The Nine Giants

Chapter Eleven

Abel Strudwick sat against a wall in Bishopsgate Street and mused on the vagaries of human existence. When he had tried to be a performer upon the stage, he had been cowed by the haughty Jupiter, flayed by the furious Margery Firethorn and stung by the derision of the audience. It had made him abandon all ambition in that direction. Yet here he was, in the person of a beggar, sitting on the ground at the behest of Nicholas Bracewell and actually getting paid for it. The waterman grinned as he reflected on his promotion. What he was doing was acting of a kind and it was professional in nature. It certainly saved him from spending the day on the river with aching sinews. There were handicaps. He was rained on for an hour, spat upon now and again and — if the dog had not been smacked firmly away — there would have been another soaking for his tattered jerkin. Against all this he could see an unlooked for bonus. Because he sat with one leg tucked under him in a tortured posture, the occasional coin was tossed his way to confirm the success of his portrayal.

His job was to keep on eye on Stanford Place so that he could watch the comings and goings. A few visitors called but all had left by the time that Walter Stanford himself came out to make his way to the Royal Exchange. Strudwick caught a glimpse of Matilda Stanford in an upstairs room but that was all. Various tradesmen called to make deliveries but none stayed more than a few minutes. It was late afternoon before the waterman felt that he was able to earn his money. Out of the house came the man whom Nicholas had described to him so exactly. There was a furtive air about Simon Pendleton and his normal measured gait became an undignified scurry as he weaved his way through the back streets towards the Guildhall.

Strudwick dogged him every inch of the way and hid behind a post when the steward stopped and looked around to make sure that he was not seen. Pendleton then opened a door and stepped smartly into a house. It had nothing like the grandeur of the mansion he had left, but it was a sizeable dwelling that conveyed a degree of prosperity. The waterman made a mental note of the address and then shambled past the front of the house so that he could sneak a glance in through the latticed window. The picture he saw was very expressive.

Simon Pendleton was talking in an agitated manner to a tall, stately individual in dark attire. The steward was pointing back in the direction from which he came as if reporting some disturbing news. His companion reacted with some alarm and reached into a desk to take out a roll of parchment. His quill soon scratched out a letter. Strudwick moved away from the window but remained close to the house. When a man wearing the livery of the Lord Mayor’s Household came to the front door, the beggar trotted over to accost him.

‘Away, you wretch!’ said the man.

‘It is not money I want, sir, just a kind word.’

‘The kind word will come with a hard blow if you stay. Stand off, sir. Your stink will infect me.’

‘I seek but instruction.’

‘Then I instruct you to leave.’

‘Does Abel Strudwick live in this house?’

‘Who?’

‘Strudwick, sir. A noble family of some repute.’

‘This is the home of the Chamberlain, sir.’

‘What name would that be?’

‘Master Aubrey Kenyon.’

The man brushed him aside and went into the house. The waterman danced on his toes and clapped his hands together with glee. He was certain that he had just found out a significant piece of information and he had done so by the skill of his performance as an actor. It deserved some recognition. Abel Strudwick turned to an invisible audience and gave a deep bow.

In the busy street, only he could hear the applause.

They met him at the brewhouse and he took them down to the cellar where the barrels of Ashway Beer were kept to await delivery. The familiar aroma made Firk feel very thirsty but James Renfrew had more refined tastes. They found a quiet corner where they could not be overheard. Rowland Ashway had new orders to issue.

‘Gentlemen, you travel to Richmond tomorrow.’

‘Why there?’ said Firk.

‘Because I tell you,’ said the alderman. ‘A play is being staged at an inn called the Nine Giants.’

‘By Westfield’s Men?’ guessed Renfrew.

‘The very same.’

Firk was pleased. ‘Then I’ll go gladly, sir. I have an account to settle with a certain book holder.’

‘That is not the main reason I send you, man. Someone else will be in Richmond tomorrow night.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘Mistress Stanford.’

‘The new young bride?’ said Renfrew with interest.

‘Without her husband.’

‘This is good fortune indeed, sir. But what brings the lady to the Nine Giants?’

‘My informer does not provide that intelligence. When you listen at doors, you do not hear all, but what he has gleaned is enough in itself.’ He chortled aloud. ‘I know more about what happens at Stanford Place then Stanford himself. It pays to have friends in the right position.’

