‘I refuse to go,’ mumbled Hoode.
‘You have no choice. Orders have come.’
‘I will never go back to that accursed house again.’
‘Lean on me and you will find it easier.’
‘Let me stay here,’ pleaded Hoode. ‘Lock the door and throw away the key. Or lend me your dagger that I may do the deed myself. Do not make me go!’
The keeper was used to such protests. He got the prisoner in a firm grasp and more or less carried him along the dark passageway before ascending a flight of stone steps. An iron door was opened by another keeper and Hoode was taken through it. The Marshalsea was a barrage of noise but the playwright could only hear the voice of Topcliffe in his ear. When he thought about the device he had been shown at the house, his fingers began to throb in protest.
‘One more flight of steps, sir,’ said the keeper.
‘Spare me, friend. Take pity on me.’
‘Out we go!’
The man kicked a door at the top of the steps and it was opened by a colleague. Hoode came into a room where the prison sergeant sat behind a desk. The man looked up before consulting a paper in front of him.
‘Edmund Hoode?’ he asked.
‘No, no!’ denied the latter. ‘I am someone else.’
‘This is the man,’ confirmed the keeper.
‘You are released,’ said the sergeant.
‘To go to that abominable house again?’
‘I do not know where they will take you, sir.’
Hoode threw himself to the floor in front of the desk and put his hands together in prayer. Humiliated when he was thrown into the Marshalsea, he was now begging to stay there.
‘Do not let them take me! Please! Let me stay!’
‘Get him out!’ said the sergeant impassively.
The keeper picked him up bodily and hustled him through another door into an antechamber. Two figures converged on Hoode at once. He thought they were the gaolers who had taken him to Topcliffe on the previous occasion. This time they would not bring him back alive. With the last ounce of his strength, he tried to beat the two of them away.
‘Edmund, dear heart!’ said Lawrence Firethorn. ‘You are free. We are here to take you home.’
‘Look at the state of him!’ said his wife in horror. ‘You poor creature! Come to me!’
She enfolded him in an embrace that knocked all the breath out of him but her warmth and maternal affection soon began to have an effect. Hoode blinked at them in disbelief.
‘They will not take me to Master Topcliffe again?’
‘No, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are safe now.’
‘Your suffering is at an end,’ added Margery. ‘We will take you home to wash and feed you. Then you will have the softest bed in the house on which to lie your head.’
‘Welcome back, Edmund. Welcome back to Westfield’s Men!’
***
Nicholas Bracewell arrived at Avenell Court before any of them. Officers would soon be sent with a warrant for the arrest of its owner but he was determined to have a private interview with him first. Lawrence Firethorn had been left to implement the release of Edmund Hoode. Nicholas reserved a more dangerous assignment for himself. Leaving his horse in the stableyard, he made his way to the front door and rang the bell. A massive door swung open. Nicholas gave his name and was invited to step inside. He was taking an immense risk in arriving alone at the house of Sir Godfrey Avenell but he knew enough about the man’s character to believe that he would at least be admitted to his presence.
His instinct was sound. Instead of having his unwelcome visitor overpowered by his men, Sir Godfrey asked the servant to conduct him to the main hall. Nicholas walked along the corridor with its display of armour and weaponry. When he was taken in to his host, he was given a mild shock. Sir Godfrey was sitting in his high-backed chair near the fireplace as he listened to some dances being played on the virginals by Orlando Reeve. The Master of the Armoury was serene and relaxed but the musician was soon discomfited. When he glanced up and saw Nicholas enter, Reeve immediately began to hit the wrong notes on the keyboard.
‘Enough!’ said Avenell. ‘Stop that cacophony!’
Orlando Reeve obeyed and sat nervously on his stool.
Avenell looked at the newcomer. ‘So you are Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I had the feeling that we might meet sooner or later.’ He turned to the servant. ‘Take his weapons. I will not be accosted by an armed man in my own home.’
