men. One man and a horse had been a drama in themselves.

Gant stressed the fact with a valedictory message.

‘Thank you, my friends!’ he shouted. ‘You have seen a king at the Queen’s Head today. Nimbus has taken the stage from your famous Lawrence Firethorn. I ask you this — who needs an ass of an actor when you have a horse of wonder!’

Alexander Marwood gave a disenchanted smirk.

Nicholas Bracewell had more than his usual cargo of worries at The Theatre that day. Having arranged the transfer of scenery, costumes and property from the Queen’s Head then supervised a rather fraught rehearsal of Love’s Sacrifice, he had to soothe troubled actors, castigate wayward stagekeepers and check that everything was in readiness for the afternoon performance. A hundred minor decisions had to be taken, then enforced, a thousand voices seemed to be calling his name and imploring his advice. But it was the additional anxieties which pressed most heavily upon the book holder.

Chief among these was Lawrence Firethorn who ordered the change of play to accommodate his romantic hopes. The significance of the event made him tense and capricious. He swung crazily between extremes of behaviour and Westfield’s Men suffered as much from his rampant affability as from his fierce and undiscriminating rage. Nicholas worked at full stretch to stop arguments, prevent bloodshed and limit the damage to company morale. Beatrice Capaldi was exerting an influence upon the actor-manager that was highly dangerous and it had to be countered in some way. The book holder tried hard to understand why that influence was linked to this particular play.

Love’s Sacrifice was a triumph underscored by much unhappiness. Behind the cheers it brought at The Rose and at the Queen’s Head were some unpleasant facts. The play soured relations within the company. It led to the eviction of Owen Elias and, in turn, to his defection to Banbury’s Men. It was now a duet between a lovesick actor and a mystery woman. It had also become the opening salvo in a propaganda battle that was being waged by their patron. Most unsettling of all to Nicholas, it contained a role that had been especially written for Sebastian Carrick. It was an association that haunted the book holder. Every time he worked on the play, he saw the dead body of his friend on the slab at the morgue. Every time he heard the controversial funeral speech, it was a requiem for his lost colleague.

‘Nicholas! Nicholas!’

‘Yes, Master Gill?’

‘Rescue us from certain catastrophe.’

‘What is the matter, sir?’

‘Why, Lawrence,’ said Barnaby Gill in terror. ‘He is smiling at us. He is prowling the tiring-house like some grisly Priapus and grinning. That hideous smile will undo us all. That amorous grin will fright us into imbecility!’

As the performance neared, tempers became more frayed. Gill was the first of many who needed a soft word and a reassuring compliment. Edmund Hoode’s concern was for the integrity of his text.

‘It is no longer my play, Nick!’ he complained.

‘Nothing can dim its quality.’

‘Lines have been cut, scenes moved, characters altered and songs inserted, all to please this creature who has ensnared Lawrence. He has made me write loving couplets which he can throw to her like bouquets of roses.’ Hoode folded his arms in annoyance. ‘I’ll not change another word of Love’s Sacrifice. There have been sacrifices enough.’

‘The drama will still shine through, Edmund.’

‘But it will not be mine!’

‘Your talent improves everything you touch.’

‘I would dearly like to improve Lawrence with a touch from a club had not this fatal lady already dashed out his brains.’ He grasped his friend’s arm. ‘Who is she? What is her purpose here? We must find out more about her!’

Nicholas had reached that conclusion some time ago.

‘We will,’ he said.

Anne Hendrik was given a double duty that afternoon. She was to accompany Marion Carrick to the performance in Shoreditch and she was to take up a seat that enabled her to keep a certain member of the audience under surveillance. Nicholas Bracewell had been accurate in his prediction. The dark and enigmatic Beatrice Capaldi swept into her favoured position in the middle of the lower gallery and stirred up a flurry of male interest. Anne had already selected a place at the same level but directly above the stage. She was thus able to look back around the circle of benches to make her own valuation of the lady.

