‘It is granted.’
‘Show me your brother’s laboratory.’
‘But you saw it on your last visit here.’
‘Only from the outside,’ he said. ‘I would go within.’
‘If you wish. Follow me.’
Emilia led him down a corridor, through the kitchens and into the buttery. The locked door that now confronted them was clad with steel. Nicholas was struck with its thickness.
‘This door would keep an army out,’ he observed.
‘It saved the house from the fire.’
‘What needed such careful protection?’
‘His privacy,’ she said. ‘And his work.’
She produced a key from a pocket at her waist and used it to unlock the door. It opened on to ruination. Nicholas took a few steps into the laboratory, then paused to look around him, trying to reconstruct in his mind its fallen walls and its shattered windows. Emilia moved familiarly around the room, noting with pleasure that her orders for the removal of weeds had been followed to the letter. Valentine and his assistants had plucked up nature from around the ankles of science.
Nicholas walked forward in silent wonder. Even in its devastated state, the laboratory preserved a strange order and pattern. Burned-out tables were aligned, charred stools knew their place, wrecked equipment of all kinds stood in unforced symmetry. The punctilious mind of Thomas Brinklow survived the fire intact. Nicholas crouched down before a forge.
‘Your brother smelted his own metals?’
‘The forge was always busy.’
‘He had some assistant to feed its hunger?’
‘No,’ she said fondly. ‘Thomas looked after it himself like a favourite pet. He would let nobody near his forge.’
‘Not even you?’
‘Not even me. His workshop was sacrosanct.’
‘He would need the finest metal if he built a compass.’
‘That is what he produced.’
‘A remarkable man,’ said Nicholas with admiration. ‘I begin to feel his presence. Where did he keep his papers?’
‘In that desk,’ she said, pointing to pile of cinders.
‘All destroyed?’
‘Lost forever. His inventions died with him.’
Nicholas thought long and hard before he spoke again.
‘I have one last favour.’
‘Ask anything if it helps our cause.’
‘Who wrote The Roaring Boy?’ he said, stepping closer to her as she pursed her lips and lowered her head. ‘I must be told. Was it Master Chaloner? He said that the author had gone away but no man deserts a work like that at such a fatal hour. Did Master Chaloner pen The Roaring Boy?’
She looked up at him in evident distress. Before she could speak, however, Nicholas was distracted by a noise in the bushes. Fearing that someone was eavesdropping, he ran to the remains of a wall, jumped quickly over it and pushed his way into the undergrowth. Nobody was there. When he came out the other side, however, he saw a figure no more than twenty yards away, tying some rambling roses back on their trellis-work and apparently absorbed in his task. Valentine became aware of his scrutiny and turned to acknowledge him, touching his cap in deference with a gnarled finger and flashing the infamous grin once more.
***
Frustration finally provoked Simon Chaloner into action. Long months of hard and dangerous work had come to fruition in the yard of the Queen’s Head, only to be squashed out of recognition by the man he was trying to convict of a murder. The Roaring Boy was a legal and highly public means of calling Sir John Tarker to account. Since that had signally failed, a more irregular and private means had to be used. There was no point in discussing it with Emilia because she would never condone such a course of action. Chaloner had to strike on his own.
He felt certain that his quarry would be at hand. With a Court tournament in the offing, Sir John Tarker would be practising in the tiltyard at Greenwich Palace once more. Having knocked The Roaring Boy from its saddle, he would be trying to unseat other challengers to his position. Chaloner might not get such an opportunity again. It had to be seized on ruthlessly. One shot from a pistol would achieve what five acts of a play would never do.
Having been in the palace many times, Chaloner knew how to find his way through its courtyards and apartments if only he could gain entry. That depended on good fortune. Armed and excited by the prospect of revenge, he rode out that morning in the direction of Greenwich, skirting the village itself so that he would not be seen by anyone from the Brinklow household and trotting on to find a copse where he could tether his horse and approach the palace on foot.
The main entrance was in the riverside frontage but there were postern gates at various points around the building. As he approached the rear of the palace, he saw a small crowd of people listening to a tall, distinguished man who was delivering some sort of lecture. Chaloner was in luck. A group of foreign visitors was being shown around the premises by the chamberlain. From their attire and general deportment, Chaloner guessed that they were Dutch, most probably the ambassador and his entourage. Intermingled with them were a few other nationalities. The ostentatious garb of one man combined with his extravagant gestures to mark him out as an Italian. His two companions also had a Mediterranean cast of feature.
Simon Chaloner did not hesitate. He walked slowly towards the group until he could merge quietly into it. The chamberlain was too caught up with listening to the sound of his own voice to see the intruder and the visitors assumed that he was a legitimate member of the party who arrived late. Chaloner had picked up snatches of Dutch and Italian in his army days. An occasional phrase and a benign smile were all that he needed to employ by way of response.