Nicholas Bracewell held his arms out wide so that the servant could take the sword and dagger that hung in their scabbards from his belt. The man departed with the weapons and closed the door behind him. What he had not taken, however, was the knife which Thomas Brinklow had made for his sister and which Nicholas had concealed up his sleeve. The book holder anticipated that he might need a second mode of defence and was taking no chances.
Avenell stood up in front of the fireplace, framed by its marble bulk. More weapons stood on the mantelpiece and a pike rested against it like a giant poker.
‘Why have you come?’ he said calmly.
‘I needed to speak with you, Sir Godfrey,’ said Nicholas. ‘They told me you had left Greenwich Palace to return home. You have missed much activity in the night.’
‘Activity?’
‘Sir John Tarker is under lock and key for the murder of Master Chaloner and for the attempted murder of myself. With him is an armourer by the name of Karl. Their part in the killing of Thomas Brinklow will also be looked into.’
Avenell was unruffled. ‘Why should any of this concern me in the least?’
‘Sir John was a close associate of yours.’
‘That is no longer the case.’
‘He was acting on your orders.’
‘Is that what he has claimed?’
‘He will admit it under questioning.’
‘I doubt that, Nicholas Bracewell. You will find it very difficult to link anything that Sir John has done with orders that I am supposed to have given. No court in the land will arraign me. I have important friends.’
‘Not any more, Sir Godfrey.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because Lord Hunsdon has already repudiated some of the actions you made him take. The injunction has been lifted from Westfield’s Men and Edmund Hoode will have been released from the Marshalsea within the last hour.’ He saw Avenell’s jaw tighten slightly. ‘Do not look to the Lord Chamberlain this time. He does not befriend traitors.’
‘Guard your tongue, sir!’
‘That is what they are calling you in Deptford.’
‘What are you talking about, man?’
‘The Peppercorn.’
‘I have never heard that name.’
‘It is the vessel that was bearing your latest shipment of arms to the Netherlands,’ said Nicholas. ‘When it set sail from Deptford early this morning, it was intercepted. A quantity of weapons made in the Greenwich Palace workshops was found aboard. Those weapons did not tally with the items listed in the manifest.’
‘Blame that on some idle clerk and not on me.’
Nicholas admired his self-control. ‘Two people were arrested aboard The Peppercorn,’ he continued. ‘Dutchmen, who had been staying in Greenwich with you to do business. They were sailing to Flushing with those arms but they were not going to make delivery in the Netherlands. Their business was with other nations, as you well know.’
‘This is wild speculation,’ said Avenell. ‘I have yet to hear or see one scrap of proof being offered for my involvement. If any weaponry has left Greenwich illegally, I will be the first to track down the culprit and have him thrown into prison.’ He gave a defiant smile. ‘Where is your proof, Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘At the home of Master Thomas Brinklow.’
‘Brinklow was a fool!’
‘He was also a genius,’ said Nicholas. ‘He invented a new process for smelting iron ore. It produced a metal that must have dazzled your eyes. A metal
that was lighter and stronger than anything your armourers can produce. Easier to work, I suspect, for I have seen the results.’ He gazed levelly at the other man. ‘You coveted that process. Because he would not hand it over, you had Master Brinklow killed.’
‘The man was an idiot. I offered him a fortune.’
‘He found out what you meant to do with his invention.’
‘That process was our key to a treasure-house.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you produced such superior weapons, you could have sold them at a much higher price to hostile nations. When Master Brinklow realised that, he broke with you and refused to let you near his invention. He knew too much about you to be allowed to live.’
‘He is not the only one, sir.’
‘Information has been laid with the authorities. They will soon be here to arrest you on a charge of high treason and bear you away to the Tower.’
Avenell smiled. ‘They will not keep me there for long, I do assure you. Everything you have alleged may be placed at the door of other people. There is no proven link with me.’
‘Sir John Tarker thinks otherwise,’ said Nicholas. ‘He said that he murdered Master Chaloner at your behest.’