‘What must we do?’ asked Renfrew.

‘Seize on this accident that heaven provides.’

‘Kill the lady?’ said Firk hopefully.

‘Kidnap her. That will cause panic enough. With his wife under lock and key, not even Walter Stanford will have the stomach to become Lord Mayor. We strike a blow where it will damage him the most.’

‘Where will she be taken?’ said Renfrew.

‘That I will decide.’

Firk leered. ‘And may she be tampered with?’

‘No!’ snapped Ashway. ‘Mend your manners, sir.’ He pulled a letter from his belt. ‘And while you are in Richmond, you may do me another favour, sirs. Do you see this letter?’ He waved it angrily. ‘Shall I tell you who sent it? Shall I tell you who favours me with his royal command? None but Lord Westfield himself.’

‘The patron of the players,’ said Renfrew.

‘He takes up their case as if he is judge and jury. The noble lord has heard of my purchase of the Queen’s Head and orders me — orders, mark you, no hint of request here, sirs — he orders me to let Westfield’s Men remain. And he does so in such round terms that I am treated less like an owner and more like the meanest lackey.’ He tore the letter up and threw the pieces away. ‘This is an insult that must be answered forthwith.’

‘How?’ said Firk.

‘I’ll put his company out of sorts for good!’

‘Chase them out from the Queen’s Head?’

‘No, sir. Kill their king. Lawrence Firethorn.’

The prospect of an additional murder brought a low cackle from Firk. He had his own grudge against the company and this would help to assuage it. Before they could discuss the matter further, they were interrupted by heavy footsteps as a vast drayman came down the steps to collect a barrel. Ashway glanced across and relaxed.

‘Ignore him, sirs. Too stupid to listen and too senseless to remember anything he hears.’ He put an arm on each of their shoulders. ‘All roads lead to Richmond. In one bold strike, we may finish off Stanford and get revenge on Westfield’s Men.’

‘Do not forget Master Bracewell,’ said Firk.

Ashway smiled. ‘Deal with him as you will. Firethorn first then this troublesome book holder.’

‘The second will please me most.’

‘How will you do it, Firk?’

‘Strangling, sir. A very quiet death.’

He gave a macabre laugh and Ashway joined in but their companion remained silent and withdrawn. James Renfrew was staring angrily ahead of him as if viewing an object of extreme hatred with his single eye. His lip curled.

‘There is an easier way yet, I think,’ he said.

‘What is that?’ asked the brewer.

‘Murder the man himself.’

‘Walter Stanford?’

‘Cut him down without mercy!’

‘No,’ said Ashway. ‘We can disable his mayoralty by another means. It is far too dangerous to attack him directly. That must only be done as a last resort.’

‘By me,’ insisted Renfrew.

‘Why?’

‘It is my right and I claim it now. The worthy mercer is all mine and nobody else must touch him. I have waited a long time to settle my score with him.’

‘Do you detest your uncle so much?’

‘Beyond all imagining,’ said the other. ‘He ruined my life. I was young, I was free, I was happy. I spread joy among the ladies of the city and they could not get enough of me. Good Uncle Walter called me to order. He told me that my days in the sun were over. Henceforward, I had to work for him in some dingy room and learn responsibility.’

‘Is that why you went in the army?’

Renfrew nodded. ‘It was my only escape. My only way of prolonging my freedom — or so I fondly thought. The army was a living hell! Thanks to Walter Stanford, I went through two years of complete misery and ended up looking like this.’ He lifted the eye patch to show an ugly, red, raw socket. ‘Do you see, sirs? I went into the army as a handsome man with his whole life in front of him. I came out disfigured!’ He put the patch back in position. ‘My uncle killed the real Michael Delahaye. He deserves to die himself.’

‘This wound is deep indeed,’ said Ashway.

‘He talks of nothing else,’ added Firk.

‘I share his loathing of Walter Stanford.’

‘Nobody could despise him as I do,’ said the vengeful nephew. ‘I denounce all that he is and all that he stands for and will do anything to maim his chances as Lord Mayor. He has condemned me to a half-life under a stolen name. Two short years ago, ladies flocked to me and showered me with their favours. Now I have to buy their bodies and fornicate in darkness where they cannot see my face. That is what I owe to this monster of goodness, Walter Stanford!’