Beatrice Capaldi was indeed striking and her beauty owed far more to nature than to any cosmetic aids. She held herself like a foreign princess, treating all the admiring glances and fulsome compliments that she gathered with autocratic contempt. As Anne Hendrik studied her, an ignoble thought flashed into her mind but she repudiated it with blushing speed and moved on to appraise the resplendent attire. As on the previous occasions, Beatrice Capaldi was there to see and be seen. She wore a dress of white silk that was bordered with tiny pearls and half covered by a mantle of black silk shot with silver threads. Both sleeves and skirt were explosions of black and white but it was the hat which was the real focus of interest.

Marriage to Jacob Hendrik had taught Anne a great deal about hatmaking and running her husband’s business had widened that education considerably. She worked exclusively in the Dutch style to produce small hoods of lawn that were worn with an under-cap. Beatrice Capaldi, by contrast, opted for a hat in the Spanish fashion, tall-crowned but brimless and decorated with jewellery around the lower part. Its most startling ornamentation was a high-standing ostrich feather that was fastened in position with more precious stones. Anne Hendrik set a price on the hat and realised that it cost more than her entire wardrobe. What thrilled her was that she noticed idiosyncratic features which threw a name straight back at her.

She knew who had made the hat.

‘I have never been to a playhouse before,’ confessed Marion Carrick. ‘It is so colourful and exciting.’

‘You are brave to venture here at such a time.’

‘I hope it is not unseemly, mistress.’

‘Your brother would surely approve.’

The girl nodded. ‘I mourn his death and it has made me want to know more about his profession. Master Bracewell, who has been so helpful, tells me that Sebastian was to play in Love’s Sacrifice. Curiosity makes me want to see the role that he sadly abandoned.’ She smiled. ‘Master Bracewell also spoke most warmly of you.’

It was Anne’s turn to smile. ‘I am pleased.’

‘He is a good man but he has taken on such a hazardous task on behalf of my family. I fear for his safety.’

‘Nicholas is well able to look after himself.’

Further conversation was cut short by a blast on a trumpet and the running up of a flag that would flutter above the playhouse for the next two hours. Music sounded and the Prologue came out to garner the first small harvest of applause. Love’s Sacrifice was in motion and Marion Carrick was instantly hypnotised. Anne Hendrik was absorbed as well but that did not prevent her from throwing regular glances in the direction of Beatrice Capaldi. Touched by what her lodger had said about her, she would now be able to reward him handsomely.

Nicholas would be delighted to hear about the hat.

At that moment in time, he was more concerned with the ever-changing series of doublets, cloaks, helmets, dresses, gowns and boots for which the play called. There was scenery to be taken on and offstage as well as countless props to be used and discarded. The commotion behind the scenes was every bit as dramatic as the action which was unfolding before the audience. Nicholas Bracewell coped with his usual imperturbability. He had no qualms about the drama itself. Edmund Hoode might fulminate but Love’s Sacrifice was not ruined in any way by the changes forced upon him. The play was sharper than it had been at The Rose and more assured than at the Queen’s Head. Weak moments in the construction were completely obscured by the driving force of a superb leading actor.

Lawrence Firethorn out-distanced all superlatives. King Gondar reigned supreme. To the burning passion and the wonderful audacity of the earlier performances, he now added a note of supplication that was utterly moving. A peremptory monarch dared to show his vulnerability and it made the character infinitely more appealing. A wholly committed audience who sighed his sighs with him had no idea that his portrayal was aimed at a single spectator or that the faint smile she gave him in the middle of Act Five was worth more than a sustained round of applause to him.

With Queen Elsin in his arms, he slowly expired. Minor emendation by Edmund Hoode enabled the king to utter the operative line directly at the lower gallery.

Our tale of woe will yield this sage advice.

True love requires a true sacrifice.

The final speech was spoken by Hoode himself, swaying with emotion over the stricken lovers and using a reedy tenor voice to declaim his verse. Its cadences lulled the audience, its sentiments delighted Lord Westfield and its soaring beauty finally found a way to the heart of Beatrice Capaldi. The prostrate Firethorn did not need to see her hand brush away the little tear. He sensed it immediately. At the third attempt, King Gondar had won her over.

No corpse went off to a royal grave in higher spirits.

