The Silent Woman

Chapter Nine

Bankside was not a part of the city that Margery Firethorn often visited. Her only reason in the past for coming to Southwark was to watch Westfield’s Men perform at The Rose, one of only three custom-built theatres in London. Since the other two — The Theatre and The Curtain — were both in Shoreditch, she could walk to them from her home. With a servant for company and protection, she crossed the Thames by boat and made her way to the house of Anne Hendrik. The latter was surprised and slightly alarmed to see her. She took Margery into her parlour.

‘Have you heard any tidings?’ she asked.

‘The courier returned to London this very afternoon.’

‘Did he deliver my letter?’

‘In person,’ said Margery. ‘Nick is alive and well.’

‘Thank God!’ Anne waved her visitor to a chair and sat opposite her. ‘Where did the message reach him?’

‘In Marlborough.’

‘And he is well, you say?’

‘Excellent well, and delighted to hear from you.’

‘Haply, our fears were in vain,’ said Anne. ‘We send a warning that he does not need. The man in my drawing may not be stalking him, after all.’

‘He is, Anne.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘The courier told me,’ said Margery. ‘He drank with the players before he set off on the return journey. They were anxious to learn all the latest news from London but they had some of their own.’

‘What was it?’

‘Someone is indeed following the company.’

‘They have seen him?’

‘Worse still, Anne. They have tasted his venom.’

‘He has attacked?’

‘Nick has twice been his target.’

‘Heaven protect him!’

‘It already has,’ said Margery. ‘The courier spoke with Owen Elias. Our noisy Welshman, it seems, saved Nick from a dagger in the back on the second occasion. He paid for his bravery, too. Owen’s arm was sliced open from top to bottom.’ She gave a chuckle. ‘But it did not stop him from playing in Marlborough. Owen Elias is another Lawrence. Nothing short of death would prevent him from going onstage.’

‘This villain will not easily be stopped.’

‘Nick has good friends around him.’

‘But he’ll go on to Barnstaple alone.’

‘Trust him, Anne. He is a shrewd fighter.’

‘Yet still in danger.’ Anne fought to control a rising concern. ‘Was there … any reply to my letter?’

‘He sends thanks and good wishes.’

‘No more than that?’

‘Nick is judicious,’ said Margery. ‘He wanted to send his love but he was not sure how it would be received. You pushed him on his way and there was nothing in your letter that called him back.’ She watched the other woman closely. ‘Do you wish for his return?’

‘I do not want him murdered.’

‘And if he should escape — would you have him back?’

‘To lodge in my house?’

‘In your house and in your heart.’

Anne Hendrik shrugged her confusion. She was still in two minds about Nicholas Bracewell. Days and nights of brooding about him had yielded no firm decision. She feared for his life and, since he was so far away, that fear was greatly intensified. If he had still been in London, she could see and help him, but Nicholas was completely out of her reach now. It meant that the news from Marlborough was old news. He might have been alive the previous morning when the courier located him but he could now be lying in a ditch somewhere with his throat cut. The poisoner might even have resorted to poison again. Anne shuddered at the notion of such an agonising death for Nicholas.

Concern for his safety, however, was not the same as an urge to see him again. She still felt hurt by the cause and the nature of their estrangement. Given the choice, Nicholas rejected her and went off to Devon, and he did so without giving any real justification for his action. Years of love and trust between them had been vitiated. She respected his right not to talk about his past life, but Anne had certain rights herself. When events from that past came bursting in to disturb the peace of her home and the happiness of her existence, she deserved to be told the truth. Why was it so shameful for him to confess?

Margery saw her wrestling with the contradictions. Fond of Nicholas — and in his debt for a hundred favours — she tried her hand at stage-management on his behalf.

‘I called at the Queen’s Head,’ she said.

‘Did you speak with the innkeeper’s wife?’

‘Sybil Marwood and I are of one mind where husbands are concerned. They need to be rescued from their mistakes.’ She grinned broadly. ‘I worked so craftily on her that she now looks more favourably on Westfield’s Men and thinks that her squirming beetle of a husband has been too hasty to expel them from the inn. She will need more persuasion and I’ll do it privily. Convince her and we convince him. Here is no Alexander the Great. This Alexander is great only in stupidity and fear of his wife.’

‘Westfield’s Men may yet return to the Queen’s Head?’

‘That “may” gives us long difficulties for a short word but I’ll strive to master them. We have hopes, Anne, let us aim no higher. All is not yet lost.’

‘That is good news.’

‘It would bring Nick back to London.’

‘If he still lives …’

‘He lives and breathes,’ said Margery confidently, ‘and he’ll want to come back to Bankside. Will you see him?’

Anne was candid. ‘I do not know.’

‘Will you not at least hear the man out?’

‘He had his chance to speak,’ she snapped.

‘Do I hear harshness?’

‘I asked him to stay here with me, Margery.’

‘Was that a fair demand?’

‘I needed him.’

‘I needed Lawrence but he still rode off with them. What pleasure is there for me with my husband away and his creditors banging on my door?’ She gave a resigned smile. ‘They love us, Anne, but they love the theatre even more. Each play is a separate mistress who can charm them into her bed. Accept that and you will learn to understand Nick. If you think you can tear him away from the theatre, then you are chasing moonbeams.’

‘Westfield’s Men are not my complaint.’

‘Then who is?’

‘The person who calls him to Barnstaple.’

‘What person is that?’

‘He will not say and that is the root of my anger.’

‘Nick will give a full account when he returns.’

‘I may not wish to listen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the insult cannot be borne.’

‘What insult?’

‘The worst kind, Margery. He turned his back on me. When I most needed his reassurance, he walked away. He preferred someone else.’ Bitterness tightened her mouth. ‘That is why I do not want him back. He put her first.’

‘Her?’

‘The one who sent for him.’

‘Who is that?’

‘The silent woman.’