Rowland Ashway and Firk were mesmerised by the intensity of his anger. None of them saw the drayman lift a barrel onto his shoulder and struggle off upstairs with it. He moved ponderously and took care not to drop his cargo. It was a long and troublesome climb.

Leonard was carrying onerous news.

Walter Stanford made no objection at all when his wife asked permission to visit her cousin near Wimbledon. Acting on her maidservant’s advice, Matilda claimed to have been invited to call on her sick relative at the earliest opportunity. Her husband did not even ask the nature of the putative illness because he was too overwhelmed with work and with worry. He simply put his coach at her disposal and told her that he would see her on her return. Grief had aged him visibly and put more distance between him and his wife. Matilda took sad note of it.

‘I feel that I no longer know him,’ she confided.

‘That is often the way in marriage.’

‘We seem to be growing apart.’

‘Fill your life another way.’

‘My husband’s work always comes first.’

‘That is hardly a compliment to you.’

They were being driven along a bumpy road on a dull afternoon by a coachman who was there only to obey orders. Matilda travelled with Prudence Ling and both were thrilled to get away from the confinements of London life. The verdant acres all around them gave promise of a freedom that neither had enjoyed for some time. On the command of his mistress, the coachman drove on to Richmond and stopped at the Nine Giants. While the ladies went inside to dine, he shared a drink with the ostlers and listened amiably to their country gossip. Matilda and her maidservant, meanwhile, had been shown upstairs to the room that had already been reserved by Lawrence Firethorn. Candles were lit and the table was set but the room was dominated by a large fourposter. Prudence giggled.

‘It is big enough for you and him and me besides.’

‘For shame, girl!’

‘You cannot think this room an accident.’

‘Master Firethorn is a gentleman.’

‘Then he will say a proper thank you afterwards.’

‘Prudence!’

‘Why else have we come all this way, mistress?’

‘To dine with my love.’

‘Meat before supper. You are that supper.’

‘I will not hear this vulgarity!’

But Matilda Stanford had heard it in a way that had not impinged upon her consciousness before. Infatuation had made her deceive a kind husband and drive miles to her assignation. What had sustained her all this while was the thought of being alone with the man she loved and admired so that she could feel once again those wonderful sensations that he elicited from her. To dine alone with Lawrence Firethorn was an end in itself to her and she was distressed by the idea that it might only be a means for him. It was a long wait in the upstairs room and the bed seemed to get larger all the time.

Westfield’s Men journeyed to Richmond at a slower pace than the coach. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill, Edmund Hoode and the other sharers rode their own horses but most of the company travelled on the waggon that was carrying their costumes, properties and scenic devices. George Dart and some of the other menials trotted at the cart’s tail and dodged any messages left up ahead by the two carthorses. The imminent departure from the Queen’s Head had lowered them all and Nicholas Bracewell tried to lighten the mood of dejection by ordering the musicians to play. Country air and lively ditties soon dispelled the city gloom.

Nicholas drove the cart with Owen Elias beside him.

‘You have strange friends, sir,’ said the Welshman.

‘I would not call you that strange, Owen.’

‘Not me, man. That mountain who accosted you as we left Gracechurch Street. Diu! I thought that you would harness him and let him pull the waggon alone.’

‘And so he might. That was Leonard.’

‘What did he want?’

‘To show his friendship in the kindest way.’

‘One giant sends us off to find the other nine.’

‘He did more than that,’ said Nicholas, recalling the warning that Leonard had given about the plot against his life. ‘We met in peculiar lodgings, he and I. Imprisonment binds two such men together.’

‘Do not speak of imprisonment!’ moaned Elias. ‘I am chained hand and foot in this company.’

‘Master Firethorn would release you.’

‘’Tis he who keeps me in bondage. He takes all the leading roles and I serve my sentence as a galley-slave.’

‘The Wise Woman of Dunstable offers you a hope.’

‘In some small way,’ said Elias. ‘I have a part in which I may briefly shine but it is not enough, Nick. I would be in the centre of the stage. Look at my Jupiter, sir. I was taken for Master Firethorn himself.’

‘No man is great by imitation.’

‘I have skills that are all my own but they wither on the vine. Give me the role I covet above all others and I will prove my worth!’

