The Roaring Boy

Chapter Seven

Owen Elias set out that evening on the trail of an escaped murderer. He was in the unlikely company of George Dart. The assistant stagekeeper was alarmed to be pressed into service and taken off to the stews of Southwark with the exuberant Welshman. Dart was a short, thin, drooping youth in ragged garb with the timidity of a church mouse and the modesty of a vestal virgin. Bankside was not his natural milieu. Though he enjoyed those privileged occasions when Westfield’s Men played at the custom-built Rose Theatre, he never tarried with his fellows to explore the taverns and ordinaries. Roistering made him fearful and whores made him blush. Since Bankside was notorious for its combination of the two, Dart flew into a panic before they reached London Bridge.

‘Why me, Owen?’ he said in his reedy voice.

‘Why not, George?’

‘You need someone strong and skilled with a sword.’

‘I need you.’

‘Bankside frightens me.’

‘That’s why I’m taking you.’

‘But you say we are on the trail of a killer.’

‘That is so,’ confirmed Elias.

‘If he has killed once, he may kill again.’

‘You will be safe from harm, boy.’

‘Will I?’

‘Maggs would never lay a finger on you.’

‘Why not?’

‘He would not kill his own son.’

George Dart gulped. ‘His son?’

They were on the bridge now, picking their way between the shops and houses, and dodging the occasional horse and cart that rattled along the narrow gap between the various buildings. Owen Elias explained that they were picking up a trail already abandoned by the officers of the law. Until he was caught up in the Brinklow murder, Maggs was a denizen of Southwark, well-known in its darker haunts and in its most disreputable company.

‘They were as arrant a pair of knaves as any in London,’ said Elias. ‘Freshwell and Maggs. Freshwell was the roaring boy and Maggs was a sly little rat of a man. You should have chosen your father with more care, George.’

‘My father?’

‘I see only faint resemblance to him in you.’

‘But I have never met this Maggs.’

‘You have something of his fierceness,’ teased Elias.

‘My father worked for a fishmonger in Billingsgate!’

‘Not tonight. You play a different part.’

‘Why?’

‘It keeps us both alive.’ Owen Elias chuckled as Dart’s face whitened. ‘Be ruled by me, George, and you will see the wisdom of my device. We rub shoulders with true villains. They would steal the clothes off each other’s backs but they have a code of loyalty. If we barge in there and demand to know where Maggs is, we will finish up in a ditch with out throats cut. My trick protects us.’

Dart was terrified. ‘What must I say?’

‘Nothing. Leave all the talking to me.’

‘What, then, must I do?’

‘You are already doing it.’

Elias let out another chuckle and pounded him between the shoulder-blades. They were soon leaving the bridge and heading for the sinful streets and lewder lanes of Bankside. The Welshman strode along with the sure-footed confidence of a man who knew the area well but his companion trotted nervously along beside him like a fawn in a forest of lions. The first few taverns they visited yielded nothing more than curses at the mention of the murderer’s name. One innkeeper confidently claimed that Maggs was dead, another that he had fled the country. Nobody spoke of Maggs or Freshwell with affection.

As the brothels became fouler, the trail became warmer. They eventually began to meet with some success. Maggs was definitely still alive. Several people vouched for that. One man boasted that he had actually seen him though he would not disclose where. It was in the most revolting place of all that they finally got some real help. The Red Cock was an unashamed den of vice, a dark, filthy, smoke-filled hole of a place, where constant drinking, gambling and debauchery were interrupted only by the occasional brawl.

George Dart began to retch when he inhaled its fug and he jumped a foot in the air when a bold female hand caressed his trembling thigh in the gloom. Owen Elias was unperturbed by the sordid surroundings. He ordered beer, found a table in a corner and invited the oldest and fattest punk to join them. A trawl through the stews had taught him something of his quarry’s taste in women. The diminutive Maggs liked to spend his nights on top of huge mounds of flesh.

Her name was Lucy and she had a rich cackle that made her whole body shake violently. When the massive powdered breasts leaped free from their moorings, George Dart covered his eyes with his hands. Elias spent some time working his way into her friendship before he dropped out the name he had brought with him to Bankside. Lucy became defensive.

‘I may have known such a man,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Because we have good news for him.’

She snorted. ‘For Maggs? What is it-a royal pardon?’

‘No,’ said Elias, ‘but it is a pardon of a kind. From beyond the grave, as you might say.’

‘What mean you, sir?’

‘We have a small legacy for him.’

‘Legacy?’

‘Part of it sits beside you,’ he said, pulling Dart’s hands down from his eyes. ‘This is his son.’

She was sceptical. ‘Maggs? A son? He never married.’

‘A bastard child. Born out of wedlock.’

‘He had enough of those, I daresay,’ she said with a cackle. ‘Maggs was a lusty little rogue. I miss him.’ She peered at George Dart. ‘So this is his son, is it? He’s as skinny as Maggs for sure, with the same mean face, but I doubt that he could stand to account in a woman’s arms like his father. Maggs had a pizzle the size of a donkey’s. Does this lad have anything between his legs at all?’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘He’s no gelding.’

Cheeks like beetroot, Dart put his hands over his ears this time. Lucy was the most frightening woman he had ever met in his life. Her vivacity was overwhelming.

‘What is this legacy you speak of?’ she asked.

Elias dropped his voice. ‘From the boy’s mother. She died of the sweating sickness. Poor wretch! She had cause to hate Maggs yet she still loved him. And she doted on his issue here. Did she not, George? On her deathbed, she made her son promise to take a small sum of money to Maggs as a token of her love. Thus it stands.’

‘If that is all,’ she said obligingly, ‘I’ll save you the trouble. Give me the money and I’ll see that Maggs gets every penny of it. You have my oath on that.’

Elias shook his head. ‘We would happily do that, for I am sure that we could trust you, Lucy, but there is a solemn oath involved here. George is compelled to hand over the bounty himself. How else can he get to meet his father?’ He put a familiar arm around her shoulders. ‘Tell us where he is and we will be more than grateful. So will Maggs.’

She eyed them for a moment, then let out another cackle.

‘I know where his father dwells but it would not help the lad to know. This dribbling booby would not get within a hundred yards of Maggs.’

‘Why not?’