Lucy Whetcombe had the heightened awareness of a child who is deficient in other senses. Her eyes saw much more than those of other people, her hands could read everything they touched, her nose could catch the merest scent of any kindness or wickedness. Her silent world had its own peculiar sounds. The girl lived a simple and uncomplicated life, inhabiting the very fringe of parental love and keeping well away from the communal turmoil of Barnstaple. Self-conscious about her disability, Lucy Whetcombe spurned, and was spurned by, other children. Since loneliness was forced upon her, she made a virtue of it. Her father had been a man of great substance who was respected by all in the town. Visitors were always calling or dining at the house in Crock Street, but Lucy kept out of their way. She resented adults for pitying and patronising her. She resented her mother for other reasons. Susan was her only real friend, and Susan had now vanished. Each day deepened Lucy’s distress. The girl sensed a terrible and irreplaceable loss.

‘We have still heard nothing, Lucy,’ said her mother.

Deft fingers translated the words for her daughter.

‘They will keep searching until they find her.’

A dozen questions hung unasked on the girl’s lips.

‘Susan loves you. She would not go away for good and leave you alone. Susan will come back one day.’ Mary wanted to get rid of her. ‘Go and play with your dolls. They will remind you of Susan.’

Though she could not hear her mother’s voice, Lucy could feel its lack of conviction. The hands, too, gave signals that had more hope than authority. Her mother did not know the whereabouts of her young servant and she was too preoccupied to care. Mary Whetcombe had always had a strange attitude to Susan, at once liking and resenting her, showing her favour only to withdraw it again, using the servant to look after Lucy and keep her daughter out of her way. Lucy despised her mother for the way she treated the girl’s one true friend. Mary Whetcombe had finally stirred out of the fore-chamber and brought herself down to the hall, but the physical move was not accompanied by any emotional change. She was still bound up in a grief that her daughter could not understand. All that Lucy knew was that it excluded both her and Susan.

There was a tap on the door and a maidservant conducted Arthur Calmady into the hall. He looked disappointed that he was no longer to be received in the fore-chamber but soon recovered his composure. Calmady had been through his daily litany of questions before he even noticed the child.

‘How are you today, Lucy?’ he enquired.

Pretending not to understand, she shook her head.

‘You look very pretty.’

She stared at him with concentrated distrust.

‘Your mother and I are going to read the Bible,’ said Calmady. ‘Though you have no ears to hear, the sound of Holy Writ will echo in your heart.’

His clumsy gestures got nowhere near a translation.

When he picked up the Bible, the girl took her cue to leave. Dropping a curtsey, she ran to the door and let herself out. She then went into her father’s counting-house and edged slowly forward until she could peep out.

The two of them were still there. One stood in Crock Street itself while the other lounged against a wall around the corner. The men kept the house under casual but constant surveillance. They could see everyone who came and went. Lucy did not know why they were standing there, but it gave her an uneasy feeling. She was imprisoned in the house. Susan would know what to do in this situation but Susan was not there to guide her and to be her voice. The servant had disappeared one night and taken the fastest horse in the stables. Where had she gone and why did she not take Lucy with her? They had talked before of running away together. Lucy had found the way to talk to her friend.

Leaving the counting-house, she ran along the covered gallery, which connected the hall with the rooms over the kitchen block. It was here that Susan slept. Lucy used a key to let herself into the cramped, airless chamber, which caught all the pungent smells of cooking from below. It was a bare and featureless room, but she had spent some of the happiest moments of her life there. Susan had learnt to laugh in silence like her. Lucy locked the door behind her, got down on her knees and lifted the truckle bed with one hand. The other reached in to pull out something that was bound up tightly in an old piece of cloth. Lucy placed the cloth on the scuffed floorboards and slowly unrolled it.

The dolls were all jumbled together, clinging to one another with their tiny arms and turning their faces away from the sudden light. Lucy lifted them up one by one and laid them gently apart. They were all there. Her mother, her father, Lucy herself, Susan and the other members of the household. Fashioned out of old pegs or twigs, they were no more than a few inches high with miniature suits and dresses made out of scraps of material. Lucy picked up the vicar and sniggered at the sombre face that Susan had painted on him. Lucy had done the sewing and given the most colourful attire to Gideon Livermore. The lawyer’s garb had been much easier to make. Susan’s brush had dotted in the neat little beard of Barnard Sweete.

Lucy surveyed the collection with pride and affection. It had taken them a long time to make all the dolls. Her whole world now lay before her in microcosm but it contained two errors. Matthew Whetcombe was no longer part of it. His severe face with its disapproval of his only child could be wrapped away in the cloth. When they first began to make the dolls, Lucy kept them in her own bedchamber so that she could play with them there, but her father had discovered the unflattering likenesses of himself and his wife and broken them to pieces. Lucy and Susan had both been punished and forbidden to indulge in any more mockery of their elders. Matthew Whetcombe was enraged by their lack of respect and gratitude. He ignored both girls for weeks afterwards. They made the new dolls in secret and hid them from him.

With her father now in his winding sheet, Lucy used softer fingers to pick up Susan. She had fallen out of the collection as well. The girl kissed the strands of cat fur that served for her friend’s hair, then pulled Susan to her breast. She used her free hand to arrange all the other dolls in a circle then stood in the middle of it. She was surrounded by enemies. One of them had died but the others were still constricting her freedom. A surge of rebellion made her want to escape, and she lifted Susan up to her ear to listen to her advice. The crude doll with its plain and grubby dress broke through a silence that nobody else could penetrate. Lucy heard the words and trembled with joy.

She now knew how to get out of the house.

Bristol gave them such a cordial welcome that they felt like prodigal sons returning home to the fatted calf. Westfield’s Men had spent a restful night at Chippenham before rising early to continue their journey. By pressing their horses hard, they reached Bristol in the afternoon and were given instant proof of its bounty. Nicholas Bracewell went off to seek official permission for the company to stage their work in the city and came back with thirty shillings and the promise of at least three performances. As in Barnstaple, the government of the town was almost entirely in the hands of merchants, and they rejoiced at the thought of bringing their wives and friends to watch a London theatre company at work. The first performance — attended by the mayor and the entire corporation — was due to take place in the Guildhall in Broad Street on the following afternoon, and the thirty shillings that the treasurer had already paid would be enlarged by admission money charged at the doors.

