The Wanton Angel

Chapter Three

Nicholas Bracewell rose early next morning at the house where he lodged in Bankside. Anne Hendrik, his landlady, had already been up an hour and she had breakfast waiting for him. As they sat on either side of the table, it was their first opportunity to discuss the events of the previous day.

‘You arrived home late last night,’ she observed.

‘I was delayed at the Cross Keys Inn.’

‘The Cross Keys? Why not the Queen’s Head?’

‘That is a tale of some length, Anne,’ he sighed.

‘Am I to be told it?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘In detail.’

When he recounted what had happened, Anne was delighted to hear of the success of The Insatiate Duke but alarmed at what occurred after it. She could imagine all too readily the state of hysteria into which their fretful landlord had whipped himself. However, while sympathising with the plight of Westfield’s Men, her main concern was for Rose Marwood whom she knew from her own regular visits to the inn yard theatre.

‘What will become of the poor girl?’ she asked.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Who knows? She does not, alas, have the most understanding parents. They will reproach her bitterly at a time when she most needs tenderness and reassurance.’

‘Rose was such an innocent creature. I used to marvel at her. She was no typical serving wench with a coarse tongue and a roving eye. There was a touching purity about Rose Marwood which somehow kept men at bay.’

‘Until now.’

‘Yes, Nick,’ she said ruefully. ‘But I will not believe that the girl yielded herself lightly. Rose would need to be deeply and hopelessly in love before she considered sharing a bed with a man and even then, I suspect, a promise of betrothal would be needed.’

‘There is no mention of betrothal now.’

‘Has the father deserted her?’

‘So it appears.’

‘Is he aware of her condition?’

‘We will not know until we identify him.’

‘Can you not guess who he might be?’

‘I believe so, Anne.’

‘Well?’

‘His was the first name which sprang to my mind.’

‘Owen Elias?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘though Owen obviously had to be taken into account as well. He has always had a special fondness for tavern wenches and loses no chance to prove his virility. But he is not the indifferent father. I questioned him bluntly and Owen swore that this was not his doing.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘Though he did add that he wished that it had been. The thought of seducing Rose Marwood and enraging her father had a double appeal for him.’

‘Rose would not look at a man like Owen Elias.’

‘Many women have, Anne.’

‘I am sure. He is extremely affable and has a vitality about him which is very attractive.’

‘Do you find it attractive?’

‘I did,’ she confessed, ‘until I got to know him better. But he poses no threat to me, if that is what you are asking.’ She smiled warmly. ‘I am already spoken for, Nick.’

He met her gaze and returned her smile. Anne was the English widow of a Dutch hatmaker. When her husband died, she took over his business and ran it with a flair and efficiency that nobody realised she possessed. With its bear-baiting arenas and its brothels, its mean tenements and its populous low-life, Bankside was not the safest part of London in which to live and Anne soon felt the need of a man in the house to lend a sense of security. Nicholas Bracewell turned out to be the ideal lodger and they were gradually drawn into a close friendship. While not letting it dictate their lives, it was something on which both set great value.

‘Who is the father of Rose’s child?’ she asked.

‘It has yet to be confirmed, Anne.’

‘But you have a strong suspicion.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and it was strengthened even more when I returned to the Cross Keys last night and questioned every man in the company in turn.’

She was surprised. ‘Every man?’

‘With the exception of George Dart and Barnaby Gill. The one is too shy even to look at a woman and the other spurns the entire sex. No,’ continued Nicholas, ‘I heard what I expected to hear from all of them. Stout denial.’

‘Who, then, is left?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Surely not!’

‘He is the only person unaccounted for, Anne. When I got back to the others, Sylvester had left.’

‘When you were celebrating a triumph?’ she said in astonishment. ‘His place was surely with his fellows. What could possibly have lured him away at such a time?’

‘The latest Rose Marwood, perhaps?’

‘No, Nick. I refuse to believe it.’

‘Sylvester is the most handsome man in the company,’ he argued, ‘and well-used to reaping the fruits of his good looks. Rose would not have been his first conquest.’

