It took a long time for the crowd to disperse from the Guildhall. Several of the spectators remained in order to add their personal congratulations to the actors as they came out from the tiring-house. Owen Elias was the first to appear, surrounded immediately by adoring young women who quickly discovered that he was nothing like the timid and unworldly Lackwit that he had played. Barnaby Gill was wheeled out by George Dart to a smattering of applause and there was great interest as well in Richard Honeydew, whose portrayal of the heroine had been so convincing that some refused to believe that he was really a young boy. Under the supervision of Nicholas, the hired men began to dismantle the stage. Sebastian Frant and Thomasina came across to the book holder.
‘Do you have a moment to spare, Nick?’ asked Frant.
‘I always have time for your and your daughter,’ replied Nicholas, leaving the others to get on with their work. ‘It is good to see you both again. I wish that we could have offered you something better than was on display this afternoon.’
‘But we enjoyed the play,’ said Thomasina with obvious sincerity. ‘It was a more cunning and amusing tale than Cupid’s Folly. Master Gill was a delight and you proved yourself a very able actor.’
‘Yes,’ said Frant. ‘I’ve never seen you on stage before.’
Nicholas gave a tired smile. ‘Nor will you do so again, Sebastian. I was there merely to move the wheelbarrow. I’m not proud of my performance.’
‘You should be, Nick.’
‘I agree with Father,’ said Thomasina. ‘You were another clown. But where was Master Firethorn? I thought that you told me he was certain to appear today?’
‘He was indisposed, I fear,’ said Nicholas.
Her eyes filled with concern. ‘I hope that he is not ill.’
‘His condition is not serious and we expect him to return soon. Fortunately,’ he went on, pointing to Elias, ‘we had an able deputy in Owen. He was a true hero on that stage this afternoon.’
‘Oh, I know. Pray excuse me while I tell him so.’
Seeing that Elias was breaking away from a group of admirers, Thomasina went over to speak to him. The Welshman was soon lapping up her congratulations. It gave Nicholas the opportunity of a word alone with someone who knew much more about the theatre than his impressionable young daughter.
‘Be honest, Sebastian,’ said Nicholas. ‘What did you really think of us?’
Frant was tactful. ‘You’ve given me more entertaining performances.’
‘I asked for an honest opinion.’
‘Then I have to confess that I was disappointed. Thomasina might not have seen the faults but I lost count of them. Barnaby was curiously weak and Edmund was simply walking through his part. Owen Elias,’ he said, nodding towards the Welshman, ‘was the only person to bring true worth out of his role. You missed Lawrence sorely.’
‘We were all aware of that.’
‘Will he be back in time for your appearance at the castle?’
‘It seems unlikely,’ said Nicholas. ‘That being the case, we will have to forego the pleasure of playing here again. Barnaby refuses to countenance the idea and most of our fellows will be of the same mind. Owen apart, they would like to quit Dover at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Are they so upset by their performance?’
‘They are mortified, Sebastian, and so am I. You’ve seen us at the Queen’s Head. You know what Westfield’s Men can do at their best.’
‘No rival can even challenge them.’
‘We did not feel quite so invincible today.’
Frant was sympathetic. ‘Take heart from the fact that you had more spectators here like Thomasina. They loved what they saw and gave you the tribute of their palms.’ His daughter rejoined him. ‘We must away, my dear. And we must let Nick get on with his work.’ He shook hands with Nicholas. ‘Give my warmest regards to Lawrence. I hope that he is soon able to take his place on stage again.’
‘Yes,’ said Thomasina. ‘I long to see him once more.’
‘It may not be in Dover,’ said Nicholas. ‘Farewell.’
As he watched Frant and his daughter leaving the hall, Nicholas had his worst fears confirmed. Their former scrivener had been candid. By their normal standards, the performance was extremely poor. Nicholas felt that they had cheated the audience and yearned for the chance to make amends. That chance would not come in Dover unless Firethorn was found and restored to his pre-eminence in the company. It was a sobering reminder. His main task was to continue the search. After instructing the others to load everything into the waiting wagons, Nicholas slipped out of the Guildhall. He did not walk far before someone stepped out to block his way. It was John Strood.
‘I was hoping to see you, Nick,’ he said, pumping his friend’s hand. ‘You told me that you were the book holder. I did not realise that you were an actor as well.’
‘Only by necessity, John.’
‘It was the wittiest play I’ve ever seen.’
‘I’m glad that you enjoyed it.’
‘It was such a clever idea to use a wheelbarrow as you did.’
‘That, too, was forced upon us,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was good of you to come.’
‘It was the only time that I could.’
‘Why? Are you setting sail?’
‘Later this evening.’
‘How long will you be away?’
‘Several days,’ said Strood. ‘You’ll doubtless have moved on from the town by then. I’m sorry that we were not able to spend more time together.’ He shifted his feet uneasily. ‘And I’m sorry that you did not find me in a happier station.’
‘I was delighted to see you, John, whatever your station in life.’
‘The Mermaid is an unworthy ship for someone of my abilities.’
‘Then find a better one.’
‘That is not as simple as you might imagine.’