Westfield’s Men were delighted. There was no sign of plague in the city and no sense of being rushed on. In size and commercial importance, Bristol was second only to London among British seaports, and its bustling streets kindled fond reminiscences for the visitors of the clamour of the capital. Lawrence Firethorn liked the feel of the place and the magnitude of his potential audience. Bristol had a population of fifteen thousand people. While many were not playgoers, enough of them could be coaxed along to the Guildhall on successive days to guarantee Westfield’s Men a profitable stay. Three performances had been agreed, but Firethorn believed they could sustain enough interest to keep them there for a week.

The company lodged at the Jolly Sailor in St Nicholas Street on the west side of the city. Lawrence Firethorn seized playfully on the name.

‘St Nicholas Street for our own St Nicholas,’ he said.

‘I am no saint,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Mistress Anne Hendrik can vouch for that!’

Nicholas winced slightly. ‘This is a comfortable inn,’ he said. ‘That is the only reason I chose it.’

‘Beshrew this modesty, Nick. You guided us here as you have guided us all along. We are but children in your hands and you have been a true patron saint to us.’

They were in the courtyard at the Jolly Sailor and the hired men were singing happily as they unloaded the waggon. Lawrence Firethorn turned to practicalities.

‘When must you leave?’ he asked.

‘As soon as possible.’

‘We need you mightily for tomorrow’s performance.’

‘I will hold the book for Death and Darkness,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I will instruct my deputy in his duties while I am away. Then I must leave for Barnstaple.’

‘How long will we be without you?’

‘I will not know until I reach the town.’

‘Let us make sure that you do reach it,’ said Firethorn grimly. ‘Westfield’s Men cannot afford to lose its book holder to that murderous villain with the black beard. Take care, Nick. We are half the company without you.’

Nicholas was oddly unsettled by the compliment. Having worked so hard over the years to make himself indispensable to the company, he now felt the weight of responsibility a little oppressive. Though he was not looking forward to the journey to Barnstaple, it would buy him an appealing release from his onerous duties. Nicholas still had to negotiate the major obstacle that stood between himself and his former home. The man who had used his name at a Marlborough inn had been mocking the book holder. He had stayed his hand at Chippenham but would almost certainly strike in Bristol. Nicholas had taken the precaution of showing Anne Hendrik’s portrait of the man to his friends. Lawrence Firethorn, Edmund Hoode and Owen Elias would also know whom to guard against now. Four pairs of eyes could scour the streets of Bristol for danger.

The waggon was emptied and its cargo stowed securely away until it was required next day at the Guildhall. Work was over. Westfield’s Men had a whole evening of pleasure in front of them. Firethorn watched them roll off into the inn.

‘Cakes and ale, Nick. Cakes and ale.’

‘They deserve some jollity.’

‘And so do we, dear heart. What more could I want now than a plate of eels and a pint of sack to wash them down?’ His voice darkened. ‘One thing more to please my appetite.’

‘What is that?’

‘The head of Israel Gunby on a silver platter.’

Barnaby Gill was a vital element in the success of any performance by Westfield’s Men, and he blended perfectly with the rest of the cast when he was onstage. As soon as he stepped off it, however, he felt completely detached from his colleagues and treated them with lordly disdain. Their world was not his. Bristol impressed this strongly upon him. With an evening of freedom at their disposal, the members of the company responded in ways that were all too predictable, and this gave Gill even further cause for remaining aloof.

Lawrence Firethorn drank heavily in the taproom and flirted with female guests and staff alike. A few of the sharers joined him but others had gone off to the stews in search of wilder women and noisier company. The hired men found the prices in the taproom a little too high for their leaner purses and they were dicing and drinking in a nearby alehouse. The apprentices watched their elders with patent envy and longed for the time when broken voices and manly bodies would help them to break out of the dresses they wore onstage and entitle them to take their full due of sinful pleasure. Richard Honeydew was the exception, and Gill missed his contemplation of the boy’s naive beauty, but the youngest of the four apprentices had left with Edmund Hoode on a tour of the city. Nicholas Bracewell was their guide because he had known Bristol intimately since his youth and had promised to show them all the sights. There were some places in the city, however, that even the book holder could never find, and it was to one of these haunts that Barnaby Gill set off as the light began to fade over the port.

Bristol was a fine and ancient city with the mediaeval pattern of its streets largely unchanged. It boasted a formidable castle, an abundance of churches and some civic buildings that could startle both with their quantity and quality. The whole city was enclosed within a high stone wall, which was pierced by a number of gates, many of them crowned by churches. Its position made it the guardian of the West Country, and it had been built to defend. But the predominant feature of Bristol was its magnificent natural harbour. Ships that came up the Severn Estuary could sail up the supremely navigable River Avon into the very heart of the city, and its mercantile life had always been vigorous and profitable as a result. Wharves, warehouses and cellars were always piled high with goods from coastal or foreign trade. Bristol felt in recent years that it was suffering unfair competition from London, but its harbour was still kept busy and the inns, taverns and ordinaries along the Shambles were always swarming with sailors.

It was in the direction of the harbour that Barnaby Gill now strode, and the seagulls were soon crying and dipping above him to teach him the way. Out of deference to the more subdued fashions of the provinces, he had eschewed his more elaborate apparel and chosen a doublet of scarlet and black satin with slashed sleeves and a pair of matching breeches. His red hat sported a white ostrich feather and his buckled shoes had a bright sheen as they clacked over the paving. An Orient pearl dangled from one earlobe.

There was prosperity and poverty in Bristol, and he saw examples of both as he picked his way through the streets. The city burgesses had plenty of money but little idea of how to spend it on their apparel or on that of their wives. Gill groaned with contempt at some of the fashions he saw and he averted his gaze in disgust at some of the vagabonds and crones who crossed his path. Bristol had the same heady mixture of fortune and filth as London itself. Barnaby Gill spent so much time reflecting on the close juxtaposition of the two that he did not realise that he was being followed.

