The Silent Woman

Chapter Two

The meeting was held at Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch because it was imperative to keep well clear of the fulminating landlord at the Queen’s Head. On that point, at least, there was general agreement. On a more pressing issue, however, there was deep dissension, and it came from a most unlikely person.

‘No, no, no!’ said Edmund Hoode firmly. ‘I will not.’

‘Leave off these jests,’ cooed his host.

‘I speak in earnest, Lawrence. I will not quit London.’

‘Stay here and we starve,’ said Barnaby Gill with utter distaste for the notion. ‘Westfield’s Men must tour. I quiver at the thought of wasting my God-given genius on the heathen swine of the provinces, but there is no help for it. Actors who lose a theatre must seek elsewhere for another.’

‘Edmund will join us in that quest,’ said Firethorn with assurance. ‘He would never desert us in our hour of need. Betrayal is foreign to his nature. He would sooner die than see his company struggle off into the wilderness. The name of Hoode is a seal of loyalty and comradeship.’

‘You’ll not persuade me, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘I merely remind you of your reputation and honour.’

‘They are needed here at home.’

‘Home is where the company is,’ chanted Gill with a petulant flick of his hand. ‘It is your duty to come.’

‘Duty and obligation,’ reinforced Firethorn.

‘I do not give a fig for either.’

‘Edmund!’

‘Pray excuse me, gentlemen. I am wanted elsewhere.’

‘Stay!’

Firethorn barked a command that would have stopped a cavalry charge in its tracks then he placed his ample frame in the doorway to block his friend’s departure. Hoode met his steely gaze with equanimity. They stood there for some minutes, locked in a trial of brute strength. Firethorn went through his full repertoire of glaring, eyebrow raising, lip curling and teeth grinding, but all to no avail. Barnaby Gill threw in an occasional flaring of the nostril and stamping of the foot but even this additional parade of displeasure failed to bring the miscreant to his senses.

The three men were all sharers with the company, ranked players who were listed in the royal patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus among the privileged few in the profession to be accorded legal recognition. Being sharers entitled them to first choice of the major parts in all plays that were performed as well as a portion of any profits made by the company. There were a number of other sharers but policy was effectively controlled by this trio. To be more exact, it was devised by Lawrence Firethorn and then placed before his two colleagues for their comment and approval. Barnaby Gill, conceited and temperamental, always challenged Firethorn’s authority as a matter of course, and the house in Shoreditch had frequently echoed with the sound of their acrimonious exchanges. Edmund Hoode’s accustomed role was that of peacemaker and he had reconciled the squabbling rivals more times than he chose to recall, yet here was this same gentle, inoffensive man, this moon-faced romantic, this poet and dreamer, this voice of calm and moderation, this apostle of friendship, daring to abandon his fellows at a time of acute crisis. It was unthinkable.

Firethorn shattered the tense silence with a bellow.

‘Obey me, man! Or, by this hand, I’ll tie you to a hurdle and drag you along with us.’

Hoode was unmoved by the threat. ‘I will not go.’

‘You will.’

‘Take another in my place.’

‘God’s tits, Edmund! You must come!’

He attacked the renegade with a burst of expletives that turned the air blue and dislodged clouds of dust from the overhead beams. Hoode winced but he did not weaken. It was time for Barnaby Gill to take over and to replace apoplectic bluster with cool reasoning. Edmund Hoode was the resident actor-playwright, the creative source of the company, the only true begetter of that gallery of characters immortalised on the stage by the sheer flair of Firethorn and Gill. The way to appeal to him was through his work.

‘We will perform your new play, Edmund,’ he said.

‘It is not yet finished.’

‘Use the time out of London to complete it.’ Gill took his arm and guided him across the parlour to the bow window. ‘The Merchant of Calais will be your masterpiece. We may try it out on tour and polish it until it dazzles like the sun. Anything penned by Edmund Hoode commands attention but this play will lift you high above your peers.’ Personal interest intruded. ‘Is my part written yet? Does it have true passion? Are there songs for me? And I must have a dance.’ He squeezed Hoode’s arm as he offered further flattery. ‘The Merchant of Calais will take the stage by storm. Does that prospect not entice you?’