‘I still think him an unlikely culprit.’

‘Why?’

‘Sylvester Pryde has moved in high circles, Nick. He has consorted with lords and ladies. My guess is that it is among those same ladies that his conquests have been made, not in the taverns of London.’ She pursed her lips as she pondered. ‘I mean no disrespect to Rose Marwood. She is a comely enough girl but could she really attract such a worldly individual as Sylvester Pryde?’

‘It is not impossible.’

‘But is it likely?’

‘I fear that it is,’ said Nicholas. ‘Almost as soon as Sylvester joined the company, Rose was smitten with him. I lost count of the number of times I caught her watching us at rehearsal when Sylvester was on the stage. When she was in the taproom, he was always the first to be served.’

‘That does not make them lovers, Nick.’

‘No. But it singles the name of Sylvester Pryde out.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Tax him with the charge,’ he said. ‘That is why I rose so early this morning. So that I could reach his lodging before he left. It is a conversation I would rather have in private. If Sylvester is the father of this child, there will be severe consequences. It would be unseemly to let him rehearse with us at the Queen’s Head as if nothing had happened.’

‘At least, you can rehearse there again.’

‘Yes, Anne. I wrenched that concession from our landlord.’

‘You have a contractual right to play at the inn.’

‘The only contract which Alexander Marwood can talk about is a contract of marriage. Lacking that, his daughter has been locked away and treated as if she were a criminal.’

‘My heart goes out to her.’

‘And mine.’

They finished their breakfast in thoughtful silence. He put his plate aside and rested his arms on the table, reaching out to take her hands between his.

‘Thank you, Anne.’

‘It was a simple enough meal.’

‘I am grateful for the breakfast as well,’ he said, ‘but I was really thanking you for hearing me out. I am sorry to burden you with the problems of Westfield’s Men when you have plenty of your own.’

‘That is certainly true, Nick!’

‘Share them with me.’

‘Another time,’ she said. ‘I will not hold you up.’

‘But you have not told me what you did yesterday.’

‘I am not sure that I should.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it might provoke jealousy.’

‘Jealousy?’

‘I went on impulse,’ she said, defensively. ‘It was not planned at all. But I was delivering a hat to Mistress Payne and she suggested that we go together. She would not dare to go on her own and was so pleased with the hat that she was eager to wear it. In a moment of weakness, I agreed.’

‘To what?’

‘An afternoon at The Rose.’

‘Anne!’ he said with mock outrage.

‘It was a disappointing play but well-acted for all that and Mistress Payne was delighted that we went. My hat won her several compliments.’

‘You went to The Rose theatre?’ he teased.

‘Only to oblige an important customer.’

‘Supporting the work of a rival company?’

‘They pale in comparison with Westfield’s Men,’ she said, loyally. ‘There is only one player among them who is fit to have his name mentioned alongside that of Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Rupert Kitely.’

‘Yes, Nick. He towered above the others.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ he said. ‘Rupert Kitely is the mainstay of Havelock’s Men. They have a number of talented actors — including one or two deserters from our company — but it is Kitely who is their principal asset. Such a man would be most welcome in our own ranks.’

‘What hope is there of his joining you?’

‘None whatsoever. He is a sharer with Havelock’s Men and tied by contract to the Viscount’s service. Besides,’ said Nicholas, rising from the table. ‘I am not sure that there is a stage big enough to accommodate both Lawrence Firethorn and Rupert Kitely. Each needs his own arena.’

‘Do you forgive me?’ she asked.

‘For what?’

‘Spending time and money on your rivals?’

‘You are entitled to go to The Rose theatre,’ he said, helping her up from her seat. ‘It is almost on your doorstep. And it is good to have a pair of eyes on Havelock’s Men so that we keep our rivals under surveillance. When I return this evening, I would like to hear more about the performance.’

‘Not if you come back at the same hour as yesternight.’

‘My apologies for that, Anne. You were already abed.’

‘Fast asleep.’