The Earl of Banbury was equally pleased with his afternoon at a playhouse in Shoreditch. Seated beside Roger Godolphin at The Curtain, he saw The Spanish Jew whip the spectators up into a paroxysm of hatred that was then softened by some wicked comedy. Lopez was denounced and Lawrence Firethorn was maligned but nobody paused to question the justice of it all. Giles Randolph assassinated the former physician while Owen Elias derided his former employer. The topicality of the piece was greater than ever now and new material had been worked in to extol the virtues of rule by a queen. If Elizabeth was on the point of death, it was expedient to smooth the path of her chosen successor. Banbury’s Men were skilful practitioners. While entertaining the citizenry of London, they also contrived to blacken the reputation of a foreign doctor, besmirch the name of an outstanding actor and offer a telling political argument.

As the spectators poured out of the theatre in animated discussion, they knew they had had a very special experience. The Spanish Jew was much more than a good play. It was a tract for the times and a symbol of the undoubted supremacy of Banbury’s Men. In the dynastic struggle between rival claimants, Giles Randolph had finally emerged victorious. He was the uncrowned king of London theatre.

Unaware of his enforced abdication, Lawrence Firethorn went boldly into a private room at The Theatre for what he knew would be one of the critical encounters of his life. She was waiting for him. The invitation which Nicholas Bracewell had borne to her immediately after the performance had elicited the response for which Firethorn had prayed. He and Beatrice Capaldi at last stood face to face. The beauty which had mesmerised him from a distance was quite intoxicating at close quarters and his senses reeled. He recovered to give her a deep and respectful bow. It was only then that he noticed that they were not alone. A female companion waited quietly in a corner with her face hidden discreetly behind a fan. Her presence did not inhibit Firethorn. As the gloved hand of Beatrice Capaldi was extended towards him, he took it between gentle fingers to place the softest of kisses upon it. Beaming with gratitude, he bowed again.

‘You do me the greatest honour!’ he said.

‘The honour is mine, sir,’ she replied in a voice which had the most tantalising hint of an Italian accent. ‘It was a privilege to watch your performance this afternoon.’

‘It was wholly dedicated to you.’

‘That is a compliment I will cherish.’

‘Dear lady,’ said Firethorn, dispensing with the formal niceties. ‘Will you dine with me today?’

‘Unhappily, I may not, sir.’

‘Tomorrow, then? Or the next day after that?’

‘It is not appropriate,’ she said demurely.

He was crestfallen. ‘May I never entertain you?’

Beatrice Capaldi gave a signal to her companion and the latter moved across to open the door. Her mistress glided over until she was framed in the daylight beyond.

‘I would see you again, Master Firethorn,’ she said with studied affection. ‘Let us meet on Saturday.’

‘Name but the time and place.’

‘I have a barge that will take us down the river to Chelsea. We may spend the whole afternoon together.’

‘My cup of joy spills over …’

‘Word will be sent of the precise arrangements.’

‘I’ll not sleep till it arrives.’ He was about to give his third bow when hard fact intruded. ‘One moment here. On Saturday next, I am contracted to play with Westfield’s Men.’

‘I had hoped you would prefer to dally with me, sir.’

‘Of course, of course …’

‘Then there is no more to be said.’

‘But I cannot let my company down in this way.’

‘Would you rather betray me, sir?’

‘No, dear lady. My loyalty is adamantine proof.’

‘It seems not,’ she observed tartly. ‘You may strut upon a stage any day of any week. My barge is not for general hire, I assure you. Let me test this devotion of which you speak. If it be sincere, float on the Thames with me this coming Saturday.’

‘It would be a voyage to paradise!’

‘Not if you prefer the demands of your calling.’

Firethorn was in pain. ‘Westfield’s Men rely on me …’

‘I had thought to do the same, sir.’

‘My presence would be sorely missed.’

‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’

Beatrice Capaldi looked deep into his eyes to reinforce her meaning. With a gracious smile that took all resistance from him, she then turned on her heel and went out swiftly. Her companion followed and pulled the door shut. Lawrence Firethorn remained immobile for several minutes. He was overwhelmed by the interview. Beatrice Capaldi was the most remarkable woman he had ever met and his pursuit of her made all else in his life irrelevant. The air was still charged with her fragrance and he inhaled it with sensual nostrils. A leisurely journey to Chelsea in a private barge was a promise of earthly bliss. Westfield’s Men vanished from his concerns as he called silently after the departed goddess.