‘No,’ said the playwright angrily. ‘I do not wish to take the stage by storm in front of farting country bumpkins in some draughty village hall. Is that the only carrot you can dangle, Barnaby?’ He turned to face his colleague and brushed away his hand. ‘The Merchant of Calais was to have been performed at The Rose in Bankside before the cream of London. I’ll not let it be played in a barn to please the vulgar taste of rustics with a piece of straw in their mouths. Find some other argument. This one falters.’

‘Mine will not,’ said Firethorn, seizing the initiative once more and striding across the room to confront him. ‘You have no choice but to travel with us, Edmund. Loyalty demands it. Friendship compels it. Legal process enforces it.’

‘I am deaf to all entreaty.’

‘Hell and damnation! You are a sharer!’

‘Then I will share in the joys of London.’

‘You are contracted to serve us.’

‘I do that best by resting from the company.’

‘You have no choice, man!’

‘My decision is final.’

‘This wrings my heart,’ said Gill, striking a pose.

‘It rots my innards!’ howled Firethorn. ‘No more evasion. We are sworn fellows in a sacred brotherhood. Deny us and you deny God himself. Look me in the face, Edmund.’ His voice took on an eerie stillness. ‘Now hear me plain. Cease this nonsense and pledge yourself to this tour. Or never call me friend again.’

The warning had the power of a blow and Hoode recoiled from it. His eyes moistened, his cheeks coloured and his Adam’s apple grew restless. His resolve had finally cracked and he was visibly squirming in pain as he wrestled with his dilemma. Westfield’s Men were his family. To foresake them now would be an act of malign cruelty, but as contrition began to flood through him and make his lower lip tremble, an even louder prompting filled his ears. Edmund Hoode could simply not leave London. With a supreme effort of will, he mastered all his misgivings then made a swift but dignified exit. The ultimate plea had failed.

Torn between rage and sadness, Firethorn gesticulated impotently, shocked that the most reliable member of his company should dare to reject him. Hoode’s behaviour was quite baffling until Barnaby Gill snorted with contempt and provided the explanation.

‘This is woman’s work, Lawrence,’ he sneered.

‘Edmund? Never!’

‘The fool is in love.’

‘He is always in love, Barnaby. Suffering is the badge of his existence. There is no surer way to wallow in anguish than to scatter the seed of your affections on stony ground, and he does that every time. Edmund Hoode is a martyr to unrequited love. When he dies, they will make him the patron saint of pining hearts.’

‘He is not pining now.’

‘How say you?’

‘Some woman has at last returned his love and bewitched his legs. They will not stir from London lest he lose her. Our amorous poet is being led by the pizzle.’

‘Can this be so?’

‘Have you seen him so happy before? It is unnatural!’

Firethorn was astonished. ‘What simpleton of her sex would choose Edmund as her swain? He would sooner stroke her body with his verses than lay lascivious hands upon her. I will not believe it. Westfield’s Men are in dire need of him. Who is stupid enough to put the charms of a woman before the fate of his fellows?’

‘You are, Lawrence, to name but one.’

‘What!’

‘Have you so soon forgotten Beatrice Capaldi?’

‘Hold your serpent’s tongue!’

‘Then there was Mistress Par-’

‘Enough!’ roared Firethorn, glancing around with apprehension in case his wife should hear them from the kitchen. ‘I am not on trial here. It is Edmund Hoode who stands accused of corruption.’

‘He caught the disease from you,’ said Gill with a vindictive leer. ‘The infection is called the Itching Codpiece. It is compounded of naked folly and throbbing inflammation.’

‘Your own codpiece has itched enough when it caught the scent of a male varlet,’ retorted Firethorn vehemently. ‘At least — thanks be to heaven! — Edmund does not suffer from your contagion. He would never sell his soul for pouting lips and a pair of boyish buttocks.’

‘Enough! I’ll not endure this!’

Barnaby Gill stamped his foot so hard this time that it jarred his body and made his teeth rattle. He and Firethorn knew how to rub salt in each other’s wounds then add vinegar for full measure. They smarted together for a long time before common sense finally deprived them of their weapons and imposed a truce. Another brawl between them would not bring their errant poet back into the fold. Joint action had to be taken and swiftly. They shook hands on it.

‘We must find out who this woman is, Barnaby.’

‘Then pluck him from between her lusty thighs.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘That will be my office …’

Nicholas Bracewell removed another garment from its hook and folded it carefully before placing it in the basket. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, a conscientious soul with responsibility for making, altering and taking care of the costumes worn by the company, identified each one as it was packed away by the book holder, and he ticked it off on the list before him.