‘He would be eaten alive as soon as he ventured there.’

‘Where, Lucy?’ coaxed Elias. ‘Where is Maggs?’

‘The Isle of Dogs.’

***

Darkness had fallen on the house in Greenwich but Valentine was still moving stealthily around the garden. It was his true home. Plants and flowers blossomed under his ugliness. Trees gave forth their fruit without recoiling from his touch. Nature accepted him in a way that human beings could not. Valentine lived alone in a hovel nearby but he often neglected it for days in summer months, curling up instead under a bush in the garden with one eye on the house itself. His vigil was sometimes rewarded with the sight of Agnes, the maidservant, coming to her window at the very top of the house to close the curtains or to tip a bowl of water out on to the grass far below. Moonlight once gave him a fleeting glimpse of her naked shoulders. It kept him below her window every night for a month.

As he looked up at the house now, light was showing in various rooms. Through the windows of the buttery, candles were throwing a ghostly glow out on to the ruins of the laboratory. Agnes would still be at her duties and it might be hours before she was allowed to retire to her own room. Valentine would wait. She might despise him but she gave him an enormous amount of pleasure, albeit unintended. It was enough. Night under the bushes brought rich compensation.

This particular night also brought a surprise. As he took up a vantage point in the undergrowth, he was alerted by a noise that seemed to come from the front of the house. Living so close to nature had given him the instincts of an animal and his back arched for a moment in fear. He quickly recovered and set off through the darkness towards the source of the disturbance. Valentine heard it more clearly now. There was the faint jingle of harness mingled with an unidentifiable dragging sound. Someone grunted under a strain, then he caught a few words that baffled him. Feet moved away from the house and a horse neighed as it was mounted. Two riders departed quickly into the void.

Valentine moved close enough to the front door of the house to pick out the shape of something on the hearth. It made him step back quickly into the bushes to consider what he should do. If he went to investigate more fully, he might be caught and unfairly blamed. If he knocked on the door to rouse the household, awkward questions would be asked about his presence there at that time of night.

He opted for another solution. Bending to gather some stones, he threw one at the lighted window beside the door. It bounced off harmlessly but produced no enquiry from within. He took a bigger stone and hurled it with more force at the door itself. Its thud was heard throughout the house and response was swift. The front door was opened by a manservant. Light spilled out from his lantern to illumine the figure on the ground. Valentine saw that it was a dead body which had been dragged up to the hearth.

The servant was so shocked that he let out a shriek.

***

Nicholas Bracewell was the first to react to the noise. He told Emilia Brinklow to remain in the parlour, then he ran along the corridor to the front door. The servant was now backing away in horror. Nicholas took the lantern from his quivering grasp and knelt down to hold it over the supine figure. Simon Chaloner lay on his back. Sightless eyes gazed up at heaven with a look of supplication but it was the grotesque wound in the forehead which transfixed Nicholas. A pistol had been fired at point-blank range into the skull to lodge deep in the brains. Dripping with blood, the gaping hole was like a third eye. Whatever else happened, Emilia had to be prevented from seeing such horror.

He stood up to give a stern order to the manservant.

‘Go to your mistress,’ he said. ‘Bid her stay where she is until I return. Say nothing of what you saw or you will answer to me. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘About it straight.’

The man scurried away and Nicholas used the lantern again to make a closer inspection of the corpse. Matted blood in the hair at the back of the neck showed that there was another wound. He wondered if Simon Chaloner had first been knocked senseless before being shot. When he searched for the German cavalry pistol, it was gone from its holster. Sword and dagger were also missing from their scabbards. His killer was obviously fond of souvenirs. Yet the dead man’s purse had been left unmolested. He was not the victim of thieves.

Stifled gasps made Nicholas turn round. Other servants had now come to see what was happening and they were deeply shocked. Simon Chaloner was a regular and popular guest at the house but it was this last gruesome visit that would stick in their minds. Nicholas urged them to say nothing to Emilia, then sent most of them back into the house. The ostler stayed behind to guard the body while the book holder conducted a search of the front garden. The lantern failed to pick up the bloodstains on the grass but it clearly showed the route along which the body had been dragged.

Nicholas came to a verge in which eight hooves had gouged their autographs. Two horses had been spurred away from the spot only recently. They had galloped off in the direction of Greenwich Palace.

Two priorities existed. The murder had to be reported and-a far more difficult task-Emilia had to be informed of the death of the man she was betrothed to marry. Nicholas went back to the house. He told the ostler to let nobody near the corpse, then sent a manservant to fetch the local constable. Noises from inside the parlour told him that Emilia was protesting bitterly at being kept there without sufficient reason. When Nicholas went in, she was upbraiding the manservant for daring to give her orders in her own house. Anger faded to alarm when she saw the book holder’s grim expression.

The manservant left them alone and closed the door behind him. Nicholas conveyed the message with a glance. Emilia swallowed hard and her eyes filmed over.

‘Simon?’ He nodded. ‘Where is he? I must see him.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, catching her as she tried to run past him. ‘It is better if you do not. There is nothing that you can do. His body lies at your door. Who put it there, we do not yet know. The constable is on his way.’

Emilia almost swooned. ‘Simon is dead?’

‘Shot through the head.’

‘Dear God!’

She collapsed in his arms and he helped her to a chair. Fate was cruel. Before she had even come to terms with one violent loss, another had been rudely visited upon her. A brother and a betrothed had been murdered. Emilia was in despair. Her life no longer had direction or meaning. There suddenly seemed to be no point in going on.

‘Simon was such a good man!’ she said. ‘A brave man.’

‘Perhaps too brave for his own good.’

‘I knew that he would do something too wild in the end. I stopped him a dozen times from riding off to confront Sir John Tarker on his own. I warned him this would happen.’

‘We do not know the precise details yet,’ reminded Nicholas, still with an arm around her. ‘We must not make a hasty judgement. I admit that suspicion points only one way but we must be certain of our evidence before we proceed.’

‘Why did Simon have to be killed?’

‘Because he got so close to the truth.’

‘When they tried before, he always fought them off.’

‘He was one man, they came in numbers.’

‘But why bring his body to lay at my door?’ she said.

‘Two reasons,’ he suggested. ‘First, it is a warning to us of what we may expect if we pursue our case against a certain person. Second…’ His voice trailed away.

