The Silent Woman

Chapter Ten

Israel Gunby noticed the difference immediately. As he sat with the audience in the sumptuous Guildhall, he watched a performance of The Happy Malcontent and felt a niggling disappointment. The play was a delight, the actors skilled and the whole production well crafted. Indeed, the people of Bristol who had come in such numbers to see Westfield’s Men clearly adored the rich comic talents that were set before them. Laughter was virtually continuous and applause broke out spontaneously at regular intervals. Gunby, however, was still dissatisfied without quite knowing the cause of that dissatisfaction. On the previous afternoon, he had been one of the standees at the back of the hall when the Mayor and his Corporation had been stirred by the tragic wonder of Death and Darkness. The whole company had been superb on that occasion and Gunby had wept real tears when Count Orlando killed himself in a fit of grief so that he could lie in the vault beside the wife who had been cruelly cut down on their wedding day. Lawrence Firethorn had been so magnificent in the leading role that Gunby had almost felt a twinge of guilt at having robbed him of money and of carnal pleasure at High Wycombe.

A lesser brilliance radiated from The Happy Malcontent and Ellen was able to identify one of the main reasons for this. She had enjoyed the play so much in Marlborough that she was eager to see it again in Bristol but the second performance was only a pale imitation of the first. Ellen was dowdily dressed as the wife of the fat old merchant beside her. She leant across to her husband.

‘Master Gill is unwell,’ she decided.

‘The whole company is ailing.’

‘He has lost his voice, his power, his joy.’

‘And his legs,’ added Gunby. ‘He danced better for us at the Fighting Cocks. Something has taken the spring from Barnaby’s step.’

‘Look,’ said Ellen, pointing. ‘I am right.’

The play ended to general acclamation and the company came out to take its bow. Barnaby Gill had rushed to the centre of the stage in Marlborough but he yielded that position to Lawrence Firethorn here and stood slightly behind him. Signs of strain were now all too apparent. Gill was so exhausted by the performance that he almost keeled over and Firethorn had to steady him before helping him off. The audience thought that Doctor Blackthought’s stagger was a final humorous comment on the character and they clapped appreciatively. Israel Gunby and his wife were not misled.

‘There is something else amiss,’ he said ruminatively.

‘Master Gill’s indisposition affects them all.’

‘No, Ellen. These are cunning actors. They could carry one man and hide his shortcomings but there was another hole in the fabric of their play.’

‘It was much too slow.’

‘Fast enough for the burgesses of Bristol.’

‘Yet half the pace of Marlborough.’

‘Who is to blame for that?’

Gunby realised. ‘They have lost their book holder!’

The play had not only been weakened by a lacklustre actor onstage, it had been seriously hampered by the absence of a controlling hand off it. Entrances had been missed and changes of scenery had been slow. When Barnaby Gill fumbled his words and signalled for a prompt, it came so late and so loud that it seemed to be one more comic touch deliberately inserted to amuse the audience. Israel Gunby had enjoyed the performance which he had commissioned at the Fighting Cocks but it was not only the actors who caught his attention. Nicholas Bracewell had organised everything with laudable expertise. His invisible presence was the scaffolding which held the whole company up. Without him, Westfield’s Men were distinctly rickety.

‘Master Bracewell has gone,’ said Gunby.

‘Why?’

‘That is his business, my love.’

‘Apart from Master Firethorn, he was the handsomest man among them,’ said Ellen. ‘Were I to play that love scene we have just witnessed, I think I would just as soon be seduced by the book holder as by the actor. Master Bracewell was a marvellous proper man.’

‘Yet he has left them.’

‘His deputy is a poor substitute.’

‘Westfield’s Men will suffer.’

‘We have seen that already.’

‘They will suffer offstage as well as on, Ellen,’ he said as an idea formed. ‘Master Bracewell was their sentry. With him gone, their defences may more easily be breached. Do you follow me here?’

‘I do, husband.’

‘Their loss is our gain.’

‘When do we strike?’

‘Give them a day or so,’ he advised. ‘That will make them feel more secure and put more money into their coffers. Death and Darkness filled this Guildhall until it burst and The Happy Malcontent, as you see, has made the coins jingle. If we wait awhile, Firethorn’s capcase will have twenty pounds and more in it.’

‘How will we empty it?’

He gave his wife a sly smile and squeezed her arm. The other spectators had largely drifted away now and they were among the stragglers. Nobody sat in front of them so they had an uninterrupted view of the makeshift platform which Nicholas Bracewell had erected at the end of the hall so that it would catch maximum light through the windows. The stage was still set for the last act of the play.

‘You admired Lawrence Firethorn, I think,’ he said.

‘Every woman here did that.’

‘And you said before, you would like to play that scene with him. Could you do it as well as Richard Honeydew?’

‘Better.’

‘The boy was excellent.’

‘But he remained a boy. His voice and gestures were a clever copy of a young woman but he could not compare with a lady herself.’ Ellen bunched her fists in envy as she looked at the stage. ‘Had I been up there with Lawrence Firethorn, I would have overshadowed the young apprentice quite.’

‘Women are not allowed to act upon the stage, my love.’

‘That is a pity and a crime.’

‘They may still perform in another theatre.’

‘The bedchamber?’

‘You’d oust this apprentice there!’ said Gunby with feeling. ‘I know that to be true! But could you carry it off with Firethorn himself?’

‘No question but that I can.’

‘He is a shrewd man and will not be easily fooled.’

‘I have done it once and may do so again.’

‘There will be danger, Ellen.’

‘I do not give a fig for that,’ she replied. ‘Where danger lies, the best rewards are found. You taught me that. Lawrence Firethorn will never recognise me for a second.’

‘Then let’s about it!’

‘I’ll need some new apparel.’

‘All things will be provided.’

‘Then I’ll show him how a real woman can act!’

Israel Gunby chuckled and put an arm around her. When they got up to walk towards the door of the hall, they saw the distraught figure of George Dart holding out a bowl to the last few spectators. They had already paid an admission fee but the performance had inspired them to part with a few additional coins. Gunby tossed an angel into the collection and Dart gabbled his gratitude. It was a chance to confirm the facts. The assistant stagekeeper was more harassed than ever. He did not connect the fat old merchant with Samuel Grace at the Fighting Cocks. Gunby used a local accent.

‘Master Bracewell is not with you, I hear.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Has he left the company?’

‘I fear me that he has!’ wailed Dart.

‘Where has he gone?’

‘To Barnstaple.’

‘A strange departure when he is needed here.’

‘Even so, sir. He will return one day but it may not be for a week or more and we struggle without him.’

‘That was my observation,’ said Gunby. ‘Westfield’s Men have a fine reputation but it will not be enhanced by the bungling of your present book holder. We have seen many plays performed in this hall but few with such a lack of judgement behind the scenes.’ He leant in close. ‘Tell me, young sir. What poor, fumbling idiot took over from Master Bracewell as the book holder today? Who was that fool?’

George Dart’s hunted face answered the question.

‘That fool stands before you,’ he admitted.

