The Vagabond Clown

Chapter Fifteen

It was dark by the time they got back to Dover and candlelight glowed in open windows. Lanterns were hanging in the stables at the Lion so that the ostlers could see to unsaddle the horses. Wearied by their ride in pursuit of a false scent, Nicholas and Elias joined the others in the taproom. The mood was sombre. Though they had searched the town until nightfall, the actors had found no clues as to the whereabouts of Lawrence Firethorn and they were convinced that he was dead. The arrival of the newcomers destroyed their last faint hopes. Nicholas and Elias had come back empty-handed. All was lost. The company grieved in silence and the taproom was uncannily quiet. Looking around the sad faces, Nicholas began to wonder if the actors would be able to summon up the strength and the dedication that was needed to stage a play in front of an audience. Elias tried to set a good example by retiring to a quiet corner with a tankard of ale and a copy of his scenes from A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady. He was soon repeating lines to himself.

Nicholas sat beside Edmund Hoode, who was morose and withdrawn.

‘Where’s Barnaby?’ asked Nicholas.

‘He’s gone to his room,’ replied Hoode. ‘He prefers to be alone. George has been running hither and thither, fetching wine and food for him.’ He looked at his friend. ‘I begin to have doubts, Nick. Is it wise for us to go ahead without Lawrence?’

‘We have no choice in the matter.’

‘But we do. We can cancel the performance.’

‘When we have already agreed to give it?’ said Nicholas. ‘Playbills have been printed. Word of mouth has spread our fame afar. Think how our reputation will suffer if we disappoint our audience.’

‘It will suffer far more if we offer them the botched piece we saw at rehearsal this afternoon. I was ashamed to be involved in such horror.’

‘Then help to turn it into an acceptable performance.’

‘Time is against us.’

‘I disagree, Edmund. It’s our greatest asset. Look at Owen,’ said Nicholas, indicating the Welshman. ‘He knows how little time he has to con his part and that inspires him to work at it all the harder. It is so with our fellows. I, too, had doubts about them when I walked in here — then I remembered that we have less than sixteen hours to pull the play together. When we get to the Guildhall tomorrow, there’ll be no room for grief or anguish. The company will respond as Owen has done.’

‘The play will not be the same without Lawrence.’

‘We thought it would not be the same without Barnaby yet we gave a rousing performance of it at Maidstone. The mayor loved it. When did we last earn five pounds when we were out on the road? And that’s another consideration, Edmund,’ he went on. ‘Cancel the performance and we lose both face and money. Fill the Guildhall tomorrow afternoon and we stand to replenish our coffers.’

Hoode was despondent. ‘That may be so, Nick. But no matter how much we earn, it will not atone for the loss of Lawrence.’

‘I grant you that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but imagine how pleased he will be when he comes back and finds that we have abided by our contract to play and swelled our funds.’

‘When he comes back? Do you honestly believe that he will?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then you are the only one of us here that does.’

‘I think not. Owen is of the same opinion as me.’

‘Even though you drew a blank with Conway’s Men?’

‘That left us chastened but not downhearted,’ explained Nicholas. ‘I was too hasty in singling out Tobias Fitzgeoffrey as the culprit. I reason thus. Two people who are linked to Westfield’s Men have been murdered. Fortunatus Hope was the first and Giddy Mussett, the second. Both were left where they would be found so that their fates would act as a warning to us. That is why Master Hope was killed at the Queen’s Head and not in some more private place. It was a visible blow against us.’

‘Nothing could have been more visible than Giddy’s death.’

‘It was meant to frighten, Edmund.’

‘It succeeded.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘but how much more upsetting would Lawrence’s death be? Suppose that we had found him lying in a stable with a dagger in his back? We would all have been distraught. Do you follow my argument?’

‘Very closely, and it brings me some relief.’

‘Good.’

‘Had Lawrence been murdered, his killer would have dangled his body in front of us to cause us real terror. Since that has not happened, there is a chance that Lawrence is still alive.’ His brow furrowed. ‘But why, Nick? Why spare him when his death would throw us into disarray?’

‘I can only guess. Whoever kidnapped him thought that his disappearance would be enough to halt us in our tracks. But that is not the case.’

‘I know,’ said Hoode, suddenly alarmed. ‘We are pressing on in spite of his loss. Could that not be dangerous for Lawrence?’

‘It is what he would expect of us.’