‘What role is that, Owen?’

‘A Welsh one, sir.’

‘Henry the Fifth?’

‘Aye, man — Harry of Monmouth!’

Lawrence Firethorn had to mix desire with diplomacy in a way that irked him. The company reached the Nine Giants a mere half an hour after the two ladies and his first impulse was to bound up to his room to claim the favours of his mistress. But Edmund Hoode’s sensibilities had to be borne in mind. If he were to learn of Matilda’s presence at the inn — let alone of her tryst with Firethorn — he would be uncontrollable. It was important, therefore, to settle him and the rest of the company down before its leading man could slip away to enjoy the spoils of war.

What he did do — while the others were being shown to their accommodation — was to make contact with his beloved to reassure her that all was well.

Matilda Stanford jumped up with a mixture of joy and alarm when he let himself into the room. He showered her hand with kisses and told her that he would return within the hour to dine alone with her, making it very clear that Prudence was expected to withdraw tactfully to the next chamber. He was at once inspiring and frightening, a noble knight with high ideals of chivalry and a lecher in search of a lay. Matilda was thrown into confusion. He swung open the door and paused for effect.

‘When I come back, my love,’ he said softly, ‘I will tap on the door like this.’ He knocked three times. ‘That is my password to paradise. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How many times?’

‘Three.’

‘At least!’ he said under his breath. ‘Admit no other to this chamber until I knock thrice.’ He blew her a kiss and withdrew. ‘Out, then, into the night.’

The door closed and Matilda clutched at her breast to stop her heart pounding. She wanted him more than ever but not in the way that he had implied. Her plan had been to dine with him alone before being driven on to spend the night near Wimbledon with her cousin, who had been advised by letter in advance of the visit. Firethorn evidently had ideas for her sleeping arrangements and the anxious Matilda did not know how to cope with them. Part of her wanted to flee, another part urged her to stay. A wild suggestion sprang from Prudence.

‘To save your honour, I will change places with you.’

‘How so?’

‘Lend me that dress,’ she said, ‘and blow out some of the candles. If the room be dark enough, I’ll make him think I am you, mistress.’ She giggled again. ‘And when we lie abed together, he will not know the difference.’

‘Prudence!’

‘I do it but as an act of sacrifice.’

‘Leave off these jests.’

‘This way, all three get satisfaction.’

‘I will not hear another word,’ said Matilda firmly. ‘Both of us will stay here. Your presence will shield me from any danger.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

Before they could debate it further, they heard footsteps outside the door and craned their necks to listen. There were three loud knocks on the door. They exchanged an astonished look. Firethorn had talked about a delay before his return. Obviously, he had dealt with his business much faster than expected. The three knocks were repeated. Matilda gave a signal and Prudence rushed to throw the door wide open.

‘Welcome again, good sir!’

The man with the black eyepatch smiled slyly.

‘Thank you.’

Westfield’s Men were given excellent hospitality by mine host and found another treat in store. Staying at the inn with them were several who were due to be guests at the wedding on the morrow. It was as part of the nuptials that the company were to present their play. Hearing of this, the wedding guests called for some entertainment in advance and were quickly answered. Peter Digby and his musicians played for them, Richard Honeydew sang sweet madrigals, Barnaby Gill made them guffaw with his comic dances and Firethorn obliged with a speech or two off the cuff from his extensive repertoire. Westfield’s Men were not only given free cakes and ale. The wedding guests each tossed in a few coins to make their gratitude more substantial. With one exception, the company was thrilled.

That exception was Owen Elias, an eager talent who was proud of abilities that were just never given an opportunity to display themselves. It was others who won the plaudits from the guests. He lurked somnolently on the fringes and drank too much beer. When Gill was asked to perform his jig for a fourth time, Elias could take no more and slunk quietly out into the yard in search of his own audience.

Nicholas was pleased by the turn of events but he had not forgotten Leonard’s warning and kept his wits about him. He was much exercised, too, by the information that Abel Strudwick had supplied. If there was a form of conspiracy afoot and the Chamberlain were part of it, then it must reach to the very highest levels of municipal administration. Alderman Rowland Ashway was deeply involved in it and his agents were totally ruthless. If a defenceless young apprentice like Hans Kippel could be murdered, then the killers would stoop to anything — even to an attack on Lawrence Firethorn. The book holder started as he recalled the warning. Leonard had told him that both he and the actor-manager were marked men. In the middle of a large gathering in the taproom, Nicholas was quite safe but there was no sign of Firethorn. Concern flared up.

