When he raised the alarm, everyone was shocked to learn that one of the actors had been bludgeoned and stabbed only a short distance from where they stood. The goodwill engendered by the performance evaporated at once. While the audience was stunned, Westfield’s Men were in despair. At the very moment when they were celebrating the first success of their Continental tour, one of their number was brutally killed. All of a sudden, the English possession of Flushing seemed alarmingly foreign. They were adrift in an alien land.
Nicholas was deeply shaken. Smallwood was both a friend and an invaluable member of the company. To lose him at all was a bitter blow, but to have it happen in this way was shattering. Without understanding why, Nicholas felt an obscure sense of guilt, as if it had been his duty to protect the actor. The guilt merged with his surging anger and prompted a vow to bring the killer to justice at whatever cost. Unfortunately, the vow was easier to make than to keep. Obstacles lay in his path. It was Balthasar Davey who pointed them out to him.
‘You attempt the impossible, I fear,’ he said.
‘But I am involved in this to the hilt.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Adrian Smallwood was my fellow.’
‘If he had been a complete stranger, he would not have deserved the hideous fate which he met. I am as anxious as you to see the murderer caught and hanged, but finding him is a task for the proper authorities.’
‘I may have information that they do not, Master Davey.’
‘Then it is your duty to pass it on.’
‘I have already given a statement about how I found the body,’ said Nicholas. ‘My sole concern now is to track down the man who left it there.’
‘What chance have you of catching him?’
‘We shall see.’
‘None, sir,’ said the other politely. ‘An assassin who can work so cunningly will not be reckless enough to remain in Flushing while you and others conduct a search for him. He will be several miles away by now.’
‘Then I will pursue him!’
‘How?’
There was a calm practicality about Balthasar Davey that made him formidable in argument. The Governor’s secretary was keen to help in any way that he could, but he felt bound to oppose the course of action Nicholas wished to take. It was some hours after the play had ended. An official investigation into the murder had been set in motion and the corpse had been taken off by cart to the morgue in the English church. While the rest of Westfield’s Men were drowning their sorrows in the inn, Balthasar Davey and Nicholas were in a private room at the rear of the premises. The secretary was acquainting the book-holder with the reality of his situation.
‘Take my advice,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘Leave the town tomorrow and put this whole matter behind you.’
‘We cannot desert our fellow. That would be cruel.’
‘It is a cruelty which masks a greater kindness.’
‘Kindness!’ Nicholas blinked in disbelief. ‘Abandoning a friend at a moment like this? You call that kindness?’
‘I do. It would be a kindness to you because it would spare you untold pain and vexation. And it would be a kindness to your fellows to take them away from this unseemly business as soon as you may. I have heard actors are superstitious by nature. Keep them here to brood on the murder and that superstition will turn into morbid fear. Your company will suffer greatly.’
‘There may be a grain of truth in that,’ conceded Nicholas. ‘But we will still not forsake Adrian.’
‘Do you have any other choice?’ asked Davey. ‘You can hardly take his body with you. Pray for his soul and ride away from the scene of his murder. Tomorrow.’
‘We will at least stay for the funeral.’
‘That may not be for some days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Casualties of war,’ said the other. ‘We suffer heavy losses here. Wounded or dying men come in everyday. Many others are already waiting for burial and their turn must come before Adrian Smallwood.’
‘But he was a victim of murder.’
‘That gives him no prior claims.’
‘It should,’ protested Nicholas. ‘What sort of an uncaring place is this? Have you no human decency here?’
‘We have as much as the war allows us.’
Nicholas boiled with resentment but it was not directed at Balthasar Davey. The Governor’s secretary was not obstructing his wishes deliberately. He was very distressed at the murder, especially as it had occurred at the inn which he had chosen for the company. But living in the shadow of a long and expensive war had forced him to accept unpalatable facts. Emotion gave way to expediency. One man’s death—however gruesome—had to be set against countless others on the battlefield. In the long catalogue of slaughter, the name of Adrian Smallwood was of no particular significance.
Nicholas was still agonising over the decision.
‘I cannot bring myself to leave him here,’ he said.
‘You must.’
‘He deserves to lie in his own parish churchyard, not in some nameless grave hundreds of miles away from his home.’
‘He will not lack for English companions.’
‘What of his friends, his family?’
‘Write to them with these dread tidings,’ said Davey. ‘I will see that the letters are speedily dispatched. We are all too accustomed to sending bad news back to England.’ He saw the doubt in the other’s face. ‘Sir Robert has asked me to give you his assurance that every effort will be made to find the villain who committed this heinous crime. And I give you my promise that your unlucky friend will have a Christian burial here in Flushing.’
Nicholas studied the secretary for a moment. Balthasar Davey was an elegant young man with an intelligent face which had been schooled to hide his true feelings. He had been gracious with Anne Hendrik and unfailingly helpful to Westfield’s Men, yet there was something about him which troubled Nicholas. The secretary was holding something back. It was time to find out what it was.