Gunby threw another angel in the bowl and they left.

The Gabriel was a coastal trader that was owned by five Barnstaple merchants who each had an equal share. It had been to Carmarthen and Tenby before putting into Bristol and its cargo included tin, oats, barley and four thousand sheepskins. The Gabriel was a vessel of only fifteen tons and it was one of a number with overtly religious names. Nicholas Bracewell soon learnt that there was nothing angelic about its embittered old captain.

‘A turd in his teeth!’ sneered the sailor.

‘You know him, then?’

‘Everyone in Barnstaple knew Matthew Whetcombe.’

‘Knew?’ echoed Nicholas. ‘He has left the town?’

‘No, sir. He is still there — God rot him!’

‘Then your acquaintance must hold.’

‘It does,’ said the other. ‘I may speak to the good merchant on my own terms now. Whenever I pass his grave, I can spit on it twice and lift a leg to fart on it three times. That’s all the conversation he deserves.’

Nicholas had been fortunate enough to find a vessel that was sailing to Barnstaple. It was not the speediest way to reach the town but it would save him from a long and dangerous journey alone over extremely bad roads. It would also help him to elude any trap that was set for him near Barnstaple. Nicholas had killed off one threat but the man who had employed Lamparde could pay a dozen more to do the same service. It was important to find out as soon as possible who that paymaster was and he could not do that if he was ambushed before he even reached the town.

The Gabriel was a small and ageing vessel but it was good to be under sail again and to feel the wind ripping at his hair and clothing. Nicholas stood in the prow and let the salt spray bathe his face. In the port books, the ship was listed with a flourish as Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple and its gnarled captain was proud of a name he constantly used without ever getting close to an intelligible pronunciation of it. The man was teak-hard and foul-mouthed but Nicholas was more than ready to share his company. Though hailing from Ilfracombe, the sailor had worked out of Barnstaple for the last decade and he knew all the leading merchants there. In the taverns along the wharf, he picked up all the local gossip and it was this which Nicholas now mined.

‘When did Matthew Whetcombe die?’

‘A month or two back, sir. Maybe more.’

‘What was the cause of his death?’

‘Plague, pox and sweating sickness.’ He spat into the wind. ‘At least, it would have been if I’d had my choice of his going. I’d have bound the villain in chains and used him as my anchor, so I would, excepting that I’ve too much respect for Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple to have him hanging from it.’

‘You did not like the man, I see,’ said Nicholas with cool understatement. ‘What dealings did you have with him?’

‘None, sir, and that’s the rub!’

‘You sought employment?’

‘I deserved it!’ ranted the sailor. ‘There’s no more experienced a seaman along the Devon coast than me. When he was looking for a new master of the Mary, he should have looked no further than me, but he scorned my claim, sir. He said I was too old! Old! Ha! I’m young enough to drop a turd on his coffin the next time I go past!’

The narrative broke down into a welter of expletives and Nicholas had time to assimilate the facts he had so far managed to glean. Matthew Whetcombe had been immensely wealthy but that wealth was based not so much on legitimate trade as on privateering. Nobody appreciated the hypocrisy that underlay that word more than Nicholas Bracewell because he had sailed under one of the most celebrated privateers in England. Letters of marque had given Francis Drake, and many others like him, a licence to indulge in piracy. In the five years since the Spanish Armada, privateering had been particularly rewarding and Matthew Whetcombe had been one of its beneficiaries.

In 1590 the Mary had sailed over the bar with a full crew and a fine array of cannon. After a raid on a foreign vessel off the coast of Guinea, she returned to harbour with a prize that kept the whole town in a state of excitement for a week. Four chests of gold were unloaded from its hold along with a basket of jewellery. The total value of the haul was almost fifteen thousand pounds, a fortune which elevated Matthew Whetcombe above the wealth of any of his contemporaries. Though he boasted that the money had been made in trade, it was the fruit of naked piracy. Letters of marque were no more than a legalised skull and crossbones.

To stop the captain’s wild fulminations, Nicholas moved him to an allied subject. He gritted his teeth before asking the question but he had to learn the truth sooner or later.

‘Have you heard tell of one Robert Bracewell?’

‘I might have done some years ago.’

‘Is he then dead as well?’ said Nicholas in surprise.

‘Oh, no, sir. Fallen on hard times, I think.’ He removed his cap to scratch his head with cracked fingernails. ‘My mind is not what it used to be but I do recall the name. Let me think now. It will come.’ Eventually it did and he replaced his cap to mark the event. ‘Robert Bracewell, eh? Was not he one of the merchants who exported kersey and baize to France?’

‘That was him.’

‘I have him now. His ship would bring back flax and hempen cloths from Rouen and St Malo.’ The sailor nodded. ‘’Tis the same man but not with the same trade. He works only in a small way on the quayside.’

‘He had two sons,’ prompted Nicholas.

‘That was part of his tragedy, sir. The younger fell out with him and went off to live in Exeter. He is a merchant there himself, I do believe, and is well clear of his father.’

‘And the other son?’

‘He broke his father’s old heart.’ The captain had more grasp on the tale now. ‘This other lad went off to Plymouth to sail with Drake. He never returned. Gallant Sir Francis is a great seaman, no doubt of that, but he lost far too many men on his voyage. I’d keep a keener eye on my crew. If I’d taken the Mary around the world, I’d not have lost a single man. I should have been master of that ship.’

He chuntered on but Nicholas was not listening. He was still absorbing what he had just heard. Robert Bracewell had lied yet again. To explain the disappearance and continued absence of his son, he invented a death at sea for him in some distant part of the globe. It was his father’s way of coping with the problem. He simply killed his elder son off.

The Gabriel made good speed along the coast and Nicholas was no idle passenger. When sail needed to be trimmed, he worked alongside the crew. When navigational skills were called for, he weighed in with friendly advice. The captain found him a tidy seaman and even let him take the wheel for a time. It was a costly treat. Though Nicholas enjoyed his moment at the helm, he had to listen to yet another barrage of moans from the captain. Sailors were like fishermen. The ship which got away from them was like the monster salmon which just escaped their clutches. This man could never have commanded a ship as large or as difficult to sail as the Mary but he would nurse his grievance for the rest of his days. The captain of Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple was lashed to the mast of his dreams.

Contrary winds obliged them to tack as they sailed past Ilfracombe but they found a kinder passage once they had come round the promontory and struck due south. Barnstaple Bay finally crept up on the horizon and Nicholas experienced the sudden joy of the sailor, catching a first glimpse of home after a long and tedious voyage. When he thought of what awaited him in the town, joy became apprehension. For one last time, he trespassed on the captain’s prejudice.

‘Did Matthew Whetcombe leave a family?’ he said.

‘Indeed, sir,’ replied the other. ‘A pretty wife and a slip of a daughter.’

‘Only one child?’

‘You may well ask, sir. I’ve six myself and few of the merchants in Barnstaple have less than three or four. But not Matthew Whetcombe.’ He gave a rasping chuckle. ‘The curse I put on him must have worked. The rogue could only bring one girl into the world and she was so half-made that he would never be seen with her in the street.’