‘I know. I peeped into your bedchamber.’

‘Then why did you not join me?’ she scolded softly.

‘I was afraid that I might wake you.’

Anne stood on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the lips.

‘I was afraid that you would not.’

A night of passion which would have exhausted most men only served to invigorate Sylvester Pryde. When he dressed next morning, he felt a fresh energy pulsing through him and giving his whole body an agreeable tingle. His lover had fared less well. Hair tousled and limbs pleasantly fatigued, she lay amid the scattered bed linen and fought to open her eyes.

‘Must you leave so soon?’ she said drowsily.

‘Yes, my love.’

‘Stay another hour.’

‘Nothing would delight me more,’ said Pryde, crossing to bestow a kiss on her forehead. ‘But I am expected elsewhere.’

‘By whom, sir?’

‘A very special lady.’

‘You swore last night that I was a very special lady,’ she complained, sitting up and pouting. ‘Was that a wicked lie?’

‘No, my sweet.’

‘Then why will you not linger?’

‘Truly, I may not. I have another assignation.’

She bristled. ‘You cast me aside for another?’

‘Only during the day. I will return again tonight.’

‘Not if you have been cavorting with a rival,’ she said tartly. ‘My door will be closed to you, Sylvester. I will not share you with anyone.’

‘Not even with the Queen of England?’

‘Her Majesty?’ she said, blinking in wonderment.

‘Yes,’ he explained with a grin. ‘I will pay homage to her Grace when I pass beneath her portrait on the inn sign. There is my assignation. At the Queen’s Head with the other players. Be ruled by me,’ he said, giving her another peck. ‘You have no flesh and blood rival. Only a painted monarch who swings to and fro in the wind in Gracechurch Street.’

‘I wronged you,’ she admitted.

‘Only because I misled you. But I must away.’

Pryde took a last, long, searching kiss before slipping out through the door. To avoid the prying eyes of neighbours, he left discreetly by the rear exit and came out into a narrow lane. Striding purposefully along into a stiff breeze, he reflected on his nocturnal pleasures and wondered how long he would sustain this particular romance. The lady was a willing but very inexperienced lover and he was not sure whether her husband’s occasional departures from London would give him enough time to teach her all the refinements she needed to master in order to hold his interest.

When he swung into Gracechurch Street, he dismissed her from his mind and turned his attention to Westfield’s Men, recalling their embarrassing departure from the Queen’s Head and speculating on the possibility that they might henceforth be banished from their place of work. This eventuality was far more worrying than the fumbling caresses and lunging urgency of his latest conquest. Being a privileged member of such an illustrious troupe as Westfield’s Men gave Sylvester Pryde immense satisfaction. On the stage in the inn yard, he enjoyed a sense of fulfilment such as he had never known before and the notion that it might be taken away from him by a volatile landlord produced a severe jolt.

The crowd was thick but he threaded his way through it with ease until he reached the Queen’s Head. His worst fears were confirmed by the sight of Nicholas Bracewell, standing outside the inn, presumably to turn the players away. He closed quickly on the book holder.

‘Good morrow, Nick!’

‘I have been waiting for you,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I called at your lodging, they told me you had spent the night elsewhere.’

‘That is so. I was called away.’

‘It must have been a pressing summons if you left in the middle of our celebrations at the Cross Keys Inn. But that is your business and does not concern me here.’ He was having difficulty being heard above the noise. ‘This street is too busy. Let us seek a quieter place to talk.’

Taking Pryde by the arm, he guided him down the first turning then swung into an alleyway which gave them a modicum of privacy and a respite from the continual din.

‘Are we barred from the Queen’s Head?’ said Pryde.

‘The company is not but one member of it may be.’

‘One member?’

‘Let me explain, Sylvester,’ said Nicholas, taking care to adopt a neutral tone. ‘Thus it stands. The landlord’s daughter is with child. Suspecting one of us to be the father, he rails against the whole company and would have cast us out into the wilderness had we not just signed a contract with him.’