‘Why not?’
‘One day, perhaps, I’ll tell you.’ He embraced Nicholas. ‘Adieu!’
‘Good fortune attend you, John!’
Strood gave a mirthless laugh and hurried away. Nicholas was pleased that they had been able to exchange a farewell but saddened by the fact that they were unlikely to meet again. His friend deserved to sail on a much finer vessel than the Mermaid yet there was an air of resignation about Strood that suggested he would never do so. Nicholas waited until his old shipmate had vanished into the crowd before he set off in the other direction. His thoughts were solely on Lawrence Firethorn now.
The blind beggar was sitting in the precise spot that George Dart had indicated. White-haired and dressed in rags, the old man was curled up in a doorway to keep out of the sun. A small bowl stood on the cobbles in front of him but it was empty. Nicholas tossed a coin into the bowl and a scrawny hand shot out to retrieve it.
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ said the beggar.
‘How do you know that I’m a man and not a maid?’
‘By the sound of your feet. You’ve the tread of a tall man with a long stride.’
Nicholas crouched down beside him. ‘How good is your memory?’
‘As good as yours, I think. Try me, sir.’
‘A friend of mine spoke to you yesterday, shortly after noon.’
‘A young man. I remember him well.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he dropped a coin in my bowl. Few people do that.’
‘He also talked to you,’ said Nicholas. ‘He told you who he was and where he worked. When he confided a problem to you, you claimed that you could help.’
‘I did,’ agreed the beggar, ‘but he went away before I could tell him what I knew. He was with another man, older and more irritable, who seemed to be in a small cart.’
‘It was a wheelbarrow.’
The beggar cackled. ‘Does he have no better means of moving about?’
‘His leg is broken and in a splint.’
‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘then he has my sympathy. He has a burden to carry, like me, and must
try to overcome it as best he can.’ He reached out a hand to feel Nicholas’s arm. ‘Who am I talking to?’
‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘Also employed by Westfield’s Men, I think.’
‘The same.’
‘Then you, too, are looking for a certain Master Firethorn.’
‘We are desperate to find him,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anything of help that you can tell me will earn my gratitude.’
‘I need more than gratitude.’ Another coin was dropped into the bowl. The beggar grabbed it at once. ‘Is this all that I can expect?’
‘That depends on the intelligence you give me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Since you were unable to see anything, you must have heard it instead.’
‘Oh, yes. My ears can pick up the slightest sound. I hear snatches of a thousand conversations every day yet I can always tell them apart. Age has robbed me of much but left me with my wits.’
‘Tell me about Master Firethorn.’
‘He was coming from the same direction as you when he was stopped by someone. A younger man, judging by his voice.’
‘Where was this?’
‘No more than a few yards from where I sit now.’
‘Did this other person give a name?’
‘No, sir,’ said the beggar, scratching at the fleas beneath his armpits, ‘but he recognised Master Firethorn and gave him a letter.’
‘A letter?’
‘I heard the seal being broken.’
‘What else did you hear?’ asked Nicholas, listening intently.
‘The name of the man who sent the letter. It was Lord Westfield.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘My ears never deceive me. The messenger told Master Firethorn that he was to go to an inn where Lord Westfield was staying. They went off together.’
Nicholas was mystified. ‘But our patron has not yet arrived in Dover. How could he send for Master Firethorn when he is not even here?’
‘I’ve told you all I know.’ The beggar grinned. ‘Except for one thing.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘The name of the inn.’
The scrawny hand was extended and Nicholas knew that he would have to buy the information. How reliable it was, he could only hazard a guess but the beggar had clearly heard enough to convince him that he was telling the truth. He put three more coins into the man’s open palm. It closed instantly.
‘Where did this messenger take him?’
‘To meet Lord Westfield.’
‘At which inn?’
‘The Arms of England.’
Lawrence Firethorn had lost all track of time. Roused from his sleep, he was untied from the post and hustled out of the warehouse by the two men who had stood guard over him earlier. He was then taken along a quay, helped down some stone steps and pushed into a rowing boat. The point of a dagger was held to his ribs. Firethorn could do nothing but lie in the stern of the boat as it was rowed away. He was bruised and bewildered. He had cramp in his arms and legs. The boat seemed to take a long time to reach its destination and he feared that he was being taken out to sea to be drowned. Then the oars were shipped and he felt the thud of contact with a larger vessel. Ropes were lowered and tied around his chest and under his armpits. Unable to resist, he was hauled upward.
When they lowered him down, he knew that he was in the hold of a ship. It creaked and rolled as it was buffeted playfully by the waves. Firethorn felt sick. His captors came aboard to take charge of him, lugging him along a floor then securing him to some iron rings set in the side of the hold. Where were they taking him? Why did they handle him so roughly? What time was it? Who were they? Hours of excruciating discomfort limped slowly past before one of his captors bent over him.
‘I’m to offer you food.’ It was the voice of the man who had killed Giddy Mussett. ‘If it was left to me, I’d sooner throw you overboard but we’ve been told to keep you alive. Do you want to eat?’