‘Go on.’

‘That concerns you.’

‘In what way?’

‘Sir John Tarker-if this is indeed his work-is sending you a personal message. When he insulted you at this house, your brother was here to take your part and throw him out. Master Chaloner then offered you his strong arm to protect you.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘It is no longer there. That is the message-you are highly vulnerable.’

‘I am not afraid of him,’ she said, recapturing a little of her spirit. ‘He now has two murders to pay for and I will not rest until he has been brought down.’ Her voice cracked and her eyelids fluttered. ‘But what can one lone woman do against the power that he has at his command?’

‘Call on her friends.’

She looked at him with the most profound gratitude. A man who might well be ruing the day she ever came into his life was actually offering his service to her. Nicholas Bracewell was a rock in shifting sands. She had lost Simon Chaloner but there was still one source of strength to cling to her in her hour of need. Emilia reached up to place the lightest of kisses on his cheek. Nicholas was touched but she pulled back in embarrassment, as if unsure about the rightness of what she had just done. Grief battled with affection for a second, then she fell to sobbing again.

There was a knock on the door. Nicholas looked up.

‘Come in,’ he said.

Agnes entered and curtseyed. ‘The constable is here.’

‘I will speak with him. Stay here with your mistress.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let nobody else into this room.’

‘I will not.’

Nicholas crossed to the door. Emilia got up and tried to go after him. He restrained her gently and shook his head.

‘Not now. Take your leave of him at another time.’

***

George Dart could not believe his ears. Sitting in Lawrence Firethorn’s house, he was actually being praised for once. The lowliest and most misused member of Westfield’s Men was being congratulated on his performance by the greatest actor in London. The humiliation in Bankside was now being followed by acclaim in Shoreditch. It was all too much for him. Dart became light-headed and almost keeled over. Owen Elias was just in time to catch him.

‘The lad is tired, Lawrence,’ he said. ‘Rightly so.’

‘Yes,’ added Firethorn. ‘You have done a worthy deed this night, George, and it has exhausted you. Go home, boy. Sleep in the knowledge that you have rendered Westfield’s Men a wondrous service.’

‘Is that it, Master Firethorn?’

‘Your bed awaits you.’

‘Will I have to play the part of his son again?’

‘That little drama is done.’

He escorted the assistant stagekeeper to the door and showed him out into the street before returning to his other guest. Firethorn was delighted with the progress that they had made even though Maggs still had to be confronted. At least, they now knew where to find him. Lucy had more than repaid the money that Elias had spent on her.

Left alone together, the two men could now talk more freely. The Welshman gave a much fuller account of the visit to the Red Cock than was tactful in front of George Dart and the actor-manager laughed royally. When it was time for him to take up a tale, however, his mirth evaporated.

‘Lord Westfield has busied himself at Court,’ he said.

‘Without success, I fancy.’

‘Our patron succeeded in getting the information that we needed, Owen, but it brings little joy. Nick Bracewell was right. A more powerful voice than Sir John Tarker’s had to put Edmund in prison.’

‘Say on.’

‘He was arrested at the suit of Lord Hunsdon.’

‘The Lord Chamberlain himself!’

‘No less. Henry Carey, first Baron Hunsdon.’

‘But he is not even mentioned in The Roaring Boy.’

‘That makes no difference,’ said Firethorn. ‘When a member of the Privy Council takes out a suit, the law jumps to obey him. If Hunsdon wanted to arrest your grandmother on a charge of treason, he could do so.’

‘Not without a spade and a peg on his nose. We buried the old woman thirty years ago.’

‘You take my point, Owen.’

‘Indeed, I do.’

‘The injunction against us also serves Hunsdon well. He has his own troupe of players vying with us for fame and advancement. With our company becalmed, Lord Chamberlain’s Men can steal a march on us.’

‘It is iniquitous!’

‘It is politics.’

‘Is there no remedy?’

‘None, sir. Lord Westfield’s writ cannot contest that of a Privy Councillor. When Nick was wrongfully imprisoned in the Counter, our patron had influence enough to haul him out again. With some help from my dear wife, Margery, if I recall aright.’

‘Can he not also free Edmund from gaol?’

‘The Lord Chamberlain is too big a padlock.’

‘How has he become involved, Lawrence?’

‘Because it is to his advantage.’

‘There must be deeper workings than that,’ said Elias. ‘Is Sir John Tarker so close with the Lord Chamberlain that he can demand such large favours from him?’

‘Sir John served under him in the north.’

‘And fawns upon his old commander.’

‘They are both enamoured of jousting.’

‘That gives them interest in common but not complicity in a murder.’ Elias was mystified. ‘Will a man as eminent as Lord Hunsdon stoop to protect such a guilty man from punishment?’

‘It is not what he is doing, Owen. I doubt if the Lord Chamberlain knows any of the fine detail. A friend makes a demand on him, he obliges. And since there is gain for his own company in our disappearance, he is happy to do so.’

Owen Elias sat back on his chair to scratch his head.

‘Something is missing,’ he decided.

‘Any whiff of hope for us.’

‘A stronger link.’

‘Link?’

‘Between Sir John Tarker and Lord Hunsdon,’ said Elias. ‘I return to Nick’s argument. Sir John is but on the outer fringe of the Court. He would not have the ear of the Lord Chamberlain. Someone else is involved here.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone whose name does have enough substance.’

‘Who, Owen?’

‘Someone who does his devilry behind the scenes.’

‘I agree, man,’ said Firethorn. ‘But who on earth is he!’

‘We must find the rogue.’

***

Sir Godfrey Avenell held the ball-butted pistol up to the light of a candle so that he could study it in detail. He was in his apartment at Greenwich Palace. Delighted with the news he had received, he was equally pleased with the present which Sir John Tarker had just offered him.

‘Thank you,’ he said, fondling the butt. ‘It is a most welcome addition to my collection.’

Tarker sniggered. ‘I can vouch for its efficiency.’

‘Good. I am only interested in weapons of death.’

‘This pistol proved itself but hours ago.’

‘And it is of German design,’ said Avenell. ‘That is a happy coincidence. It lends a symmetry to this adventure.’