A quick search of the ground floor of the premises yielded nothing. Nicholas was about to go upstairs when he heard a distant sound that stilled him somewhat. Out in the darkness was a voice so quintessentially that of Lawrence Firethorn that he relaxed at once. The great man was merely rehearsing under the stars and giving the angels themselves some nocturnal entertainment. Letting himself out in the yard, the book holder realised at once from where the speech was coming. The paddock was a ghostly silhouette in the moonlight. Nine giant oak trees stood in a circle to form a natural amphitheatre. Sublime verse was declaimed with such feeling and ferocity that it sailed upwards into the branches of the trees and came back in weird echoes.

Lawrence Firethorn was truly supreme. Only he could make a speech crackle with such intensity and only he would steal off into the night to rehearse alone and to perfect his art. Nicholas walked towards the paddock so that he might enjoy the treat to the full. It was only when he recognised the play that his panic returned. Henry the Fifth was haranguing his troops before battle in the lilting cadences of a true Celt. Once again, the imitation had been uncanny but this was not the actor-manager in conference with the giant oak trees. It was Owen Elias.

The moment Nicholas realised this, the speech was cut dead to be replaced by a loud gurgling. He ran towards the paddock as fast as he could but the foliage was so dense and widespread that it shadowed the whole area. Only the terrible noise guided him, the final, fading cries of an actor on the verge of the ultimate exit. Nicholas sprinted all round the circle until he collided with a pair of dangling legs and was knocked to the ground. High above him, swaying to and fro, was the twitching Owen Elias who grasped feverishly at the rope around his neck. For a man whose voice was his own greatest joy, it was a cruel way to die.

The Welshman was an unintended victim. Taken for Lawrence Firethorn, he was at least quitting his life in a leading role. The rope was slung over a branch then secured around the trunk of a tree. Nicholas drew his dagger and hacked through the hemp to bring his friend crashing to the ground.

There was no time to attend to him because Firk leapt out from his hiding place with a sword in his hand. He circled his prey menacingly. Nicholas had only the dagger with which to defend himself. Firk rushed in and slashed the air viciously with his blade, catching the other a glancing blow on the left arm. The stinging pain and the gouting blood made Nicholas change his tactics at once. At their last encounter, his attacker had been stabbed in the stomach and must still be suffering from that injury. The book holder put pressure on the wound. He dodged behind a tree then skipped on to another so that Firk had to waddle after him. Nicholas broke into a run and weaved in and out of the nine giants with the sword whistling at his heels all the way. The further he went, the more he tired his pursuer. Firk was panting violently and threshing the air with increasing fury. Leaves fell at each stroke and whole branches were lopped off. Fatigue eventually slowed him and he leant against a tree to catch his breath, one hand holding the sword while the other grabbed at his wounded stomach.

Nicholas switched from defence to attack, moving in to circle his man with the dagger at the ready. Firk responded with a few murderous swipes but his strength was clearly diminished. He made a sudden lunge at his foe but Nicholas parried the sword with his dagger, stepped back a few yards, flicked the blade into his hand then threw the weapon hard at the advancing Firk. It hit him in the shoulder and spun him round. The rapier dropped to the ground and Firk staggered after it. Nicholas was on to him like a shot, grappling madly and rolling in the grass until both were muddied all over. Even in his weakened state, Firk was still strong but he was up against someone who had more than strength on his side.

New power surged through Nicholas. As well as fighting for his own life, he was avenging the deaths of his friends. He was pitted against the man who had cut down Hans Kippel with callous violence in the street. He was wrestling with the creature who had hanged a poor actor intent on improving his craft. They rolled again and Nicholas finished on top, pinning his opponent to the ground and managing to get both hands to his neck. His first squeeze drew a roar of protest from Firk but that did not halt him. The book holder ignored the punches that rained on his chest and the grasping fingers that tried to pluck out his eyes.