‘Then it is a case of his word against mine.’ Avenell put a hand against the fireplace and leaned back. ‘You will have to do better than that, sir. Groundless accusations will get you nowhere. Search wherever you like. You will never be able to connect my name with the death of Master Chaloner.’
Nicholas Bracewell looked steadily at him, then let his gaze drift upwards. On the mantelpiece, directly above the head of Sir Godfrey Avenell, was an object which did more than connect a name with a corpse. The ball-butted German cavalry pistol, a souvenir of Chaloner’s army career, was now part of the private collection of the Master of the Armoury. Nicholas was staring up at the murder weapon itself.
Sir Godfrey Avenell’s composure vanished. When he realised what his visitor could see, he grabbed the pike from beside the fireplace and advanced on him. Thunderous knocking could be heard in the distance and voices were raised. Officers had patently arrived to effect the arrest of a presumed traitor. It all served to make Avenell more frenzied.
‘Whatever happens,’ he sneered, ‘you will not live to see it. Goodbye, sir!’
He thrust at Nicholas with the pike but the latter eluded it and backed away. Avenell followed, circling him with the weapon at full stretch. When Nicholas veered towards the dais at the end of the hall, Orlando Reeve let out a squeal of fear and jumped off his stool. He cowered in a corner as he watched them. Noises in the passageway became louder and more urgent. Help was fast approaching.
Avenell jabbed with the pike again, then swung it in a vertical plane to try to knock his quarry over. Nicholas ducked under the whirling weapon just in time but the older man quickly adjusted his attack. A second swing of the pike took Nicholas’s legs from under him and sent him sprawling on the marble. Doors were now flung open and a detachment of armed officers marched in. Avenell stopped them with a command.
‘Stay there!’ he ordered. ‘Keep out of this!’
Their arrival gave Nicholas the opportunity to get to his feet. He was glad of the presence of more witnesses. Orlando Reeve’s gibbering testimony would not have been enough. The officers could clearly see that Nicholas was at a disadvantage and that any action he took would be strictly in self-defence.
Avenell closed on him with the pike, using it to describe small circles in the air. He had moved his grasp down the shaft now so that he could use it more like a staff. When he lashed out and missed with the blade, he quickly brought the other end of the shaft into play and caught Nicholas a glancing blow on the shoulder. It sent him falling back into a suit of armour which collapsed on to the floor with a loud clatter. Avenell was on him at once, sensing his chance to finish off the man who had pursued him so remorselessly.
He raised the pike, leaped in and brought the blade down with devastating force. Nicholas reacted like lightning. As the weapon descended, he rolled over, flicked the concealed knife into his hand and thrust it upwards. The pike clanged harmlessly on the floor but the knife that Thomas Brinklow had made struck home. Sir Godfrey Avenell had taken possession of the discovery at last. He gave a strangled cry and dropped his weapon. The Master of the Armoury lay twitching on the ground in an island of his own blood, clutching vainly at the knife which had gone clean through his neck and which bore the proud name of his victim.
***
The spectators filled the yard of the Queen’s Head an hour before the play was even due to start. Such was the scandal that surrounded it-and the reverberations that its first attempted performance caused-The Roaring Boy was the biggest attraction in London. Lord Westfield was up in his accustomed position with his entourage. Emilia Brinklow was in the front row of the lower gallery, waiting to see how much of the second version of the play resembled her own original draft. Restored to liberty and resuscitated by the gratitude she heaped upon him, Edmund Hoode had been more than ready to resume work on the piece to rewrite it in the light of new evidence. His health improved markedly under Margery Firethorn’s care and his apprehension was greatly stilled by the news that the egregious Richard Topcliffe had actually been arrested because of his excessive cruelty to those he interrogated. Emilia was looking forward to seeing Edmund Hoode in a new role in their joint creation.