‘Half-made?’

‘Deaf and dumb, sir.’

‘Poor child!’

‘Poor child, rich mother.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The wife, sir. He named his ship after her.’

‘I gathered that,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘Mary. Her name is Mary Whetcombe. He was blessed in his wife.’

‘Blessings now fall on her,’ said the captain. ‘She will have ship and houses and fortune and all. This is a rare woman. I’ll wager that Mary Whetcombe is the richest widow in Devon. She’ll have more suitors around her than flies around a cow’s arse in summertime.’ He gave Nicholas a confiding nudge. ‘Are you looking to get married, sir?’

He timed his visit perfectly. Barnard Sweete was shown into the hall of the house in Crock Street fifteen minutes after Arthur Calmady. The vicar had unloaded his daily shipment of condolence and read to her from the Bible. Mary Whetcombe was in a receptive mood. She made no protest when the lawyer was shown in by the maidservant.

‘I apologise for coming so early,’ he said. ‘I did not wish to intrude upon you and the vicar.’

‘We were almost done,’ said the vicar solemnly. ‘I will leave you alone with Mistress Whetcombe.’

‘Stay!’ said Sweete.

‘You will wish to discuss business.’

‘Your presence will advance it.’

‘Then I obey.’

The vicar sat back in his chair with the readiness of a man who was not in any case going to stir from it. He had already been warned that he would have to remain but Mary Whetcombe was too numbed to realise this. Eye signals which passed between her two visitors went unnoticed by her. With the Church and the law shutting her in, she felt trapped.

Barnard Sweete cleared his throat and delivered the speech he had rehearsed in his chambers. His tone was smooth and plausible, his expression one of polite sadness.

‘The question of your husband’s last will and testament must be addressed,’ he said. ‘Matthew Whetcombe was a very wealthy man and he wanted that wealth distributed to a number of different people. The nature of his illness and the unlooked for speed of his death left no time for long discussions about the inheritance of his estate. He penned no detailed instructions himself. What we have …’ He coughed again as Mary’s attention wavered. ‘What we have is a nuncupative will. That is to say, a will which is declared orally by the testator and later written down. This is a perfectly legal form of procedure and not at all uncommon.’

A glance at the vicar brought his endorsement at once.

‘Indeed, no,’ he said. ‘Nuncupative wills are accepted practice. I myself have been a witness of some. The Church has many functions at the death-bed.’

‘Thank you, Mr Calmady,’ continued Sweete, opening his satchel to take out a sheaf of documents. ‘Here is the last will and testament of Matthew Whetcombe of Barnstaple as witnessed by myself and other persons, Gideon Livermore among them.’ He put slight emphasis on Livermore’s name and looked up for a reaction but none came. ‘I leave it with you for your perusal but its main clauses are as I have already indicated. You and your daughter, Lucy, are well provided for and need have no financial worries but the bulk of the estate, together with the Mary, has been left to your late husband’s close friend and former partner, Gideon Livermore.’

This time there was a reaction and it was one of such acute loathing that Barnard Sweete made a mental note to omit it from the full report he would need to make to Livermore of his visit. The merchant had been a frequent caller at the house while Matthew Whetcombe was alive and he made no secret of his admiration for Mary. It was not mutual. Mary Whetcombe shivered at the thought that Gideon Livermore would not only be able to visit the house in future, he would own it. With Lucy and her servants, she would have to move out and take up residence in their country house some five miles away from Barnstaple. It was a grim prospect. Hers had been an unhappy marriage but Matthew Whetcombe had given her both countenance and security. Both had now been stripped away by means of legal process.

‘Let me clarify the procedure,’ said Sweete, referring to a page in front of him. ‘Matthew Whetcombe’s nuncupative will was made on April 23rd. He died two days later. He was buried on May 1st. On the following day, as is customary, an inventory was made of all his worldly goods. I have a copy of it here, dated May 2nd, and duly witnessed by myself and others. That inventory will be exhibited here in Barnstaple in ten days time when the will is proved.’

‘That is admirably clear,’ said Arthur Calmady.

‘Have you any questions?’

‘None, sir,’ said the vicar with lofty obsequiousness.

‘I was speaking to Mistress Whetcombe.’

‘My apologies, sir.’

‘Do you have any questions?’ nudged the lawyer.

The vicar tried to coax her. ‘Mary …’

They waited for some time before deciding that Mary Whetcombe had nothing to say. Sweete tidied the documents he had brought and left them in a neat pile on the table. He was confident that she would do no more than glance at them. The inventory was plain enough but the will was so enmeshed in legal jargon that she would never be able to disentangle it to her advantage. Barnard Sweete thought it foolproof.

Muttering niceties, he rose to leave and the vicar got simultaneously to his feet. Both were backing away when she spoke in a voice of remarkable firmness.

‘Matthew made a proper will.’

‘And here it lies before you,’ said Sweete easily.

‘I talk of a written will, set down in his own fair hand and witnessed by others.’ The men resumed their seats. ‘The end was quick but the doctor had warned him about his heart. Matthew made a will then. Dr Lymette was a witness.’

‘He was also a witness of the nuncupative will.’

‘Can one cancel out the other?’

‘That is its function.’

‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Calmady, singing the prescribed response. ‘What we decide at one time may seem inappropriate at another. It is only when a man faces his Maker that he is able to make a true judgement.’

‘The last will and testament,’ noted Sweete. ‘It does not matter how many came before. The last one only counts.’

‘Where is the first one?’ she asked.

‘That is immaterial.’

‘It is not to me, sir. Where is it?’

‘A copy must have been lodged with you,’ said Calmady innocently, turning to the lawyer. ‘Do you have the document still in your possession?’

‘We do not, Mr Calmady.’

‘Why not?’ asked Mary with a flash of spirit.

‘Yes, why not?’ said the vicar, changing his allegiance.

‘Because, sir,’ replied Sweete pointedly, ‘we have many clients in Barnstaple and in the surrounding area. Hundreds of wills are deposited with us and some are altered or refined many times. If we retained every version of every invalid will, we should have no room in our chambers for anything else. Does that satisfy you, Mr Calmady?’

The vicar was suitably cowed. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, yes.’

‘What of the copy?’ wondered Mary.

‘Copy?’ said Sweete.

‘Of the first will.’

‘I have just told you that it was destroyed.’

‘That was your copy, sir. I speak of Matthew’s.’ The two men shifted uneasily in their chairs. ‘My husband had his faults — which husband does not — but he was meticulous in his affairs. The will may have been lodged with you but he would have retained a copy of it in case yours were mislaid.’

‘Wills are never mislaid by us.’

‘Destroyed, then.’

‘Is the copy not here in the house, Mary?’ said Calmady.

‘We have searched in vain.’

‘Nothing was found among his papers when the inventory was done,’ said Sweete. ‘His own copy must therefore have been mislaid or destroyed.’ He rode over her objection before she could voice it. ‘In any case, the earlier will has neither value nor interest here. It is replaced by another. Though I may tell you now that the terms of the first are very largely replicated in the second.’