‘It put an end to Master Chaloner’s interference and that is all I am concerned with. He came to play the hero and went away as the victim. He will trouble us no more.’

‘What about Mistress Emilia Brinklow?’

‘I will pay my respects to her one of these fine days.’

‘That was not my meaning.’

‘She will lose all heart now.’

‘Can you be certain of that?’ said Avenell, putting the pistol on the table and turning to him. ‘She has Brinklow blood in her, remember. You know how stubborn her brother could be. Thomas would not be moved.’

‘Emilia will be. Chaloner was her right arm.’

‘She still has a left one to hold you at bay.’

‘Not for long,’ said Tarker. ‘I am too used to having my own way to be baulked. It is only a question of time.’

‘You may have met your match in her.’ Avenell flicked the matter from his mind. ‘We have both had a good day. You have removed the largest thorn in our flesh and I have done excellent business. What more could we ask?’

‘The position of Queen’s Champion.’

‘That is beyond even my gift!’

‘I wish to earn it, not be granted it as a boon.’

‘Shine in combat and it may one day be yours.’

‘I have no peer in the saddle.’

Avenell grinned. ‘No man wears more expensive armour, I know that. Be worthy of it and I will forget the cost.’ He picked up the pistol again. ‘This weapon has a deadly voice but it lacks the beauty of a lance. You should have killed Chaloner in a joust. There would have been a poetry in that.’

‘He is gone,’ said Tarker. ‘Why care by what means? Master Chaloner’s brains are hanging out and all is well.’

‘Not quite, sir. You are remiss.’

‘How so?’

‘I called for the name of an author.’

‘That is in hand.’

‘The Roaring Boy was too sharp a piece for comfort. Find the man who wrote it and silence his tongue as well.’

‘Master Hoode is my assistant here.’

‘He has revealed his co-author?’

‘He will do in the morning,’ said Tarker with another snigger. ‘I used your name with the Lord Chamberlain to secure another favour. He was quick to oblige you.’

‘So I should hope. We have always been close friends.’

‘He has arranged for Master Hoode to have a meeting.’

‘With whom?’

‘Someone who is practised in the art of digging the truth out of even the deepest shafts. He is the ablest miner in London and uses only the sharpest pick.’

‘Topcliffe!’

‘You approve?’

Sir Godfrey Avenell smirked. ‘The perfect choice.’

***

Even the most delicious food could not have tempted Edmund Hoode to eat. The name which the keeper had dropped into his ear was like a slow poison, working its way into his brain to paralyze his body and deprive it of all appetite. As the night wore on, he sat hunched up on the floor in the position he had occupied for several hours, wondering what he had done to bring such affliction down upon himself, vowing that he would never again write a play of any kind and wishing that he had been more regular in his devotions. Prayer was his last resort but he was so out of practise in communing with the Almighty that he could find neither the right words nor the appropriate tone. The Marshalsea was truly punishing his spiritual just as much as his theatrical misdemeanours. He felt humbled.

Richard Topcliffe! The name was an act of torture in itself. What appalling crime had Hoode committed that required the intervention of such a vile man? Topcliffe was the most feared and odious government official in England. Taken into the service of Lord Burghley, he made his grisly reputation by the systematic and merciless torture of Roman Catholics, breaking the bones of his victims for gratuitous pleasure and squeezing confessions out of them along with large amounts of their blood. Innocence was no bulwark against Topcliffe. An hour at the mercy of his gruesome instruments could have even the most blameless of people pleading guilty to the blackest of crimes.

This was the man who had sent for Edmund Hoode. The fact that the playwright had been invited to Topcliffe’s house made the prospect even worse. The interrogator so dedicated himself to the finer points of his work that he had a torture chamber built in his own home. Those rare few who resisted the rack and thumb-screws in the Tower were introduced to deeper realms of suffering in the privacy of his abode. Topcliffe was a one-man Inquisition.

Hoode was not a brave man. The wonderful speeches he had written for his martial heroes on the stage were mere empty words now. He could not hold out against any form of torment let alone that applied by a master of the art. The whirligig of time brought hideous changes. On Saturday, he had been the harmless co-author of The Roaring Boy, proud of its qualities as a play and committed to its nobler purpose. His infatuation with Emilia Brinklow had given the whole venture a sense of elation. That abruptly vanished. On Sunday, he was locked in a stinking cell at the Marshalsea before being handed over to a cruel monster who preyed on religious dissidents. What justice was there in this?

The one faint ray of hope came from Westfield’s Men. They would be working assiduously on his behalf. Their efforts had not yet secured his release but they would continue the struggle. The prisoner was not forgotten. His friends loved him. One of them, in particular, would not rest until he had saved Hoode from his dire predicament. What worried him was that Nicholas Bracewell might not be in time.

‘Help me, Nick!’ he murmured. ‘Help me! Soon!’

***

Nicholas Bracewell took charge of the situation at Greenwich in order to expedite matters. The local constable was a willing and good-hearted man but quite unequal to the task which had been thrust upon him. Minions of the law were not known for their efficiency even in London. Their provincial counterparts were even less equipped to deal with any crime of a serious nature. The plodding incompetence of the constable at least proved something to Nicholas. Even with the help of his two assistants, roused from their beds to join in the latest investigation, the man could never have solved the murder of Thomas Brinklow. Their success must have been engineered by someone else. This trio of law officers would need a week even to begin their pursuit of the killers, let alone to make an arrest.

The book holder lapsed into his customary role. He cued in the constable to take a statement from the manservant who found the body on the doorstep, then he prompted the former to ask the relevant questions. Nicholas himself gave a succinct and straightforward statement, omitting all mention of the deductions he had already made. The murder of Simon Chaloner involved complexities that were far beyond the capacity of the three men to understand. A surgeon was summoned to examine the dead man and to pronounce an interim verdict on the nature of his death, then Simon Chaloner was removed to the crypt of the nearby church. There, at least, he would be accorded the respect due to the deceased.

After a lengthy and wholly unproductive search of the immediate area, the law officers suspended their enquiry and went home with their lanterns. There would be much further questioning in the morning when sworn statements would need to be given to the local magistrate but there was nothing more to be done that night. Nicholas saw the men off the premises and wondered how they had ever been selected to represent law and order in Greenwich. Their inadequacy brought one blessing. It enabled him to shield Emilia Brinklow from any form of questioning. Instead of taking a statement from the person who knew Simon Chaloner best, and who might therefore give them the most accurate and useful information, they accepted Nicholas’s explanation that she had taken to her bed in a state of shock and must on no account be disturbed.