He tightened his grip as hard as he could. The spirit of Hans Kippel lent his puny strength and Owen Elias groaned his encouragement from the ground. Between the three of them, they throttled every semblance of breath out of Firk and left him prone on the ground in an attitude of complete submission. The weary Nicholas hauled himself up and went over to the purple-faced Welshman who was slowly recovering from his brush with death. Loosening the knot around his friend’s neck, the book holder pulled the noose off and tossed it over to the corpse.

Owen Elias croaked his gratitude and raised a weak arm in salute. There would be no part for him in the play but at least he would live to act another day.

Lawrence Firethorn, meanwhile, was loping along the passage to the private room where his treasure was stored away. Having spoken to the landlord and ordered that food and wine be sent up, he could now begin the soft preliminaries of love and prepare her for the joyful consummation that was to follow. He paused outside the door to adjust his doublet, smooth his beard and lick his lips then he knocked boldly three times and sailed through the door to claim his prize.

‘I have come to you, my love!’ he sighed.

But Matilda Stanford was not there to receive him. Most of the candles had been extinguished and the room looked empty in the half-dark. Fierce disappointment then gave way to rekindled lust as her inviting noises came from the four-poster. He crossed to the bed to see her body writhing under the bedclothes to allure and excite. Evidently, she could not wait for the leisurely meal and the long seduction. Her ardour brooked no delay and it produced a like passion in him. Running to the door, he slammed home the bolt so that they would not be disturbed then he began to tear at the hooks on his doublet and pull down his breeches. The sounds from the bed grew more desperate every second and he amplified them with his own grunting and groaning.

Firethorn was half-naked by the time he launched himself onto the four-poster, landing beside his love and pulling back the sheets to behold the beauty of her face. His first kiss was to have ignited her passion to the utmost limit but his lips instead met with cold response. He soon saw why. Instead of holding Matilda Stanford, he had his arms around a squirming maidservant whose mouth was covered with a thick rag.

Prudence Ling had been bound and gagged.

Nicholas Bracewell was hurrying back towards the Nine Giants when the actor-manager came tumbling out in search of him to announce the kidnap. The coachman had now been alerted as well and discovered that his coach had been stolen. Others came pouring out of the inn to see what the commotion was all about. The book holder gave his grisly news then raced off to the stables to find a horse and lead the posse in pursuit of the coach. He had instantly worked out who the driver must be and wanted to take him to task about Hans Kippel as well. A dozen armed men were soon in the saddle. Nicholas split them into two groups so that they could scour the road in both directions. The horses were soon spurred into a mad gallop as the chase began.

It was only twenty minutes before they caught sight of the coach. Nicholas was at the head of the group which rode furiously along the London Road and sent up clods of earth in their wake. When he saw the coach cresting a rise up ahead so that its profile was seen momentarily against the sky, he called for even more speed and commitment from his mount. Though the vehicle was being driven hard, it could never outrun the chasing pack and they closed steadily on it. The driver put his own survival first. Heaving on the reins, he pulled the two horses to a juddering halt then leapt from the box into the saddle of the animal who had been tethered to the coach and pulled along with it. To create a diversion, he yelled at the top of his voice and slapped one of the coach horses on the rump. Both of them bolted at once and the vehicle was taken on a mad, swinging, bumping journey across the grass.

Nicholas’s immediate concern was the safety of the passenger inside the coach and he set off after it. With a wave of his hand, he sent his fellows off after the lone rider who was moving at a full gallop towards the shelter of a small wood. The coach was now completely out of control and swayed dangerously from side to side. It lurched high in the air as one of its wheels struck a large stone then it veered over at a crazy angle as it was pulled across a slope. Nicholas knew that it was only a matter of time before the vehicle overturned or smashed into a tree. He used his heels to demand even more from his mount and slowly caught up with the coach, keeping well clear of the whirring wheels as they swung towards him. Above the din, he could hear the screams of the terrified occupant as she was thrown wildly around.

Pulling level with the bolting horses, he timed his moment then dived sideways onto the back of the nearest animal and held on grimly to the harness. When he had hauled himself up and sat astride the horse, he gathered up the reins and applied steady pressure until the headlong flight became a measured canter then eventually diminished to a merciful trot. When he finally pulled them to a stop, he jumped down and ran to open the coach door. Tied hand and foot, Matilda Stanford fell into his arms.