‘I am yours, my love …’

Marion Carrick was in a quandary. The conflicting emotions which she had brought to The Theatre that afternoon had been stirred up even more by a compelling drama and she now found herself in a state of complete ambivalence. Respect for a dead brother obliged her to remain at home with a grief that could only be relieved by daily visits to church but the urge to find out more about Sebastian was too strong. Love’s Sacrifice made her weep, laugh, sigh, fear and tremble with sheer excitement. Her first visit to a playhouse taught her a great deal about her brother but even more about herself.

Nicholas Bracewell was a considerate host. Once he had dispatched his various tasks, he gave Marion and Anne Hendrik a brief tour behind the scenes and explained the technical effects he had devised for the play. Marion was then able to shower Edmund Hoode with her naive praise and redeem what had been a testing afternoon for the playwright. While congratulating him on his own performance, Marion was anxious to hear how her brother might have acquitted himself in the same role and she was touched by the esteem in which Hoode obviously held his departed colleague.

Nicholas took the opportunity of a few words alone with Anne Hendrik. Her identification of a hatmaker was a most unexpected bonus and he was duly grateful.

‘You have done Westfield’s Men a great service today.’

‘By looking at a hat instead of watching a play?’ she said mischievously. ‘If all spectators did the same, you and your fellows would quickly go out of business.’

‘The threat to our livelihood comes from elsewhere,’ he said, ‘and you have helped us to measure its power. That hat will lead me to the house of Mistress Beatrice Capaldi where I may begin to unravel her mystery a little.’

Anne Hendrik felt the slightest twinge of jealousy.

‘What do you think of the lady, Nick?’

‘Me?’

‘You have twice been close to her person.’

‘Only on embassy from Master Firethorn.’

‘You have eyes, you have feelings.’

Nicholas was tactful. ‘They are engaged elsewhere.’

‘A pretty answer but it evades my question.’

‘I thought as any man would think, Anne,’ he said honestly. ‘Beatrice Capaldi is a woman of great beauty.’

‘Did her charms not enslave you?’

‘No.’

‘Would you not like to be in Master Firethorn’s shoes?’

‘My own fit far more comfortably.’

‘Will you admit nothing about this enchantress?’

He was serious. ‘She is no friend of mine.’

Anne Hendrik relaxed and talked at length about the conduct of Beatrice Capaldi during the play itself. The latter seemed to be giving a performance that was as well rehearsed and carefully judged as any on the stage. The idea which had earlier flashed through Anne’s mind now made a second momentary appearance.

‘Nick …’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you observe anything else about the lady?’

‘I was there but as a messenger.’

‘It is only a feeling of mine …’

‘I trust to your instincts, Anne.’

She hesitated then backed off quickly. ‘No!’ she said. ‘It was an unkind thought brought on by merest envy. The lady is truly beautiful and she wore a hat that I would give anything to have sold her.’

Nicholas brushed a kiss against her forehead. Marion Carrick rejoined them to offer her thanks once more. As they left the playhouse, reality began to crowd in upon her again and she became the distressed sister of a murdered actor.

‘We owe much to your kindness, Master Bracewell.’

‘Sebastian was my friend.’

‘We may never be able to repay you.’

‘I do not seek reward.’

‘It irks my father greatly,’ she said. ‘To be locked away at such a time and in such a condition. He feels the weight of our obligation to you. Father would love to be able to offer you recompense of some kind. He is searching desperately for a way to express our gratitude.’

Enforced idleness was a cumulative misery to a man such as Andrew Carrick. A conscientious lawyer with a substantial clientele, he was at his happiest when in the throes of some litigation. Because he found the cut and thrust of argument so bracing, the unforgiving gloom of the Tower of London was especially lowering. He brooded on. Harry Fellowes came to assume more importance in his life by the day. Not only did Carrick savour their brief conversations, he was given a subject for endless speculation. The Clerk of Ordnance was much more than a holder of Crown office. Eminent visitors came to call on him at the Office and Carrick noted their arrival with interest. It was conceivable that the Earl of Chichester came to the Tower to discharge official business with his junior and that the loan arranged between them — witnessed by the lawyer — was related in some way to the operation of the Ordnance Department, but that explanation could not cover the others who came in earnest search of Harry Fellowes.