‘Not if it imperils his life.’

‘We’ve no means of knowing that it will.’

‘But it’s a possibility, Nick. Look at the situation. Lawrence is snatched from us in order to prevent us from playing again in Dover. If we ignore the message, will they not simply kill Lawrence in order to give us a starker warning?’

‘It’s a risk,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but we have to take it.’

‘I’m not sure that we should.’

‘We must, Edmund. Our intentions have been made clear. Instead of giving up in the face of fear, we struggled on at the Guildhall this afternoon. That will not have gone unnoticed. If our decision endangered Lawrence’s life, his dead body would have turned up by now. Yet it has not. He’s still alive,’ he continued, ‘and that means we have a chance to rescue him.’

‘I wish that I had your confidence.’

‘You share my love for the company. Let that carry you through.’

Hoode was reassured. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘We must perform the play.’

‘It will have another virtue.’

‘And what is that?’

‘It will bring our enemy out into the daylight again,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think that we’ve been watched ever since we set out from London. We know that the killer was in the audience at the Queen’s Head. I suspect that he’s seen every performance that we have so far given on tour. If we take to the boards at the Guildhall tomorrow, he’ll probably be hidden away among the other spectators.’

‘Wondering who his next victim will be,’ said Hoode with a shiver.

‘No, Edmund. Realising that he’ll not stop us.’

Nicholas stayed long enough to share a light supper with his friend and did his best to still Hoode’s apprehensions. As a courtesy, the book holder then went to Gill’s room to explain what happened on their visit to Conway’s Men. Before he could even tap on the door, however, he saw George Dart backing out of the room on tiptoe. Dart closed the door behind him and raised a finger to his lips to signal the need for silence. Nicholas took him to the other end of the passageway before he spoke.

‘Is he asleep, George?’

‘Yes,’ said Dart. ‘He was very tired.’

‘I know that he’s in pain.’

‘He never shows it in front of the others but it is different when we are alone. Every time he moves his leg, he’s in agony. Master Gill drinks wine to deaden the pain.’ He smiled hopefully. ‘Did you find what you were after, Nick?’

‘Unhappily, no. It was a false trail.’

Dart’s face fell. ‘Like all of the others.’

‘We’ll keep looking, George.’

‘And so will I.’

‘Your task is to take care of Barnaby.’

‘That does not stop me joining in the search,’ said the willing Dart. ‘When I wheeled Master Gill back from the Guildhall, I was as vigilant as any of them. And I all but stumbled on a clue that nobody else had found.’

‘A clue?’ asked Nicholas with interest.

‘That’s what I thought it might be at the time.’

‘And now?’

‘I was probably misled by him.’

‘By whom, George?’

‘It does not matter now. Master Gill told me to forget the man.’

‘What man?’

‘A beggar in the street.’

‘Go on. Tell me what happened.’

‘Well,’ said Dart, biting at a fingernail, ‘the poor wretch looked so miserable, sitting in a doorway like a stray dog, that I took pity on him. I stopped to give him a coin even though Master Gill chided me for doing so. The beggar was very grateful. He asked who I was and what I was doing in Dover. When I told him that I belonged to Westfield’s Men and that we were looking for Master Firethorn, he said that he could help me, if only I was to put more money into his palm. But I had none left to give.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘What I was told to do by Master Gill. He ordered me to wheel him back here and told me that I was a fool to listen to the fellow.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was telling a lie.’

‘Was that the impression that you got?’

‘No, Nick. I felt that he was in earnest. But Master Gill insisted that it was only a ruse to get more money out of me. If I gave the beggar a bag of gold, he said, I’d get nothing but falsehood out of him.’

‘Who knows?’

‘Master Gill was certain that the man was deceiving me.’

‘Yet he might have seen something,’ said Nicholas.

‘Oh, there was no question of that.’

‘Why not?’

‘The beggar was blind.’

Lawrence Firethorn had never before had such sympathy for the blind. Deprived of his sight by the piece of material tied across his eyes, he came to understand their plight and their helplessness. Firethorn had the additional handicaps of being tied up and gagged so he could not use touch and taste by way of guidance. All that he could rely on were his sense of smell and his hearing, and they gave him only limited intelligence. It was night. That much was certain. The tumult of the harbour had given way to a cloying silence that was broken from time to time only by the distant barking of a dog or the cry of a drunken man trying to find his way home. Firethorn could smell fish. Indeed, he could smell little else inside the room where he was locked. He decided that he was incarcerated in a warehouse of some sort. The abiding stink suggested that there was no window to admit any fresh air. As time wore on, the atmosphere became increasingly oppressive.