‘Let us now step back inside the palace,’ droned the chamberlain, leading them through the gate. ‘I mentioned earlier that Duke Humphrey had called it Bella Court…’
The visitors followed, listened and gaped. Secure in the middle of them, Chaloner kept his head down and his hand on his sword. He was in. It was only a matter of minutes before he could detach himself from the knot of foreigners and slip into the building itself. He walked along a corridor with a confidence that suggested a legitimate right to be inside a royal palace. Doublet and hose of a colourful and expensive cut would not look out of place at Court and he had the true bearing of a gentleman. When two guards marched past, they did not even throw him a second glance. Now that he was inside Greenwich Palace, he was invisible.
The noise of mock battle rose up from the tiltyard to guide his footsteps. He came out on the leaded roof where Henry VIII had loved to stand and he gazed down on the assembly below. Men in armour were fighting on foot or practising on horseback with the lance. Retainers were everywhere. There was no sign of Sir John Tarker but the watching Chaloner sensed that he would be there. He hid behind the corner of a chimney-pot to keep the yard under surveillance while remaining out of sight himself. His intended victim was bound to emerge in time.
It was only a matter of waiting and watching.
Five hours of acute hunger made Edmund Hoode pick up the hunk of stale bread which had been flung to the ground. It was as hard as rock and his teeth could do little more than chip off a few crisp edges. He began to wish he had been more politic in his dealings with the keeper. Hoode had money about him and would willingly part with it for wholesome food and restorative drink. Since he could be locked away in the Marshalsea for some time, it was important to keep body and soul together. He longed for the man’s return and listened in the meantime to the accumulated misery of the prison as it reverberated along the gloomy corridors. The only time he had heard such wild cries before was when he had visited Bedlam to observe the behaviour of madmen.
It seemed an eternity before anyone recalled his existence. The footsteps were more ponderous this time and the key scraped in the lock before it engaged. Hoode was standing so close to the door that it caught him a glancing blow as it creaked open. The same keeper regarded him with mocking eyes. The
man had no meal with him this time.
‘Do you have any garnish?’ he said.
‘What will it buy me?’
‘Depends how much you pay, sir.’
‘A shilling?’
‘That will keep you well fed for a day or two.’
‘No more than that?’
‘We have rates here in the Marshalsea,’ said the man before spitting on to the floor. ‘Any prisoner who is an esquire, a gentleman or a wealthy nobleman can eat heartily for a weekly charge of ten shillings.’
‘I do not look to be here as long as a week.’
‘It is good fare, sir. Bone of meat with broth. A piece of bone beef. A loin or breast of roasted veal. Or else a capon. As much bread as you will eat and a quarter of beer and claret wine.’ He leered at Hoode. ‘How like you that?’
‘Indifferently.’
‘Then you must stick to bread, water and some meat.’
‘I cannot stay alive on that.’
‘Buy yourself more, sir.’
‘I’d rather buy some information,’ said Hoode, putting a hand into his purse to pull out some coins. ‘I am dragged here by the sheriff and thrown into this cell without due explanation. Why am I here?’
‘Waiting, sir. Like all the others. Waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘Justice.’
‘In a loathsome privy like this?’
The man eyed the coins. ‘What do you wish to know, sir?’
‘When I am to be released.’
‘That is a secret.’
‘Sell it to me.’
‘I would not part cheaply with it.’
Hoode added another coin to the others and jingled them in his palm. ‘Tell me, my friend, and the money is yours.’
‘First give it to me,’ said the man, extending a grubby palm.
‘Not before I have your secret,’ bargained Hoode. He jingled the money again. ‘Come, sir. When will I leave the Marshalsea? When will I get out of this accursed cell?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘As God is my witness!’
‘Tomorrow!’ Hoode was delirious with joy. ‘I get out of this prison tomorrow. Here, friend. Take the money.’ He put the coins gratefully into the man’s hand. ‘You have earned every penny. I am to be released from this hell tomorrow.’
‘Not released, sir.’
‘But you just said that I would. Did you lie?’
‘When will you leave the Marshalsea, you asked.’
‘Why, so I did and so you answered.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Aye, so there’s an end to it.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ said the keeper, relishing the other’s bewilderment. ‘You leave here but are not released.’
‘Where, then, will I go?’
‘To visit a certain gentleman.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘He would have conversation with you in his house.’
‘Who is this gentleman? Why does he seek my company?’
‘Only he knows that, sir.’
‘What is his name?’
‘That I can tell you if you have courage enough to hear.’
‘Courage?’
‘Some shake at the very sound of his name.’
‘Why? Who is he?’
‘Master Topcliffe.’
Hoode began to sway. ‘The torturer?’
‘Interrogator,’ corrected the other. ‘You are honoured. Master Richard Topcliffe only invites very special guests to his house. It is your turn tomorrow.’
He went out laughing and pulled the door shut. Edmund Hoode did not even hear its loud bang as he went down in a dead faint.
***
Morning passed at the house in Greenwich and the afternoon soon dwindled away but there was no sign of Simon Chaloner. The ostler sent to fetch him returned with the news that the latter was not at home. Chaloner’s servant had no idea where his master had gone or how long he would be away. Emilia Brinklow grew anxious at this intelligence. Her betrothed was in such close and regular contact with her that she always knew where to find him. It was most unusual for him to quit his house without leaving details of his whereabouts. She scented trouble.