The situation compelled him to stay in Greenwich. He would first acquaint Emilia with his decision, then collect his horse and ride to the nearest inn. As he walked back to the house in the moonlight, however, he became aware that he was being watched. It was the same feeling that he had when he and Emilia were in the ruined laboratory. Sudden movement had frightened the person away on that occasion and so he adopted a different approach. When he heard the rustle of bushes off to his right, he did not lunge off in their direction. He simply strolled past and went around the house, pretending to walk towards the stables but ducking into the first doorway that became available.

Stealthy footsteps came after him. Nicholas slipped his dagger into his hand and waited until a figure loomed up out of the darkness. He pounced quickly, pushing the man against a wall and holding the dagger to his throat.

‘Do not harm me, sir!’ cried a voice.

‘Who are you?’

‘Valentine the gardener.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I sleep here, sir.’

‘In the open?’

‘On warm nights like tonight.’

‘Why were you creeping up on me?’ demanded Nicholas.

‘To speak with you, sir,’ said Valentine. ‘Search me, if you wish. I am not armed. I want to help.’

Nicholas ran a hand over the man’s body to feel for weapons but found none. Taking his dagger from the other’s throat, he pulled the gardener out into the moonlight to take a closer look at his face. The repulsive visage was split by its disgusting grin. Nicholas remembered the man and held the point of the dagger on him again.

‘You have eavesdropped on me before,’ he accused.

‘It was not deliberate, sir.’

‘Whose spy are you?’

‘Nobody’s, I swear it. I could not help hearing.’

‘How much did they pay you to betray your mistress?’

‘Heaven forfend!’ said Valentine, bursting into tears and clutching at his sleeve. ‘I would not hurt her for the world. She and her brother have been kind to me. A man with a face like mine does not find work easily. Master Brinklow was my friend. I worshipped him and his dear sister. Please believe me, sir.’

The plea was evidently sincere. Nicholas sheathed his dagger and took pity on the man. He gave the latter a moment to recover before he continued.

‘You wished to speak with me?’ he said.

‘If I may, sir.’

‘But you do not even know who I am.’

‘You are a friend of this family and that is enough for me. I saw the way you took control this night. I watched you deal with those foolish constables. You are Master Bracewell and I want to help you all I can.’

‘How?’

‘I heard them come.’

‘Them?’

‘Dragging the dead body.’

Nicholas grabbed him by the arms. ‘You saw them?’

‘No, sir. I was too late.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘Voices only. Then the horses galloping off.’

‘These voices. What did they say?’

‘I do not know, sir. The language was unknown to me.’

‘Foreigners?’

‘Deep and gruff.’

‘Can you you remember no words at all?’

‘None, sir. Except “smell.” They were in a hurry. One of them kept saying “smell” or something much like it.’

‘Could it have been “schnell”?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Indeed, it could. Say it again.’

‘Schnell. Schnell.’

‘That was it, sir!’ said Valentine. ‘What language?’

‘German.’

‘Why should two Germans kill poor Master Chaloner?’

Nicholas said nothing. He was quite certain that the men were only delivering the corpse of someone who had been murdered elsewhere by another hand. Their nationality was an important clue, however, and he took due note of it.

‘I wish I could tell you more,’ said Valentine.

‘You have been most helpful and I thank you for that.’ His tone became much sterner. ‘But that does not excuse your eavesdropping. Why did you listen to me when I talked with Mistress Brinklow earlier in the ruins of the laboratory?’

‘I did not, sir.’

‘You admitted it only two minutes ago.’

‘I said I overheard you by accident. But not today. It was when you first came to Greenwich. You and your friend talked in the arbour with the mistress and Master Chaloner.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Caught nearby and forced to listen.’

‘Why did you not discover yourself and leave?’

‘It would have thrown suspicion on me, sir,’ said the gardener. ‘Once I had heard a little, I had to hear all. Besides, sir, I was interested. Master Brinklow was like a father to me. I mourn him every day.’

Nicholas warmed to the man. Disfigurement was only skin deep. Valentine was a loyal and compassionate man underneath his repellent exterior. He could yet be of more help.

‘Why do you sometimes sleep in the garden?’ he said.

‘I like it, Master Bracewell. I am at peace here.’

‘There must be another reason.’

Valentine grew restless. ‘I’d blush to acknowledge it.’

‘Why?’

‘Come, sir, you are a man. You may guess at it.’

Nicholas was surprised. ‘This concerns a woman, then?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the other, strangely bashful. ‘Not that the woman in question knows anything about it. Nor must she or all is lost. I’ll say no more unless you keep my secret.’

‘The matter will go no further.’

‘Then hear her name.’ The grin broadened. ‘Agnes.’

‘The maidservant?’

‘As fine a piece of flesh as any in Greenwich.’

‘You and she have some…understanding?’

‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Valentine with bitterness. ‘She looks at my ugliness and blames me for it. I am never allowed near her. Agnes goes out of her way to abuse me. Why, only today she caught me near the window of the parlour and chided me for trying to listen to your conversation within.’

‘Mistress Brinklow and I?’

‘Agnes chased me off down the garden.’

‘Then what did she do?’

‘I have no idea.’

Nicholas did. It was conceivable that the maidservant had cleared Valentine away from the vantage point outside the window so that she could take it up herself. If she had overheard the conversation in the parlour, she would have known that they moved on to the laboratory. Someone had been listening to them in the bushes. Since it had not been the gardener, it may well have been Agnes. She had always been in the vicinity on his previous visit to the house. When he and Hoode had first arrived, the maidservant had actually been in the arbour with Emilia.

‘It is Agnes who keeps you in the garden at night?’

‘Yes, sir. I cannot but be fond of her.’

‘Even though she rails at you.’

‘That is the fault of my face and not her temper.’

‘You are very forgiving.’

‘All I want is to see her now again,’ said Valentine in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘To catch her unawares at some simple task. Opening her window, closing her curtains, even just blowing out her candle. In those moments-though Agnes will never know-she is mine.’