‘Item, one scarlet cloak faced with green velvet and silver lace,’ he intoned. ‘Item, one woman’s gown of cloth of gold. Item, one black velvet pea with gold lace and blue satin sleeves. Item, Charlemagne’s cloak with fur. Item, a hermit’s grey gown. Item, one white satin doublet. Item, one pair of embroidered paned hose scaled with black taffeta …’

Nicholas was about to fold the next garment when he noticed the scorch marks and set it aside. The antic coat had been used during The Devil’s Ride Through London and was one of many casualties. All the costumes worn by actors who fought the blaze were damaged, and many of those hanging in the tire-house had perished when the flames penetrated to that area. What fire had not destroyed, smoke had blackened. The foul smell still lingered in the material. It was the day after the tragedy and Nicholas had slipped unseen into the Queen’s Head with Hugh Wegges to salvage what they could from the tiring-house and add it to the larger stock of costumes, which was kept in a private room at the inn. It was important to make a proper inventory before the whole collection was moved to safer lodgings in the attic of Firethorn’s house. The list that the tireman would present to his employer would help to determine the plays that could be performed on tour.

‘The Devil will ride no more,’ said Wegges feelingly. ‘Not unless the whole cast goes naked for penance. The costumes are ruined, and I’ve no time to make new ones.’ A resigned note sounded. ‘Master Firethorn will not have room for me when the company moves on. I am like that antic coat you hold there — burnt out of my occupation.’

‘We shall return to London ere long,’ said Nicholas.

‘When we have no theatre?’

‘Our landlord may relent.’

‘And it may rain sovereigns!’ came the sarcastic reply. ‘Those of us set aside may never work with a company again.’

‘Take heart, Hugh. Bear up.’

But Nicholas did not feel as optimistic as he sounded. In order to tour, Westfield’s Men would have to reduce the size of the party to its bare essentials. The sharers would go along with the apprentices, but many of the hired men would be discarded. A tireman and his assistant were luxuries that could not be afforded when the troupe took to the road. Nicholas would be given the unhappy job of telling several actors, musicians and other members of the company that their services were no longer required. For men like Thomas Skillen, stagekeeper with Westfield’s Men since its creation, the parting could be final because he might conceivably have died before they returned. The defects of age, which debarred him from the multiple rigours of a long tour, were only kept at bay by the daily exercise of his functions behind the scenes. Without chores to do and underlings to berate, the venerable figure would soon go into decline.

It all served to increase the sense of guilt that Nicholas felt about the fire itself. Though he could not have foreseen the freak gust of wind that turned the glowing coals into a lethal inferno, it had been his idea to place the lighted brazier onstage in the final scene, and none of the praise that was afterwards heaped upon him for his bravery could hide the fact that he was somehow obscurely responsible for the disaster. Since he had inadvertently brought about the loss of the company’s venue, he vowed that he would restore it to them when the renovations were complete. That would entail more delicate restoration, the careful rebuilding of a relationship with the irascible landlord, and such work could not be rushed. In the short term, therefore, everything must be done to appease Alexander Marwood and all trace of his despised tenants removed from the premises.

When Nicholas and Hugh Wegges finished, they loaded their baskets on to a waiting cart to make a stealthy exit, but their secret visit to the inn did not go unnoticed.

‘Master Bracewell!’

‘Good day, sir,’ said Nicholas, throwing the words over his shoulder and eager to leave. ‘We must hurry.’

‘But I have news for you.’

The amiable voice made him turn and he saw a welcome face approaching. It belonged to Leonard, a huge, waddling barrel of a man with a beard still flecked with the foam of his last draught of ale. They were good friends, who had been drawn together while imprisoned in the Counter, and it was Nicholas who had secured Leonard’s employment at the Queen’s Head. The erstwhile brewer’s drayman had much to thank him for and did so on a regular basis with touching sincerity.

‘I did not know you were here,’ said Leonard.

‘It is but a brief visit,’ explained Nicholas, ‘and we would keep all knowledge of it from a certain landlord.’

‘He shall hear nothing from me.’

‘Thank you, Leonard.’

‘I have shielded your good name once already today.’

‘How so?’

‘By speaking to the youth.’

‘What youth?’

‘The one enquiring after Master Nicholas Bracewell. He came into the taproom this very hour, worn out by travel and by the weight of the message he bore.’

‘Message?’