The Black Boy was in a narrow, fetid lane than ran down to the harbour. From the outside, it looked like any of the scores of other inns and taverns in the area. But its door was locked and admission was carefully controlled. Gill knocked boldly and a small grille opened before him. Dark eyes studied him closely for a second then heavy bolts were drawn back on the other side of the door. It swung ajar for him to enter then slammed behind him. He was in a large and ill-lit room that was cluttered with tables and chairs. Barnaby Gill looked around with the satisfaction of a weary traveller who has been a long time on a hostile road before reaching a favoured destination. The room was only half full but its atmosphere was captivating. Well-dressed men lolled in the chairs or on the settles. Attractive young girls served them with drinks or reclined in their arms or even shared their pipes of tobacco. The thick fug of smoke was an added attraction for Gill. A big, beaming woman wobbled over to him and conducted him to a seat, calling for wine with a click of her fingers and offering Gill her own pipe. When he had inhaled his first lungful of tobacco, he blew it out through pursed lips and the woman planted a soft kiss on them.

Two of the youngest and prettiest serving girls now came to sit beside their new guest, and all three sipped Canary wine. Barnaby Gill was soon deep in conversation with the two of them, transferring his affections from one to the other with capricious joy and ordering another flagon of wine when the first was empty. This was his private universe and he so relaxed into it that he did not observe the man with the raven-black beard who was allowed into the room by the doorkeeper. Barnaby Gill was in Elysium. Here was pleasure of an order undreamt of by any of his colleagues. They had only base appetites and conventional tastes. Gill lived on a higher plain. The woman who presided over the establishment shook with mirth, the girls replied with brittle laughter and the swirling smoke ignited desire. Barnaby Gill was a man at home among men. As the two boys giggled beside him in their taffeta dresses, he decided to choose the one who resembled Richard Honeydew.

‘A word in your ear, kind sir.’

‘With me?’ said Gill, looking up.

‘Are you not the man I take you to be?’

‘And who is that, sir?’

‘You may not wish me to name you before others.’

Lamparde had waited half an hour before he moved across to speak to Gill. He drank freely, spent money liberally and enjoyed the company of one of the serving girls but his gaze never strayed far from the actor. When he sensed that Gill was ready to leave, he stepped across to interrupt him.

‘Name me, by all means, if you may,’ said Gill proudly. ‘Fame is a cloak which I wear wherever I go. Who am I?’

‘One of the best actors in the world, sir.’

‘You know me well enough.’

‘I have seen you play in London many a time.’

‘My name?’

‘Master Barnaby Gill. You have no peer.’

Lamparde knew how to flatter. He let the purring accent of his native Devon give the words a more honeyed charm, but it was his eyes that did most of the talking. They gleamed with such a powerful amalgam of admiration and challenge that Gill was hypnotised. Here was a man indeed, sturdy and well-favoured, educated in his tastes and worthy of note. His apparel was made by a London tailor and the earring was the twin of that worn by Gill himself. It was the beard that really enthralled the actor. Sleek and well trimmed, it lent a satanic quality to its owner that was irresistible. No boy could compare with a man like this.

Lamparde gave him a respectful nod of the head.

‘I have hired a room here, sir. Will you wait upon me?’

‘Gladly.’

‘Let me conduct you to the place.’

‘I follow willingly.’

‘This privilege is overwhelming.’

‘Lead on.’

The two boys who had worked so hard to entertain their guest were somewhat peeved, but a signal from their employer sent them off to blandish a newcomer. If the men wanted a private room in which to improve their acquaintance, they would pay a high price. Whatever guests chose, the Black Boy would profit accordingly.

Barnaby Gill was taken along a dark passageway with the utmost courtesy by his newfound friend. Both of them were denizens of such establishments and spoke its language. Plague had deprived Gill of his visit to a similar haunt in Oxford and there had been no equivalent in the dull and unenlightened Marlborough. Male brothels were highly illegal places, and both prostitutes and clients would face bestial punishments if they were caught, but this danger only served to intensify the pleasure involved. Gill’s favourite haunt in London was a brothel in Hoxton, but its premises were relatively safe from official raids because it numbered among its clients such influential people as Sir Walter Raleigh and Francis Bacon. The fear that was missing there was ever-present here, and it sharpened the edge of his desire. Peril was his aphrodisiac.

They climbed a staircase and stopped outside a door. Lamparde unlocked it with the key that he had been given. He then stood back and gestured for his companion to enter.

‘This way, Master Gill,’ he invited.

‘After you, kind sir.’

‘You are my guest at this time.’

‘Then I’ll be ruled by me.’

‘You are the actor. I am but a humble spectator.’

‘That is as it should be.’

There was a touch of arrogance in Barnaby Gill’s walk. He went into the room as if making an entrance onstage. The door shut behind him. He was about to turn to face his new friend with a benign smile when the club struck him so hard across the back of the head that he was knocked forward onto the floor. Lamparde did not need to check the efficacy of the blow. He used cords to bind his victim hand and foot then gagged him with a piece of cloth.

Barnaby Gill had entered the Black Boy with a confident strut. He now left it over the shoulder of a murderer.

The Parish Church of St Peter was, appropriately, the tallest building in Barnstaple, and its massive tower, which was topped with a lead-covered broach-spire, reached much nearer to heaven than any other structure in the town. Set on open land between the High Street and Boutport Street, it had withstood centuries of attack by the elements and frequent squalls in the religious climate. Systematic rebuilding had been carried on throughout Elizabeth’s reign, and it was paid for by the raising of a church rate. New slates were fixed on the roof, the ceiling over the communion table was repaired, the floor was retiled, the lead guttering was renewed and the whole building washed with seven bushels of lime. The churchyard was newly paved and given a new gate.

Another change that had occurred was the developing interest in private pews. Wealthy families who worshipped regularly in the church wanted more comfort during the long sermons of Arthur Calmady. They paid to have pews erected for their own use, thereby exhibiting their status in public while ensuring a privileged degree of privacy. The pews were known as sieges, and it was in the Whetcombe siege that a small figure in a black coat was now kneeling in prayer. When Matthew Whetcombe rented the pew, he did so to attest his position in the community and to hide away the deaf-mute child who was such a constant embarrassment to him. That same daughter was now praying, not for the soul of her dead father, but for the safe and speedy return of a household servant.