An evening of happiness and light ended in a darker vein. The body of Firk was taken away to the local undertaker and a statement about his death given to the county coroner. Matilda Stanford and Prudence Ling were driven on to Wimbledon by the coachman to pass a restorative night with the cousin. Along with the rest of the company, Lawrence Firethorn was shocked by the attempted hanging of Owen Elias. He took Nicholas Bracewell up to his room so that the full details could emerge in private.

The book holder was explicit and unfolded the tale without any trimmings. Murder, arson, riot, kidnap and municipal corruption were revealed in their true light. Firethorn heard it all with immense interest, feeling for the plight of Owen Elias and coming to see how his own wilful involvement with Matilda Stanford had indirectly led to it. If she had not been enticed to the Nine Giants to satisfy him, then the Welshman would still be able to contribute his skills to the company instead of languishing in bed with a bandaged neck. The actor-manager was ashamed and shaken but his priorities remained unchanged. When Rowland Ashway was named as the architect of all the villainy, Firethorn saw it entirely in personal terms and actually grinned.

‘If the alderman be arrested,’ he said jauntily, ‘then will his contract with Marwood be null and void. Westfield’s Men will stay at the Queen’s Head. Some good may yet come of all the upset I have borne!’

Nicholas had to exhibit supreme self-control.

Next day found Lawrence Firethorn at his best. He assembled the company early on and delivered a moving speech about the importance of overcoming all the setbacks they had endured. Concern for Owen Elias was understandable but the best way to speed his recovery was to put on the finest performance they could manage. In the space of ten minutes, Firethorn transformed a jaded group of men into an alert and determined theatre company. Nicholas had returned from his earlier visit to the Nine Giants with sketches and measurements of the acting area. It did not take long to erect a stage to begin rehearsal.

They heard the bells from the wedding nearby and gave a rousing welcome to the bride and groom when they arrived at the inn to begin the celebrations. Fine weather enabled the banquet to be served in the yard itself and the whole gathering was in excellent spirits by the time the play was due. Lord Westfield himself was the guest of honour, sitting beside the bride in his flamboyant attire and telling her that he would now give his wedding present. Westfield’s Men took over.

The Wise Woman of Dunstable could not have been a more appropriate choice. It was a pastoral comedy about the virtues of true love and fidelity. Three suitors vied for the hand of a rich and beautiful widow who wanted nothing more than to live quietly in happy contemplation of her departed husband. All sorts of stratagems were employed to get her to the altar, the most ludicrous by Lord Merrymouth, an egregious old fop with a game leg. Firethorn showed brilliant comic invention in this role and equipped the posturing peer with all sorts of humorous ailments. The widow herself finally agreed to make a choice and everyone thought it would be between the two young, handsome suitors. But the ghost of her former husband — Edmund Hoode at his best — came back to give her sage advice. She chose Lord Merrymouth.

This not only put the other over-amorous gentlemen to flight, it ensured her widowhood, for the old aristocrat was so overwhelmed with pleasure that he drank himself to a stupor then fell into a pond and drowned. Firethorn even made the death scene unbearably comic. In the title role itself, Richard Honeydew was a wise woman of great charm and lightness of heart. The play ended with a dance then the audience pounded their tables in appreciation. Westfield’s Men bowed in acknowledgement of their rapturous reception then went into their closing dance once more by way of an encore. Led by Firethorn, they directed their final bow at the window through which Owen Elias had watched their performance. Still in pain from his ordeal, he applauded with gusto and the tears ran down his cheeks. Westfield’s Men had given him the most exhilarating tonic. He belonged.

Walter Stanford’s face was designed for mirth and good humour but it was furrowed by anger and disillusion now. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, his wife had set up an interview between the two men in a private room at the Royal Exchange so that the household steward at Stanford Place would not be aware of the net that was now closing in on him. The Lord Mayor Elect first thanked the book holder profusely for saving the life of his young bride by stopping the runaway horses, though her reason for being at the Nine Giants in the first place was tactfully concealed from her husband. No intimacy had occurred between her and Firethorn. She would not go astray again.