‘It was for you, sir, and needed instant delivery.’

‘What did you tell this youth?’

‘Well,’ said Leonard, putting his hands on his broad hips to relate his tale, ‘my first task was to drag him away from Master Marwood, for when the young man spoke of you, my employer began to curse you and your company with such an uncivil tongue that you might have ravished his wife and run off with his daughter, Rose.’ Leonard chortled then he grew serious. ‘I took the youth aside and assured him of your worth, then — seeing his honesty — I gave him the address of your lodging in Bankside. I hope I did right, master.’

‘You did, Leonard. You say there was a message?’

‘I judged it to be important because it had come on such a long journey. It was his way of speaking, you see.’

‘Way of speaking?’

‘The youth. His voice was just like yours.’

Leonard tried to mimic his friend’s West Country accent, but his unskilled tongue mangled the consonants and tripped over the vowels. He shrugged an apology but he had made his point. Someone from North Devon had come in search of his friend. Nicholas sensed trouble. He thanked Leonard for his news, told Hugh Wegges to drive the cart and its cargo out to Shoreditch then took his leave of them both. He went out into Gracechurch Street and headed towards the river, dodging his way along the crowded thoroughfare and wondering what bad tidings were now pursuing him from the home that he had decisively turned his back on so many years ago.

Anne Hendrik was alarmed when her servant brought the youth in to her. The boy was bent almost double as he clutched at his midriff and yet he would not hear of any relief for his distress. His one concern was to deliver a message to her lodger. When Anne suggested that she might take charge of the missive until Nicholas returned, the youth explained that he had no letter to hand over. His was a verbal message, but he went off into such a fit of coughing that Anne doubted if he would be in a condition to utter it. She and her servant guided the visitor up to Nicholas’s chamber and made him rest on the bed. The servant was then dispatched to fetch a surgeon to the Bankside house. Anne was a compassionate woman who hated to see anyone in such pain, but when she tried to nurse the stricken messenger, she was once more waved away. Desperately ill as he clearly was, the youth still refused to be touched and begged to be left alone until Nicholas Bracewell came home.

Bankside was notorious for its haunts of pleasure and vice, but Anne Hendrik represented one of the pockets of respectability in the area. The English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she had inherited his house, his thriving little business in the adjacent premises and his positive attitude towards life. Instead of mourning his demise, therefore, she took over the management of the business and worked hard to improve its fortunes. She also took in a lodger — largely to provide a modicum of male company — but the relationship between them had developed well beyond the accepted one. In Nicholas Bracewell, she found an upright, caring and sensitive man, and he saw in her a handsome, intelligent and remarkable woman. They were kindred spirits and occasional lovers.

Nicholas had been enormously helpful to her and his solid presence had been a convenient refuge from the unwanted attentions of other admirers. Anne had never felt more in need of him than now. A sick youth was babbling his name as if he were some kind of saviour. She wanted Nicholas there to take control of the situation, to give succour to the ailing visitor and to calm the unsettling thoughts that were beginning to flit through her own mind. Even in their most intimate moments, Nicholas never talked about his life in his native Devon. It was a closed book to Anne. This youth had staggered in to open the pages of that book and she was not at all sure that she would enjoy reading them.

There was a dull thud from upstairs that made her jump then start towards the stairs. At the same time, however, the latch was lifted and Nicholas Bracewell came hurrying in. Anne had an impulse to fling herself gratefully into his arms but she was somehow held back. The expression of mingled anxiety and remorse was one she had never seen on his countenance before. He was both lover and stranger now.

‘Did anyone call here for me?’ he said.

‘A young man. He is still here and failing fast.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In your chamber. I have sent for the surgeon.’

‘What has the youth said?’

‘He will speak to none but you, Nick.’

She stood aside as he dashed up the staircase then she hurried after him, but they were far too late. When they went into the bedchamber, the youthful caller lay twisted on the floor at an unnatural angle, the face pallid and contorted with agony. Nicholas felt for signs of life but there were none. He caught a whiff of something from the lips and bent low to inhale the sour odour more carefully.

‘Poison!’ he whispered.

‘May God have mercy on his soul!’

He stood to comfort her. ‘Come away, Anne.’

‘Leave me be.’

‘You should not dwell on such a sight.’

‘It is my house, Nick.’

‘This is villainous work.’

‘But the issue of it lies dead under my roof.’

‘There is nothing you may do here. Turn away.’