Mary was so hurt by this information that she did not question it. Barnard Sweete was a reputable lawyer. He had served her husband for years. Why should he lie to her? She glanced wearily across at the pile of documents and nodded her head. It was a sign of defeat.

The lawyer jumped smartly to his feet and gestured for the vicar to follow suit. They bade a farewell then stole across to the door but their departure was blocked a second time. After a loud tap, the maidservant entered and stood between them, not sure if she should wait till they had gone before she delivered the message. Mary had nothing to hide.

‘Well, what is it?’ she said.

‘A gentleman waits below for you.’

‘Did he give a name?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

As soon as he disembarked with the roan, Nicholas rode along the Strand and entered the town through West Gate. He did not pause to take stock of his birthplace or to allow any room for sentiment to intrude. He was there on urgent business and that took precedence over everything else. All he had to guide him was the name of a dead girl, but it was enough. Coupled with the information he had learnt at sea, it took him straight to Crock Street. The captain had spoken with snarling envy of a big house, and he soon located it. He went first to the stables at the rear of the house. The lad who was cleaning the tack recognised the horse at once and was delighted to have the animal restored to his care, but Nicholas did not tell him how the roan had come into his hands. That information was reserved for the mistress of the house. Certain that he was at the correct address, he walked back to the front door to knock. A maidservant took his name then invited him to step inside and wait while she went to see if he would be received.

Nicholas Bracewell stood in a passageway between the shop and the parlour. He could smell leather. A flight of stairs led up to the first floor, and the maidservant had gone up them. He waited patiently until he heard a creak above his head. Looking up the stairs, he expected to see the maidservant return but he was instead confronted by a sight that made his heart thump and his brain mist. Watching him carefully with large, questioning eyes was a young girl in a black dress. Her face was so like her mother’s that this had to be her child. Nicholas was transported back twenty years to a time when Mary Parr and he had played together in the streets and chased each other through the churchyard of St Peter’s. He was looking at his childhood sweetheart. Other memories joined the first to turn it sour.

The girl was studying him with intense curiosity. She detected a friend. When Nicholas smiled up at her, she even gave him a small wave of the hand. She was not Mary Parr any longer. She was the deaf-mute daughter of Mary Whetcombe. Though she had something of her mother’s beauty, she had hair that was much lighter and a cast of feature that was subtly different. The girl liked him. In that brief moment while he waited at the bottom of the stairs, an affinity existed between them. Nicholas was still wondering what that affinity might be when the maidservant’s shoes clattered on the oak treads. The girl vanished and the flat-faced woman returned.

‘She will not see you today, sir,’ she said.

‘Did you give my name?’ he asked in hurt tones.

‘My mistress is indisposed, sir.’

‘She will surely receive me.’

‘I have given you her reply.’ The maidservant tried to motion him towards the door. ‘This is a house of mourning.’

‘Tell her I have important news for her.’

‘Call again tomorrow.’

‘I know what happened to Susan Deakin.’

The maidservant’s manner changed at once and she threw up her hands to clutch at her puffy cheeks. Nicholas had rightly guessed that the dead girl belonged to a prosperous household. She had been in the employ of the late Matthew Whetcombe.

‘Where is Susan?’ said the maidservant anxiously.

‘I will tell your mistress.’

‘Have you seen her? Is she well?’

‘You will hear all in time,’ said Nicholas discreetly. ‘Susan was servant of the house, I believe.’

‘Bless you, sir, yes. Like her mother before her. Susan followed in Joan Deakin’s footsteps.’

‘Is her mother still alive?’

The maidservant shook her head. ‘Dead, sir. Years ago.’

‘And was Susan a reliable girl?’

‘None more so,’ she said. ‘Susan worked as hard as anyone in the house and took care of Miss Lucy. We were so surprised when she ran away from the house.’

‘Ran away?’

But the maidservant had said enough and retreated into a watchful silence. The stranger would not be received. She had given her message and must show him out. Nicholas Bracewell was a name she had heard often but it was evidently not welcome there. The arrival of the visitor had had such a powerful effect on Mary Whetcombe that she had needed time to recover, and Barnard Sweete had been equally discomfited. The maidservant judged the newcomer to be the son of Robert Bracewell, and the father was no longer allowed into the house. A man who could cause upset simply by calling there must be shown the door.

‘You must go, sir,’ she insisted.

‘Commend me to your mistress,’ he said. ‘Tell her that I will lodge at the Dolphin in the High Street. It is but a small step from here and I can easily be reached.’

‘Good day, sir.’

‘Remember the name. Nicholas Bracewell.’

The maidservant remembered it only too well as a cause of mild panic in the hall upstairs. She was anxious to hear about Susan Deakin but feared the tidings were not good. Nicholas was ushered to the door and out into the street. As he walked slowly away, he was conscious of being watched, and he turned around to gaze up at the house. Faces moved away from the windows of the hall but one remained at the window in the upper storey. Lucy Whetcombe waved to him again and held something up to him, but he could not see what it was. From that distance, the tiny wooden object was just a vague blob in her little hand. It never even crossed his mind that her doll might be Nicholas Bracewell.

Ellen was propelled by a mixture of envy and daring. Though she had enjoyed all she had seen of the work of Westfield’s Men, the role of the apprentices troubled her. Young boys could never be true women. Wigs and dresses only took the impersonation so far. It stopped short of completion. She had watched Lawrence Firethorn play a tender love scene with Richard Honeydew in one play then seduce the lad with equal skill in another, but on neither occasion had they kissed properly. Words took the place of embraces. Passion was distilled into blank verse. If she were on the stage, she believed, the feeling between the lovers would strike a deeper resonance, and it pained her that she would never be given the chance to prove it.

What she could not do in public, however, could perhaps be accomplished in private, and it was here that envy made way for daring. She had simpered and smiled as Judith Grace to lure him to her bedchamber, but a very different net was needed to land her catch this time. Firethorn would be on his guard. If her performance faltered in any degree, he would unmask her. Ellen’s daring, however, had another level to it and it was one she kept even from her husband. Firethorn was a dupe, but he was also a handsome, virulent man who gave off a shower of sparks whenever he stepped onstage. She would not have to dissemble on one score. His attraction for her was real. Ellen was confident of her ability to draw him to her bedchamber but she was less certain about what she would do then. Her task was to distract him while her husband was searching Firethorn’s room at the Jolly Sailor. There was one sure way to distract any red-blooded man.

There was a respectful tap on the door.

‘Are you ready?’ asked a voice.

‘Come on in and judge for yourself.’

The door opened and a coachman lumbered in. Israel Gunby was transformed by his hat and long coat. He gaped in astonishment when he saw his wife. Ellen had undergone a metamorphosis. The winsome daughter who was such an effective shield behind whom to hide had now become a lady of aristocratic mien. She wore a dress of dark blue satin that was padded and quilted at the shoulders, stiffened with whalebone, lavishly embroidered with a paler blue and slashed to reveal an even richer lining of pure silk. The shoes, which peeped between the low hem, were silvered. The wig, which swept her whole face upwards, was auburn. Make-up had turned an attractive young woman into a stunning one. Israel Gunby would not have recognised her at first glance.