His captors had left him alone. That meant they had no fear that he could escape from his prison. Firethorn was tied to a stout wooden post and, even though he strained every sinew in an effort to break free, he could not budge the timber. He was there for the whole night. What happened then, he could only conjecture. He could certainly expect no sympathy from the two men who held him. When they moved him to the warehouse, they had been rough to the point of brutality, taking full advantage of his inability to defend himself. Firethorn vowed to take revenge on them a hundred times but he was in no position to exact it. Everything depended on other people. Whether or not he stayed alive depended on his captors. Whether or not he was rescued, depended on Westfield’s Men.

Firethorn was afraid. When he fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, the same question was repeating itself inside his mind: ‘Nick Bracewell — where are you?’

Any fears that Westfield’s Men would be unequal to the challenge that lay ahead were swiftly dispelled. When they gathered at the Guildhall early on the following morning, they had shaken off their despair and found a new resolution. Nicholas explained to them why he believed that Firethorn was still alive and they were further bolstered. There was also a strong rumour that their patron would arrive in Dover in time to see them perform. It served to make the actors apply themselves more rigorously. As a result, the rehearsal bore no resemblance to the halting performance of the previous day. Mistakes were still made but they were quickly rectified. Owen Elias’s grasp on his character and his lines was now secure. George Dart contrived to prompt audibly at the correct moments. Even Barnaby Gill, normally so peevish at rehearsals, was lulled into a rare state of optimism by the way that the company lifted itself out of its pervading woe. It augured well for the afternoon performance.

While most of the others returned to the Lion for refreshment, Nicholas remained behind with George Dart to put everything in readiness. Scenery was set up for the opening of the play and properties placed on stage. Benches were arranged so that everyone had a good view of the action. Gatherers had to be instructed in their role so that nobody slipped past them without paying an entrance fee. Sunlight streamed in through the windows on both side walls to eliminate any need for candles. When the work was done, Nicholas spared a few minutes to follow up the potential clue that Dart had mentioned. The two of them walked to the exact spot where the blind beggar had sat on the previous day but the man was not there.

‘Are you sure that it was here?’ asked Nicholas.

‘This was the very doorway.’

‘I saw no blind beggar when I passed by with Owen.’

‘Perchance he moved.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘He had money to spend. I gave it to him.’

‘Look about for him. Try the streets nearby.’

They split up and went down all the adjacent streets and lanes. Their search was thorough but, once again, completely futile. Nicholas was disappointed. A tiny wisp of hope seemed to have vanished the moment that it appeared.

Impressed by the reputation of Westfield’s Men, and lured by the title of the play, a large audience descended on the Guildhall that afternoon. Most paid for a seat but there was also standing room at the rear and a number of sailors had been tempted away from their taverns to watch A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady. The mayor and his wife were there again, as were most of the city worthies. Sebastian Frant brought his daughter this time and they sat near the front so that they would get full value from the performance. Lord Westfield did not arrive in time but John Strood did, mingling with the standees at the back of the hall and wondering what had drawn his former shipmate, Nicholas Bracewell, into a theatre troupe. It struck him as an odd choice of profession.

Behind the scenes, Nicholas took on a role more usually assigned to Firethorn, that of instilling confidence and spirit into the company. While the actor-manager did it with a hortatory speech, declaimed with characteristic zest, the book holder preferred to move quietly from one person to another so that he could speak individually to them. By the time that Nicholas had finished, everyone knew what was expected of him. The musicians took up their places in the gallery and James Ingram was poised to stride out on stage to deliver the Prologue. The customary buzz of anticipation could be heard from the audience. They were there to enjoy themselves and Westfield’s Men were determined not to let them down. Certain that everybody was ready, Nicholas gave the signal. The musicians began to play.