‘No!’

Wanting his embrace, she yet held up her palms to keep him away. Intuition overcame need. Anne Hendrik knew at that precise moment in time that a trusting relationship that had flowered over some years had changed irrevocably. He was no longer the man she thought she knew. Nicholas Bracewell inhabited another world and part of it lay sprawled out on the floor of the bedchamber like some dreadful accusation. He saw her consternation but could find no words of apology or explanation. Instead, he bent down again to make a closer examination of the corpse.

A rush of sympathy brought tears to Anne’s eyes.

‘Poor wretch! What a hideous way to die!’

‘Someone will pay dearly for this,’ he murmured.

‘He came all that way to see you.’

‘No, Anne.’

‘And this is his reward.’

‘Look more closely.’

‘Can anyone deserve such a miserable death?’

‘There is something you have missed.’

‘He was but a youth on the threshold of life.’

‘I fear not,’ he said, rising to his feet once more and speaking with quiet outrage. ‘This is no youth, Anne. The killer is more callous than we imagined. He has poisoned a young woman.’

Edmund Hoode was racked with doubt and tortured with regret. The surge of power that had enabled him to defy his colleagues and walk out of the house in Shoreditch had now spent itself. He was left feeling weak and helpless. As he ambled through the streets of Bishopsgate Ward, his heart was pounding and his feet encased in boots of lead. The impossible had happened. In a rare burst of single-minded action, a modest and highly unselfish man had behaved with brutal selfishness. Edmund Hoode put his own needs and desires before those of the company he had served so faithfully for so long. A series of interlinked betrayals — of Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and the other sharers — was exacerbated by the wilful negation of his own creative role. In spurning Westfield’s Men, he was helping to suffocate his own career as a playwright.

Dejection turned an already bloodless face into a white mask of sorrow. Hoode was a traitor. He felt like a convicted felon in Newgate prison, who, given the choice between the summary horror of hanging and the languid misery of being pressed to death, opted for the latter because it permitted his heirs still to inherit his estate. Great weights were indeed loaded onto him, but they were not all made of steel and stone. One of them was Nicholas Bracewell, his closest friend in the company, stunned by Hoode’s treachery and pressing down hard in the way he had done on the burning roof of the Queen’s Head. Firethorn was there, too, along with Gill, the one stamping unceremoniously on him and the other dancing one of the famous jigs that adorned so many of Hoode’s plays. Both left deep footprints on his wayward heart. As for his own last will and testament, what did he have to bequeath except his work for Westfield’s Men? As an author and an actor, he existed only in performance. Piracy was rife in the theatre. Those same plays of his — staged with unvarying distinction by the company — were guarded by the book holder with his life. Could Edmund Hoode really put his private urges before the public good? Could he hold Westfield’s Men to ransom?

The weight of guilt and indecision was so excruciating that it brought him to a halt. If he went on, he lost the respect of his dearest friends: if he turned back, he missed his one real opportunity for true happiness. He had walked aimlessly for a long time but his feet had known their duty for they had brought him to the very place where the first glimpse of Elysium had been vouchsafed to him. He was in her street, standing opposite her house and looking up at her chamber window. An invisible hand must have guided him there to resuscitate his drooping spirits. No sooner did he realise where he was than the sweet face of his beloved rose up before him. A hundred friends would not separate him from her. A thousand theatre companies could not induce him to leave London so long as she graced it with her angelic presence. A million spectators could not deflect him.

She was called Mistress Jane Diamond and her beauty sparkled as preciously as her name. Edmund Hoode was entranced from the moment he set bulbous eyes on her. Poised, graceful and vivacious, she was brimming with a delightful wit. Jane Diamond was a veritable queen among women, and the fact that she was already encumbered with a king — her husband was a dull but prosperous vintner — did not diminish his readiness to pay court to her. Hoode’s romantic involvements always verged on calamity and he had characterised them, in a moment of savage introspection, as examples of the unlovable in pursuit of the unattainable. Jane Diamond was different. Not only did she encourage his interest, she actually returned his affection. She admired his plays, she doted on the verses he sent her and she loved his many sterling qualities. It was only a matter of time before consummation followed.