Firethorn’s stomach was too unsettled even to consider the offer but he nodded his head nevertheless. Any chance to have his gag removed had to be taken. He could at least ask some of the questions that had been tormenting him.
‘Say nothing,’ warned the man. ‘Cry for help and it will not be heard. We’re too far from the shore for that. Do you understand?’
Firethorn nodded again and adopted a submissive pose. His gag was untied.
‘I’ve some cheese for you,’ said the other, inserting it hard into his mouth. ‘I hope that it chokes you to death.’
Firethorn spat it into his face and roared his defiance. ‘I’ll kill you one day!’
Something struck him viciously on the side of the head. The blows continued until he sank into oblivion. When he recovered consciousness again, Firethorn learnt that one side of his face was covered in blood and that he was lashed even more tightly to the iron ring. His gag was firmly back in place. There would be no more meals for him.
The landlord of the Arms of England was a swarthy man of middle years with a face that glowed with geniality. A former sailor, he had tired of life at sea and found an occupation that suited his talents and inclinations. Nicholas Bracewell weighed him up at a glance.
‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ asked the landlord.
‘I’m looking for a friend.’
‘Then search about you. Do you see him here?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He came in yesterday, not long after midday.’
The landlord chuckled. ‘Then you’ll hardly find him here now. We’ve lots of customers who like to drink themselves into stupidity but we always turn them out at the end of the day unless they have hired a room.’
‘First, tell me if my friend came in here. He’s a man you’d remember.’
‘Why is that?’
Nicholas gave him a description of Firethorn and explained that he probably came into the inn with a younger man. The landlord had no difficulty in identifying them.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I do recall your friend, sir, and he was with a young man.’
‘How long did they stay?’
‘I’ve no recollection of that.’
‘None at all?’
‘The room had been hired until morning but they left well before that.’
‘Room?’ repeated Nicholas. ‘My friend was taken to a room?’
‘One of our finest.’
‘Who paid for it?’
‘The fellow did not give a name,’ said the landlord. ‘I took him on trust. He was a seafaring man like myself and that was enough for me.’
‘But he’s not there now?’
‘Neither of them are, sir.’
‘There were two of them staying here?’
‘Yes, sir. Though the other man was no sailor. I could tell that. When this friend of yours came in, he was taken straight up to their room. It’s above my head so I know that they went in there.’
‘Is it occupied now?’ asked Nicholas.
‘No. Why? Did you wish to hire it?’
‘I simply wish to look into it.’
‘But it’s empty, sir.’
‘That makes no difference.’
The landlord was cautious. ‘I like to oblige my customers but I don’t make a habit of showing them into my rooms. I’d need a good reason to do that.’
‘I’ve an excellent reason,’ said Nicholas with urgency. ‘My friend was tricked into coming here. I’ve reason to believe that the men you talked about were lying in wait for him. He was kidnapped.’
‘Here? Under my roof?’
‘That’s my suspicion. I’ll pay, if you let me confirm it.’
‘There’s no need for that, sir,’ said the landlord, moving across to the stairs. ‘I’ll take you up there myself. We’ve lively customers here at times but I never let them get out of hand. And I’d certainly not let them have a room if I thought that they were intending to commit a crime here.’
‘We don’t know that they were,’ said Nicholas, following him up the st
eps. ‘But it strikes me as a strong possibility.’
The landlord opened the door then stood back to let Nicholas go in. It was a small room with a central beam so low that he had to duck beneath it. The bed took up almost a third of the available space. The place looked clean and cosy but Nicholas could discern no sign of recent occupation. If Firethorn had been held there, he had left no mark of his visit behind. Nicholas went around the room with scrupulous care, even getting on his knees to peer under the bed.
‘You’ll find nothing under there, sir. The room has been cleaned.’
‘Had the bed been slept in?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then nobody stayed the night.’
‘We think that they sneaked away in the dark.’
‘Why should they do that?’ wondered Nicholas, getting to his feet. ‘May I open the shutters to let in more light?’
‘I’ll do it for you, sir.’
The landlord stepped into the room and lifted the latch. When he opened the shutters, a gust of wind blew in from the sea and achieved what Nicholas could never have done. It dislodged a tiny object that had been missed by the maidservant who had cleaned the room earlier. It was a white feather. Disturbed by the wind, it leapt high into the air and floated for several seconds until Nicholas snatched at it. He held it between a finger and thumb to examine it.
‘Have you seen it before, sir?’ asked the landlord.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Where?’
‘It was in my friend’s hat,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was here.’
Remorse set in as soon as they reached the Lion. Ashamed of the way they had acquitted themselves, the actors supped their ale and indulged in bitter recrimination. They felt that they had betrayed their talent at the Guildhall and it left them without any urge to perform again in Dover. Owen Elias raised a lone voice against the general melancholy, arguing that the best way to exonerate themselves was to give a performance at the castle that was truly worthy of them. He was shouted down by the others, who were beginning to resent the way that the Welshman had succeeded so brilliantly on stage when they had so miserably failed. Elias could not even rally support from Edmund Hoode. When he saw Nicholas enter, he hoped that he would at last have someone on his side.
The Vagabond Clown Page 26