‘He will throw himself at your feet, my love,’ he said.

‘I will expect no less.’

‘This is our greatest triumph, Ellen.’

‘Then let it begin.’

They sallied forth and made the short journey to the Jolly Sailor. An assignation had already been set up that afternoon. During the performance of Love and Fortune, she had established such a rapport with Lawrence Firethorn from her carefully chosen seat that it needed only a note to fix the time and place. Though they possessed no coach, her coachman nevertheless conducted her into a private room at the Jolly Sailor then bowed his way out. Firethorn was enraptured. For several seconds, he could do nothing more than gaze in wonderment at her and inhale the bewitching fragrance. He wore doublet and breeches of black velvet. Both were embroidered and slashed to show a blood-red satin lining. He removed his hat and gave a low bow then held her hand to bestow the softest kiss on it.

Ellen felt an exhilaration that fuelled her daring.

‘You were majestic this afternoon,’ she complimented.

‘I dedicated my performance to you.’

‘It earned my deepest appreciation.’

‘My sole aim was to please such a beautiful woman.’ He beamed at her. ‘Lawrence Firethorn is at your service. May I know the name of the angel who has deigned to visit me?’

‘Penelope, sir.’

‘Penelope,’ he said, caressing the name with his voice. ‘Penelope, Penelope, Penelope! It is engraved on my heart hereafter. Sweet Penelope of the Jolly Sailor.’

‘This is no fit place for me, sir,’ she said with crisp disapproval. ‘I agreed to meet but not to sup with you. Westfield’s Men are below in the taproom. I would not stay alone with you up here while they joke and snigger. I demand privacy, Master Firethorn. I require discretion.’ She gave him a slow smile. ‘I am married.’

‘Put your trust in me.’

‘Consider my reputation, sir.’

‘I will.’

She crossed to him and issued her orders in a whisper that stroked his ear with such delicacy that it brought a beatific smile to his face. Ellen savoured each moment.

‘Come to the Black Swan in Wine Street an hour from now,’ she instructed. ‘My husband will not return until late. Use the rear entrance of the inn so that you will not be seen. Wait for my coachman. He will bring you to me.’

‘Life can afford no higher state of joy.’

‘An hour, Master Firethorn.’

‘Lawrence,’ he corrected.

‘Lawrence,’ she repeated dreamily. Then she permitted a light kiss on the cheek and withdrew. ‘Farewell, kind sir.’

‘The Black Swan.’

‘I will be there.’

She opened the door and flitted away like a ghost.

Nicholas Bracewell was shattered by her rejection of him and he could find no explanation of this behaviour that would soothe his hurt feelings. Mary Whetcombe was in serious trouble of some kind and she had sent a message to Nicholas as a last resort. He had responded. Throughout a long and hazardous journey, he was sustained by the idea that she desperately needed him and he put his life at risk to get to Barnstaple. He had assumed from the start that Susan Deakin, as he now knew her to be, was a servant in Mary’s household, and the short voyage from Bristol had both reinforced this assumption and given him a valuable insight into her domestic circumstances. If Mary gave a cry for help, why did she refuse to see the man who answered it at such great personal cost? Since she sent Susan Deakin to London, why was she so uninterested in the girl’s fate?

The visit to Crock Street had produced one result. Lucy Whetcombe seemed to know him. During a momentary encounter at the house, he felt a bond being forged without quite daring to believe what it might be. Was Lucy part of the reason that her mother refused to admit him? Whose were the other faces at the window? What had the girl been holding when she waved to him? Why did her hair and complexion remind him of someone else? Who was she?

There was a possible way to unravel that mystery. Nicholas left his room at the Dolphin Inn and came out into Joy Street. Turning down the first lane, he went through to the open land on which St Peter’s Church stood. It had altered since he had last seen it but it still had the same power to wound him. He let himself into the churchyard and went first to his mother’s grave, running an affectionate finger over the name that was carved in the moss-covered stone. There was no doubt about the date and cause of his mother’s death. His hatred of his father momentarily stirred, but he put the death from his mind. It was a marriage and a birth that had brought him there.

Nicholas went into the church and other memories flew around him like carrion crows. They pecked so greedily at his mind that he lifted an arm to brush them away. A young curate came over with pop-eyed curiosity and welcomed him. Nicholas asked a favour and the curate was happy to oblige. The visitor was soon poring over a ledger that was kept at the rear of the building. The leather-bound volume had its counterpart in every church in England. Henry VIII, father of the present Queen, had decreed that all births, marriages and deaths in a parish had to be scrupulously recorded. Nicholas flicked over the pages with gathering emotion.

He found the date of the wedding first. Mary Parr had married Matthew Whetcombe on a Saturday in June. Nicholas was shocked that it seemed so soon after his flight from the town. He could not blame Mary for marrying someone else when he was gone, but she might have waited a decent interval and she could certainly have chosen someone more worthy of her than Matthew Whetcombe. The merchant was an industrious man with a flair for trade but he was otherwise a highly unattractive character. Mary had sworn she would never wed a man like that, and it bruised Nicholas to see how easily and how soon that vow had been broken.

Nicholas turned to the front of the parish register and read the sonorous words that chimed out like a great bell.

Here followeth all the names of such as have been christened within the parish of Bar’ from the xth day of October in the year of our Lord God a thousand five hundred xxxviii until the Annunciation of our lady next following according to the king’s graces injunction and his viceregent the lord Thomas Cromwell lord privy seal and Knight of the Garter.

The commandment was dated 1538. Nicholas spared a fleeting thought for Thomas Cromwell whose name enforced the edict. Two years later, he had fallen from favour and was executed with barbarous inefficiency. Somewhere in England was a parish register in which his own death was recorded. But it was the start of a life that fascinated Nicholas Bracewell now and he turned the pages with a trembling hand until he found the correct one. His finger went down the list until he saw her name. Lucy Whetcombe. The girl had been christened barely ten months after the wedding. Matthew Whetcombe was named as the father but her date of birth suggested a startling possibility. Nicholas thought of Lucy’s hair and complexion. He thought of those eyes. He recalled the stab of recognition he felt when he first caught sight of her. He remembered something that Mary had been trying to tell him on their last night together. It had all happened so long ago that he could not be certain of dates and times, but an idea now began to gnaw at him. The girl might have just cause to respond to him. Though he was flying in the face of recorded fact, he asked himself if there was a special bond between them.

Could Lucy Whetcombe actually be his daughter?

Gideon Livermore’s anger was all violence and bluster but Barnard Sweete did not submit to it this time. He replied with an acid sarcasm that stung the merchant hard.

‘Nicholas Bracewell is dead,’ mocked the lawyer. ‘And even if he lives, there is no way that he will get within ten miles of the town.’

‘He will never leave it alive, I know that!’

‘Where are your men, Gideon? Still waiting under some tree to jump out on him? Still chasing every shadow?’

