The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  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 will 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 tabl
e 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 would 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 Welshman led the slow departure from the table. Only Firethorn remained. Seeing that Nicholas wished to talk to him alone, he motioned the latter to sit beside him.

  ‘Forgive our behaviour, Nick. We do care about Adrian.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do they have any notion who the killer may be?’

  ‘None as yet.’

  ‘What action has been taken to track him down?’

  ‘Master Davey would not give me details.’

  ‘Stabbed to death in broad daylight! And only minutes after he had helped to give such pleasure on the stage. It beggars belief! Who could do such a thing to Adrian? And why?’

  ‘That is what I came to discuss.’

  Nicholas looked around the room to make sure that nobody was within earshot. The place was fairly full but the other customers seemed to be locked into their own conversations. Taking no chances, Nicholas dropped his voice as a precaution.

  ‘Do you recall the pouch you gave me for safekeeping?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘That is what he was after.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The murderer. He first ransacked our chambers. When he could not find the pouch there, he followed Adrian into the stable and killed him.’

  Firethorn was stunned. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It is the only explanation that fits the facts.’

  ‘But Adrian did not have the pouch.’

  ‘The assassin thought that he did,’ argued Nicholas. ‘My guess is that he knocked Adrian senseless from behind, then tore off his jerkin to search it. Adrian was a strong young man. Even a savage blow like that would not keep him unconscious for long. He may have groaned for help, even tried to rise. The dagger was used to finish him off.’

  ‘I am quite confused here, Nick.’

  ‘The confusion was in the mind of the killer.’

  ‘Why should he imagine that Adrian had the pouch?’

  ‘He did not,’ said Nicholas. ‘He knew that it was in my possession. In some ways, Adrian and I might have been twins. In Mirth and Madness, he was wearing a buff jerkin much like this one of mine. The killer mistook him for me.’

  ‘You were the intended victim?’ gasped Firethorn.

  ‘I believe so. Why should anyone stab a harmless young actor to death? There was no motive. Had I been cut down in that stable, the motive would have been all too clear.’

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’ exclaimed Firethorn, embracing him impulsively. ‘We came that close to losing the very foundation of our company? Can this be true?’

  ‘Unhappily, it can. The Governor’s secretary confirmed it.’

  ‘Balthasar Davey?’

  ‘The idea had already crossed my mind but I chose to resist it at first. I had guilt enough over Adrian’s murder. To know that he died in place of me is a chilling thought. I am overcome with remorse.’

  ‘You mentioned the secretary.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Master Davey has an acute brain. He reached the same conclusion. Adrian Smallwood was killed by a man in search of the pouch I carry.’

  ‘But the existence of that pouch is a secret,’ said Firethorn in alarm. ‘How does Master Davey know about it?’

 
‘He knows far more than we.’

  ‘It was entrusted to me and I gave it privily to you. Who told the willing secretary that it was in your charge?’

  ‘You did, I fear.’

  ‘I never breathed a word on the subject.’

  ‘You did not need to,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘Master Davey made his own deductions. That was the reason you were invited to the Governor’s house yesterday.’

  ‘We were guests of honour. Sir Robert praised my work.’

  ‘Deservedly so. But while the Governor was enjoying your company, his secretary was no doubt watching you carefully to decide if the pouch you had been given was somewhere about your person. He realised it was not.’

  Firethorn gave a hollow laugh. ‘Am I so easy to read?’ he said. ‘Can I fool a thousand spectators with a performance and yet be found out by Balthasar Davey? Alas, I can. I was an open book. He saw me in my cups. One more vain actor, crowing upon the dunghill of his achievements. Far too irresponsible to look after secret documents by himself. My behaviour told him all that he needed to know. The pouch was in your capable hands.’

  ‘That intelligence came later,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘He surmised that you had given the pouch to someone else in the company. Master Davey’s conjecture fell on me.’

  ‘What of the killer?’

  ‘He, too, came around to the same name.’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘He followed us from England on the Peppercorn and bided his time. Anne overheard his murderous intent but not the identity of his victim. It is probably just as well. Had she known that I was in such danger, she would have been sorely vexed on her journey to Amsterdam.’

  ‘What is in that damnable pouch?’ wondered Firethorn.

  ‘Something of great value, it seems.’

  ‘It has already cost us one life, Nick. I’ll not let it rob us off another. My book-holder is far more precious to me than any secret documents.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give me the pouch. I’ll take it straight to Sir Robert Sidney and ask him to send it to Prague by official messenger.’

  ‘That is the last thing you must do.’