Alexander Marwood had vowed he would never let any theatre company through his portals again but the prospect of naked commercial gain soon modified his verdict. Westfield’s Men were not just a viable troupe once more. They were brave heroes, who had helped to solve two murders and uncover a shameful act of treason by no less a personage than the Master of the Armoury. The repercussions were enormous and they ensured huge audiences for anything that Westfield’s Men cared to present. In the case of The Roaring Boy, it was impossible to get even half of the would-be spectators inside the yard. They would have to wait for later performances, for the piece would surely enjoy a long and successful run.
The Roaring Boy still held to its original shape but its scope was vastly wider. Beginning as a domestic tragedy about a man with a wanton wife, it broadened out into a complex political drama. The Stranger-played by Hoode once more- was now openly called Sir Godfrey Avenell and Tarker’s role was more subordinate to his master. Emilia Brinklow herself still did not appear in the story but one other new character had been created. Glowing with pride and grinning ridiculously, Valentine the gardener was standing in the yard to see himself brought vividly to life on stage.
The play was a sensation, the performances uniformly excellent and the whole occasion memorable. The only thing which threatened to disrupt the event was a sudden recurrence of Lawrence Firethorn’s toothache. Weeks of intermittent pain had made him prod and pull at the aching molar until it was barely hanging in his mouth but it would not be dislodged completely. When he stepped on stage as Freshwell, one side of his mouth was the size of an inflated bladder. The distorted visage was very much in character and the swollen gum made him speak out of the side of his mouth. But the pain got steadily worse as the play progressed. Like the true professional that he was, he managed to turn it all to good account in the end.
Act Five brought the piece to a horrifying conclusion. As the roaring boy was dragged up to the gallows, he fought off his guard to make a moving speech of denial, freely admitting his own guilt while nobly trying to save Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne from their undeserved fate. Freshwell’s mouth was now a furnace of pain. The tooth burned with such intensity that it seemed to be on the point of exploding inside his mouth. Lines written in prose by Edmund Hood turned the actor into his own surgeon.
Hang this guilty man on high but spare the innocent. I’ll not go to my grave with their deaths on my conscience. Sooner than speak against them, I will pluck out my tongue so that it can speak no lies!
His hand went into his mouth, his fingers grabbed the pounding tooth and he pulled for all
his worth. There was a cry of utter amazement from all who watched. He really did seem to have done what he had vowed. Blood gushed out of his mouth in a torrent and splashed forward on to the spectators in the front rows. It was accompanied by a roar so loud and so chilling that it brought hairs up on the back of every neck in the yard. At a moment of supreme pain, Lawrence Firethorn had achieved an effect that no actor in the world could match. The dripping tooth which he held up in his hand looked like the tongue he had sacrificed for his art. It was a fitting climax to the crescendo of violence and duplicity which had preceded it.
Applause of that wildness and length had never been heard at the Queen’s Head before. As Firethorn led out his company to drink it in, the blood was still streaming down his chin. He did not mind in the least. The pain had finally gone and he could float on a sea of exquisite pleasure. His companions shared the ovation. Edmund Hoode beamed up at Emilia Brinklow. Barnaby Gill bowed low to Lord Westfield. Owen Elias waved to Valentine. George Dart cried with joy. The Roaring Boy had vindicated the reputation of Westfield’s Men and carried their art to a new pinnacle. It was such an unequivocal triumph that it even brought a smile to the face of Alexander Marwood. The ultimate accolade had been achieved.
***
Nicholas Bracewell found her in the private room which she had hired at the Queen’s Head. While everyone else was moving into the tavern itself to celebrate an extraordinary event, Emilia Brinklow had withdrawn to be alone. The book holder knew where to find her. There were tears in her eyes as she admitted him to the room.
‘I hoped you would come, Nicholas,’ she said.
‘We have been waiting for you down below.’
‘There is no place for me there.’
‘Indeed, there is,’ he argued. ‘But for you, The Roaring Boy would never have come into being. Put off your modesty. This triumph is largely yours and you may bask in it. You are the only true begetter of this play.’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I am content to let it stand as Edmund Hoode’s work. He has earned the right by the misery that he endured because of me. Only you and I must know the secret of The Roaring Boy. It is our bond.’
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