‘Leave off, Barnard.’

‘You stop him by road so he comes by sea.’

‘Leave off, I say!’

‘Lamparde will kill him. What happened to Lamparde?’

‘He failed.’

‘There is nothing else but failure here, Gideon!’

They were in the lawyer’s chambers and he was not mincing his words. Barnard Sweete had been rocked when the name of Nicholas Bracewell had been brought into the hall. At the very time he was securing Mary Whetcombe’s approval of the will, the one man who might repudiate it had come knocking on the door. Partnership with Gideon Livermore was highly productive but it rested on a division of labour. Sweete handled the legal side of things and he left the more disagreeable work to the merchant. The latter had clearly not fulfilled his side of the bargain.

Gideon Livermore tried to reassert his authority.

‘My men will take care of him at the Dolphin.’

‘Are you insane?’ said the other. ‘Nicholas Bracewell is no stray poacher you catch on your land and whom you kill to save the law the trouble of prosecuting him. This man is known in the town. He has a family here. He has been seen on the quay, at the house, at the church and at the inn. This is not work for another of your Lampardes. We’d have the whole of Barnstaple about our ears. Call off your dogs. It must be handled another way.’

‘Teach me how.’

‘I’ll speak with him.’

‘We buy him off?’

‘No, Gideon,’ said Sweete with exasperation. ‘Money will not tempt this man. We first find out how much Bracewell knows. Then I will reason with him.’

‘What if he speaks with Mary?’

‘She turned him away and will do so again.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I saw her quail when his name was announced.’

‘Yet the woman sent for him to come.’

‘No,’ said the lawyer. ‘We were wrong about that. Susan Deakin was not sent. She went to London of her own accord.’

‘But why?’

‘That is what Bracewell has come to find out.’

‘Stop him, man. Tie him up in legal knots.’

‘I’ll do that well enough. But we have another problem which vexes us here. We must keep him away from his father.’

‘That is no great matter. He hates Robert Bracewell.’

‘We must feed that hate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is to our advantage.’

‘Bringing them together might serve us even better,’ said Livermore. ‘Robert is a testy fellow when roused. If father and son come to blows, it will send Nicholas on his way the sooner and all our cares are gone.’

‘You forget something, Gideon.’

‘What?’

‘Matthew Whetcombe’s will.’

‘Forget it!’ Livermore chuckled. ‘Why, man, I damn near invented the thing. You and the others were witnesses. We heard a nuncupative will from a man too ill to speak. You wrote down the terms as I dictated them.’

‘I talk of his earlier will.’

‘You said you destroyed it.’

‘Matthew kept a copy.’

The merchant bristled. ‘Where is it?’

‘Nobody knows,’ said Sweete. ‘But if it is found, it could yet bring us down.’

Gideon Livermore now had an excuse to rail once more at Barnard Sweete. It was the latter’s job to take care of the legalities and to leave no loopholes. A copy of the earlier will could cause as much damage as the unwanted visitor from London. Both needed to be instantly nullified. Purple with rage, Livermore banged the desk and cursed royally. It was only when his temper finally abated that he thought of a question he had forgotten to ask.

‘How is the father involved here?’ he said. ‘What does he have to do with a will made by Matthew Whetcombe?’

‘Robert Bracewell was one of the witnesses.’

Lawrence Firethorn was always punctual for an assignation. He arrived at the rear door of the Black Swan at the time set and found the coachman waiting for him. Firethorn still wore the suit of black velvet that he had on earlier, but he had now added a grey velvet cloak fringed with gold braid. Wrapped around him, it gave him a conspiratorial air that helped to heighten his anticipation. Forbidden joys were the sweetest. The betrayal of a husband spiced the occasion. He and Penelope were confederates in sin.

He followed the coachman up the winding backstairs and along a passageway. The man knocked, received a command then opened the door. He held it ajar so that Firethorn could enter then he closed it after the visitor and departed. Penelope was waiting for him. She sat in a high-backed chair beside a table that was laden with wine and fruit. He could see why she had preferred to entertain him there rather than in the more mundane surroundings of the Jolly Sailor. The chamber was large and luxurious with rich hangings on the walls and at the windows. It was divided by a curtain, which she had drawn back at the edge to reveal the four-poster that waited for them. Feather-bedded delight was at hand. They would drink and sup and fall into each other’s arms.

‘Take off your cloak, sir,’ she purred.

‘I will so.’

He removed it with a flourish, tossed it onto a chair then gave her the sort of bow he used at the end of a performance on stage. Her hand came forward and he kissed it with gentle ardour. The gloves that she had earlier worn had now been discarded. She felt the firmness of his lips and the heat of his breath. She liked the tickle of his beard against her skin.

Ellen was now quivering inwardly with excitement and struggling not to lose control. Fear of discovery had made her precautions thorough. She had placed the candles with judicious precision to throw light away from her. When Firethorn sat opposite her at the table, he could see her through a golden glow that set off her auburn hair while subduing the contours of her face. What she could see was a man in a thousand, an actor whose commanding presence onstage could have an even greater effect in private, a handsome gallant who smiled at her through the gloom. Ellen was safe from discovery but not from herself.

‘Will you take wine, sir?’ she offered.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, picking up the bottle to fill the two goblets. ‘To you, my jewel!’

‘To us!’

‘Amen!’

They clinked their goblets and sipped at the wine. He peered through the gap in the curtains and let out a soft laugh that was as eloquent as his finest soliloquy. Lawrence Firethorn was no slow and ponderous wooer. A glass of wine was all that he needed to smooth his path to the headier intoxication of the bed. Ellen was in a quandary. Schooled simply to divert the actor, she was being pulled towards him. The envy she had felt while watching Richard Honeydew now surfaced again and her daring eased her on to play the kind of love scene that no boy could even imagine. She would never have such an opportunity again. Twenty minutes in the arms of Lawrence Firethorn was a whole career on the stage.

‘Wait for me, sir,’ she said, rising to her feet.

He was distressed. ‘You are leaving me?’

‘Only for a few seconds. Be patient.’

Firethorn understood and raised his goblet to her in acknowledgement. She was going to undress behind the curtain and prepare herself for him. His beauteous Penelope blew him a kiss then withdrew into the other part of the room, tugging the curtain after her to close off the gap. He could hear her picking at the fastenings of her attire.

Ellen was removing her lawn ruff when apprehension came to smother her lust. She was taking too great a risk. If she took him to bed, she surrendered the initiative and removed her disguise. A fiery lover might disturb her wig. Even in the dark, he would recognise her. And if he did not, there was always the danger that her husband would return and catch them there. The loss of a moment of fleeting madness in the arms of Lawrence Firethorn was preferable to the end of her partnership with Israel Gunby. Sanity returned and she put the original plan into action. Gathering up her bag, she stole toward the other door. She would be out of the inn before he even knew that she was gone.

But Lawrence Firethorn had waited long enough. With an impatient hand, he drew back the curtain with a loud swish and stood before her. Ellen spun round in terror. His laugh of triumph filled the room. He drew his sword and advanced.