Almost immediately, a lute string snapped with a resounding twang, catching the lutenist on the arm and producing an involuntary yell of surprise. It gained the first unintended laugh. When Ingram swept on stage to deliver the Prologue, his black cloak caught on the edge of the scenery and was badly torn. More laughter followed. It was an inauspicious start but the actors were not distracted. Once the play began, they imposed a degree of control over it that never really slipped. At the same time, however, they failed to inject any of the fire and hilarity that had marked earlier performances of the play. Gill was strangely subdued and it was only Nicholas’s frenetic manipulation of the wheelbarrow that produced any sustained mirth. The apprentices were little more than adequate as the female quartet and Rowland Carr, playing a disreputable hedge-priest, was less than reliable. It was not for want of effort. Everybody committed himself wholeheartedly to the enterprise but that soon became a fault. By trying too hard, they fell short of their high standards. They speeded up the action to an almost bewildering pace, their timing was awry and they lost all the subtleties of the play.

It was Owen Elias who lent the piece its real quality. In the leading role of Lackwit, he was so outstanding that they hardly missed Firethorn. The Welshman seized his opportunity to dazzle like a man who had been waiting a whole lifetime for such a moment. He was both hero and clown, winning the sympathy of the spectators yet earning most of the laughter as well. Elias had always been a fine actor with a commanding presence and a powerful voice but nobody had expected him to blossom in the part of Lackwit. Much to Gill’s disgust, Bedlam was overshadowed and it spurred the clown on to desperate measures. He inserted comic songs that were not even in the play and made such use of his facial contortions that he appeared to be having some kind of fit. None of it challenged Elias’s supremacy. It was he who rescued the play from the mediocrity into which it would otherwise have sunk.

Fortunately, the majority of the audience was unaware of the glaring defects in the performance. Unused to seeing plays on a regular basis, they were not unduly critical and enjoyed every moment. Even with its blemishes, A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady was superior to anything that Conway’s Men, or any other touring company, had offered to the people of Dover and they were highly appreciative. The actors, however, knew only too well how much better the play could have been. During the long and generous applause, they took their bow with a measure of guilt, feeling that they did not entirely deserve it. Elias was again the exception. Having carried much of the play on his broad shoulders, he felt entitled to bask in the ovation and he made the most of it. When he led the cast into the tiring-house, he was congratulated by all and sundry. Even Gill had a word of praise for him.

Nicholas was deeply disappointed. In times of adversity, Westfield’s Men could be usually be counted on to pull together but it had not happened that afternoon. What had worked so well in rehearsal that morning had faltered during the actual performance. Even experienced actors like Gill, Ingram, Carr and Frank Quilter had signally failed to do themselves justice. Something positive had been achieved. In defiance of the attempt to prevent them from playing at all, they had actually staged the comedy in front of a full audience. Money had been earned and spectators went away happy. But it was not enough to satisfy Nicholas. He was forced to accept the fact that, without Firethorn, the company was not in a fit state to defend their high reputation. Their patron, an assiduous theatregoer, would have been shocked to see how disorganised they had become. He would certainly not allow his company to perform at the castle in front of Lord Cobham.

Suppressing his own anxieties, Nicholas did his best to give encouragement to the others but it was in vain. They were sad and jaded. The performance had exposed their limitations and reminded them just how much they depended on Firethorn. All that they wanted to do — apart from Elias, that is — was to creep back to the Lion and reach for the consolation of strong ale. Gill crooked a finger to call Nicholas over to him.

‘That was an abomination,’ said the clown.

‘It was lacking in some respects,’ admitted Nicholas.

‘Thank heaven that Lord Westfield was not here to witness it.’

‘I, too, am grateful for that small mercy.’

‘Spare us from further disgrace, Nicholas.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Inform our patron that we are unable to perform at the castle. I’ll not be humiliated like that again. Until we find Lawrence, we are but pale shadows of what we should be. Look around you,’ said Gill. ‘There’s hardly a man among us who would dare to take to the boards again. Explain the situation to Lord Westfield. Tell him that we’ve given our last performance in Dover.’

It took a long time for the crowd to disperse from the Guildhall. Several of the spectators remained in order to add their personal congratulations to the actors as they came out from the tiring-house. Owen Elias was the first to appear, surrounded immediately by adoring young women who quickly discovered that he was nothing like the timid and unworldly Lackwit that he had played. Barnaby Gill was wheeled out by George Dart to a smattering of applause and there was great interest as well in Richard Honeydew, whose portrayal of the heroine had been so convincing that some refused to believe that he was really a young boy. Under the supervision of Nicholas, the hired men began to dismantle the stage. Sebastian Frant and Thomasina came across to the book holder.