An astute observer like Carrick soon developed a theory and he waited patiently for a moment to put it to the test. His friend was too guileful to respond to direct questioning and so the lawyer chose a more subtle line of examination.

‘I have a favour to ask of you, good sir,’ he said.

‘Ask away,’ encouraged the other. ‘I will do all I can except secure your release, and I would do that, too, if it were within my power.’

‘You have been a sound friend.’

‘I hate to see you suffer for such a trivial offence.’

‘In future, I will attend no more marriages.’

They shared a laugh, then strolled across the courtyard. Bright sunshine streamed down to imprison them in a neat rectangle of light. Carrick grew confidential.

‘Evidently, you are well acquainted with the nobility.’

‘And they with me,’ said Fellowes.

‘Then haply you may advise me.’

‘On what matter?’

‘I have this client, a gentleman of high rank …’

‘How do you serve him?’

‘Very ill while I am penned up here and his business is very pressing.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It is also a subject of some delicacy and one with which I am not altogether qualified to deal. My noble lord’s problem …’

Fellowes guessed it. ‘He requires money.’

‘You are very perceptive, sir.’

‘It needs no great insight to divine that,’ he said. ‘Poverty is the natural condition of our nobility. They build houses they cannot afford, keep retinues of servants whom they cannot pay, then give lavish hospitality that sends them even deeper into debt.’

‘That is certainly the case with my client.’

‘It is the case with most of them, Master Carrick. We have nineteen earls and marquesses in England and there are not half a dozen who can pay their own way.’ He became more expansive. ‘Such men are born to borrow. Look but upon the late Earl of Leicester. When he died in Armada year, he left behind debts of £85,000. Were they honoured by his heirs?’

‘Tell me, sir.’

‘They were not. Those debts were promptly increased. The great man’s funeral alone cost £8,000. Even for such a royal favourite, it was an expensive hole in the ground.’

‘These sums do much to reassure me.’

‘Then your client’s problem is of smaller degree.’

‘He staged an entertainment at his country estate.’

‘How much does he owe his creditors?’

‘Some £650.’

‘A mere trifle,’ said Fellowes airily. ‘I could lend him that amount myself.’

Carrick affected mild surprise. ‘You, sir?’

‘At a moderate rate of interest.’

‘My client would be very willing to pay that.’

‘May I know his name?’

‘Let me first sound him out,’ said Carrick. ‘They lock me up but they allow me pen and ink. I will write to him forthwith and tell him I have found a trustworthy banker.’

‘You may also mention that my credit is good among his peers.’ Fellowes could not resist a boast. ‘I have been of assistance to three earls and a duke.’

Andrew Carrick thanked him and moved gently away from the topic of his fictional client. Having confirmed one part of his theory, he now addressed another. The guard was being changed at the Tower and the soldiers went through their established drill. Carrick watched approvingly.

‘They have fine uniforms and good weapons,’ he noted.

‘Both are essential in the military world.’

‘Do such items come within your remit?’

‘Everything passes through me at one time or another,’ asserted Fellowes. ‘That is why I have so many junior clerks to help me keep the accounts. It is no sinecure that I hold. This month alone, I have drawn up estimates of naval charges affecting the Office and debts due within it. I have made costings of munitions for castles and blockhouses then receipted Exchequer warrants for the necessary sums. I have arranged transport of munitions to our army in Ireland. And I have provided the Earl of Essex with an aide memoire on a subject of military significance.’

‘Your industry does you credit, Master Fellowes.’

‘I serve the Crown as best I may.’

‘We are lucky to have a man of such high probity in a position of such power,’ said Carrick solemnly. ‘There must be grave temptations for weaker souls.’

The Clerk of Ordnance gave a sharp reply. ‘We have a List of Orders to govern all procedures,’ he said sternly. ‘They make abuse impossible. All records must be kept in duplicate, one for the Ordnance and another for the Council. All indentures are to be signed by three officers. No purchases may be made on the authority of a single officer. The chest where all our receipts and dockets are held in custody has a three-lock mechanism with separate keys for the Master, Lieutenant and Surveyor of Ordnances.’ Fellowes adopted the pose he used in the pulpit. ‘As you will see from these precautions, we are scrupulous in our dealings.’