As he remembered that, he realised why he had walked insensibly in the direction of her house. Jane Diamond had agreed to be the jewel in his bed when time would serve, and she had promised to signal the fateful night by putting a lighted candle in her bedchamber on the same afternoon. For the past fortnight, Hoode had found reason to go back and forth to her house ten times a day but the darkness of his desire was not illumined with the flickering flame of hope. Until — did his eyes deceive him? — this moment. Even as he looked up at the casement, a slim figure appeared in it and set a tallow candle on the ledge. There was a pause, a tiny explosion of light and then a shimmering invitation that warmed his whole being. On the previous day, a spark of fire had ruined his play and destroyed part of their theatre, but this new flame was benign and joyful. It told him that an undeserving husband would be away for the night and that a gorgeous wife would be his.

Every trace of recrimination left him and he now felt as light as air. Westfield’s Men could no longer impinge on his consciousness. The assignation had been made and that was all that mattered. London was paradise.

Events moved swiftly in the house at Bankside. The surgeon arrived to find the girl beyond his help and to confirm the likely cause of her death. There was nothing about her person to indicate her identity, and whatever momentous news she carried had expired with her. Constables were summoned and the body was taken off to a slab in the morgue. Nicholas Bracewell, Anne Hendrik, the servant and the surgeon all made sworn statements to the coroner but there was no question of any rigorous pursuit of the killer by the forces of law and order. The coroner’s rolls contained countless murders by person or persons unknown, and it was possible to investigate only a tiny fraction of them. Priority was based firmly on the importance of the victim. Resources would never stretch to a full inquiry into the fate of a nameless girl from a distant county. Innocents were always at risk in a crime-infested city where a ragged army of predators waited to pounce on the unwise and the unwary. There was hardly a day when some battered corpse was not discovered in some dark corner or lugged out of the stews or dragged from the river. This hapless young woman, decided the coroner with a world-weary sigh and threadbare sympathy, was just one more fatality to enter in his records with her death unexplained and unavenged.

Nicholas Bracewell craved retribution. Since he could expect none from official quarters, he would have to find a means to deal it out himself. The girl had been poisoned, but she still had a small amount of money about her person and her clothing was of value. Theft had not been the motive. The murderer had even left her horse untouched, so he was not one of the cunning priggers of prancers who roamed the capital to steal horses wherever opportunity appeared. It was with the animal that Nicholas would start his search. He was convinced that the girl had been struck down in order to stop her passing on some news of vital import to him. Reluctant even to consider the idea of returning home, he yet knew that the only way to find out who she was and what tidings she bore was to go back once more to Devon. If that mystery were unravelled, he would have a clearer idea of why the young messenger was murdered and by whose fell hand.

Anne Hendrik had been on edge since the unheralded visitor first tottered across her threshold, and nothing that had occurred since had relieved her disquiet or eased the growing tension between her and Nicholas. Indeed, she was so upset that she pointedly ignored her lodger and asked the surgeon to escort her and her servant back to her house. When the man went off with the two women, Nicholas gave the coroner a fuller account of the circumstances and of his own involvement in the case. He made application for custody of the victim’s horse so that he could take it back to its rightful owner in Devon and explain what had befallen its rider. The girl would have anxious parents or a concerned employer with the right to know of her misfortune.

After close questioning of his witness, the coroner judged him to be a man of good reputation and sound character. Nicholas gave stern undertakings and signed a document that bound him to his stated purpose on the penalty of arrest. He then took charge of the horse and mounted it at once to ride straight back to the Queen’s Head. When he trotted into the yard, he questioned all the ostlers to see if any of them remembered having seen the roan before. They handled too many horses in the course of a day to be sure, but one of them vaguely recalled stabling the animal along with another around noon. A young man had dismounted from the roan. His companion had been much bigger, older and in the attire of a merchant.

Nicholas took this ambiguous description off to the cellar to see if Leonard could correct or add to it. The affable giant was in the process of lifting a barrel of ale onto his shoulder when his friend came down the stone steps, and he put it back down again in order to give a proper greeting. Leonard was only too eager to help but he could contribute no significant new details about the victim’s companion. What he was certain about was the fact that the older man had more or less forced the boy — as he still thought him — to finish his pint of ale.

‘And the tankard was emptied?’ said Nicholas.

‘I stood over him while he supped the last drops. Not that it gave him any pleasure.’ Leonard scratched his beard. ‘Lord knows why. It was our best ale yet he drank it down as slow as if it were hot pitch.’

‘In some sorts, it was.’

‘Why, master?’

‘I believe that tankard was poisoned.’