‘Do you have a moment to spare, Nick?’ asked Frant.

‘I always have time for your and your daughter,’ replied Nicholas, leaving the others to get on with their work. ‘It is good to see you both again. I wish that we could have offered you something better than was on display this afternoon.’

‘But we enjoyed the play,’ said Thomasina with obvious sincerity. ‘It was a more cunning and amusing tale than Cupid’s Folly. Master Gill was a delight and you proved yourself a very able actor.’

‘Yes,’ said Frant. ‘I’ve never seen you on stage before.’

Nicholas gave a tired smile. ‘Nor will you do so again, Sebastian. I was there merely to move the wheelbarrow. I’m not proud of my performance.’

‘You should be, Nick.’

‘I agree with Father,’ said Thomasina. ‘You were another clown. But where was Master Firethorn? I thought that you told me he was certain to appear today?’

‘He was indisposed, I fear,’ said Nicholas.

Her eyes filled with concern. ‘I hope that he is not ill.’

‘His condition is not serious and we expect him to return soon. Fortunately,’ he went on, pointing to Elias, ‘we had an able deputy in Owen. He was a true hero on that stage this afternoon.’

‘Oh, I know. Pray excuse me while I tell him so.’

Seeing that Elias was breaking away from a group of admirers, Thomasina went over to speak to him. The Welshman was soon lapping up her congratulations. It gave Nicholas the opportunity of a word alone with someone who knew much more about the theatre than his impressionable young daughter.

‘Be honest, Sebastian,’ said Nicholas. ‘What did you really think of us?’

Frant was tactful. ‘You’ve given me more entertaining performances.’

‘I asked for an honest opinion.’

‘Then I have to confess that I was disappointed. Thomasina might not have seen the faults but I lost count of them. Barnaby was curiously weak and Edmund was simply walking through his part. Owen Elias,’ he said, nodding towards the Welshman, ‘was the only person to bring true worth out of his role. You missed Lawrence sorely.’

‘We were all aware of that.’

‘Will he be back in time for your appearance at the castle?’

‘It seems unlikely,’ said Nicholas. ‘That being the case, we will have to forego the pleasure of playing here again. Barnaby refuses to countenance the idea and most of our fellows will be of the same mind. Owen apart, they would like to quit Dover at the earliest opportunity.’

‘Are they so upset by their performance?’

‘They are mortified, Sebastian, and so am I. You’ve seen us at the Queen’s Head. You know what Westfield’s Men can do at their best.’

‘No rival can even challenge them.’

‘We did not feel quite so invincible today.’

Frant was sympathetic. ‘Take heart from the fact that you had more spectators here like Thomasina. They loved what they saw and gave you the tribute of their palms.’ His daughter rejoined him. ‘We must away, my dear. And we must let Nick get on with his work.’ He shook hands with Nicholas. ‘Give my warmest regards to Lawrence. I hope that he is soon able to take his place on stage again.’

‘Yes,’ said Thomasina. ‘I long to see him once more.’

‘It may not be in Dover,’ said Nicholas. ‘Farewell.’

As he watched Frant and his daughter leaving the hall, Nicholas had his worst fears confirmed. Their former scrivener had been candid. By their normal standards, the performance was extremely poor. Nicholas felt that they had cheated the audience and yearned for the chance to make amends. That chance would not come in Dover unless Firethorn was found and restored to his pre-eminence in the company. It was a sobering reminder. His main task was to continue the search. After instructing the others to load everything into the waiting wagons, Nicholas slipped out of the Guildhall. He did not walk far before someone stepped out to block his way. It was John Strood.

‘I was hoping to see you, Nick,’ he said, pumping his friend’s hand. ‘You told me that you were the book holder. I did not realise that you were an actor as well.’

‘Only by necessity, John.’

‘It was the wittiest play I’ve ever seen.’

‘I’m glad that you enjoyed it.’

‘It was such a clever idea to use a wheelbarrow as you did.’

‘That, too, was forced upon us,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was good of you to come.’

‘It was the only time that I could.’

‘Why? Are you setting sail?’

‘Later this evening.’

‘How long will you be away?’

‘Several days,’ said Strood. ‘You’ll doubtless have moved on from the town by then. I’m sorry that we were not able to spend more time together.’ He shifted his feet uneasily. ‘And I’m sorry that you did not find me in a happier station.’