Andrew Carrick nodded in agreement. He also noted that such stringent regulations would not have been drawn up in the first place if there had not already been widespread abuse and embezzlement in the Office. He flattered the other with unstinting praise before slipping in a last question. ‘How long have you been Clerk of Ordnance …?’

Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather bundled through the streets of Clerkenwell in a vain attempt to impose law and order upon an unruly neighbourhood. It was a dark night with a churlish breeze that carried the promise of rain. The two watchmen sauntered along in step and wondered if there was a less burdensome or unrewarding job than the office of constable. They had uniforms, lanterns and weapons of a sort but no status beyond that of buffoons. Taplow often thought nostalgically of his days as a plasterer and Merryweather longed to be back among his dead poultry. The former would have been more of a match for criminals with a trowel in his hand and the latter could have given a far better account of himself in a brawl if armed with his cleaver. They traded their customary moans then fell back into a dutiful silence. As their old legs measured out the reeking filth of Turnmill Street, they inhaled the air of sweeter memories. Josiah Taplow saw rows of inviting walls and William Merryweather viewed the necks of a hundred chickens.

The watchmen ambled past the Pickt-hatch but noticed nothing untoward. Riotous behaviour within and loitering gallants without were normal features of the establishment and the colleagues did not even throw the place a glance. Drunkenness thrived in the lower rooms and debauchery in those above. Indeed, if sin had a tonnage, then the whole building would have toppled over with its own weight. The two men walked all the way to Cow Cross by the time that the figure appeared at a window. Frances had met with another problem. Though her customer had paid her well, he had beaten her to heighten his pleasure and left her severely bruised. She watched till the man came out of the building then gestured with her hand. The message was clearly understood.

Weary from his excesses, her violent lover dragged himself along in the darkness, and cursed aloud as the first drops of rain began to bite at him. He swung into Cock Lane and found the wind punching angrily into his face. He spat his defiance and surged on with lowered head, ignoring the slime through which he was now trudging and kicking out at a stray dog that popped out from a doorway. Oblivious to the thickset man who trailed him, he struggled on through the damp night.

The watchmen were a hundred yards away when they heard the first yell of agony and they reacted at once. Showing a surprising turn of foot for their age, they sprinted off towards the roaring torment in Cock Lane, guided by each new howl of misery from the victim. They arrived in time to see the fallen man being kicked and struck by his assailant with wilful savagery. The speed of their approach put the attacker to flight and he vanished into the darkness. By the light of their lanterns, the watchmen assessed the condition of the groaning wreck on the ground. He was beaten to a pulp and bones had been broken all over his anatomy. It was the work of a seasoned ruffian. Instead of killing his prey with a single blow, he wanted to smash him slowly to pieces.

Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather came panting up the lane in utter astonishment. No other watchmen were due to patrol their area that night. Taplow raised his staff as if to strike and called out a command.

‘Who goes there?’

‘Have no fear, sir,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, turning to him. ‘We are friends that merely borrowed your attire for purposes of our own tonight.’

‘This man needs a surgeon,’ said Edmund Hoode.

‘What are you?’ croaked Merryweather.

Nicholas pulled off his cap to reveal himself then introduced Hoode. Their garb had been taken from the store of costumes that Westfield’s Men kept at the Queen’s Head. In the guise of constables, they had licence to search the streets of Clerkenwell.

‘Who did you seek?’ asked Josiah Taplow.

‘A murderer,’ said Nicholas.

‘Did you find him?’

‘This is his handiwork here.’ Nicholas bent down beside the victim who had now lapsed into unconsciousness. ‘I believe we shall find the mark of his accomplice as well.’

Because the man lay on his front, Nicholas was able to lift his jerkin and his shirt to expose a broad back. Hoode angled his lantern so that they could all see the tattoo. Red lines of blood had been etched by wild fingernails. A night of passion had been a loveless embrace.

Nicholas was sorry for the victim but glad that he and Edmund Hoode had come to Clerkenwell that night. He felt that he was now one step closer to his quarry. It was only a question of time before the ruthless killer and his equally ruthless partner at the Pickt-hatch were called to account.

Sebastian Carrick could then rest in peace.