‘Where is her chamber?’

‘At the top of the house. I see her from the garden.’

‘I cannot think she would enjoy your surveillance.’

‘What harm does it do?’ He plucked at Nicholas’s sleeve and let out a chuckle. ‘I watched her window for a whole month once. She did the same thing every night bar Fridays.’

‘What was different about those?’

‘She did not sleep in her room. Or if she did, she entered it in darkness and came not to the window. Why do the same thing six nights a week and not the seventh?’

‘Haply, she was released from service on Fridays.’

‘No question of that, sir. It is one of her busiest days with Saturday even more so. We work a full week here, sir. Sunday morning is our only time of rest and part of that must be spent in church.’

Nicholas was fascinated by the information. The insight into the weird emotional life of Valentine had started a line of thought which led in only one direction. If there was a spy in the household, the maidservant was best placed to perform the office.

‘Thank you, Valentine,’ he said. ‘I am glad we met.’

A grim chuckle. ‘Nobody has ever said that before.’

‘Tell nobody else what you have told me.’

‘I must ask the same of you, Master Bracewell. This is my domain out here. I stalk it like a cat. Do not take it away from me, sir. It is all I have.’

Nicholas nodded. He had no reason to rob the gardener of anything, especially as Valentine had helped him. They shook hands to seal their bargain and parted.

***

Emilia Brinklow was dogged by fatigue but kept awake by remorse. The murder of Simon Chaloner was devastating. Coming as it did in the wake of the attack on the play, it completely disoriented her. She did not know what to do or where to go next. Agnes sat with her in the parlour and tried to offer some words of comfort but they fell on deaf ears. All that Emilia could hear was the fearful thud on the front door which had announced the arrival of Chaloner’s corpse.

Guilt coursed through her like molten lead. She blamed herself for his death. But for her, he would never have been drawn into the long and fretful search for justice with regard to her brother’s murder. Chaloner had now joined Thomas Brinklow on a premature slab. Emilia believed that it was all her fault, that she should somehow have prevented him from taking such precipitate action against an enemy far stronger than him. She even wished that she had agreed to marry him sooner instead of offering him conditions. Her anguish was proof against all solace.

There was a tap on the door and it opened to admit the head of Nicholas Bracewell. She sat up with a start.

‘Have they gone?’ she asked.

‘Their enquiries are over for tonight,’ he said, coming into the room. ‘I made sure that they did not trouble you.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

‘I will not disturb you any longer.’

‘Where are you going?’ she said anxiously.

‘To the inn at the end of the main street. If I can rouse the landlord, I am sure he will give me a bed for tonight. I will then be on hand in the morning to lend further assistance.’

‘You will say here, Nicholas.’

‘I have no right to intrude.’

‘I insist,’ she said, turning to the maidservant. ‘See that a bed is made ready at once, Agnes. Hurry.’

As the woman went off about her task, Nicholas thought he detected a slight reluctance. He surmised that she was unhappy about his continued stay in the house and annoyed to be sent too far away to overhear what might be a valuable conversation. He took swift advantage of her absence.

‘Speak to nobody,’ he warned. ‘Confide nothing.’

‘Why?’

‘It is a sensible precaution. Master Chaloner told me that this house has ears. I know that to be true.’ He moved in closer and looked into her face. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Sick with grief.’

‘Retire to bed.’

‘How can I rest on such a night as this? What sleep do I deserve? I killed Simon,’ she said simply. ‘I killed him.’

Nicholas was firm but gentle. ‘That is nonsense and you must not even think it. What you did was to give him an excellent reason for living. Remember the times you shared together and reflect on what they meant to him. Master Chaloner was deeply in love and that is the stoutest armour of all. He died ignobly but he also died happy. He had you.’

‘I could have been kinder to him.’

He shrugged. ‘Let us talk again in the morning.’

‘Do not pack me off to bed, Nicholas. I am not ready. I am not disposed.’ She took his hand impulsively. ‘Stay with me for a little while yet. I need you.’

‘My presence here occasions some disquiet.’

‘You do not wish to stay?’

‘Nothing would content me more,’ he said, feeling the warmth of her hand, ‘but I would not make you the object of comment. You thought it improper for your betrothed to stay beneath the same roof with you. How more unsuitable am I?’

‘Nobody could be more suitable.’

He looked down into a face almost haggard with fatigue.

‘Then I will stay.’

‘I want your guidance.’

‘Call on me for anything. I am here.’

He released her hand but she did not move away. Emilia continued to stare up at him. Her eyes were still awash with grief but he saw something else in them now. Nicholas was touched. What he caught was a signal that she was ready to trust him more completely, to let him closer than she had ever dared before. Simon Chaloner had been her confidant in the past. Now that he had died, his mantle was being handed to Nicholas. The book holder reached out boldly to take it.

‘Tell me who wrote The Roaring Boy,’ he said.

‘I think you already know.’

It dawned on him at last. Emilia Brinklow loved the theatre. She visited London regularly with her brother to watch plays. When Nicholas had asked why she did not feature as a character in The Roaring Boy, she was not coy or evasive. She gave him a sound technical reason for her absence from the dramatis personae. The play was far more than an obsession for her.

‘You are the author.’

She smiled quietly. ‘Women do not write plays.’

‘One of them wrote The Roaring Boy and that makes the achievement all the more remarkable. I have read hundreds of plays in my time. Yours is not disgraced by any of them.’

‘I wrote from the heart.’

Nicholas gazed at her with a new admiration. Emilia Brinklow was a talented woman. Her brother might have been a genius in the sciences but she had the talent for the arts. She also evinced rare courage in forcing her way into such a closed world. Theatre was an exclusively male preserve. Plays were written and performed entirely by men. For a woman even to attempt to emulate them was an act of bravery. To succeed in the way that Emilia Brinklow had done was quite astonishing.

‘You see now why the author had to vanish,’ she said.

‘Clearly.’

‘Who would even read a play penned by a woman?’

‘I would,’ he reminded. ‘And I did.’

‘Only because you thought it the work of a man. That is why I needed Edmund Hoode’s assistance. He not only made the piece work on the stage. His name lent it credence.’