Lucy Whetcombe rose from her knees and looked around. Her plan had worked. She and Susan had often played games of hide-and-seek in the labyrinthine interior of the house in Crock Street, and the girls knew every inch of it. That knowledge had helped her to escape. The two men outside the street could only watch who entered or left the building by the front or side doors. They could not see the entrance at the rear of the warehouse, still less the door to the granary, which stood above it. Lucy had waited until the sky began to darken then made her move. Dressed in hat and coat, she made her way stealthily across the Great Court, into the warehouse and up the ladder into the granary. Grain was lifted up in sacks by means of a rope and pulley. Lucy used the device for her own purpose, shinning swiftly down the rope before racing off towards the church. Those who caught a glimpse of the darting child did not recognise her and the two men on duty did not even know she was gone.

Now, however, it was time to go back. Lucy offered up a prayer that her means of escape had not been detected. She needed the rope to regain entry to the house. It was now dark outside and the curfew would soon be sounded. She crept towards the church door and lifted the iron latch before swinging the massive timber back on its hinges. After a final glance up at the main altar, she slipped out and closed the door behind her.

She was about to sprint off back home when she saw two figures a short distance away. They were engaged in an animated conversation. Lucy could only see them in stark profile but she recognised them immediately. Arthur Calmady seemed to be having a heated argument with Barnard Sweete. The vicar and the lawyer were both men of extraordinary self-possession, yet here they were in open dispute, waving their arms about like two customers haggling over the same purchase in the market. Lucy Whetcombe could not hear what they said but it involved the church in some way. At the height of the argument, Sweete pointed towards the building to emphasise a point and Calmady finally backed down. It was a subdued vicar who finally slunk away.

Lucy Whetcombe ran back to the house and climbed in through the door of the granary. Nobody saw her and she had not been missed from the house. When she got back to Susan’s chamber, she let herself in and took the dolls out of their hiding place. Arthur Calmady was in one hand and Barnard Sweete in the other. She held them up to examine them then banged them together in a fierce fight. The vicar’s head eventually snapped off. The lawyer was the man to fear.

The flapping sound brought Nicholas Bracewell instantly awake. He sat up in his bed with a knife at the ready in his hand, but no attack came and the door remained locked. When the noise continued, he wondered if a bird had somehow got into the chamber and was flying around. Nicholas had chosen to sleep alone in one of the attic rooms. After the injury to Owen Elias, he did not wish to put the life of another friend at risk by sharing a bedchamber with him. It was dawn and a tiny filter of light was probing the shutters. Nicholas peered into the gloom and listened intently. What he could hear was no bird but it might be the softer beat of a bat’s wings. The creature might somehow have gained entry through the cracks in the roof. Nicholas got out of bed and opened the shutters to throw more light into the room.

It was then that he saw it. The piece of parchment was trapped under his door. A stiff breeze was blowing in off the river and causing a draught in the attic of the Jolly Sailor. The parchment was vibrating like a wing. Nicholas picked it up and opened the door but there was no sign of any messenger. Unfolding the paper, he took it to the window and held it up to the light. He could just make out the words and they jerked him completely awake. The message was from his appointed assassin. It was written in a fine hand and its doggerel was a derisive sneer at the company.

Nicholas blenched. He was being offered the hardest bargain of all. If Barnaby Gill really were in the man’s hands, then he would be murdered without scruple. The only way to release him was to confront the man. Care had been taken with the message. In case it went astray, it was in a code that only Nicholas could understand. The key line jumped out at him to give him the meeting place.

Merchants wise are never meek.

Wise Street lay in the network of lanes and alleys around the harbour. Meek Row joined it at the far end. It was an area full of warehouses and cellars. The cargo waiting there for collection was Barnaby Gill, but there was no proof that he was even still alive. Nicholas dressed quickly and wore sword and dagger. When he put on his buff jerkin, he concealed the poniard up his sleeve. Even with three weapons, he felt he was at a disadvantage. The man was several steps ahead of him all the time.

Nicholas first went down to check Barnaby Gill’s chamber, but it was empty and the bed was unused. He really was being held hostage. It was a way of luring Nicholas out of the safety of the company. There was no point in taking anyone with him. Nicholas was quite sure he would be watched all the way to the harbour. If he left the Jolly Sailor with Owen Elias or Edmund Hoode, they would arrive to find Gill beyond rescue. The choice of target showed the man’s keen intelligence. Having watched the performance of The Happy Malcontent at Marlborough, he had seen Barnaby Gill’s crucial importance in the work of Westfield’s Men. He had also picked out the loner in the company, the man who wandered off to enjoy his pleasures in private and who therefore made himself more vulnerable.

Leaving the inn, Nicholas made his way briskly towards the harbour. It was a dry day with a searching breeze. A number of people were already moving about the streets. Traders were streaming in from the country to sell their wares at market. Eager housewives waited with baskets to get the earliest bargains. The whole city would soon be buzzing with the sound of trade. He hoped that his own transaction would somehow end in success.

Nicholas did not need to look again at Anne Hendrik’s sketch of the man. It was fixed clearly in his mind. He had learnt something else about his adversary now. He was a Devonian. Only a local man would have known that Nicholas Bracewell’s apprenticeship as a merchant entailed a three-month stay in Bristol. Wise Street and Meek Row would be meaningless names to most of the inhabitants of the city. Someone who had worked in and around the port would know them, however, and the man had banked on that knowledge. The killer might even be from Barnstaple. It would explain why he had been selected to intercept the messenger to London.

He was close to the harbour now and his steps slowed involuntarily. From this point on, the utmost vigilance was needed. Having drawn him out of the inn, the man might well have laid an ambush. Nicholas jerked the poniard down inside his sleeve so that its handle could be flicked into his palm in a split second. He kept to the middle of each thoroughfare so that he could not be jumped on from any doorway or recess.