‘Why did you lodge us here?’ asked Nicholas.
‘It seemed the best choice. They serve imported ale here. I thought that a thirsty troupe of players would prefer to drink English ale out of pewter tankards rather than quaff Dutch beer out of ceramic mugs.’
‘You misunderstand me. I wondered why you took such trouble on our behalf when you must have far more important things to do. Why did you not leave us to fend for ourselves?’
‘That would have been ungentlemanly.’
‘How did you even know that we were coming?’
‘We are well-informed about any notable visitors.’
‘We are a humble theatre company, passing through the town. Yet someone pays for our lodging and three of our sharers are invited to the Governor’s table.’
‘Sir Robert is fond of the theatre.’
‘Did he order you to look after us?’
‘Acting on a request from someone else.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Lord Westfield,’ said Davey easily. ‘Who else?’
‘I was hoping that you might tell me that.’
There was a long pause. Nicholas searched his face but it remained impassive. One thing was clear. Balthasar Davey was not responding to any request from Lord Westfield. Their patron’s wishes carried no weight in Flushing. Inside his jerkin, Nicholas still had the pouch which had been entrusted to him. He suspected that his companion might have some idea what it contained.
‘You will enjoy your time in Bohemia,’ said Davey, trying to inject a note of optimism. ‘I am sure that Westfield’s Men will be a resounding success at the Imperial Court.’
‘Have you been to Prague?’
‘Indeed, I have. Some years ago, with Sir Robert. We both have fond memories of Bohemia. You wil
l be well-received there. All the more reason why you should not linger here. It will be a very long journey.’
‘We are braced against that,’ said Nicholas. ‘And this is by no means our first tour. We are used to travelling along endless roads in England.’
‘You will find this expedition far more taxing,’ warned Davey. ‘And you will stop to give performances on the way. Even with sturdy horses pulling the wagons, it will take you weeks to reach Bohemia.’
‘We are very grateful to you for providing such good transport. Why have you done so?’
‘It was requested.’
‘By Lord Westfield?’
‘Who else?’ said the other without a trace of irony.
Nicholas glanced towards the taproom. ‘I talked with some of the English soldiers in there last night. They were very bitter about this war.’
‘Not without cause, alas.’
‘Their main complaint was a shortage of food and money. They also railed against a lack of munitions. They were hired to join the garrison here but arrived to find no quarters. My question is this, Master Davey. If the situation here is so desperate, how can you find the money to furnish us with a comfortable lodging before sending us on our way with wagons and horses that could be more profitably engaged in moving supplies?’
The secretary weighed his words carefully before replying.
‘You are a perceptive man, Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘We are not entirely ignorant of what has been going on here. Word trickles back to England. London hears all the rumours.’
‘That’s all most of them are. Rumours. False reports.’
‘You have not answered my question.’
‘Westfield’s Men answered it for you this afternoon.’
‘Did they?’
‘You heard those same soldiers,’ recalled Davey. ‘They had real pleasure for the first time in months. Your play was a feast of entertainment which helped them to forget the war completely for a couple of hours.’
‘That was our intention when we chose Mirth and Madness.’
‘You are not the first to offer such distraction.’
‘The first?’
‘I served in the household of the Earl of Leicester for a time,’ said Davey wistfully. ‘It was an honour that I will always treasure. That is how I first came to Flushing. When the Earl arrived here to lead the army, I was part of a train which included lawyers, secretaries, chaplains, musicians, and acrobats. Yes, and players, too. Will Kempe among them.’
‘Kempe?’ said Nicholas in surprise.
‘You know his pedigree.’
‘All of London is aware of it.’
‘Kempe is the equal of your own Barnaby Gill. A born jester who could raise laughter on a battlefield, if need be, with one of his jigs. He played his part in this war.’
‘So did we, Master Davey, and we were proud to do so. But we were only briefly your guests. No host has ever spent so much money and care on us as you have done. I ask again. Why?’
‘I was obeying a request.’
‘Still from Lord Westfield?’
‘Who else?’
Nicholas gave up. The secretary was too elusive for him. Balthasar Davey could play games with words all day long and he would always best Nicholas. The visitor rose to leave.
‘I will return early tomorrow to bid you farewell.’
‘How do you know that we will go?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Because you know the folly of staying. I will bring a map with me. It will be very crude because I am no artist, but it will show you the route you must take.’
‘Thank you.’
Davey offered his hand and Nicholas stood up to shake it. There was a hint of genuine regret in the former’s eye.
‘I am sorry this had to happen,’ he said.
‘We held Adrian Smallwood in high regard.’
‘Mourn him accordingly.’
‘We will.’
Davey regarded the other shrewdly. ‘It is a pity that you have to depart from the town, Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I should like to have known you better.’ He moved away but a sudden thought detained him at the door. ‘Your chambers here were searched during the performance.’
‘That is so.’
‘Was anything taken?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So the thief searched for something he could not find.’
‘Apparently.’