‘Suspecting one of us?’ echoed Pryde. ‘Does he have no proof? Has the girl not volunteered his name?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘No. Whether out of loyalty or folly, I cannot say, but Rose will not part with it. This argues much for her strength of feeling about the man. Her parents have been stern interrogators but they failed to prise a name out of her. All that she will concede is that he was an actor. And she offered the briefest description of him.’

‘Rose Marwood is a pretty piece of flesh,’ said Pryde with a smile. ‘He was a fortunate man, whoever he might be.’

‘His good fortune has been our misfortune.’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘And it has left the girl in a parlous state.’

‘The price of pleasure can sometimes be very high.’

‘Let us talk about that price,’ said Nicholas discreetly. ‘This is a question I have had to put to each and every member of the company, Sylvester, so do not be offended when I direct it at you. The description which Rose gave could fit two or three of our players. Chief among them is you.’

‘Me?’ said Pryde indignantly.

‘Were you the girl’s lover?’

‘No, Nick. I was not nor would I be. Heavens, man, when I said she was a pretty piece of flesh, it was not because I had designs on her. I am not involved in any way here.’

‘Is that the truth, Sylvester?’

‘On my honour!’

‘I need to know.’

‘You have just been told, Nick. Ask the same question of yourself and you will understand how I feel. Are you the father of this child?’

Nicholas almost blushed. ‘Of course not.’

‘Do you find Rose Marwood repulsive?’

‘Not at all. She is a most pleasant girl.’

‘Why, then, did you not bed her?’

‘Because my affections are placed elsewhere, Sylvester, as well you know. And that is only one of many reasons.’

‘I can offer even more why I would not even dream of embracing Rose Marwood or her kind. Suffice it to say, that I, too, have placed my affections elsewhere.’ He gave a lazy smile. ‘Those affections may shift from time to time but they would never alight on the daughter of an innkeeper. We talk of quality here, Nick. With a lady such as Anne in your life, you would not stoop to a dalliance with a serving wench. It would be beneath you.’

‘That is true.’

‘It is so with me.’

‘Yet Rose Marwood was so entranced by you.’

‘That does not make me her lover.’

‘No,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘and the vehemence of your denial makes me believe you. I am sorry to have to examine you on the subject but it is in all our interests to discover who the father of this child really is.’

‘One of our fellows deceived you.’

‘I find that hard to accept.’

‘Haply, the father does not even remember the coupling,’ said Pryde. ‘If it happened in a drunken moment, it might have no purchase on his mind.’

‘Rose Marwood would not give herself to a drunkard.’

‘Stranger things have happened.’

Nicholas’s mind was racing. Having decided that Sylvester Pryde was the most likely father, he was perplexed to learn that the latter was innocent of the charge. Had one of the others deliberately lied to him? Owen Elias? James Ingram? Edmund Hoode? Lucius Kindell? Could it even have been — his blood congealed at the thought — Lawrence Firethorn himself? Gifted actor though he may be, he was also, when he could escape the vigilance of his wife, a compulsive lecher who would not scruple to show an interest in any attractive woman. If the actor-manager were the culprit, then the fate of Westfield’s Men really did hang in the balance.

Sylvester Pryde came to his aid.

‘Ask the girl,’ he suggested.

‘Who?’

‘Rose Marwood. She knows the name. Elicit it from her.’

‘How?’ said Nicholas. ‘I would not be allowed anywhere near her. The landlord and his wife have used every means at their disposal to force the name out of her. Why would she tell me what she would never divulge to her parents?’

‘Because you would be gentle with her.’

Rupert Kitely was a theatrical phenomenon. Short, slight and pleasantly ugly, he somehow transformed himself on stage into a tall, muscular individual with a dashing handsomeness that earned him a huge female following. The illusion was achieved by a subtle combination of a clarion voice, piercing eyes which reached every part of the theatre, graceful movement, vivid gesture and an inner dynamism which seemed visibly to increase his height and bulk. Kitely was the leading player with Havelock’s Men and the prime cause of its continued success. He made every role he played his own, stamping it with his authority and his trademark brilliance, taking it beyond the reach of lesser mortals in the company.