Israel Gunby walked quickly to the Jolly Sailor, parted with a few coins to learn the whereabouts of Firethorn’s chamber then went straight upstairs. There was nobody about in the dark passageway. Standing outside Firethorn’s door, he pulled out a small knife but was given no time to pick the lock with it. An ancient chamberlain came trudging downstairs from the upper storey. The light from his candle illumined the bald head and the wisps of white hair. His beard was salted with white and he wore a patch over one eye. The man’s whole body had sagged in. Gunby caught the smell of cheese and backed away slightly.

The chamberlain had a Gloucestershire burr.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

‘I am coachman to the Lord Mayor,’ said Gunby with pride. ‘Master Firethorn comes to supper with my master and I am to drive him there. But the gentleman has left a box in his chamber and sent me to fetch it for him.’

‘Did he not give you a key?’

‘It does not seem to fit.’

‘Then let me try this one, sir.’

The chamberlain shuffled to the door and lifted the rings of keys that hung from his belt. After trying a couple in the lock, he found one that fitted.

‘Go on in, sir,’ he invited, opening the door. ‘Call to me when you leave and I will lock it against thieves once more. We cannot be too careful.’

‘Indeed not.’

Israel Gunby went into the room and shut the door behind him. He went straight to the bed and bent down to put a hand beneath it. The heavy capcase came out and he began to undo the straps. Seconds later a heavy purse sat in his palm and he weighed its value with satisfaction. Pushing the capcase away again, he turned to leave but the door was now open again and the doddery chamberlain seemed to have grown in size. A rapier was held menacingly in his hand.

Lawrence Firethorn tore off the wig and flung it on the floor. He had given one private performance that had not been commissioned. Israel Gunby stood there petrified. He had himself escorted Firethorn to a chamber in the Black Swan. How could the actor be in two places at once?

‘Sit down and wait, sir,’ ordered Firethorn. ‘Owen Elias will soon be here with your wife. When you steal money from a man, you only injure his purse. But when you mock his profession, you hurt his pride and that will not be borne.’

Israel Gunby smiled in respect and then began to laugh. A man who had made a career out of duping others had himself been turned into a dupe. He relished the irony.

‘You will not laugh on the gallows,’ said Firethorn, ‘but Westfield’s Men will have cause for mirth. We will not only get back the money you stole from us, we will collect a handsome reward for the capture of Israel Gunby.’

‘You deserve it, sir,’ said the other. ‘You deserve it.’

He was still laughing when the others arrived.

Nicholas Bracewell knew that he was being followed. The man had trailed him from the moment he left Crock Street. He was lurking in the churchyard when Nicholas came out. It was not a threatening presence like that of Lamparde but it still irked him. The sky was darkening now and the churchyard was dappled with shadow. Nicholas pretended to make another visit to his mother’s grave and knelt in silent prayer. The man crept up behind a yew tree and watched. When Nicholas rose, he slipped his dagger from its scabbard and turned the blade inwards so that the handle showed. He walked past the tree where the man was concealed and went around the angle of a vault. The man waited a few seconds and followed but his was a short journey. As he peered around the edge of the vault, he could not see anyone leaving the churchyard. He moved a pace forward and Nicholas struck hard, bringing the handle of the dagger down on the back of the man’s head, knocking him senseless.

When Nicholas reached the gate, he felt another pair of eyes on him and fingered his dagger once more but it was not needed this time. The figure who stepped out from behind the wall was small and friendly. Lucy Whetcombe looked at him with a hesitant excitement then offered her hand. She trusted him. The affinity that he had felt earlier was stronger than ever now. They seemed to know each other. As if understanding his need, she led Nicholas Bracewell back the way that she had come.

Mary Whetcombe sat in the fore-chamber of her house and wept bitterly. It was the room where she had spent most of her marriage. While her husband slept in the Great Chamber next door, she had sought a measure of freedom from him but it was only illusory. His spirit followed her everywhere and there had been many times when he had forced her to join him in the marital bed. Mary had never stayed the night. That was one concession she had refused to make. Matthew Whetcombe had died and released her from all that, but he was now imposing another form of imprisonment from beyond the grave. The terms of his will were punitive. To retain any of the things she valued, she would have to consider the horror of marriage to another rich merchant. Gideon Livermore would be another version of Matthew Whetcombe.

She was completely distraught. At the moment when she was contemplating a hideous future, a name had come out of her past to intensify her distress. After all those long and remorseful years, Nicholas Bracewell had come back. When she had needed him, he had gone away from the town. Why had he returned now and what did he hope to do? Mary could not bear him to see her in this state. She had been young and happy when they were last together. That world had gone.

The tap on the door made her sit up on the bed.

‘Go away,’ she called. ‘I must not be disturbed.’

There was a louder knock and she dabbed at her eyes.

‘Leave me alone. I will see no one!’

But the caller was insistent. The tapping got louder and longer and continued until she went across to unlock the door and fling it open with anger. Lucy’s whitened knuckles were raised to strike again but Mary did not even see her daughter. It was the tall man who waited quietly behind the girl who seized all her attention. She let out a gasp.

‘Nicholas!’

‘I must speak with you, Mary.’

‘Why are you here? How did you get into the house?’

‘Lucy showed me a way in.’

The girl looked up hopefully at her mother who noticed her at last. Since Nicholas had been turned away from the front door, she had brought him in through her secret entrance in the granary. Mary was torn between astonishment and alarm. Nicholas was still trying to think calmly. The sheer joy of seeing her again was marred by her patent suffering. Only the girl seemed to be happy that all three of them were together. With a tremor of delight, Lucy held both their hands for a second then ran off quickly downstairs and left them alone together.

‘May I come in?’ asked Nicholas softly.

‘You should not be here.’

‘We must talk, Mary.’

She backed into the room and he went after her, closing the door behind him. When he glanced around the room, his eye fell on the bed and he flinched slightly. Their last meeting had also been in a bedchamber though it lacked the elegant furnishings of this one. When Mary sat down, he brought a chair to place opposite her. They stared at each other in hurt silence for some time. Faded memories of what had drawn them together were still there, but they were overlaid with things that would keep them forever apart. Nicholas saw that the gulf that had opened could not be bridged. All that he could hope to do was to call softly across it.

‘You sent for me,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘But the messenger came to London.’

‘Messenger?’

‘Susan Deakin.’

‘Dear God!’ she said, bringing her hands to her mouth. ‘Is that where Susan went? All the way to London?’

‘I thought she had come from you, Mary.’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘We did not even speak.’

‘But you said that Susan came to find you.’

‘Someone stopped her reaching me.’

‘Then where is she now?’

Nicholas tried to put it gently. ‘Susan will not be returning here, I fear,’ he said.

‘She is surely not dead!’

His expression was answer enough and Mary went off into a paroxysm of weeping. Nicholas put a comforting arm around her but it was minutes before she was able to speak again. Her body still heaved and shook as she looked up at him. A new and deeper level of despair came into her eyes.

‘How did it happen?’