Nicholas explained and the massive visage before him first lit up with surprise — ‘A girl? Drinking in a tavern in the guise of a man?’ — then crumpled with sorrow and bewilderment. Aware of how important even the tiniest shred of evidence was, Leonard now began to cudgel his brain unmercifully but it could yield little more than had already been disclosed. Girl and travelling companion had been alone together, he could vouch for that. A third person might have tampered with the ale but the balance of probability pointed to the older man as the culprit. No other visitor to the Queen’s Head that day had been struck down by poison, so the fault could not be laid at Alexander Marwood’s door.

‘Who served them with their ale?’

‘One of the wenches.’

‘Find her out and bring her to me directly.’

‘Could you not go into the taproom yourself, master?’

‘I could,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I do not want to make the landlord any more choleric. Bridges must be mended before Master Marwood and I can speak cordially again. The less he sees of Westfield’s Men at the moment, the better. I would be most grateful if you could do my errand.’

‘I’ll about it straight.’

‘Thank you, Leonard.’

It was five minutes before he came back and the serving wench he brought with him was not at all willing to come. Fearing that she was being lured into the cellar for some nefarious purpose, she chided and protested at every step. The sight of Nicholas reassured her slightly and her smudged button of a face even smiled when he slipped a few coins into her hand. She brushed back her lank hair so that she could study him properly. Nicholas asked her about the two travellers who came in at noon and she was able to give a reasonable description of both but she had heard nothing that passed between them and saw nobody else joining them at their table. What she did notice was how ill at ease the younger patron had been in the tavern.

‘You’d have thought it his first visit to a taproom.’

‘First and last,’ muttered Nicholas to himself.

With nothing more to be gleaned at the inn, he thanked them for their help and collected his horse. He was soon making his way along the ever-populous Gracechurch Street until it became Bishopsgate Street. When he came to the gate itself and rode out beneath the heads of the traitors who had been set on spikes there, he was able to coax a steady canter out of the roan, and the journey to Shoreditch was over fairly quickly. Reaching his employer’s house, he tethered his mount and ducked under the eaves. Lawrence Firethorn answered the door himself and whisked his book holder straight into the parlour.

‘You come most promptly upon your hour!’

‘It is needful.’

‘We must have urgent conference, Nick.’

‘That is why I am here.’

‘Sit down, man, sit down,’ said Firethorn, ushering him to a chair and pushing him into it. ‘Take your ease while you yet may for there is little hope of rest ahead of us.’

‘I must speak with you on that subject.’

‘Only when you have first listened.’

Firethorn punched his guest playfully on the shoulder and stood back to appraise him with a fond smile. A theatrical career was a precarious one at the best of times and few sustained it with any consistency over a long period of time. Lawrence Firethorn was one of those exceptions, a durable talent that never seemed to fade, an actor of infinite variety and bravado. Admirers spoke of his superb voice, gesture and movement while others were swept away by his commanding presence. Supreme when he was on stage, he knew full well how much he owed to the controlling figure of his book holder behind the arras. With Nicholas Bracewell at his back, he could lead his company to triumph after triumph.

‘Ah, Nick!’ he sighed. ‘What would I do without you!’

‘I fear that you may have to find out.’

‘Our theatre may burn down, our landlord may oust us and London may drive us on to the open road but I am not in the least troubled. As long as I have you, I have hope.’

‘With regard to the tour-’

‘It is all arranged,’ interrupted Firethorn, moving around the room. ‘Barnaby and I have laboured long and hard today to stitch it all together like tidy seamsters. Our esteemed patron, Lord Westfield, has shown his usual concern and offered money and guidance to send us on our way.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘The money, alas, will never appear because our dear patron is more adept at borrowing than loaning, but the advice came in abundance. It has determined our itinerary and given us promise of certain welcome along the way.’ He snatched up a sheet of parchment from the table and handed it to Nicholas. ‘This is our company. Small it may be in number but it is large enough in talent to present a wide repertoire of plays. See that each man is informed of our purpose. We will set forth tomorrow.’

‘You will do so without me, I fear, Master Firethorn.’

His host gulped. ‘What is that you say?’

‘I beg leave to be excused.’

‘Excused!’ repeated Firethorn. ‘Excused! Nick Bracewell being excused from Westfield’s Men! It is like excusing London Bridge from spanning the Thames. God’s death, man, you are our very foundation! Excuse you and we plummet straight down into a swamp of oblivion.’