The French Doctor, a light comedy with an undertow of political satire, allowed him to display his comic gifts to the full. As the eponymous hero, Rupert Kitely gave a performance that was full of fire, pathos and hilarious mime. His timing was faultless. Even in rehearsal, he gave of his very best. Unbeknown to him, he had an appreciative audience. A pair of gloved hands applauded him from the lower gallery. Kitely looked up to see their patron, Viscount Havelock, beating his palms enthusiastically together. The French doctor replied with a low bow.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said, ‘but the real performance will take place this afternoon.’

‘I will be there, Rupert.’

‘You honour us.’

‘And you honour the name of Havelock’s Men.’

Kitely bowed again. ‘Your humble servant, my lord.’

‘I crave a word with you.’

‘I will join you presently.’

Dismissing the company, Kitely quickly made his way to the steps which led to the gallery. Viscount Havelock was a rare visitor at a rehearsal. Only a matter of some importance could have brought him there and Kitely was eager to know what it was. The patron’s broad smile heralded good news.

Charles, Viscount Havelock was an elegant man of medium height in his thirties with a long, shining, open face which gave him an almost boyish appearance, an impression reinforced by the youthful vigour which he exuded. He was completely free from the signs of dissipation which betrayed Lord Westfield and, to a much larger extent, the Earl of Banbury, his two major rivals as patrons of the theatrical arts. The Viscount rose from his seat when the actor came up the steps.

‘This French doctor will have the whole audience laughing until they weep with joy,’ he said approvingly.

‘That is our intention, my lord.’

‘It is one of your finest roles.’

‘I strive to make it so.’

‘Strive but give no sense of having striven.’

‘True art consists in concealing the huge efforts which lie behind it,’ said Kitely. ‘With a poor player, all that you see are the panting preliminaries.’

‘This morning I witnessed genuine talent.’

‘Above all else, my lord, we aim to please our patron.’

‘You do, Rupert.’ He waved an arm to take in the whole theatre. ‘Do you like The Rose?’

‘I adore the place.’

‘You are happy that the company took up residence here?’

‘Extremely happy, my lord.’

‘Have you no regrets?’

‘None of consequence.’

‘Good. It is a worthy venue for your art.’

The two of them gazed around the theatre with a pride which was buttressed by possessiveness. The Rose was their chosen home. In the time they had been there, Havelock’s Men had earned a considerable reputation for themselves and they almost always played before full audiences. Constructed on the site of a rose garden to the east of Rose Alley in the Liberty of the Clink, it was a striking new playhouse which brought spectators from all over London to Bankside. It was built around a timber frame on a brick foundation with outer walls of lath and plaster, and a thatched roof. Over the stage was a decorated canopy, supported by high pillars and surmounted by a hut, containing the winching apparatus which made possible all manner of spectacular effects.

Viscount Havelock inhaled deeply and beamed.

‘I never come here without feeling inspired.’

‘We are eternally grateful to you,’ said Kitely.

‘Would you not rather be treading the boards in one of the Shoreditch playhouses? The Curtain, perhaps?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘The Theatre?’

‘It is no match for The Rose.’

‘What of the inn yard venues?’ asked the other, turning to face him. ‘I first saw you at the Bel Savage Inn. And your company was at the Cross Keys for a while.’

‘Those days are past. This is perfection.’

‘Is it, Rupert?’

‘My lord?’

‘Even perfection can be improved a little.’

‘In what way?’

‘I was hoping that you would teach me. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you could add anything or anybody to The Rose, who or what would it be.’

Kitely did not hesitate. ‘Barnaby Gill.’

‘The clown with Westfield’s Men?’

‘He has no equal and his antics would enrich our fare immeasurably. Barnaby Gill is the finest comic talent in the whole of London.’

‘After a certain Rupert Kitely.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said the actor with a modest smile, ‘but even I could not dance a jig like Master Gill. Put him in Havelock’s Men and we would reach new heights.’