Wise Street eventually stood before him. Some of the warehouses were already opening and several people were arriving for work. Meek Row was at the far end. There was a building at the junction of the two, and Nicholas saw at once why it had been chosen. It was a small warehouse, but part of it had been gutted by fire and it had no roof. Doors and windows were boarded up but there were gaps between the timbers where a man could easily squeeze through. It was the ideal place to hold a hostage. Nobody would search for him amid the debris of a burnt-out property, and the location gave the man holding him three possible exits. He could come out into Wise Street, into Meek Row or into the courtyard at the rear of the building then vanish into a veritable maze.

Nicholas walked around the warehouse twice before he ventured in. One of the timbers had been torn away from the door at the rear and this was his entrance. He came into the main body of the warehouse and scrunched his way over the charred remains of its stock. When he was in open space in the middle of the area, a voice rang out.

‘Stay there!’

Nicholas halted. He had been right. The voice had a distant echo of Barnstaple. He was up against a fellow Devonian. He tried to work out where the man was hiding.

‘Throw down your weapons!’ ordered Lamparde.

‘When I see Master Gill.’

‘Throw down your weapons or I’ll kill him now.’

‘Prove to me that he is still alive.’

There was a long pause and Nicholas began to fear that the man had carried out his threat. A dragging sound then fixed his gaze on the door to the other part of the warehouse. Still bound and gagged, Barnaby Gill was being hauled unceremoniously through the debris. He looked across at Nicholas Bracewell with eyes that were bulging with fear and panic. Gill was alive but harrowed by his ordeal.

‘Throw down your weapons!’ repeated the man.

‘How do I know you won’t kill both of us?’

‘This idiot is of no interest to me,’ said Lamparde as he kicked the prone figure. ‘And I keep a bargain.’

Nicholas Bracewell took the full measure of the man who had stalked him so relentlessly. After two murders and two attempts on his own life, he was finally face-to-face with him. Anne Hendrik’s drawing had a flimsy accuracy but it caught nothing of the man’s menace. The missing earring was now back in place and the beard was positively glistening.

The man drew a sword and held it to Gill’s chest.

‘You have one more chance to throw down your weapons.’

Gill writhed around on the ground but the sword was still aimed at his heart. He stared up at the man with whom he had entrusted his most intimate secret. Betrayal at such a moment and in such a place was totally unbearable.

Nicholas tossed his rapier and dagger to the ground.

‘Step towards us!’ ordered the man then stopped him again when he was well clear of his weapons. ‘Take off your jerkin!’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Take it off so that I may see you have no concealed weapons.’ His sword touched Gill’s chest again. ‘Now!’

Nicholas obeyed. He was now only ten yards away from them but twice that distance from his sword and dagger. There was no hope of reaching his rapier in time to tackle the man on equal terms. He took off the jerkin with great care, first removing his left arm then letting the garment drop down his back before peeling it down his other arm. Nicholas now held it over the wrist of his right hand to cover the poniard. Spreading his arms wide, he exposed his shirt and belt.

‘Turn round!’ said Lamparde. ‘Turn slowly!’

Keeping his arms out, Nicholas rotated his body and took a firmer grip on the handle of the poniard. It was soon needed. With his prey now apparently at his mercy, Lamparde lunged forward to cut him down with his rapier, but Nicholas was ready for him. Swinging on his heel, he flung the jerkin around the end of the blade and deflected its viciousness. At the same time, he brought the poniard flashing up to slash at his assailant’s doublet and open up the sleeve. Blood gushed out and Lamparde let out a cry of indignation. He pulled his sword free and lunged again but the swinging jerkin was this time thrown into his face. His own dagger once again drew blood, cutting across his sword hand and forcing him to drop the weapon.

Nicholas flung himself upon the man and knocked him to the ground, but Lamparde was a powerful man in any brawl. He grabbed the wrist which held the poniard and applied such brute strength that he turned the point of the weapon towards Nicholas’s face. As they rolled and grappled on the ground, the book holder saw the poniard moving inexorably closer and aimed at his eye. To release the dagger from his grasp would be to yield his weapon but it had been turned against him with such force that he was finding it hard to resist. Pretending to fight against the downward pressure, he suddenly gave in to it and twisted his head sharply to the left, allowing the poniard to sink harmlessly into the ground and throwing his assailant off balance.

A well-placed knee and a roll of the shoulder sent Lamparde off him and Nicholas leapt to his feet with the dagger turned on him. Lamparde dived for his rapier but a heavy foot got first to the blade. The man was not finished yet. Scooping up a handful of blackened debris, he threw it in his adversary’s face and gained a precious moment to get up and flee towards the doorway. Nicholas wiped the dust from his eyes then gathered up the rapier. When he got to Barnaby Gill, he used the latter to slice through the cord that held his hands then left him the weapon to cut through the rest of his bonds. He himself went through the door into the other part of the warehouse.

Fire damage had been less extensive here and many of the old beams still stood. Down one wall was a series of bays where the goods had been stacked. Boxes and huge piles of old sacks offered further hiding places. Nicholas was back on equal terms again. The man would certainly have a dagger and his prowess with the weapon had already been shown. As Nicholas crept along the wall of the warehouse, he knew that the first thrust would be decisive. One mistake would be fatal.

Lamparde was motionless. Incensed by his wounds, he was determined to kill Nicholas for sheer pleasure now. He tried hard to control his laboured breathing. All he had to do was to wait behind the thick wooden beam and his target would present itself. Through a chink in the timber, he could see Nicholas approaching. The advantage had swung his way again. To poison a girl had given him no real satisfaction and to stab a pickpocket during a play was a reflex act of revenge. This would be different. He would slowly cut the life out of Nicholas Bracewell.

Moving carefully in a crouched position, Nicholas looked down and saw the spots of blood on the ground. The man was somewhere in front of him. He got closer and closer to the beam that concealed his enemy but did not sense the danger at first. It was only when he was almost level with the hiding place that something made him pause. He sniffed the air. Leonard had spoken about a smell and the serving wench in Marlborough has noticed it as well. Nicholas identified it again. Oil of bergamot. A sickly sweet fragrance for a man who set such great store by his appearance that he courted the looking glass every day. The aroma was quite unmistakable and it saved Nicholas’s life.