‘The choice is forced upon me,’ explained Nicholas.

‘There is no choice. You are ours.’

‘My decision will hold.’

‘I override it. You leave with us on the morrow.’

‘It may not be.’

Firethorn extended his arms. ‘We rely on you, dear heart!’

‘I will rejoin the company as soon as I may. You have my word on that. Thus it stands with me …’

He recounted his story as succinctly as he could and Firethorn’s manner changed at once. Obsessed as he was with himself and with his company, the actor-manager could yet feel pangs of sympathy. The murder of a defenceless girl had laid a deep responsibility on Nicholas Bracewell and nothing would prevent him from discharging it. He was being forced to return to a home he left and a family he had renounced.

‘There is no other way,’ he said in conclusion. ‘Early tomorrow, I will set off for Barnstaple.’

A derisive snort. ‘Barnstaple?’

‘Barnstaple.’

Nicholas sat back and waited for the tempest to break. Few men dared to oppose the will of the actor-manager and fewer still survived with their self-esteem intact. When Firethorn was truly roused, his voice could blow with the force of a gale and his invective was scalding rain. As he looked into his employer’s eyes, Nicholas saw the hurricane begin with sudden fury and then evaporate harmlessly to be replaced by a merry twinkle. Instead of unleashing the whirlwind of his passion, Lawrence Firethorn actually smiled. The smile broadened into a grin, the grin enlisted the support of a chortle, the chortle soon developed into a full-throated laugh and then uncontrollable mirth sent his body into a series of convulsions. He had to sit down beside his friend to regain his breath.

‘Barnstaple?’ he asked again.

‘There is some jest here?’

‘No, Nick,’ said Firethorn, arm around his shoulders. ‘It is not the laughter of mockery but the happiness of relief. Barnstaple, indeed! Heaven provides better than we ourselves. You shall go. Your needs will be answered.’

‘Then why this celebration?’

‘Because you will serve us on the way.’

‘How?’

‘We will alter our itinerary,’ explained the other. ‘We had thought to go south and make Maidstone our first port of call. Then on to Canterbury and other towns in Kent, but they can wait. Canterbury has pilgrims enough.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper to put his proposition. ‘Westfield’s Men will bend a lot towards your purpose if you bend a little towards ours. Is this not a fair bargain?’

‘Tell me more that I may judge aright.’

‘Our patron’s brother lives in Bath.’

‘That is well in the direction of Barnstaple.’

‘Hear me out, Nick. This will be our route.’ He used a finger to draw a map in the air. ‘We make straight for Oxford and play before town and gown. From there we travel down to Marlborough, where they have always given us a cheerful welcome in their Guildhall. Then on to Bristol, where a bigger audience and a longer stay beckon.’

‘And Bath?’

‘A pretty enough little town but we will perform at the home of Sir Roger Hordley, younger brother of our patron. We need you to pilot us through Oxford, Marlborough and Bristol, but we can set up in the hall of Hordley Manor ourselves.’ He nudged his companion. ‘Have you caught my meaning?’

‘I make for Barnstaple by slower means.’

‘You combine our necessity with your mission.’

Nicholas pondered. ‘It puts days on my intent.’

‘We make a sacrifice, so must you.’

‘Bristol is a city that I love.’

‘Take us there and we will wish you God speed as we send you off to Barnstaple. Discharge your duties at home then you may catch up with Westfield’s Men at your leisure.’ Firethorn pulled him close. ‘Both of us are satisfied in this. Tell me now, does not this offer please you?’

‘It tempts me greatly.’

‘Then you will accept the commission?’

Nicholas gave an affirmative nod and Firethorn replied with a hug of gratitude. The actor-manager furnished him with all the necessary details then walked him back out to his horse. The sight of the roan jolted them and brought the murder victim back to the forefront of their minds. A young woman had gone to extraordinary lengths to bring a message all the way from Barnstaple to London, and her fortitude had cost her a high price. Her murder was already having severe repercussions on the life of Nicholas Bracewell. As he recalled the image of her tormented body on the floor of his bedchamber, his determination to track down the killer was reinforced. The Devil had indeed ridden through London that day to seize his prey. A girl who had never been inside a tavern before would never do so again.

Like a true actor, Lawrence Firethorn drew the shroud of a quotation across the anonymous corpse.

‘My foulest poison can never compete

With Marwood’s ale in Gracechurch Street.’