‘Whom else do you covet?’

‘Edmund Hoode.’

‘We have plays enough of our own.’

‘But they lack the quality of his best work,’ returned the other. ‘Whether writing a new play or cobbling an old one, he is a virtual master with a sure touch. Even when he turns his hand to tragedy, he does not falter. I hear disturbingly good reports of The Insatiate Duke.’

‘You were not misled by your informers.’

‘The praise has reached your ears, my lord?’

‘Ears, eyes and every other part about me, Rupert. I was in the gallery at the Queen’s Head yesterday afternoon. It is an extraordinary play, I must concede. A collaboration between Edmund Hoode and a clever young playwright from Oxford. They will go far together.’

‘Would that we had them both.’

‘Hoode and his apprentice?’

‘Do not forget Barnaby Gill.’

‘Would you poach anyone else from Westfield’s Men?’

‘Only their book keeper.’

‘Why him?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell is their secret weapon,’ said Kitely with grudging admiration. ‘It is he who holds the company together and raises the standard of what they offer. If I could choose but one of the names I have mentioned, I think I would first take Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Take the others as well,’ said the Viscount casually.

‘The others?’

‘All three of them and this book keeper.’

‘That could only happen in the realms of fantasy.’

‘We may well enter them before too long.’

Kitely tried to read his enigmatic smile. Unlike other patrons, Viscount Havelock took a direct interest in the affairs of his theatre company, attending every new play without fail and proffering advice on a whole range of matters. Rupert Kitely had come to respect this advice. What he at first took for his patron’s unwarranted interference was almost invariably sage counsel. He sensed that the Viscount was there to pass on more valuable advice.

‘Do you ever go fishing, Rupert?’ asked the patron.

‘Fishing?’

‘In the river.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘I think that you should.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you may catch exactly what you seek,’ said the other with a quiet chuckle. ‘Bait your hook well, my friend, then cast your line into the Thames and leave it there awhile. Who knows? When you pull it out again, you may have landed all four of the men you value so highly.’

‘How, my lord?’

‘That is what I have come to tell you.’

Lawrence Firethorn spent the morning brooding on the subject.

‘Sylvester is lying,’ he decided.

‘I think not,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.

‘He is the obvious candidate here.’

‘That is what I rushed to believe at first but I was woefully wrong. Sylvester Pryde is no saint. He is the first to confess that. But I am certain that he did not lay a finger on Rose Marwood.’

‘A finger is not the appendage in question, Nick.’

They were standing in the yard at the Queen’s Head at the end of an erratic rehearsal of Mirth and Madness, a staple comedy from their repertoire and a complete contrast to the tragedy which preceded it. Knowing that they were only allowed in the inn yard on sufferance, the company had been preoccupied and lacklustre, stumbling over their lines, missing their entrances and generally turning a lively romp into something akin to a funeral march. Lawrence Firethorn, surprisingly, had been the chief offender which was why he did not castigate his company, trusting instead that the presence of an audience would serve to unite the players with the play.

‘Who, then, was it?’ he wondered.

‘I do not know,’ said Nicholas.

‘If not Sylvester, it must be one of our other fellows. Unless we are in the presence of a virgin birth here. Did you see a star in the east, Nick? Are we to expect the imminent arrival of Three Kings, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Forgive my blasphemy, dear heart, but this business has put me on the rack.’

‘Mistress Rose is the real victim here,’ said Nicholas.

‘Indeed, she is, and my wife said the same to me when she heard. I had great difficulty preventing Margery from walking all the way here from Shoreditch to comfort the girl. Women understand these things more than us. It is bad enough to have to face the pangs and perils of childbirth, she told me, but it must be agony to do so without the father at your side. Rose Marwood must be in torment.’

‘That was Anne’s first reaction as well.’

‘I, too, have sympathy for the girl — profound sympathy — but my prime duty is to ensure the safety of the company.’

‘That has been done. We have our playhouse back again.’