He mimed a step forward past the beam then lurched straight back as the murderous dagger came out at him. His own weapon struck home this time, piercing the man’s heart and sending him to the ground with a long wheeze of outrage and pain. Nicholas stood panting over him. Barnaby Gill came staggering up with the rapier in his hand and looked at the dead man with a squeal of relief.

‘Did you see him!’ he said. ‘He all but killed me!’

‘We are both safe now.’

‘He took me hostage because of you.’

‘Where did that happen?’ asked Nicholas levelly. ‘How did you allow a man like that anywhere near you?’

Barnaby Gill’s anger was quickly replaced by shame and just as quickly superseded by gratitude. He burst into tears and clutched pathetically at Nicholas. Seeking pleasure, he had unwittingly surrendered himself to a killer who had used him to entice Nicholas to the warehouse. But for the book holder’s bravery, both he and Gill would have been murdered.

‘This will have to be reported,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll vouch for you, Nick,’ promised Gill. ‘You killed in self-defence. No man can be arrested for that.’

‘We may have further proof of this man’s villainy.’

Nicholas bent to search the body and found a letter inside his doublet. It was an instruction to murder the messenger who was travelling from Devon and it gave details of the girl’s appearance and likely time of arrival at the capital. The writer had been careful not to reveal his own identity but the recipient of the letter was one Adam Lamparde. It was a name that meant nothing to Nicholas and neither did the other that was in the document, but two vital parts of the mystery had finally been solved. Nicholas at last knew who had been trying to kill him and who had ridden all the way from Barnstaple to fetch him.

The murdered girl’s name was Susan Deakin.

The Long Bridge in the town of Barnstaple was almost three hundred years old. Spanning the tidal River Taw, it had sixteen arches that were built high enough to admit the passage of small craft. The bridge was an architectural wonder whose impact had been dulled by familiarity, but there was still a momentary excitement — even for the most jaded and cynical — in sailing up the river and catching the first sight of the structure. On a sunny day, its reflection was caught so perfectly on the surface of the water that an approaching craft seemed to be offered a right of way through any one of sixteen huge oval openings. The value to pedestrian traffic was incalculable and the Long Bridge was an integral part of Barnstaple life.

Gideon Livermore stood at the quayside and gazed up at the bridge. He remembered being pushed from it as a small boy by his brother and discovering that he could indeed swim. He recalled his first disastrous attempts at rowing beneath one of the arches and of the damage he did to the boat when he collided with the uncompromising stone. The quay was the hub of Barnstaple. Ships, barges, wherries, smacks and fishing vessels bobbed at anchor. Cargoes were loaded or unloaded. Woollen felts, calico, linen, canvas, brass and pewter pots, shoes, soap, wine, ginger, cheese, salt, sugar and pepper were being sent to the Welsh coast while a ship from Milford Haven was delivering sheepskins, rabbit skins and leather along with barley, wheat, rye and a consignment of oysters. More exotic imports came from countries farther afield. Newfoundland, Guinea and Bermuda all traded regularly with Barnstaple. Maritime enterprise had even brought the Caribbean Islands within reach of the north Devon port.

Gideon Livermore had watched with fascination the changes and developments over the years. He now stood near the spot where local merchants sealed their bargains in the Jewish manner by putting a down payment on the Tome Stone before witnesses. Trust underpinned all mercantile activity. Barnard Sweete came hurrying over to greet him, but Livermore had no time for the courtesies. He had left his beloved mansion to ride into town and wanted good news by way of reward.

‘Did you see her, Barnard?’ he said.

‘I spent an hour with her,’ replied the lawyer.

‘How did you find her?’

‘Still distracted.’

‘Does Mary understand the implications?’

‘I have explained them to her more than once.’

Gideon Livermore sighed. ‘Why on earth did she marry Matthew Whetcombe?’

‘She is asking that same question of herself,’ said Sweete. ‘Grief still sits on her but it is streaked with regret. Mary Whetcombe was not a happy wife and she has been forced to see that. I feel pity for her, Gideon.’

‘So do I, Barnard. So do I.’

‘She is still such a beautiful woman.’

‘The whole world can see that, man!’

‘Not if she hides herself away.’

‘That will soon be changed.’ Livermore massaged his chin with a flabby hand. ‘Did you commend me to her?’

‘I have done so every time we meet.’

‘How did she respond to my name?’

Sweete was diplomatic. ‘Favourably.’

‘Has she consented to see me?’

‘Not yet.’

‘How much longer must I wait, Barnard?’ said the other. ‘I grow impatient. Use your lawyer’s smooth tongue. Bend her to my wishes. Work, work, man!’

‘The business cannot be rushed, Gideon.’

‘Proceed apace.’

‘She is still in mourning.’

‘That is the best time.’

Gideon Livermore marched a few paces away to show his displeasure. Barnard Sweete went after him to offer apology and explanation. Mary Whetcombe was still in a delicate state of mind and could not be expected to consider such major decisions so soon after her husband’s demise, but the lawyer promised to advance at a swifter pace from now on. He then came to news that he imparted with some reluctance.

‘She had a visitor yesterday.’

‘A visitor?’

‘He called again this morning but she refused to see him. The man was sent packing in no uncertain manner.’

‘Who was it?’

‘She will admit nobody but myself and the vicar.’

Livermore turned on him. ‘Who was it?’

‘Robert Bracewell.’

‘Robert Bracewell?’ he growled.

‘He was turned away twice and that smartly.’

‘You allowed Robert Bracewell to call at the house?’

‘He only came to pay his respects, Gideon.’

‘Keep him away.’

‘My men had orders simply to watch the house.’

‘Keep him away!’ roared Livermore. ‘He is the last person I want bothering Mary Whetcombe at a time like this. Inform your men. Bracewell is to be warned off.’