Nicholas had been right in his instincts. Once the connection between Rowland Ashway and Aubrey Kenyon was made, much was explained. With a sudden increase in wealth, the brewer was able to buy up the inns and taverns to whom he supplied his beer. Stanford suspected a whole network of corruption in the conduct of municipal affairs with the Chamberlain at the centre. Only he would be in a position to mastermind such financial chicanery. With a willing but credulous man like Sir Lucas Pugsley as Lord Mayor, the two men had been able to feather their own nests without the slightest suspicion falling on them. Ashway worked on the fishmonger as a friend while Kenyon used his expertise as an administrator to pull the wool over the latter’s eyes. They were a potent combination.

Their reign was threatened by the election of Walter Stanford to office. Whatever his weaknesses, the mercer had tremendous acumen and a nose for any mismanagement. Under his surveillance, the corruption would not only have to cease but its extent during the previous mayoralty would have been uncovered. Ashway and Kenyon were left with only one option. Stanford had to be stopped.

‘And so they killed Michael,’ he said. ‘Because so much of me was invested in my nephew, they hoped that my grief would rob me of the urge to go on.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘How was it done, Master Bracewell?’

‘The murder was committed in that house on the Bridge,’ said the other. ‘I was deceived for a while when I learnt that it was owned by Sir Lucas Pugsley. It was borrowed from him by Alderman Ashway for the purpose. Though the murder happened by daylight, the body was not disposed of until night. Under the cover of darkness, it was dropped out of the window but it struck the starling on its way to the water.’

‘The smashed leg!’ said Stanford.

‘Yes, sir. It must have been caught in the eddies then buoyed up by a piece of driftwood that carried it downstream. By complete chance, we encountered it.’

‘You and your waterman.’

‘Abel Strudwick. A sound man with all his faults.’

‘One question, sir. Why was my nephew’s face so mangled and bloody? We could scarce recognise him.’

‘That was the intention.’

‘What say you?’

‘It was not your nephew, sir.’

‘Not? But William and I saw him.’

‘You saw only what looked like him,’ explained the other. ‘Michael Delahaye is still alive.’

‘But that does not make sense.’

When Nicholas enlarged on his claim, Walter Stanford was forced to accept that it was all too logical. The army surgeon had told the book holder everything. Michael Delahaye was not just another grumbling soldier, he was a complete dissolute who resented his uncle for cutting short his strenuous overindulgence. Joining the army in order to prolong his wasteful ways, the soldier had found it so intolerable and depressing that it had turned a merry gentleman into a malevolent one. Walter Stanford became the target for that malevolence. When Michael Delahaye was offered a chance to strike back at his uncle, he seized it because it gave him the opportunity to escape for ever from the oppression of respectability and start a new life of debauchery under a new name. It also gave him the supreme satisfaction of killing off the mortal enemy he had made in the army.

Cold silence had fallen on Stanford as he listened. To lose a loving nephew was one form of misery. To learn that he was the object of that same person’s hate was far worse. The one saving grace was that the whole plot had been exposed by a man of such evident discretion.

‘What must I do, Master Bracewell?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘But they will flee the approach of justice.’

‘Only if you frighten them away,’ said Nicholas. ‘We must tempt your nephew out of hiding or this will never be settled. Be ruled by me, sir. Prepare yourself for action but take none yet. Wait but a little while and they will surely strike again. Be patient.’

Stanford thought it over and nodded his agreement. He was deeply disturbed by what he had heard and he needed time to assimilate it all. What really cut him to the quick was the news about Michael Delahaye and he did not try to shuffle off his responsibility in the matter. His intentions had been good but he had applied intense pressure to his nephew to get him to conform and to abandon his wilder ways. He had helped to turn an idle but relatively harmless young man into a monster and it preyed on him. Having been through one grim ordeal, he now faced an even more punitive one.

‘What am I to tell my sister?’ he asked.

‘What she needs to know.’

‘She believes her son was hauled out of the river.’

‘Then that is what happened, sir,’ said Nicholas levelly. ‘There is no need for her to learn the full truth. The son whom she loved and knew died in the Netherlands. Do not bring him back to torment her.’

Once again, Stanford accepted sage advice and looked across at the other with increased respect. Nicholas clearly had to be given some freedom where the stage-management of everything was concerned. He would know how to flush the villains out of their holes.

‘When will they strike?’ said Stanford.

‘Soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘At the Lord Mayor’s Show.’