‘But for how long, Nick?’ said Firethorn. ‘We told the landlord that we would identify the mystery lover and pass the name on to him. I know full well how he will react if we go to him empty-handed. And his fury will be mild compared with that of the fiery she-dragon he is married to. What do we do?’

‘Remain patient.’

‘That is like telling me to remain dry in the middle of a tempest. How can I be patient when Marwood is yapping at my heels like a terrier? Call him off.’

‘I will do my best.’

‘He is upsetting the whole company,’ said Firethorn irritably. ‘He should be more friendly towards us in view of the fact that Westfield’s Men contains his future son-in-law.’

‘I cannot guarantee that.’

‘You think he will disown the girl?’

‘Let us find the man first,’ said Nicholas cautiously. ‘I am distressed at our failure to do so. It can only mean that we have someone among us who adds lies to lechery.’

‘There is one sure way to expose him, Nick.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn cheerily. ‘Wait until the child is born. If it speaks in Welsh, then Owen Elias is our man. If it has aristocratic poise, Sylvester Pryde is unmasked. And if it has a face like a full moon and sighs like a furnace, then it is Edmund Hoode who has been a-leaping.’

‘I think you will find it is none of them.’

‘Whoever he is, he cannot hide for ever. I rely on you, Nick.’ He punched Nicholas playfully on the arm. ‘You will root him out in the end.’

‘Someone may do that office for me.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Our landlord’s wife,’ said Nicholas. ‘She will hound her daughter until she gets the name out of her. Rose Marwood is in desperate straits. Prisoners at the Tower endure a milder interrogation than the one the girl must weather.’

‘God’s lid!’ exclaimed Firethorn putting both hands to his face and shivering with horror. ‘I have just had a gruesome thought.’

‘What is it?’

‘Suppose that the child bears a resemblance to either of the girl’s parents? Suppose it has the same unsightly features as Marwood and his wife? It was better to drown the monster at birth in the Thames. No child should be forced to go through life with such a cruel handicap. Have you ever seen two such hideous human beings in one marriage?’

‘They are not well-favoured,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

‘Yet they are very well-matched. Duplicate ghouls.’ He gave a shudder. ‘You are right, Nick. Rose’s predicament is dire. How can she hold out against them? Her parents only have to leer at the girl and they will fright the name of her lover out of her.’

Sybil Marwood hovered over her daughter like a giant eagle, pecking away at her with painful questions and constant reproach.

‘For the last time, Rose,’ she said, ‘who is he?’

‘I cannot tell you, mother.’

‘Stop protecting the knave!’

‘I gave him my word,’ bleated the girl piteously. ‘I have to honour my promise.’

‘Honour!’ shouted Sybil. ‘You dare to talk of honour! Have you so soon forgot your Ten Commandments? Honour thy father and mother. The Bible enjoins us so. Yet you have dishonoured us in the most dreadful way. And now you make our suffering all the worse by lying to us.’

‘I have not lied, mother.’

‘Then what else have you done?’

‘Told you the truth.’

‘Half of it,’ said her mother angrily, ‘and the worse half at that. The half we do not know concerns the father. Now cease this prevarication and surrender his name.’

‘It is a secret that must remain locked away.’

‘Rose!’

‘I am sorry, mother.’

‘Stop torturing me like this.’

‘It is you who is torturing me.’

‘I have been sainted,’ blustered the other.

‘You and father have done nothing but revile and condemn me,’ whined the girl. ‘This was not intended to happen. It was a terrible accident. I am frightened to death by it. I hoped for some comfort from my mother, at least, but you have been a greater scourge than father. I can take no more of it. Leave me be. Please. Leave me be!’

Rose Marwood flung herself on the bed in a flood of tears. She was utterly distraught. They were in her bedchamber, an attic room with only meagre light permitted through the small window. Rose was still in her night attire, forbidden even to stir outside the door, lest her shame be seen and voiced abroad and lest her example somehow corrupted the maidservants. A girl who had been a dutiful and obedient daughter until now had brought scandal and disgrace to the Queen’s Head.

