‘I have come for the angels’ wings, sir,’ he said.
‘Wings?’
‘Master Marwood told me of them. You staged a play in his yard that had an angel in the story. He remembers those wings very well, sir.’
‘What of it?’ said Nicholas warily.
‘I wish to buy them from you.’
‘We never sell our costumes.’
‘Then let me rent the wings.’
‘That is not our policy.’
‘I will pay well.’
Cornelius Gant flipped back the edge of his coat and detached a large bag of coin from his belt. He tossed it to Nicholas who got an immediate idea of its worth. Westfield’s Men were being offered far more for the loan of their wings than it cost to make them in the first place. It would be a profitable deal but the book holder hesitated. Gant read his mind and threw in another hand-washing grin.
‘You think I will fly off with your wings!’ he said with a cackle. ‘But I will bring them back even as I take them. To this end …’ A second purse was untied from his belt. ