The Silent Woman

Chapter Eight

Barnstaple was the largest town in north Devon. Proud of its history and secure in soul, it had been a borough and market centre since Saxon times. Its corporation ruled primarily in the interests of its merchant members, whose main wealth came from coastal and foreign trade. There was silting in the River Taw but the town that sat on it remained the leading port in the area. The neighbouring Bideford was located on the deeper and straighter River Torridge, while Appledore enjoyed deep-water anchorage near the confluence of the two rivers, yet neither of these — in spite of their greater natural advantages — could compete with Barnstaple.

The house in Crock Street was one of the biggest in the town, but it reflected the prosperity and status of its owner in a most unassuming way. Built on a corner, its frontage was comparatively narrow but its total depth ran to almost a hundred and forty feet. Its ground floor consisted of two blocks of building separated by a courtyard, the front block containing a shop, a parlour and a small buttery while the back block comprised the kitchen, larder, main buttery and a small brewhouse. Behind the kitchen block was a Great Court, on either side of which was the warehouse. Stables with hayloft above completed the ground floor.

Nowithstanding its size, it did not in any way dominate but instead fitted quietly into its place and allowed other properties to nestle right up to it and draw from its strength. It rose to a height of four storeys. On the first floor was the hall or main living room of the dwelling, with a small counting-house leading off it. The principal bedrooms were on the second floor, directly above the hall. The fore-chamber overlooked the street by means of handsome mullioned windows, which gave a curiously distorted view of nearby West Gate and the adjacent Chapel of St Nicholas. From the upper storey, the shape and development of the greater part of the town could be seen. Over the top of West Gate, it was also possible to glimpse the ships sailing past on the River Taw and to understand the very essence of Barnstaple.

The woman who sat alone in the fore-chamber showed no inclination to explore the various views that her house offered. Her eyes could only look inward. She sat motionless in a chair with an open Bible lying unread in her lap. Mary Whetcombe wore the dark and seemly apparel of a grieving widow, but the death of her husband, recent as it was, had not scarred her pale beauty. If anything, it had been enhanced by tragedy. The small, heart-shaped face that was framed by the well-groomed dark hair was given a forlorn charm it had never possessed before. Even in her mourning dress, her shapely body retained its appeal. Mary Whetcombe carried thirty years and more with surprising lightness. She was a slim, elegant woman of middle height who had sustained many blows from fate, but they left almost no marks upon her. Suffering was somehow contained within where its pain was more acute but its damage less visible.

There was a knock on the door and she came out of her reverie with a start. A flicker of hope stirred but it vanished immediately when the door opened and a maidservant conducted a tall, thin, balding man into the chamber. Arthur Calmady wore the black garb of his office and the pious look of a man with a mission in life. As the maidservant withdrew and closed the door behind her, the visitor gave a respectful bow then moved across to the mistress of the house.

‘Good morning,’ he said softly.

‘Good morning,’ she seemed to reply.

‘Have you been studying the text I recommended?’ he said, noting the Bible. ‘I hope it has brought comfort and consolation to you, Mary.’ He waited until she could manage a small nod of affirmation. ‘Bereavement is a time when we come fit our minds to the loss of a loved one but we must do it in no spirit of despair. Matthew’s death was God’s will. It was not a meaningless accident, Mary, but part of a divine plan. Draw succour from that thought.’

‘I will try,’ she murmured.

Arthur Calmady was the vicar of the Parish Church of St Peter. Only an occasional visitor to the house when Matthew Whetcombe was alive, he had called on a daily basis since the merchant’s untimely death, and he liked to think that his brand of unctuous concern was having a beneficial effect on the widow. He was a sharp-featured man with a mole in the hollow of one cheek. His intelligence was admired and his conscientiousness praised, but the more wayward Christians in the parish could have done without his strictures from the pulpit. They wanted a caring shepherd to tend his flock and not to round it up like a holy sheepdog. Unmarried and celibate all his life, he had the other-worldly air of a hermit, but this was offset by the beady eyes and the moist lips. Arthur Calmady discharged all his duties with commendable zeal but he did take especial pleasure from visiting bereaved women in the privacy of a bedchamber.

‘Shall I read to you, Mary?’ he offered.

‘No, thank you.’

‘It may help to soothe your mind.’

‘I am content.’

‘May I sit with you for a while?’

‘If you wish.’

‘May I share your sorrow?’

Calmady lowered himself into the chair beside her and took one of her hands between his. Mary made no protest. As the vicar began to chant a prayer, she was not even aware of his presence in the room. Her thoughts were miles away from Barnstaple. Ten minutes passed before he released her hand and rose to go. Calmady covered his departure with a glib apology for disturbing her and crossed to the door. Holding it open, he turned back to her.

‘Is there any news, Mary?’

‘None.’

‘How long has it been now?’

‘Too long.’

‘We must watch and pray,’ he advised. ‘It is the only way to combat fear and anxiety. Prayers cure all ills.’ He became more businesslike. ‘When there is news, let me know at once. Send a servant to the vicarage. It is important.’

‘I will.’

‘Goodbye, Mary.’

Arthur Calmady withdrew like a wraith and closed the door soundlessly behind him. To a man of such exaggerated religiosity, the whole world was the house of God and he moved about it with the measured tread of a true believer. His stately figure descended the newel stair as if walking down the altar steps. When the maidservant let him out through the front door, the street was the nave of a cathedral. As soon as he had left, the child came out of her hiding place behind the court cupboard and ran upstairs to the fore-chamber. She entered without knocking and went across to stand in front of her mother. Lucy Whetcombe was a slight but wiry girl who could have been anything between ten and fifteen. Her body sided with the earlier age but the tight little face veered towards the later. What she had inherited of her mother’s beauty was sullied by anxiety and dismay. The dark, sobre dress accentuated the fairer tone of her hair and the pale complexion.

She forced a smile and nodded enquiringly.

‘No, Lucy,’ said her mother, shaking her head.

The girl’s eyes repeated the question more earnestly but it got the same sad response. As Mary Whetcombe talked, she opened her mouth expressively so that her daughter could read her lips, and she supplemented her speech with graphic gestures of her hands.

‘We have no news of her,’ she said. ‘We do not know where she went or why. But she did not run away from you. She loves you, Lucy. We all love you. Susan will come back to you. They will find her. She belongs here with us.’

When the girl had deciphered the message, she tried to answer it with words of her own, but all she could produce were dull and senseless sounds. In sheer frustration, she beat her fists on her thighs and began to cry in silence. Mary Whetcombe reached out to enfold her child in her arms and to hug her tightly. Her own tears now flowed.

‘We have each other,’ she said. ‘We have each other.’

But the girl did not even hear her.

Israel Gunby had spent so long living on his wits that he could adapt to each change of circumstance with the speed of light. Instead of wasting time on remorse over the death of an accomplice, he sought to turn it to good account.

‘Ned was not long for this life,’ he said blithely. ‘That stranger saved me the trouble of sending his fat carcass on his way.’

‘He was killed next to me,’ complained Ellen, still shaken by the experience. ‘It was all I could do not to scream out in horror.’

‘That would have been the ruin of us, my love.’

‘I held back for that reason.’

‘The law would have come down on us,’ warned Gunby. ‘All would be lost in the cry of a woman. And for what? Ned Robinson! Our plump pickpocket.’ A short laugh. ‘They may catch us one day, Ellen, and hang the pair of us side by side, but I will not go to the gallows because of a fool like Ned Robinson. He deserved what he got.’

‘It was terrifying, Israel!’

‘You did well, my love.’

‘I was frightened.’

Israel Gunby pulled her to him and stroked his wife’s hair. They were lying in a bed at the Fox and Elm, a small inn some miles to the south-west of Marlborough. Events at the Guildhall on the previous night necessitated a rapid departure from the town. While Ned Robinson and Ellen had been working in harness at the play, Gunby had been sitting a mere hundred yards away in the taproom of the Rising Sun. By talking to the innkeeper, and guiding the conversation with a steady hand, he had learnt how many guests were staying at the establishment, how heavy their capcases had been and in which direction they would be travelling next morning. While one crime was being committed, Israel Gunby liked to set up several more. Careful planning was the basis of his career. When plans went awry — as they did in the Guildhall — he would move swiftly to make his escape and cover his tracks.

There was ample compensation in this instance.

‘How much did Ned take before he was caught?’

‘Seven pounds and more.’

‘Those fat fingers were dexterous.’

‘They were,’ said Ellen. ‘He took the first few purses as we pushed through the crowd going in. One man carried five angels. Ned slipped them to me for safekeeping.’

‘What did he take during the play?’

‘The purses of the two men in front of him and the one who sat on my other side. Ned leant across me as if fast asleep, and the money was his in a flash.’ Ellen clicked her tongue. ‘If he had settled for that, he would still now be alive to share the spoils. But he took one purse too many.’

‘And the killer?’

‘A well-favoured gentleman with a black beard.’

‘But not from these parts, I dare wager,’ said Gunby with a chuckle. ‘These Wiltshire people are too trusting. They would not suspect a foist if you climbed inside their purse and threw their money out coin by coin.’

‘He turned my blood to ice.’

‘Ned Robinson?’

‘The murderer.’

‘Forget him, Ellen,’ urged her husband. ‘He got away in the crowd and will be in another county by now. Ned was unlucky but we gain profit from his misfortune.’

She brightened. ‘You are right, Israel. We are still free and together. That is all that matters in the end. Yet it was such a shame about Ned.’

‘Why?’

‘It spoilt the play. I enjoyed it so much until then.’

‘The Happy Malcontent was it called?’

‘A merry piece. The whole town laughed so.’

‘Westfield’s Men served us in this business. They brought in the purses and Ned Robinson stole them. People who are full of mirth are easy prey.’

‘Lawrence Firethorn is the greatest actor alive,’ she said with frank admiration. ‘Were I not married to you, I would be happy to share his bed. And half the women in Marlborough would say the same as me.’

‘I think not, my love.’

‘How so?’

‘Because I have snatched delight from his arms yet again.’ He began to cackle. ‘Lawrence Firethorn will make no conquest in this town, Ellen. I give you my word on that.’

‘I’ll not stand for this, sir! You abuse my hospitality!’

‘Hear me out.’

‘I would rather see you out and say good riddance.’

‘But we have a performance to give this afternoon.’

‘Yes, Master Firethorn! You wish to usurp my role and do my office between the sheets.’

‘That is not true, sir.’

‘Then why did you send a letter to my wife?’

‘I did not!’

‘Why do you woo her with warm words?’

‘I have never even met your good lady.’

‘Why do you inflame her passion?’

‘Nothing is further from my desires.’

‘Take your lascivious wishes out of Marlborough!’

‘You are misinformed here.’

‘Hawk your pizzle to another town!’

The mayor worked himself up into such a rage that his beetroot cheeks were fit to burst. His eyes smouldered, his body twitched and his little hands clutched at his gold chain like a drowning man clinging for the rope that might save him. Lawrence Firethorn wanted to laugh at such absurd antics but the status of his visitor and the accompanying presence of a town constable enforced more control on him. The mayor and his wife had sat in the front row during the performance of The Happy Malcontent but the actor-manager had spared her no more than a cursory glance. The Guildhall had been packed with far more comely sights than that afforded by a pink-faced middle-aged woman with a breathy giggle. She was too starved a subject for Firethorn’s lust.

They were in a private room at the White Hart. When the mayor came storming in to see him that morning, Firethorn had assumed that he bore the communal congratulations of the town. Instead of hearing his performance praised, the actor was being accused of trying to seduce the mayor’s wife.

‘Fornicator!’ yelled the mayor.

‘Lower your voice, sir.’

‘Liar and adulterer!’

‘I deny the charges!’

‘Traitor!’

‘Call your wife and she will proclaim my innocence.’

‘Aghhhhh!’

The mayor let out a cry of anguish and twisted his chain so tightly around his neck that he was in danger of asphyxiating himself. Women were vile creatures and love was a two-edged sword. The Happy Malcontent brought tears in the wake of its laughter. The mayor’s wife had been completely carried away by the force of the play and the sensual power of Lawrence Firethorn’s performance. Roused to a pitch she had not achieved for many years, she fell on her husband with such fervour in the privacy of their four-poster that he had time to do no more than tear off his breeches and pull down his hose. Consummation was instant and what pleased him more than anything else was that this uncommon event had occurred while he was still wearing his chain of office. Mayoralty and manhood had coalesced in a night of madness. But it was all a wicked delusion. His wife’s ardour had been excited by Lawrence Firethorn and it was he who was the true object of her newfound appetite.

‘Where is this letter?’ asked Firethorn.

‘It is couched in filth and flattery.’

‘Show it me, good sir.’

‘What have you brought into my town!’ wailed the mayor.

‘A feast of theatre.’

‘One man murdered, one woman about to be defiled!’

‘Hold there and show me this false document.’

‘We will drive Westfield’s Men out!’ The mayor took the letter from his belt and thrust it at Firethorn. ‘Take your foul proposals back, sir! My wife’s favours are not for you.’

Lawrence Firethorn read the missive, recoiled from the bluntness of its carnality and scrunched it up in an angry hand. He held it up inside his bunched fist.

‘Hell and damnation! I’ll not endure this!’

‘Did you not write it, Master Firethorn?’

‘Write it? No, sir. Send it? Never, sir. Wish it? Not in a thousand years, sir. This is a trick practised on us to set the one against the other. You have a dear and loving wife. Do not let some villain turn her into a whore.’

‘How can I believe you?’ stuttered the mayor. ‘This letter carries your name upon it.’

‘My name but written by another hand. Fetch me pen and ink and I will show you my true signature. Compare the two and you will see the falsehood here. Besides, sir,’ he said with a consoling smile, ‘what fornicator, liar or adulterer would be so foolish as to reveal himself to the husband of a woman he is trying to lead astray? If you entreated a lady to bestow her favours upon you, would the letter bear your name and title?’

The mayor was persuaded. Lawrence Firethorn and his wife were not, after all, secret lovers. He might yet enjoy again unbridled passion in his chain of office. Relief and remorse seized him, but before he could bury the wrongly accused actor beneath a mound of thanks and apologies, there was a knock at the door and the landlord entered.

‘The chamberlain is here, Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘Let him wait.’

‘He will not. Some letter has put him to choler.’

‘Not another!’ snarled Firethorn.

‘The town clerk also attends with impatience.’

‘Here’s a third ordeal!’

‘He curses your name on account of his wife.’

‘God’s blood!’

Lawrence Firethorn mastered the urge to take the first letter and force it down the throat of the landlord. It was important to separate message and messenger. The landlord was not responsible for the news that he brought. Firethorn was evidently the butt of some mischievous pen and he needed to identify the correspondent without delay. Unfolding the paper, he studied the uncouth hand that had dared to impersonate his own. Who could seek to embarrass him in this way? He thought of a bewitching young woman at the Fighting Cocks, of a dispute in her bedchamber with a supposed rival and of a pillaged capcase. He thought of an old shepherd on the road out of Oxford. He thought of the biggest villain in Christendom and he named his man at last.

‘Israel Gunby!’

Nicholas Bracewell had a much happier morning than his employer. The shining success of The Happy Malcontent had been besmirched by the murder of one of its spectators, and this had obliged him to give a sworn statement to the magistrate about how he had found the dead body. Nicholas disclosed that the victim was an accomplice of Israel Gunby, but he made no mention of the likely killer. Westfield’s Men were absolved of all involvement in the crime and he wished to distance it from them as much as possible. The assassin was a personal problem for Nicholas Bracewell and he was keen to deal with it himself. Nothing could be gained by speculations to the local representatives of law and order. After joining the company in the now-muted celebrations at the White Hart, he went off to spend a watchful night in his bedchamber.

Morning brought comfort, pleasure and qualified delight. Comfort came from the fact that he had, for once, spent a night outside London without being the subject of an attack. Pleasure was assured by the news that Edmund Hoode was now so caught up with The Merchant of Calais that he was locked in his chamber and writing furiously. With his creative juices flowing freely once more, the playwright would soon complete the new play and add it to their repertoire. Nicholas still had qualms about his own contribution to the work, but common sense now told him that it could not be as central as he feared. Edmund Hoode had been working on the new drama for several weeks now and the main lines of plot and character had already been laid down. Nicholas had merely added depth and reality to the scenes of mercantile life. The merchant of Calais would not be Robert Bracewell.

Delight came soon after. While Lawrence Firethorn was grappling with a disagreeable letter, Nicholas was handed one that was as unexpected as it was welcome. The courier had ridden hard from London. A change of horses at intervals and an overnight stop at an inn had brought him to Marlborough by mid-morning. The whole town knew where the players were staying and he presented himself at the White Hart at once. Nicholas was moved. To send a letter so far and so fast was highly expensive, and it spoke volumes for Anne Hendrik’s generosity and concern. He thanked the courier, gave him a few coins then sent him off into the taproom to spend them.

When he broke the seal and opened the letter, the mere sight of her signature revived him. The substance of the message made his love for her surge even more. Anne had gone to enormous trouble on his behalf and enlisted the aid of Leonard. She had not only discovered the exact poison that killed the girl from Devon, she had even acquired a rough description of the man thought to be the poisoner. Nicholas looked at the sketch with interest and gratitude. Anne had no great gift for portraiture, but she had caught enough of the man’s features for Nicholas to be able to recognise him if they met. Her letter was not just a testimony of her desire to help. It put a powerful weapon into his hands. He was no longer up against an invisible assailant.

His delight, however, was not unrestrained. The missive contained nothing of an intimate nature. There was no hint of regret, no apology for her harsh treatment of him, no wish that he should ever return to the house in Bankside. Anne Hendrik would go to any lengths to help to save his life but she did not appear to want to share it. Nicholas settled for a modified solace. Contact with Anne was re-established. It was a positive foundation on which he could build.

A rehearsal was now due and Nicholas could spend no more time perusing her words and studying the portrait. He was needed in the Guildhall to supervise matters. Pushing the letter inside his jerkin, he collected the hired men from the taproom and took them with him. He had a spring in his step and a sense of having crossed an important boundary.

One silent woman had finally spoken.

Their fears proved groundless. Because a murder had occurred during their performance of The Happy Malcontent on the previous night, Westfield’s Men braced themselves for a greatly reduced audience on the following afternoon. People could not be expected to sit comfortably in a hall where a man had so recently been stabbed. The tragedy was bound to have an adverse effect on the company. In the event, the opposite was the case. Since the murder victim was not a local man, his death lacked any resonance to frighten away the townspeople. Prompted by the glowing reports of the company’s quality and by a ghoulish curiosity to view the very seat in which Ned Robinson had expired, spectators came in such large numbers that not all could be accommodated in the Guildhall. All doors in the auditorium were left open so that people could stand outside and yet peer in at the play, and there were clusters of eager patrons outside pressing their noses against each window.

Marlborough had been blessed with ample entertainment that year with musicians, jugglers, tumblers, bear-wards and swordplayers making it a port of call. Wrestlers had also visited the town more than once, and a few companies of strolling players had been allowed to display their wares. Westfield’s Men were a distinct cut above all others. They offered genuine quality in place of more homespun show. Mayoral blessing was another factor. Reconciled with his wife, the contrite mayor could think of no better way to please her and to placate Lawrence Firethorn than by coming to the Guildhall in his regalia for the second time. He was back in the front row, playing with his chain and with his fantasies, and meditating on the joys of married life. The seal of civic approval was firmly stamped on the company.

‘George!’

‘Here, Master Bracewell.’

‘The bench.’

‘I have it with me.’

‘You have the small bench,’ said Nicholas tolerantly. ‘This scene requires the larger one.’

‘Are we in Act Four already?’

‘Act Three Scene Two.’

‘That is the small bench.’

‘Large.’

‘I know Vincentio’s Revenge by heart.’

‘We are playing Black Antonio.’

George Dart’s confusion was understandable. He was near exhaustion. Since the joyous moment when he had been able to cram a breakfast into his tiny frame, he had not stopped fetching and carrying. His legs hurt, his arms ached and his mind was a total blank. Though he had made three separate entries in the play — as guard, servant and chaplain — he had been given no lines to speak. The play felt like Vincentio’s Revenge to him even if it turned out to be Black Antonio. Both were swirling tragedies of thwarted love and each was propelled by a mixture of jealousy, intrigue and violence. George Dart could be forgiven for his mistake. He could rely on Nicholas Bracewell to cover it with his usual discretion.

Act Five called for the small and the large bench. In the final harrowing scene, Lawrence Firethorn, supreme as ever in a title role written especially for him, kicked over the one bench and fell headlong across the other. It was a death so poignant and dramatic that it struck the audience dumb. Transfixed by the fate of noble Antonio, they completely overlooked the demise of Ned Robinson. A real murder in the Guildhall was a small event. The feigned death of Lawrence Firethorn would be talked about in hushed tones for weeks. It would be something for the mayor to discuss in bed with his wife before he removed his chain of office.

Solemn music played, Antonio was borne away and the play ended. The only sound that broke the taut silence was the muffled weeping of women. It was a bright afternoon but the most exquisite sense of loss lay across them like penumbra. Black Antonio exhumed himself and strode out onto the stage to collect his applause in armfuls. The company followed and the audience gave them unstinting acclaim. Even George Dart took his bow with pleasure. He was always gratified when a play was finally over and his slow torture was suspended.

‘Master Bracewell …’

‘Speak to me later, George.’

‘There may be no time. We leave Marlborough now.’

‘Can you only talk within the town limits?’

‘We are alone now. Others will be on the waggon.’

‘Is it so important, George?’

‘I think it is.’

‘Then stand aside, lad, but be swift.’

The Guildhall had now been cleared of all trace of Westfield’s Men. The prompt copy of Black Antonio was safely locked away in Nicholas Bracewell’s chest, and both benches — along with all the other properties — were stowed in the waggon. Marlborough belonged to their past. Bristol was their future. As the company gathered in the yard of the White Hart prior to departure, George Dart saw the chance of a private word with the book holder.

‘Speak up, George,’ said Nicholas. ‘What ails you?’

‘They say you go on to Barnstaple.’

‘That is so.’

‘Take me with you!’ he begged.

‘What?’

‘Take me with you to Barnstaple!’

‘Why?’

‘So that I may follow you.’

‘I attend to family business and it may not be shared.’

‘You mishear me, sir,’ said Dart, checking that they could not be overheard so that his secret would not excite the derision of the others. ‘I wish to follow your example. Take me to Barnstaple and I will run away to sea.’

Nicholas was astounded. ‘You are no sailor, George.’

‘I could become one,’ said the other defensively. ‘I am no true mariner of the theatre. I run aground too often. If I stay with Westfield’s Men, I may mistake this play for that one yet again. A ship is a ship. No sailor would confuse it with something else.’ He voiced his despair. ‘I am not made for this life.’

‘But we need you in the company.’

‘You may do so, Master Bracewell. All that the others need is something to bully and beat and shout at.’

‘Are you so unhappy?’

‘I want to run away to sea as you did.’

‘It is no life for you, lad,’ said Nicholas sadly. ‘You have to be born to it. I grew up by the sea and served my apprenticeship as a merchant. It is in my blood.’

‘Then why have you left it?’

‘I have not, George. Theatre is a voyage of discovery. I sail beneath canvas with Lawrence Firethorn as my captain now.’ Nicholas gave him a confiding smile. ‘He may be more pirate than naval commander but he runs a tight ship and I serve him willingly.’

‘I am but the cabin boy here,’ said George Dart.

‘Would you rather beg in the streets of London? That is what some of those left behind will do. Stay with us.’

‘The sea calls me.’

Nicholas grew philosophical. ‘No, George. What calls you is the idea of escape. You are not running to something but away from it. That was my error, too, and I hope to put it right at last. If you do not like something, work to change it until it suits you.’

‘I did,’ moaned Dart. ‘I changed Vincentio’s Revenge into Black Antonio — and where did that get me?’ Others came towards them and he was forced to make a final plea. ‘Take me to Barnstaple with you and save my miserable life!’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I must go alone.’

‘Show me the sea.’

‘There are ships enough in Bristol.’

‘I want to stand where you first stood,’ said Dart. ‘I want to make the choice that you made. You had the courage to sail around the world. Let me find courage of my own.’

‘That is not what took me away, George.’

‘Then what was?’

Nicholas confronted the truth without equivocation.

‘Cowardice.’

An estate in the country was the dream and ambition of every merchant. It was not merely a symbol of achievement, it was a place where they could escape from the dirt and bustle of the towns where they did their business and enjoy the more leisured existence of landed gentry. Gideon Livermore was a typical member of the mercantile community of Barnstaple. Rich and successful, he bought himself a substantial property a few miles from Bishops Tawton. He was still within a comfortable ride of the port that had made his fortune, but the twenty acres of parkland which surrounded his home gave him a reassuring bulwark against the cares of trade. Gideon Livermore loved everything about the country and he could never understand why Matthew Whetcombe — his partner in many enterprises — had preferred to spend most of his time in his town house in Crock Street. To a man like Livermore, the most attractive feature of Barnstaple was the road out of it.

The house was a long, low, rambling structure that had been built over a hundred and fifty years earlier by a wealthy landowner. By lavishing enormous amounts of money and care upon it, Gideon Livermore had turned a manor into a mansion. Existing buildings had been refurbished, a new and resplendent wing had been added and the stable block had been greatly enlarged. Costly furnishings and ostentatious gold plate filled the interior. Livermore shared his home with his five children and ten servants, but there were still rooms to spare for any guests. He was an expansive man in every way and had always leant towards excess.

He raised a goblet of Canary wine in a toast.

‘To a successful endeavour!’

‘I’ll say amen to that.’

The two men sipped then leant back in their chairs. Gideon Livermore was a sleek, self-satisfied man of forty with heavy jowls and a bulging midriff. His face was pleasant in repose but his cheeks were deeply tinged by his fondness for wine and spirits. He wore a doublet of blue and green satin with matching breeches. A lawn ruff held up the clean-shaven double chin. His companion was slightly younger but much leaner and paler. Barnard Sweete wore the more subdued garb and deferential smile of a lawyer. His beard was trimmed to the last detail.

‘Tell me all,’ said Livermore. ‘Have they decided yet?’

‘They have.’

‘With what result?’

‘You are to be elected without delay.’

‘I expected no less,’ said his host airily, ‘but the news is both good and bad. Good, because Gideon Livermore is a most deserving alderman and should have been admitted years ago. Bad, because public duties will take me away more often from here.’ He held out his palms as if weighing the advantages and disadvantages, then came out strongly in favour of the former. ‘I’ll accept this honour graciously. Alderman Livermore has a ring that will echo in the ears of the whole town. I am made, Barnard.’

‘You could look to be mayor one day.’

‘Or receiver or sheriff or even member of parliament. All are chosen from within the circle. There are but twenty-four aldermen and they serve for life.’ He introduced a resentful note. ‘I was kept out long enough.’ He scowled with resentment. ‘It is fitting that the man I replace is Matthew Whetcombe.’

‘Not only on the chamber.’

‘We shall see, we shall see.’ His affability returned and he sipped more wine. ‘Do you have news of her?’

‘There is none to report, Gideon.’

‘You must have some intelligence. Mary is human like the rest of us. The lady must eat, drink and occupy her day somehow. What does she do in the barn of a house in Crock Street?’

‘She keeps to her bedchamber.’

‘No visitors?’

‘None save Mr Calmady. Our vicar waits upon her daily.’

‘Her family? Her friends?’

‘She has locked herself away from them.’

‘Still in mourning?’

‘Not for her husband. She has some deeper sorrow.’

Gideon Livermore smiled. ‘There is remedy for that.’

‘In time,’ said the lawyer cautiously. He opened the satchel that lay beside him and extracted a sheet of parchment. ‘You asked to see the funeral charges.’

‘I did, Barnard,’ he said. ‘I wish to see everything that touches on Mary Whetcombe. The most tiny item of her household expenditure is of interest to me. How much did it cost to send Matthew to his Maker?’

‘Here is the list, Gideon.’

The merchant took it from him and scrutinised it. With growing annoyance, he read some of the charges aloud.

‘Item, twenty yards of black material for the mourning clothes, thirty-one pounds; item, the funeral at the Parish Church of St Peter, eighteen pounds; item, an elm chest to hold the body, two pounds and three shillings; item, one tombstone, two pounds, eight shillings; item, for engraving the tombstone, one pound, four shillings; item, for payment of the gravedigger, two shillings.’ He threw his visitor a glance. ‘The list is endless, Barnard. It carries on all the way down to the funeral dinner in the hall at Crock Street. That cost twenty-seven pounds, making a total in all — I can hardly credit this — of one hundred and nineteen pounds.’ He waved the paper in the air. ‘Matthew Whetcombe had an expensive hole in the ground. I paid for the best when my own dear wife passed away, but her funeral did not amount to anything like this figure.’

‘Matthew Whetcombe was a power in Barnstaple.’

‘So was Alice Livermore,’ said the merchant proudly. ‘A wife of mine commands the highest respect.’

‘No question but that she does.’

‘A hundred and nineteen pounds!’

‘I am to pay it out of the estate.’

‘Do so, Barnard. Obey her wishes.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘A hundred and nineteen pounds! It is a lot to pay for the funeral of a husband whom you hate.’

He studied the list again, lost in contemplation of its details and implications. Barnard Sweete tasted his wine and waited quietly. His host would not brook interruption. The lawyer had found that out before. The merchant class of Barnstaple was small, compact and closely interrelated by marriage. It was also riven by feuds and petty jealousies. Sweete made a handsome living by serving the mercantile community, but doing so compelled him to keep abreast of all developments — commercial or domestic — in the town. People trusted him. Known for his discretion, he was given access to intimate details of his client’s affairs and his retentive mind discarded none of them. Knowledge was money, and Barnard Sweete knew things that could deliver huge rewards.

Gideon Livermore at last put the list aside.

‘I must have her!’ he said covetously.

‘All things proceed in that direction.’

‘There must be no let or hindrance.’

‘You have the law on your side.’

‘And a cunning lawyer to interpret it.’ He gave a curt nod of gratitude. ‘I am a generous man, Barnard.’

‘I have always found it so.’

Livermore added a rider. ‘When I am pleased,’ he said.

‘You will have no cause for complaint.’

‘Good.’ He flicked a bloodshot eye once more at the paper. ‘One hundred and nineteen pounds! Matthew Whetcombe had all that spent on his funeral, yet it still could not buy him some honest tears from his wife. And what of the girl? Lucy Whetcombe could not even let out a cry of pain at her father’s passing. Fate is cruel. Matthew created all that wealth yet he could only produce one child, and she is such a poor monument to his manhood. The girl can neither hear nor speak. With her father in his grave, Lucy Whetcombe cannot even call out for her share of his inheritance.’

‘A strong voice is needed at such times,’ said the lawyer pointedly. ‘Silence can bring ruin.’

‘I rely on it.’

Gideon Livermore stood up and took his goblet across to the table to refill it from the glass decanter he had bought on a visit to Venice. He stared into the liquid for a second then drank it off in one draught. Barnard Sweete was certain that he would now be offered more wine, and he emptied his own goblet in readiness. But the invitation never came. There was a knock on the door and a young man entered with some urgency. He stopped when he saw the lawyer but Gideon Livermore beckoned him on. The two of them stood aside and the newcomer whispered rapidly to his employer.

Sensing trouble, the lawyer rose to his feet and watched his host in trepidation. The merchant’s rage needed no time to build. His geniality became a malign fury, and he reached out to grab the decanter before hurling it violently against the wall and sending shards of glass flying to every corner of the room. His clerk withdrew and closed the door behind him. Gideon Livermore turned to glower at his guest.

‘He is coming to Barnstaple,’ he rumbled.

‘Who?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Heaven forfend!’ exclaimed the lawyer.

‘He is on his way here.’

‘But that cannot be.’

‘My information is always sound. I pay enough for it.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell! Did the message then reach him?’

‘The messenger did. Before she died.’

‘How much does he know?’

‘Enough to bring him to Barnstaple.’ He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘He must be stopped. We do not want a Bracewell meddling in our affairs, especially this member of the family. Bracewells are stubborn.’ Perspiration now glistened on his upper lip. ‘They have long memories.’

‘Can he be prevented?’ said Sweete.

‘He must be.’

‘How?’

‘By the same means.’

‘Lamparde?’

‘He will know what to do.’

‘Then why has he not already done it?’ said the lawyer nervously. ‘Why has Lamparde not honoured his contract? This alters the case completely. If Nicholas Bracewell were to come to as far as-’

‘He will not!’

‘But if he did …’

‘He will not!’ thundered the merchant. ‘Lamparde will not let us down. He values his own life, so he will not cross Gideon Livermore.’ His explosion of rage had reassured him. ‘Nicholas Bracewell will not get anywhere near us. We do wrong to have such foolish fears. We are safe and beyond his reach. Let us forget about him and his family.’

‘Yet he is still on his way, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘He travels with a theatre company.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Close to death.’

Nicholas Bracewell rode with them to the edge of the town and waved them off. He still had business in Marlborough and could soon overtake them on the roan. It was a spirited animal and a full day in the stable had made it restless for exercise. Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe off on the road to Chippenham. Westfield’s Men were still buoyed up by the success of their performance that afternoon, and they could look to repeat it in Bristol. Firethorn himself was torn between elation and disquiet. Though his company had twice distinguished themselves before an audience, he was worried by the interference of Israel Gunby. The incident at the Fighting Cocks in High Wycombe still rankled, all the more so because he had found no balm for that particular wound. He had spent three nights away from his wife now and found nobody to take her place in his bed. Black Antonio rarely failed to excite some female interest, and he had hoped to snatch a fond farewell in his chamber with some local maiden while the waggon was being loaded but it was not to be. The mayor had been thrilled with the second performance and would not stir from Firethorn’s side until he had explained why at least a dozen times. Guilt rustled beneath his mayoral chain. He spent so much time apologising to Firethorn for even thinking that he would wish to ravish another man’s wife that the other men’s wives who had come to throw themselves upon the actor could not get anywhere near him. Israel Gunby had come between Lawrence Firethorn and the spoils of war. Retribution was needed.

‘Why does he stay?’ asked Barnaby Gill.

‘Your visage offends his eye,’ said Firethorn.

‘What does Marlborough hold for Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘Go back and ask him.’

‘No,’ said Gill, ‘I will give thanks for this small mercy and put distance between the two of us. I said that he would bring more misery down upon us and he did.’

‘Yes,’ teased Firethorn, ‘he persuaded me to stage The Happy Malcontent and we had two hours of your strutting and fretting.’

‘I was supreme.’

‘It escaped my notice.’

‘But not that of the spectators.’ Gill preened himself as they rode along. ‘They loved me. I could feel the ardour. My talents left them breathless. I was inspired.’

‘Feed off your vanity, if you will. Caress your own sweet self. But do not accuse Nick.’

‘He killed that man in the audience.’

‘How? With a prompt book in his hands?’

‘Consider but this, Lawrence. Three days on the road have brought three disasters. Robbery, plague, murder. That is our book holder’s record. Robbery, plague, murder. Zounds! What more do you need?’

‘Women!’

‘When Nicholas is with us, misfortune strikes,’ said Gill. ‘He is like some Devil’s mark upon us. Let him stay in Marlborough as long as he may. We need no more stabbing among the spectators.’

‘Then you must retire, Barnaby,’ said the other, ‘for your performances are daggers in the back of any audience.’

Barnaby Gill sulked on horseback for another mile.

They were approaching a tiny hamlet when they saw him. He was propped up against a tree by the side of the road. Even from a distance, they could see his tattered rags and wretched condition. The twisted figure was one of the vast and ever-increasing number of vagrants who wandered the countryside in search of charity. Rogues and vagabonds were a recurring nuisance to Marlborough and the town beadle was paid twopence for each one that he whipped. This old man had crawled to one of the outlying hamlets to escape yet another beating and to throw himself on the mercy of passing travellers. When they got nearer, they saw the matted hair and clogged filth of a creature who spent his nights in the fields with other wild animals. One eye was closed, the other sparkled hopefully as they approached. A begging bowl came out from beneath his shredded coat. They caught his stench from twenty yards away.

Edmund Hoode put a compassionate hand into his purse.

‘Poor fellow!’ he said. ‘Let’s give him comfort.’

‘No,’ counselled Gill. ‘Give to him and you will have to give to every beggar we pass. There is not enough money in the whole kingdom to relieve all these scabs.’

‘Show some pity, Barnaby.’

‘Ignore the fellow and ride past.’

‘Leave him to me,’ said Firethorn.

He raised a hand and the company came to a halt. They looked down at the old man with frank disgust. He was in a most deplorable state and did not even have strength or sense to drag himself into the shade. There was a further cause for revulsion. The beggar seemed to have only one leg.

The bowl was shaken up at them.

‘Alms, good people!’ cried a quavering voice. ‘Alms!’

‘Why?’ said Firethorn coldly.

‘For the love of God!’

‘Beggars are no more than highway robbers.’

‘I seek charity, sir.’

‘For what reason?’

‘To live.’

‘Men who wish to live must work.’

‘I am too old and too weak, sir.’

‘Are you so?’

‘I lost a leg in the service of my country.’

‘You were a soldier, then?’ mocked Firethorn.

‘A sailor, sir. I was young and lusty once. But a man without a leg grows old so quickly. Give me a penny, sir, to buy some bread. Give me twopence and you’ll have my blessing hereafter. Please, good people! Help me!’

Edmund Hoode was about to throw a coin into the bowl but it was kicked from the man’s hand by Lawrence Firethorn. Dismounting at once, the actor-manager drew his sword and held it at the man’s neck. The whole company gasped at what they saw as an act of wanton cruelty.

‘This is no beggar!’ said Firethorn angrily. ‘This is the same vile rascal who fleeced us in High Wycombe. The same mangy old shepherd who played with us on the road from Oxford. The same slanderous villain who wrote letters to blacken my reputation.’ He flashed his rapier through the air and the beggar retreated into a bundle of fear. ‘Here is no honest wretch, gentleman. A sailor, does he say! This dunghill has never served his country in his life. He does not fool Lawrence Firethorn. He will not hide his leg from me and swear he lost it in a battle on the waves. I will not be beguiled again!’ He grabbed the man by his hair to hoist him up. ‘Behold, sirs! This is Israel Gunby!’

There was a groan of horror. As the beggar was lifted from the ground, his deformity became all too apparent. The hideous stump made the company turn away. The man was not Israel Gunby in a new role designed to taunt them. He was a decaying remnant of the young sailor he had once been.

Lawrence Firethorn was overwhelmed with guilt. He put the man gently to the ground and set him against the tree once more. Grabbing the bowl, he dropped some coins into it before taking it around the entire company. Instead of being killed by the actor-manager, the beggar now had enough money to feed himself for a fortnight. He croaked his thanks. Westfield’s Men rode away in a cloud of shame and remorse.

It took him an hour to find the inn. Nicholas Bracewell had reasoned correctly. Convinced that the man would have taken lodging for the night in Marlborough, he went around every hostelry in the town. The portrait that Anne Hendrik had sent him was shown to a dozen or more innkeepers before he found one who vaguely recognised it.

‘It could be him,’ said the man uncertainly.

‘When did he arrive?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Yesterday morning before noon.’

‘Did he stay the night?’

‘He paid for a bed, sir. But when the chamberlain went up this morning, it had not been slept in. Nor was the man’s horse in our stables. He must have stolen away.’

Nicholas pondered. The man who was trailing him must have intended to bide his time and stay the night before he attacked again. During the performance at the Guildhall, he had killed Israel Gunby’s accomplice and been forced to quit the town at speed. Nicholas had no doubt which direction the man had taken. He was somewhere on the road ahead. His task was to stop the book holder from reaching Barnstaple and he would stick to it with tenacity.

‘Nan may help you, sir,’ said the landlord.

‘Nan?’

‘One of my serving wenches. She was taken with the man, which is no great thing, sir, for Nan has a soft spot for any upright gentleman.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I’ve warned her that it will be the ruin of her one day but the girl will not listen and she is popular with travellers.’

‘May I speak with her?’

‘I’ll call her presently.’

The landlord went out of the taproom and reappeared a few minutes later with the girl. She wore the plain garb and apron of her calling but had teased down the shoulders of her dress to expose her neck and cleavage. When a man sent for her, she always came with a ready smile, and it broadened when she saw the tall, sturdy figure of Nicholas Bracewell. He showed her the drawing and she identified it at once. She was certain that the man had lodged there on the previous day and spoke with some asperity about him. The only false detail in the sketch was the earring. He had not worn it when he stayed there.

‘Did he give a name?’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the landlord, ‘but I have forgot it. We have so many travellers through here each day that I cannot remember more than a handful of their names. But if it is important, I can ask my wife.’

‘Please do.’

‘Her memory is sounder than mine.’

‘She would earn my deepest gratitude.’

Nicholas asked for permission to see the bedchamber where the man had stayed. While the landlord went off to find his wife, the girl conducted Nicholas up two flights of creaking stairs to a low passageway. She moved along it with the easy familiarity of someone who could — and had done so on many occasions — find her way along it in the dark. She came to a door and unlocked it.

‘Here it is, sir,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

‘It is just as he left it.’

‘Has the linen been changed?’

‘There was no need. It was not slept in.’

Nicholas looked around the room. Nothing had been left behind, but there was the possibility that the visitor had lain down to rest. He may not have slept in the bed, but his head may have rested on its flat pillow. Anne Hendrik’s letter had contained a verbal description of the man to support the rough portrait. Leonard had talked about the man’s ‘smell’, though he could be no more specific than that. Nicholas bent over the bed and sniffed. He inhaled the faintest whisper of a fragrance.

‘He did smell sweet,’ said the girl. ‘That’s what I liked about him. Most travellers have foul breath and stink of sweat but not this one. It was a pretty smell and I would like some for myself. What was it, sir?’

Nicholas inhaled again. ‘Oil of bergamot.’

In his two encounters with the man, he had not had time to notice any fragrance. The musty atmosphere in the stable at the Fighting Cocks would subdue any sweeter odour and the scuffle at the Dog and Bear was over in seconds. What Nicholas had missed, both Leonard and the serving wench had remarked. He thanked the girl and slipped her a few pence. She stole a giggling kiss as further reward then took him back downstairs. The landlord had still not returned and Nicholas stepped out into the yard while he was waiting. Fresh air hit him like a slap across the face and forced realisation upon him.

He was alone. Westfield’s Men were miles ahead of him and he was unprotected. It brought him no fear. Instead, it gave him a sudden sense of freedom. He was somewhere near the middle of his journey between London and Barnstaple. Behind him lay the ruins of a love that had sustained him for some years now: ahead of him was nothing but danger and uncertainty. If he turned back, he might yet recover what he had lost in Bankside. Anne Hendrik still cared. She sent word to him that might help to save his life, but that life would not be threatened if he abandoned his purpose. What could he hope to achieve in Barnstaple? The town was a branding iron that had burnt so many white-hot messages into his mind. Why suffer that hissing pain once more?

It was not just a decision between a new home and an old one. Nicholas was standing at a spiritual crossroads. If he went back, he would be renouncing a way of life as well. Westfield’s Men were his closest friends, but it was a highly unstable friendship. The loss of the Queen’s Head had not just expelled them from Gracechurch Street, it might keep them out of London for ever and condemn them to an almost permanent tour of the provinces. Lawrence Firethorn would never tolerate that and neither would Barnaby Gill. Other theatre companies would woo them back to the capital and Westfield’s Men would collapse. Nicholas did not wish to be there when that happened. A clean break now would rescue him from a slow professional death with an ailing troupe.

Even if the company found a new base in London, he was not sure whether he wanted to share it with them. Theatre was still a flight from reality. Owen Elias had reminded him of that. Nicholas was hiding. If he stayed in London and forged a new love with Anne Hendrik, he would be able to leave his refuge and live a normal life: if he pressed on to Devon, he would be calling up the very ghosts that had sent him away. Lawrence Firethorn and the others put enormous reliance on him, but it was not reflected in his status. Nicholas was still only a hired man with the company, one of the floating population of theatre people who were taken on and dismissed according to the whims of the sharers. The book holder might have created a fairly constant position in the company but it gave him only a very fragile security. In essence, Nicholas Bracewell was no better off than the disillusioned George Dart.

Going forward meant certain anguish while going back offered possible release. He would be insane to drive himself on. A settled life with a woman he loved was the best that any man could hope for. Nicholas wanted to start out for home at once and begin afresh with Anne Hendrik. She was the decisive factor in his life and it was time to acknowledge it. His love was guiding him back to her. Visions of quiet contentment came before him but they soon evaporated in the chill air of truth. Anne Hendrik was no longer alone. She had another lodger at her house, a dead girl who had made the long journey from Barnstaple in search of Nicholas. Her shadow would lay across that bedchamber for ever unless she was avenged. Returning to London meant considering only himself. When he remembered the girl and thought of the man who had poisoned her, he needed no signpost to point his way. He simply had to go on to the end of the journey.

Nicholas untethered his horse from the post and leapt into the saddle. He was ready to gallop after his fellows and reaffirm his kinship with them before going on to more personal commitments in Devon. Only after that would he have any chance of a reconciliation with Anne Hendrik.

‘Stay, sir!’ called the landlord.

‘What?’

‘I have spoken with my wife.’

‘I had quite forgot.’

‘Then your memory is like mine, sir,’ said the man. ‘I knew that I could count on her. Names stick in her mind like dried leaves to a hedgehog. She recalls his name.’

‘The man with the black beard?’

‘Even he, sir.’

‘What was it?’

‘A fine, mouth-filling name, sir. He told it to her.’

‘So what did the fellow call himself?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’