‘I was delighted to see you, John, whatever your station in life.’

‘The Mermaid is an unworthy ship for someone of my abilities.’

‘Then find a better one.’

‘That is not as simple as you might imagine.’

‘Why not?’

‘One day, perhaps, I’ll tell you.’ He embraced Nicholas. ‘Adieu!’

‘Good fortune attend you, John!’

Strood gave a mirthless laugh and hurried away. Nicholas was pleased that they had been able to exchange a farewell but saddened by the fact that they were unlikely to meet again. His friend deserved to sail on a much finer vessel than the Mermaid yet there was an air of resignation about Strood that suggested he would never do so. Nicholas waited until his old shipmate had vanished into the crowd before he set off in the other direction. His thoughts were solely on Lawrence Firethorn now.

The blind beggar was sitting in the precise spot that George Dart had indicated. White-haired and dressed in rags, the old man was curled up in a doorway to keep out of the sun. A small bowl stood on the cobbles in front of him but it was empty. Nicholas tossed a coin into the bowl and a scrawny hand shot out to retrieve it.

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ said the beggar.

‘How do you know that I’m a man and not a maid?’

‘By the sound of your feet. You’ve the tread of a tall man with a long stride.’

Nicholas crouched down beside him. ‘How good is your memory?’

‘As good as yours, I think. Try me, sir.’

‘A friend of mine spoke to you yesterday, shortly after noon.’

‘A young man. I remember him well.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he dropped a coin in my bowl. Few people do that.’

‘He also talked to you,’ said Nicholas. ‘He told you who he was and where he worked. When he confided a problem to you, you claimed that you could help.’

‘I did,’ agreed the beggar, ‘but he went away before I could tell him what I knew. He was with another man, older and more irritable, who seemed to be in a small cart.’

‘It was a wheelbarrow.’

The beggar cackled. ‘Does he have no better means of moving about?’

‘His leg is broken and in a splint.’

‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘then he has my sympathy. He has a burden to carry, like me, and must try to overcome it as best he can.’ He reached out a hand to feel Nicholas’s arm. ‘Who am I talking to?’

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Also employed by Westfield’s Men, I think.’

‘The same.’

‘Then you, too, are looking for a certain Master Firethorn.’

‘We are desperate to find him,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anything of help that you can tell me will earn my gratitude.’

‘I need more than gratitude.’ Another coin was dropped into the bowl. The beggar grabbed it at once. ‘Is this all that I can expect?’

‘That depends on the intelligence you give me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Since you were unable to see anything, you must have heard it instead.’

‘Oh, yes. My ears can pick up the slightest sound. I hear snatches of a thousand conversations every day yet I can always tell them apart. Age has robbed me of much but left me with my wits.’

‘Tell me about Master Firethorn.’

‘He was coming from the same direction as you when he was stopped by someone. A younger man, judging by his voice.’

‘Where was this?’

‘No more than a few yards from where I sit now.’

‘Did this other person give a name?’

‘No, sir,’ said the beggar, scratching at the fleas beneath his armpits, ‘but he recognised Master Firethorn and gave him a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘I heard the seal being broken.’

‘What else did you hear?’ asked Nicholas, listening intently.

‘The name of the man who sent the letter. It was Lord Westfield.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘My ears never deceive me. The messenger told Master Firethorn that he was to go to an inn where Lord Westfield was staying. They went off together.’

Nicholas was mystified. ‘But our patron has not yet arrived in Dover. How could he send for Master Firethorn when he is not even here?’

‘I’ve told you all I know.’ The beggar grinned. ‘Except for one thing.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The name of the inn.’

The scrawny hand was extended and Nicholas knew that he would have to buy the information. How reliable it was, he could only hazard a guess but the beggar had clearly heard enough to convince him that he was telling the truth. He put three more coins into the man’s open palm. It closed instantly.

‘Where did this messenger take him?’

‘To meet Lord Westfield.’

‘At which inn?’

‘The Arms of England.’

Lawrence Firethorn had lost all track of time. Roused from his sleep, he was untied from the post and hustled out of the warehouse by the two men who had stood guard over him earlier. He was then taken along a quay, helped down some stone steps and pushed into a rowing boat. The point of a dagger was held to his ribs. Firethorn could do nothing but lie in the stern of the boat as it was rowed away. He was bruised and bewildered. He had cramp in his arms and legs. The boat seemed to take a long time to reach its destination and he feared that he was being taken out to sea to be drowned. Then the oars were shipped and he felt the thud of contact with a larger vessel. Ropes were lowered and tied around his chest and under his armpits. Unable to resist, he was hauled upward.