Nicholas Bracewell understood many things for the first time. His anger at having being misled was quickly smothered beneath his increased respect for her. Emilia Brinklow was not just a beautiful woman with a self-appointed mission. She was also a professional colleague. The implications of it all were not lost on him. She was in immense danger. Because he gathered the material for the play, Simon Chaloner was murdered. Because he reworked the drama, Edmund Hoode was imprisoned in the Marshalsea. Both had suffered from their association with The Roaring Boy. If its true authorship were revealed, Emilia would be hunted down without mercy.

Nicholas felt that it was his duty to protect her.

‘I will stay until this affair is over,’ he said.

‘Here in Greenwich?’

‘This is where it begins and ends.’

‘My house is at your disposal.’

‘There is nowhere that I would rather be.’

She gazed wistfully at him until a tap on the door told them that Agnes had returned. Emilia moved away and kept her back to them. The maidservant had prepared a room for the guest and waited to conduct Nicholas up to it.

He turned to Emilia to bid a polite farewell.

‘Good night,’ he said.

She acknowledged him with a faint wave of the hand. He went out with Agnes and the door was shut behind them. When Emilia swung round to look after it, tears of remorse were running freely down her face.

***

The bed was soft and the linen clean but Nicholas was quite unable to sleep. His mind was exercised by the events of the day. The murder of Simon Chaloner was paramount. There would be no adulterous lovers waiting to be caught this time. The law officers of Greenwich would have to make their enquiries without any help and that made the likelihood of an arrest virtually non-existent. Additional men might be drafted in to assist them but there was no way that they would ever follow the tortuous path that led back to Greenwich Palace. Nicholas had to work alone, a daunting prospect until he remembered that he did, after all, have some associates.

Emilia Brinklow herself was more than a friend. Tragedy had yoked them together. A mutual affection which had been sown at their first meeting had pushed up its first shoots in unpromising soil. He felt it somewhat unseemly to have such warm feelings about a woman so soon after the death of her betrothed and he tried to put them aside but they remained beneath the surface. Only a woman of singular determination could have waged the battle that she had. The fact that she had actually made her own ammunition-The Roaring Boy-impressed him even more. Thomas Brinklow had created wonders in his workshop but his sister’s invention came from the laboratory of her mind.

Valentine was a useful if unprepossessing ally. The gardener’s nocturnal habits had paid dividends. Nicholas not only knew who had dragged the corpse up to the front door, he believed that he had unmasked the informer in the house. In the morning, he would confront another spy. Orlando Reeve had penetrated Westfield’s Men to learn their plans. Nicholas Bracewell was looking forward to giving the musician a message from the whole company. In their own ways, Agnes and Reeve might turn out to be valuable associates as well.

His mind turned inevitably to Edmund Hoode. It was the playwright who was bearing the brunt of the punishment. Having been imprisoned in the Counter himself, Nicholas had some notion of the miseries of confinement. He had withstood them but Hoode was a weaker vessel. Nicholas wanted to rush back to London to bend all his energies to secure the release of his friend but it would be a pointless journey. The only way to liberate Hoode from the Marshalsea was to solve a second murder in Greenwich.

He was still contemplating the possibilities of the day ahead when he finally drifted off to sleep. An hour or more drifted by in blissful slumber. A clicking noise brought him awake. He opened his eyes but the darkness weighed down in them. When he sat up, he could still see nothing. What he did do was to catch her light fragrance. Emilia Brinklow had come of her own volition into his bedchamber.

She moved in silence across the room, then gently peeled back the sheets. Climbing in beside him, she lay quite still. He heard her breathing deepen as she fell asleep. Nicholas was moved. She had come to share his bed. Emilia wanted nothing more than his company and the protection that it conferred. The moment she was beside him, she was able to relax. She trusted him.

Nicholas was surprised how unsurprised he felt. Her arrival seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Had he tried to analyse it, the situation would have yielded up all sorts of warnings and contradictions but he was in no mood to spoil an affecting moment. She was there. At a time of real crisis, she chose the place where she most wanted to be. Nicholas accepted that fact with gratitude. He soon faded back into sleep himself.

Sunlight was fingering the curtains when he awoke next morning. He felt refreshed and invigorated. How long he had slept he did no know but one thing was certain.

Emilia Brinklow no longer lay in the bed beside him.

***

Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias set out on horseback at first light. Their rough and nondescript attire had been borrowed from the costume stock of Westfield’s Men. With their plain caps and coarse jerkins, they looked like two watermen taking a day off from their oars. As they rode side by side along the street at a rising trot, Firethorn gave a snort of contempt.

‘Look at me, Owen!’ he exclaimed. ‘To what depths have I fallen! I am accustomed to the robes of an emperor or the armour of a soldier king. At the very least, I play a duke or an earl. But this! I feel like a dung-collector!’

‘That is exactly what we are, Lawrence.’

‘I deserve better.’

‘You will get it if this day’s work bears fruit.’

‘One rotten apple is all we seek. Maggotty Maggs.’

‘Then we must dress the part.’

‘I’ll wear my Freshwell face.’

Firethorn insisted on being involved in the adventure in place of Nicholas Bracewell. Expected back the previous night, the book holder did not appear and they rightly assumed that he was detained in Greenwich by urgent business. In the interests of speed, they elected to take on the pursuit of Maggs by themselves. Owen Elias was glad of Firethorn’s company even if the jogging of the horse did set off the latter’s toothache again. The Welshman would not dare to take George Dart on this outing. He needed strength beside him and there were few more powerful men in the company than the barrel-chested actor-manager. The son of a blacksmith, Lawrence Firethorn had all the attributes of that occupation allied to a taste for danger. His skill with sword and dagger was no mere stage illusion.

‘What do we say to him?’ asked Elias.

‘Leave that to me.’

‘Tell him that Lucy sends her love.’

‘At the sign of the Red Cock.’

‘What other kind is worth having?’

They guffawed loudly and kicked their horses into a canter. Now that they were outside the city gates, their progress would be much quicker. They struck eastwards with the river on their right hand, its smell never far away. It was not a journey they would make by choice but necessity compelled them. Their whole careers were at stake. If one man could help to save them, they had to be prepared to track him down in his unsavoury hiding place.

It was the distinctive reek that first told them they were within reach of their destination. The stench came out to meet them like an invisible fist that punched them on the nose. They coughed and spluttered for a moment.