The initial shock had sent her mother into a frenzy of recrimination but that shock was slowly wearing off. As she saw the pathetic figure before her, sobbing convulsively, on the edge of despair, even Sybil’s flinty heart began to crack a little. Maternal instinct, which had hitherto produced nothing more than a long list of rules to govern her daughter’s conduct and safeguard her chastity, now prompted a softer and more caring approach. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Sybil put a clumsy arm around Rose’s shoulder.

‘There, there!’ she soothed. ‘Do not cry so.’

‘I am terrified, mother.’

‘We are here to help you.’

‘But you have treated me so harshly.’

‘That was wrong of us,’ admitted Sybil, stifling the urge to remind Rose of the gravity of her offence. ‘These are grim tidings, to be sure, but you are still our daughter and you should be able to turn to us for some kindness.’

Rose lifted her head to look up with tentative gratitude, only half-believing what she had just heard. Her mother so rarely touched her that she felt like a stranger. Sybil took one more step towards true maternalism by enfolding her in a warm embrace and rocking her gently. Because it was such a novel situation for both of them, neither knew quite what to say but some of the damage in their relationship was gradually repaired during the long silence.

When she sensed it, Sybil tried to take advantage of it.

‘You were such a beautiful baby,’ she recalled fondly.

‘Was I?’

‘Yes, Rose. You were adorable. Your father and I did our best for you and brought you up to lead a Christian life. You were a credit to us.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Until now.’

‘I’m sorry, mother. I’m so sorry. I would not hurt you or father for the world.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘It has been an ordeal,’ she continued. ‘A horrid nightmare that has kept me awake night after night. I had no idea what was happening to me. I thought I was sick or even dying. I feared that it was a punishment for my sins. It was only when I went to see the physician that he told me the truth. Do you know what I did, mother?’

‘What?’

‘Fell to the ground in a faint. He had to recover me.’

‘Poor child!’

‘I felt so alone. So completely alone.’

‘Not any more.’ Sybil held her more tightly and felt some of her daughter’s resistance fading. It was time to exploit the unusual moment of closeness. ‘We are here for you, Rose. Your father and I will always be here. You were so right to tell us when you did.’ She stroked Rose’s hair. ‘Does he know about the child yet?’

‘He?’

‘The father.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? He has responsibilities.’

‘He is not able to discharge them, mother.’

‘Nevertheless, he has a right to know.’

‘That is true,’ murmured Rose.

‘Is he so heartless that he would cast you off?’

‘No, no, he is the kindest man in the universe.’

‘Then why is he not here to help you through your time of trial?’ asked Sybil. ‘I see no hint of kindness in him.’

‘That is because you do not know him.’

‘Tell me his name and I will.’

‘No.’

‘I am your mother, Rose. Would you deny me this?’

‘I must.’

Sybil squeezed her even tighter. ‘You have never hidden anything from me before. Do not betray me now, child.’ She deposited a token kiss on Rose’s head. ‘I love you.’

The declaration fell so awkwardly and unconvincingly from her lips that it put Rose immediately on the defensive. She gritted her teeth and shrunk back slightly from the embrace. Abandoning the gentler strategy, Sybil reverted to a direct assault, taking her by the shoulders to shake her hard.

‘I’ll beat the name out of you!’ she threatened.

‘You’re hurting me!’

‘This is only the start, you ungrateful girl!’

‘I will never tell you who he is.’

‘Why?’ challenged her mother, releasing her. ‘Are you so afraid to admit his name. Are you so ashamed of him that you pretend to forget all about him?’

A curious serenity seemed to fall on Rose. She smiled.

‘I will never forget him,’ she vowed dreamily, ‘and I am certainly not ashamed of him. This baby was unlooked for, mother, I swear it, but I will tell you this. It was conceived in love with a man I worship. I will be proud to bear his child.’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it!’

Rose was checked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This child has no business making its way into the world. I was not able to prevent it from being conceived,’ she said with asperity, ‘but there may be a way to stop it from being born!’