‘He may come here of his own accord,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then where is he? Simon could have been here hours ago. Something has happened to him, Nicholas.’
‘Do not run to meet fear,’ he cautioned.
‘But I know Simon. This is not like him.’
‘He may have had business elsewhere that detained him.’
‘That is what worries me.’
They were back in the parlour and Emilia’s calm and collected front had been fractured by her concern. Nicholas wanted to pay a visit to Orlando Reeve in the hope of catching the musician at his house but he felt unable to leave her alone in her distress. Evening was approaching and a man who called at the house every day had still not put in an appearance. It was puzzling.
‘Simon is in danger,’ she said. ‘I know it.’
‘Master Chaloner can take care of himself,’ he assured her. ‘Rest easy. He is young, strong and well-armed.’
‘He is also impulsive. Far too impulsive. I fear me that he has finally run out of patience.’
‘Patience?’
‘Yes, Nicholas. He has waited so long.’
‘For revenge?’
‘For me,’ she said. ‘And I will only be his when the matter is finally and completely resolved. Even then…’ She bit back what she was going to say and paced the room instead. ‘Simon has wearied of this interminable delay. He is distraught at the collapse of all our hopes. I demanded too much from him.’
‘So what do you believe he has done?’
‘Proceeded against Sir John Tarker on his own.’
‘That would be lunacy.’
‘Simon has more than a streak of that.’
‘He would stand no chance of getting near him.’
‘That will not check his ardour,’ she said, coming back to him. ‘He does not only wish to avenge Thomas’s death. He has another score to settle. Concerning me. I will never forgive myself if anything happens to Simon. He is the dearest friend I have in all the world. And I am his.’
‘He covets the day when he can make you his wife.’
‘So do I.’
She manufactured a smile of enthusiasm but it was far too strained to convince Nicholas. In any case, he had seen her and Chaloner together. They were not like most couples on the verge of marriage. Emilia seemed to tolerate his love instead of requiting it. Nicholas wondered if her attitude to him would change in time but it was not his place to say so. What he did convey in a glance was his own admiration of her. Over half a day had now been spent in her company and it had seemed like minutes.
‘You have been a good friend to me as well, Nicholas.’
‘I will do all in my power to help you,’ he said.
‘I know and I am grateful. After what happened at the Queen’s Head yesterday, most people in your position would loathe the very sight of me.’
‘I could never do that.’
‘Even though I have caused you so much upheaval?’
‘Sir John Tarker did that. Not you.’
He looked deep into her eyes and found an answering glint of affection. Nicholas mastered his curiosity. It was not the time to investigate his feelings for her. Emilia’s bethrothed was missing and his safety was their immediate priority. He became businesslike.
‘Where else could Master Chaloner be?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Might he not be with friends? With relations?’
‘His friends are all in London, his family in Dorset. He would visit neither without telling me. Simon is a creature of habit. He is always here at this hour of the day.’
‘I will gladly renew the search on your behalf.’
‘You do not know the area.’
‘Let your ostler be my guide.’<
br />
“No, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘Stay here in the hope that he will soon return. Your presence is comforting. I am most grateful that you came to Greenwich today.’
‘So am I.’
She assessed him for a moment, then gave a sad smile.
‘You asked me a question in the garden,’ she said. ‘I refused to give you a proper answer.’
‘And now?’
‘Simon Chaloner did not write The Roaring Boy. He has many sterling virtues but he is not a creative man. His talents run in other directions, as you have no doubt observed. He is far too restive to be a playwright.’
‘It is work that requires a certain stillness.’
‘Simon cannot keep still for one minute.’
‘I thought it too solitary an occupation for him.’
‘Too solitary and too safe,’ she said wryly. ‘I may not give you the author’s name because I have vowed to shield him but it was certainly not Simon. He thought the play too slow a means to catch Sir John Tarker in a trap. That is why I am so anxious now. I fear he seeks a speedier solution.’
***
From his hiding-place on the roof, Simon Chaloner looked down on a panorama of controlled violence. Knights in splendid armour practised for hours to improve their skills, keeping strictly to the rules of jousting. Points were awarded for striking an opponent’s helmet; for striking a coronel, the crownlike safety device at the end of his lance; for unseating him by legitimate means; or for breaking a lance by striking him in the permitted area from the waist upwards. Those who deliberately or carelessly struck an adversary’s legs, saddle or horse had points deducted.
At any other time, Chaloner would have enjoyed the occasion and savoured its finer nuances. Now it was merely a tedious spectacle that dragged on and on into the evening. Sir John Tarker was there, resplendent in his new armour and invincible in the saddle, but Chaloner could not get near him without discovery. Tarker would have to be confronted in a more private part of the building. The knight could not ride up and down the tilt forever.
When the erect figure of Sir Godfrey Avenell came into the gallery above the yard, he caught the attention of his friend and beckoned him over. Chaloner was close enough to observe but not hear the exchange between the two friends. It was soon over. Two other spectators came into the gallery to join Avenell and they were soon deep in conversation with him. Chaloner watched them long enough to recognise the newcomers as two of the Dutch visitors earlier being shown around the castle, then he switched his gaze to the yard.
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