‘How can anyone live in a place like this?’ said Elias.

‘They get used to it.’

‘Not me, Lawrence. Dieu-that stink!’

‘When we hunt a rat, we must expect a sewer.’

It was a not unfair description of the Isle of Dogs. The low, marshy peninsula jutted out obstructively into the Thames at the bend between Limehouse and Blackwall reaches. It was directly opposite Greenwich on the south bank and the contrast between the two places could not have been harsher. Greenwich was affluent and graced by royalty: the Isle of Dogs was poverty-stricken and haunted by outlaws, punks and fugitive debtors. The latter was also swilled by all the sewage and detritus that came downriver from London. Sailors cursed the Isle of Dogs because it obliged them to make a long, time-consuming loop in their journeys. If they were forced to anchor nearby, it would always be in mid-stream or they would be pillaged from the northern shore.

Greenwich and the Isle of Dogs represented extremes of society. Only the rich and influential rose to attend the banquets at the palace: only the poor and the desperate sank to the ignominy of the Isle of Dogs. One was the home of privilege while the other was a lair for masterless men.

Lawrence Firethorn was revolted by the unredeemed squalor.

‘Bankside can be bad enough,’ he said. ‘And there are parts of Clerkenwell that can turn your stomach but this is worse than both. What are we doing here, Owen?’

‘Trying to find someone.’

‘In this swamp! We’ll be infected with every disease known to man and beast. The air is so thick and stale we may cut it with our daggers and feed it to those mangy hounds.’

Fierce dogs were scavenging in the putrid lanes. Small children were playing in the dirt. Stagnant water lent its strength to the general whiff of decay. Wild-eyed men and ragged women roamed the streets. Even at that early hour, the sound of violence rent the air. Firethorn saw the wisdom of their disguises. In the flamboyant doublet and hose that he usually wore, he would have been ridiculously out of place in the Isle of Dogs and that would have rendered him a certain target. As it was, they collected hostile glares from the beggars lying in the doorway of an ordinary. When the two strangers refused to toss them any money, the glares became loud imprecations.

They stabled their horses at a decrepit tavern and proceeded on foot to attract less attention. Owen Elias had suggested a morning visit in the hope that the area would be more quiescent but it was already bubbling with crude life. Lucy had provided the name of a street but no number. They were grateful to find only nine tenements in the street and two of those had collapsed against each other like drunken revellers. That left seven, each building with several occupants. They split up, knocked on doors and endured ear-shattering abuse. When only one door was left in the very last tenement, they converged on it without ceremony.

Elias’s strong shoulder hit the door with such force that it broke the bolt. Firethorn was first in, his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Elias was on his heels. Both men froze in their tracks. They could not believe what they were seeing. Quite undisturbed by the commotion, two figures were rutting enthusiastically on a mattress. A big, bosomy woman of middle years was lying on her back with her taffeta dress pulled up to her waist and her chubby legs in the air while a small, thin, naked man with a bald head and a back covered in sweat and scabs was pumping vigorously into her as if his life depended on it. He suddenly stiffened his back, let out a wheeze of pleasure, jiggled around for a moment and then broke wind.

Maggs rolled over on to the bare floorboards and gasped for air. Owen Elias was on to him in a flash, kneeling beside him and pricking his scrotum with the point of his dagger.

‘Hello, Maggs,’ he said. ‘Visitors.’

‘Who are you?’ gabbled the disadvantaged lover.

‘We ask the questions.’

Elias jabbed his dagger and produced a yell of pain.

‘Don’t kill him yet,’ said the woman resentfully. ‘He hasn’t paid me.’ She nudged her client. ‘Come on, Maggs. Where is it?’

‘Away with you!’ said Firethorn, thrusting a few coins into her hands and shoving her out through the door. ‘This is a private conversation.’

Maggs took stock of his oppressors. They had the upper hand. He began to squeal and plead for mercy. Firethorn stood over him with a swordpoint at his chest.

‘How much mercy did you show to Thomas Brinklow?’

‘I didn’t kill him!’ said Maggs. ‘It was Freshwell.’

‘The pair of you did it,’ said Firethorn.

‘I merely held the man. Freshwell struck him down.’

‘Who paid you?’

‘I do not know his name.’

‘Who was he?’ said Elias, grabbing the man by the throat to lift him upright and thrust him against the wall. ‘We do not have time to argue, Maggs. His name!’

‘Sir John Tarker,’ mumbled the other.

‘Louder!’

‘Sir John Tarker!’

‘Who else?’ demanded Firethorn.

‘Nobody,’ said Maggs. ‘He paid Freshwell and me to kill Brinklow and get his papers. But we were disturbed and had to run away. When we went back later, someone had burned part of the place down. All his papers were destroyed.’

‘What papers?’ said Firethorn.

‘How should I know? We just followed orders.’ Maggs became bitter. ‘Sir John turned nasty. He betrayed us. Because we only did one half of what he asked, he handed us over to the law. I escaped but old Freshwell danced a jig on fresh air.’

‘You may well join him,’ said Elias.

‘Hanging can be no worse than the Isle of Dogs.’

‘These papers,’ said Firethorn, feeling they had made a valuable discovery. ‘Where were they kept? Were they to do with Master Brinklow’s work, by any chance?’

‘I’ve told you all I can,’ whimpered Maggs. ‘And I speak the truth. If you don’t believe me, there’s a letter in my breeches there from Sir John Tarker himself. I’ll carry it to my grave. Pass the breeches to me and I will show it you.’

The two friends exchanged a glance and decided to comply with the request. A letter was crucial evidence. Elias kept his quarry pinned to the wall while Firethorn retrieved the tattered breeches from the floor. The latter handed them to Maggs. It was a fatal mistake. With a speed and suddenness which took them both by surprise, Maggs hurled the breeches into Firethorn’s face and aimed a kick at Elias’s groin which had him doubling up in pain. Before either of them could stop him, the little man ran stark naked through the door.

He did not get far. Alerted by the woman, someone was waiting outside for him. One thrust with the long spike was all that it took. Maggs was impaled to the door through which he tried to flee, bleeding like a stuck pig and squirming the last few seconds of his life away. One murderer had finally paid for his crime.