When they lowered him down, he knew that he was in the hold of a ship. It creaked and rolled as it was buffeted playfully by the waves. Firethorn felt sick. His captors came aboard to take charge of him, lugging him along a floor then securing him to some iron rings set in the side of the hold. Where were they taking him? Why did they handle him so roughly? What time was it? Who were they? Hours of excruciating discomfort limped slowly past before one of his captors bent over him.

‘I’m to offer you food.’ It was the voice of the man who had killed Giddy Mussett. ‘If it was left to me, I’d sooner throw you overboard but we’ve been told to keep you alive. Do you want to eat?’

Firethorn’s stomach was too unsettled even to consider the offer but he nodded his head nevertheless. Any chance to have his gag removed had to be taken. He could at least ask some of the questions that had been tormenting him.

‘Say nothing,’ warned the man. ‘Cry for help and it will not be heard. We’re too far from the shore for that. Do you understand?’

Firethorn nodded again and adopted a submissive pose. His gag was untied.

‘I’ve some cheese for you,’ said the other, inserting it hard into his mouth. ‘I hope that it chokes you to death.’

Firethorn spat it into his face and roared his defiance. ‘I’ll kill you one day!’

Something struck him viciously on the side of the head. The blows continued until he sank into oblivion. When he recovered consciousness again, Firethorn learnt that one side of his face was covered in blood and that he was lashed even more tightly to the iron ring. His gag was firmly back in place. There would be no more meals for him.

The landlord of the Arms of England was a swarthy man of middle years with a face that glowed with geniality. A former sailor, he had tired of life at sea and found an occupation that suited his talents and inclinations. Nicholas Bracewell weighed him up at a glance.

‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ asked the landlord.

‘I’m looking for a friend.’

‘Then search about you. Do you see him here?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He came in yesterday, not long after midday.’

The landlord chuckled. ‘Then you’ll hardly find him here now. We’ve lots of customers who like to drink themselves into stupidity but we always turn them out at the end of the day unless they have hired a room.’

‘First, tell me if my friend came in here. He’s a man you’d remember.’

‘Why is that?’

Nicholas gave him a description of Firethorn and explained that he probably came into the inn with a younger man. The landlord had no difficulty in identifying them.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I do recall your friend, sir, and he was with a young man.’

‘How long did they stay?’

‘I’ve no recollection of that.’

‘None at all?’

‘The room had been hired until morning but they left well before that.’

‘Room?’ repeated Nicholas. ‘My friend was taken to a room?’

‘One of our finest.’

‘Who paid for it?’

‘The fellow did not give a name,’ said the landlord. ‘I took him on trust. He was a seafaring man like myself and that was enough for me.’

‘But he’s not there now?’

‘Neither of them are, sir.’

‘There were two of them staying here?’

‘Yes, sir. Though the other man was no sailor. I could tell that. When this friend of yours came in, he was taken straight up to their room. It’s above my head so I know that they went in there.’

‘Is it occupied now?’ asked Nicholas.

‘No. Why? Did you wish to hire it?’

‘I simply wish to look into it.’

‘But it’s empty, sir.’

‘That makes no difference.’

The landlord was cautious. ‘I like to oblige my customers but I don’t make a habit of showing them into my rooms. I’d need a good reason to do that.’

‘I’ve an excellent reason,’ said Nicholas with urgency. ‘My friend was tricked into coming here. I’ve reason to believe that the men you talked about were lying in wait for him. He was kidnapped.’

‘Here? Under my roof?’

‘That’s my suspicion. I’ll pay, if you let me confirm it.’

‘There’s no need for that, sir,’ said the landlord, moving across to the stairs. ‘I’ll take you up there myself. We’ve lively customers here at times but I never let them get out of hand. And I’d certainly not let them have a room if I thought that they were intending to commit a crime here.’

‘We don’t know that they were,’ said Nicholas, following him up the steps. ‘But it strikes me as a strong possibility.’