‘If you wish.’

‘I do wish, Barnard.’

‘He cannot do any harm now.’

‘Heaven forbid, man! The mere sight of that creature would be enough.’ He squeezed the lawyer’s shoulder to instil his commands more forcefully. ‘Robert Bracewell must not be allowed anywhere near her. He has done enough damage in this town as it is. That is one of the reasons I wish to take her completely away from Barnstaple. It is too full of cruel memories.’

Barnard Sweete nodded and the hand was removed. He tried to rub away the pain in his shoulder. Gideon Livermore was a strong man who liked to use that strength to hurt.

‘What of the girl?’ asked Livermore.

‘Lucy is quite bewildered.’

‘Did you talk with her?’

‘I tried to but she ran away. I seem to frighten her.’

Livermore guffawed. ‘With a face like that, you could fright any woman. Maybe it was the sight of your visage that struck her dumb, Barnard.’ He saw the other’s dismay and patted his arm. ‘I tease, man. I do it but in fun.’

‘Lucy is no problem to us. Mary Whetcombe is.’

‘I must have her!’

‘The possibility grows stronger every day, Gideon.’

‘I must have her!’

Sweete was about to add a comment when he realised that his companion was not talking about Mary Whetcombe at all. With a merchant’s instinct for the approach of a new sail on the horizon, Gideon Livermore had turned to look downriver. A stately vessel was approaching the harbour. Even at that distance, Livermore could pick it out. Its size and its position in the water were clues enough for him. He was looking at the ship that Matthew Whetcombe had named after his wife, a one-hundred-ton vessel that carried eighty men aboard and was the pride of Barnstaple. Few of the merchants owned their own ships. Even wealthy ones like Gideon Livermore only had shares in one. Matthew Whetcombe was the exception to the rule in this as in everything else, and it stirred great envy. After a career based largely on a quarter-share of a sixty-ton ship, Gideon Livermore coveted the vessel that was now riding towards them on the waves.

Mary Whetcombe might one day lie beside him as his wife, but a much deeper desire burned inside him. He wanted the Mary itself. That was the real marriage that he sought. The love affair between a merchant and a ship could only be sanctified in ownership.

‘I must have her!’ he repeated.

They broke away and walked back up towards the town. Livermore had documents to sign at the lawyer’s chambers and business to conduct with associates. He led the way in through West Gate so that they could look up at the house where Mary Whetcombe kept her forlorn vigil, but it was not the lovely face of his future wife who gazed down on him. It was the hard and inexpressive countenance of Lucy.

Gideon Livermore turned away and hurried quickly past.

‘Have you spoken with Calmady?’ he said curtly.

‘We had a long discussion.’

‘Is he of our mind?’

‘He is now, Gideon.’

‘You had resistance from this prating vicar?’ said the other with irritation. ‘What is the fool playing at?’

‘He thinks himself a man of principle.’

‘Why, so do I, and so do you, and so does every one of us. We are all men of principle but we must learn to bend them to necessity. Ha!’ He slapped his side in annoyance. ‘I’ll brook no argument from a churchman who earns a mere thirty pounds a year.’

‘Arthur Calmady does hold other benefices.’

‘But they are far away, Barnard,’ said the merchant. ‘The law now stops a man from holding benefices within twenty-six miles of each other and it is right to do so. These nibbling ecclesiastics will eat up the whole church if they are allowed. They’d have a dozen parishes giving them money and never serve one of them honestly.’

‘Our vicar is conscientious, let us grant him that.’

‘Yes,’ mocked the other, ‘he is a man of principle. But I am old enough to remember other men of principle who took the cloth in Devon. One was so drunk on a Sunday that he could not say service. Another wore a sword and was a notable fornicator. One even brewed ale in the vicarage and sold it to friends like any common innkeeper.’

‘Arthur Calmady is not guilty of those crimes,’ argued the lawyer, ‘but he can be obstinate. I think I have cured that obstinacy. With the vicar on our side, we are assured of success. It is only a matter of time.’

‘That thought fills my every waking hour.’

‘There is no cloud to threaten us.’ He paused. ‘Save one, perhaps.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘That cloud has blown over, sir. There’ll be no storm.’

‘Can you be certain?’

‘Lamparde knows his trade. I employ only the best.’

‘Nicholas has his father’s determination.’

‘He is dead even as we speak.’

‘You have heard?’

‘I do not need to hear.’

‘But if Lamparde should fail …’

‘Have faith in him.’

‘I am a lawyer,’ said Sweete, ‘and we do not believe in faith. Facts are our currency. You have faith in Lamparde, but fact put Nicholas Bracewell on the road to Bristol. That is too close for comfort. If your man should fail …’

‘Even that has been considered,’ said Livermore, ‘for I leave nothing to chance. If a miracle occurs and he escapes from Lamparde, he will never get within ten miles of here.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have placed six stout fellows on the road that he must take. They have orders to stop him in his tracks and bury the evidence where it falls.’ He smiled complacently. ‘You have my word on it. We are secure. There is no way that Nicholas Bracewell could possibly reach Barnstaple.’

Bristol harbour was as busy as ever that morning with ships docking while others cast off to set sail. Fishermen were landing their catch. Merchants were buying and selling. Craft of all sizes drew patterns of foam with their prows. Seagulls swooped around the sterns of the departing vessels as they headed for open sea. Westfield’s Men were well represented. Lawrence Firethorn was there with a cheerful wave and some bellowed advice. Edmund Hoode mixed anxiety with his good wishes. Barnaby Gill mumbled his embarrassed thanks over and over again. Owen Elias found a song to suit the occasion. Richard Honeydew cried at the temporary loss of his friend and George Dart, at last confronted with the reality of the sailor’s life, noting the weather-beaten faces and sea-hardened eyes of the mariners on deck, hearing the vigour of their obscenities, watching the intense physical demands made on a crew, began to think that life in a theatre company might, after all, have its virtues.

The six of them set up a rousing cheer to send the ship on its way. With the horse securely tethered aboard, Nicholas Bracewell was setting sail for Barnstaple.