‘That need not concern you,’ he said.

‘How did it happen? I must know, Nick.’

‘She was poisoned.’

‘Lord in heaven — no!’

She trembled on the edge of hysteria again and he kept his arm around her, but Mary Whetcombe did not collapse again. Guilt and sadness consumed her. Her voice was a faraway murmur of pain.

‘I killed that girl,’ she said.

‘No, Mary.’

‘She went to London because of me.’

‘You did not send her.’

‘Susan wanted to do all that she could. She was a headstrong girl and would not be ruled by anyone.’ Mary raised her shoulders in a shrug of remorse. ‘I was sorely troubled. I needed help. Susan thought she could find it in London.’

‘But why did she come to me?’ asked Nicholas.

‘There was nobody else.’

‘The girl did not even know me.’

‘Your name was often spoken in this house.’

Mary detached herself from him and walked a few paces away before standing beside a small table. She wrestled with a vestigial fidelity to her husband and then glanced down at the documents that Barnard Sweete had left for her. Matthew Whetcombe had shown her no loyalty and she owed none to him now. He had cut her completely adrift.

‘Matthew and I often argued,’ she said, tossing a look towards the other bedchamber. ‘Your name was much used by him in those arguments. He spoke it with great bitterness and always in a raised voice. You are known here, Nick. To every servant in the household, Susan among them.’ She turned away from him. ‘Then there was your father.’

It brought him to his feet. ‘My father?’

‘He often came here at one time.’

‘Why?’

‘Matthew and he did business together.’

‘You let my father come here, Mary?’ he accused.

‘Only at my husband’s invitation,’ she said. ‘The name of Bracewell is familiar in this house. Your father never talked about you. He wanted to believe you had died at sea.’ She turned to face him. ‘He looked so much like you, Nick.’

‘How did you know I was in London?’

‘From my husband.’

‘Matthew?’

‘He prospered, Nick. He made a fortune. But the more Matthew had, the more he wanted, and he set up a company in London. He went there last September. They took him to all the theatres.’

‘The Queen’s Head was amongst them, I’ll wager.’

‘He saw Westfield’s Men three times. The last time …’

‘He saw me.’ She nodded then bit her tongue. ‘There is more to come, Mary. Do not spare my feelings. What did your husband say about me?’

‘Matthew could be very cruel.’ She took a deep breath and blurted it out. ‘If I had married you, he said, I would be the wife of a vagabond in a theatre company. He gave me all this — you could offer me nothing!’

‘In some sense, that is true,’ admitted Nicholas sadly. ‘You were better off with Matthew Whetcombe, after all.’

‘I was not!’ she retorted vehemently. ‘I was married to a man I despised instead of to one I loved. Matthew may have given me all this — but he has taken it away again now!’

The force of her outburst had distracted them from the noise of the opening door. Lucy stood there watching them with anxiety. Mary recovered quickly and went across to close the door after drawing the child in. Lucy was carrying her collection of dolls. She set the bundle down in front of Nicholas and unrolled it with great care. One by one, she stood the dolls in a line. When Lucy picked up the last one, she offered it to Nicholas.

‘Take it,’ said Mary. ‘I think it is you.’

‘Me?’

‘Susan and Lucy made the dolls between them. Matthew would have beaten them again if he had known. That is you.’

Nicholas took the doll and looked at its fair hair.

‘But they had no idea what I looked like.’

‘They saw your father.’

‘This is me?’ he said with surprise, and Lucy nodded vigorously as she read his lips. He thanked her with a smile then looked at Mary. ‘Am I so important in Lucy’s life?’

‘Yes, Nick.’

The girl was down on her knees, moving the other dolls about and placing them into little groups. Nicholas looked over her and asked a question with his eyes. The idea had almost become a certainty in his mind, but Mary replied with glistening tears and a shake of the head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Lucy is not yours.’

‘Can you be sure?’

‘She was Matthew’s child. I should know! He spent most of his time blaming me for her. That is why he’s struck back at me now. Because of Lucy and because of …’ Her voice trailed away.

Nicholas watched Lucy happily at play, at once disappointed and relieved by the news. Mary ran an affectionate hand through the girl’s hair, but Lucy did not look up. Her mother turned back to her visitor.

‘Susan was Lucy’s closest friend,’ she said. ‘Her only real friend in some ways. I can never tell her that Susan has been …’ She put a hand to her face. ‘Lucy would be heartbroken.’

‘Why did Susan Deakin come for me?’ he asked.

‘She knew that I needed help.’

‘How?’

Mary picked up the documents from the table and handed them to Nicholas. He read the first page of the will and understood the nature of the crisis at once.

‘Your husband made this will?’

‘They say that he did.’

‘It cuts you right out of the estate. Apart from a house to live in and a small income, you get nothing. It all goes to Gideon Livermore.’ Nicholas knew the name and spoke it with contempt. ‘Livermore takes precedence over a man’s wife and child. This will is an insult. It is obscene!’

‘The lawyer assures me it is legal.’

‘He even inherits the Mary.’

‘That was Matthew’s pride and joy.’

‘It should be yours now,’ said Nicholas. ‘You are being abused here, Mary. This will must be contested.’

‘I have no means to do that,’ she complained. ‘They are all against me here. The lawyer, his partner, Gideon Livermore and even the vicar. Who can hold up against all those?’

‘We can,’ he said. ‘Together.’

‘This is not your fight, Nick.’

‘It is, Mary. Susan Deakin taught me that.’ He held up the document. ‘This is a nuncupative will. Did Matthew not write out a will of his own?’

‘Yes, but this second one rescinds it.’

‘Where is the first?’

‘It was lodged with the lawyer but destroyed when this new will was made.’ She sighed helplessly. ‘Matthew had a copy of the first will but we do not know where he kept it.’

‘Who were the witnesses?’

‘Why?’

‘They will know what was in it.’

‘Barnard Sweete was one. He is Matthew’s lawyer. He swears the second will is almost a replica of the first.’

‘Then why need to make it?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Can the other witnesses support what this lawyer says?’

‘I fear they will, Nick. They are mostly the same men who witnessed the second will. There is but one exception.’

‘Is he an honest man?’

‘Only you will know that.’

‘Tell me who he is and I will go to him at once. This will turns Gideon Livermore into the master here. You would be thrown out of your own house.’

Mary lowered her head. ‘He wants me to stay.’

Nicholas understood and his anger soared. The will was not just being used as a way to deprive Mary Whetcombe of her rightful inheritance. It was a crude lever to get her into the bed of an ambitious merchant. Susan Deakin had not understood the details of her employer’s plight but she knew enough to summon Nicholas. She had been killed in an attempt to cover deceit and gross malpractice. A legal will did not need a professional killer to enforce its terms. The document was rigged for the benefit of others and it needed to be contested. A huge fortune was at stake. One honest man might guide it into the right hands. If Nicholas could have some indication of the contents of the first will, he could carry the fight forward. But he desperately needed the other witness.

‘Who was the man, Mary?’ he said.

‘Your father — Robert Bracewell.’