The landlord opened the door then stood back to let Nicholas go in. It was a small room with a central beam so low that he had to duck beneath it. The bed took up almost a third of the available space. The place looked clean and cosy but Nicholas could discern no sign of recent occupation. If Firethorn had been held there, he had left no mark of his visit behind. Nicholas went around the room with scrupulous care, even getting on his knees to peer under the bed.

‘You’ll find nothing under there, sir. The room has been cleaned.’

‘Had the bed been slept in?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then nobody stayed the night.’

‘We think that they sneaked away in the dark.’

‘Why should they do that?’ wondered Nicholas, getting to his feet. ‘May I open the shutters to let in more light?’

‘I’ll do it for you, sir.’

The landlord stepped into the room and lifted the latch. When he opened the shutters, a gust of wind blew in from the sea and achieved what Nicholas could never have done. It dislodged a tiny object that had been missed by the maidservant who had cleaned the room earlier. It was a white feather. Disturbed by the wind, it leapt high into the air and floated for several seconds until Nicholas snatched at it. He held it between a finger and thumb to examine it.

‘Have you seen it before, sir?’ asked the landlord.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Where?’

‘It was in my friend’s hat,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was here.’

Remorse set in as soon as they reached the Lion. Ashamed of the way they had acquitted themselves, the actors supped their ale and indulged in bitter recrimination. They felt that they had betrayed their talent at the Guildhall and it left them without any urge to perform again in Dover. Owen Elias raised a lone voice against the general melancholy, arguing that the best way to exonerate themselves was to give a performance at the castle that was truly worthy of them. He was shouted down by the others, who were beginning to resent the way that the Welshman had succeeded so brilliantly on stage when they had so miserably failed. Elias could not even rally support from Edmund Hoode. When he saw Nicholas enter, he hoped that he would at last have someone on his side.

‘You agree with me, Nick, I’m sure,’ he said, intercepting him to take him aside. ‘We must play at the castle.’

‘Not without Lawrence.’

‘We managed without him this afternoon.’

‘And paid a heavy penalty,’ said Nicholas. ‘You took the laurels, Owen, but the rest of us buckled. Had we given such a performance at the Queen’s Head, we’d have been mightily abused by some of our spectators.’

‘The mayor and his wife approved. They told me so.’

‘Leave them to their own likes and dislikes. I’ve news of Lawrence.’

Elias was attentive. ‘Good news or bad?’

‘Something of each,’ said Nicholas. ‘I know where he was taken and am sure that he was still alive by nightfall. If they meant to kill him, they’d have done so long before then. Those are the good tidings.’

‘And the bad ones.’

‘I’ve still no idea where he is now.’

Nicholas told him the story in full, praising the part played in it by George Dart, the least likely member of the company to provide crucial information. When he heard about the letter that was handed to Firethorn, the Welshman shook his head.

‘It could not have been genuine, Nick. Our patron only arrived this afternoon.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Word awaited us when we got back here.’

‘Where does Lord Westfield stay?’

‘At the castle.’

‘Why did Lawrence not realise that?’ asked Nicholas, stroking his beard. ‘When he was summoned to that inn, he must have known Lord Westfield would not be there.’

‘I disagree, Nick. Our patron is as fond of his drink as any of us. After a long ride from London, where else would he go but to a reputable inn like the Arms of England? What drew Lawrence there was that letter.’

‘It was a forgery.’

‘He did not think so at the time, Nick.’

‘That’s what puzzled me. Lawrence knows our patron’s hand.’

‘He should do,’ said Elias. ‘We’ve had enough letters from Lord Westfield in the past. If he enjoys a performance, he always has the courtesy to tell us so.’

‘Yet Lawrence was still deceived.’

‘What does that tell you?’

‘Something that I’m loath even to think,’ said Nicholas, piecing the evidence together in his mind. ‘And yet I must. It has been there under our noses all this time, Owen. Who knew about our life at the Queen’s Head? Who asked about the towns that we would visit on tour? Who came to see us perform? And who,’ he added, ‘was the one man capable of forging our patron’s hand with any skill?’

Elias was shocked. ‘Only one name answers all that.’

‘Then it must be him.’

‘But he’s a friend of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Is he?’ said Nicholas. ‘I begin to wonder. It was he who encouraged our suspicion of Conway’s Men in order to throw us off the scent. And he who got close enough to know our innermost thoughts. Let’s go and find him, Owen,’ he decided. ‘It’s high time that we learnt if Sebastian Frant is the friend that we thought him.’