‘It is still in your possession, therefore?’
‘What are you talking about, Master Davey?’
‘You are the ablest man in the company. It must be you. One more reason for you to ride out of Flushing tomorrow.’
‘One more reason?’
‘To save your life,’ said Davey softly. ‘I believe that the villain made a mistake. He did not intend to kill Adrian Smallwood at all. Your friend died because of his unfortunate resemblance to someone else. The murderer was really stalking Nicholas Bracewell.’
***
Westfield’s Men sat around a table strewn with pitchers of ale and traded maudlin reminiscences of their dead colleague. Adrian Smallwood had been snatched away from them just as they were coming to appreciate his qualities as a member of the company. Notwithstanding his egoism, Lawrence Firethorn did notice the performances around him on stage and he was ready to pay generous tribute where he felt it was deserved.
‘Adrian was a fine actor,’ he said fondly. ‘You could not fault his voice, his movement or his gestures. Even in minor roles, he had a real presence. Had he stayed with us, Adrian might have looked to become a sharer one day.’
‘I will miss his companionship,’ said Owen Elias. ‘It is rare for a man to fall in so easily with his fellows. Adrian seemed to have been with Westfield’s Men for years.’
‘Would that he had!’ sighed Edmund Hoode. ‘It would have made my task as a playwright a trifle easier.’
‘How so?’ asked Firethorn.
‘When I pick up my quill, I have to tailor the parts to suit the talents of the company. It would not have been so with Adrian. He could play anything—a lovesick shepherd, a scheming cardinal, a noble duke, a miserable beggar, a young gallant, an old greybeard, an Italian prince or a Flemish pieman; they were all grist to his mill.’
‘I could play all those parts with equal skill,’ boasted Barnaby Gill. ‘And many more besides.’
‘True, Barnaby. But even you could not have portrayed the sturdy woodcutter in Double Deceit. Adrian made that role his own. You do not have the height or build for the part.’
‘I can act height. I can dissemble build.’
‘We are not talking about you,’ said Elias impatiently. ‘Adrian was the more complete actor and that is that.’
‘He was a mere hired man,’ said Gill with a sniff.
‘You are unjust to his memory,’ chided James Ingram. ‘Have you so soon forgot how he cheered us on the voyage by making us sing? He showed true leadership that day.’
‘Which is more than you have ever shown, Barnaby,’ added Firethorn. ‘The poor fellow is dead. Brutally slain. Does not that mean anything to you?’
‘Yes,’ retorted Gill. ‘It means that I will not sleep soundly in my bed as long as we are in this dreadful country. One of us has already been killed. Who is next? Supposing that the villain murdered me?’
‘I would happily join in the applause.’
‘That is a most callous remark, Lawrence.’
‘Callous but honest. Show some respect to Adrian.’
‘It was not my decision to bring him with us.’
‘No, you were trying to force Clement Islip upon us.’
‘Had Clement been here,’ said Gill defensively, ‘this would not have happened. He was more wary. Clement wo
uld never have turned his back to an armed assailant.’
‘He would be too busy turning his back to you,’ growled Firethorn. ‘That is why you wanted to take that lisping milksop along with us. To face the same way as Clement in the bedchamber and satisfy your unnatural desires.’
‘That is obscene!’
Gill leaped to his feet in a state of uncontrollable agitation and jabbered wildly, waving his arms, stamping his feet and rolling his eyes as if trying to dislodge them from their sockets. Firethorn goaded him on, Elias chuckled, Hoode tried to intervene, Ingram reminded everyone that they were there to mourn a friend and the other members of the company looked on with a mixture of amusement and sadness.
The argument was still at its height when Nicholas walked in. He stared at them with unfeigned disgust. Even the hysterical Gill was silenced by the book-holder’s smouldering anger. Nicholas rarely lost his temper but he was clearly on the point of doing so now.
‘Will you bicker like silly children?’ he said. ‘Adrian Smallwood lies dead on a stone slab not a few hundred yards away and you wrangle here regardless. Was he murdered in vain? Must you dishonour his memory in this shameful way? Can you not even raise a passing sigh for the loss of a good friend?’
Westfield’s Men shifted uneasily in their seats.
‘You are right to censure us, Nick,’ said Firethorn at length. ‘I must take the lion’s share of the blame. It was I who provoked this quarrel.’ He turned to Gill and took a deep breath before speaking. ‘I owe you an apology, Barnaby.’
‘I feel that I owe Adrian Smallwood an apology,’ said the other pensively. ‘He deserves our profoundest sympathy. He was indeed a competent actor. But I would still have brought Clement Islip in his stead.’ He looked solemnly around the table. ‘Gentlemen, I bid you good night.’
‘Perhaps it is time for all of us to take to our beds,’ suggested Elias as Gill walked away. ‘We have drunk more than enough for one night. Let us grieve over Adrian in the morning with kinder hearts and clearer heads.’
The Fair Maid of Bohemia Page 10
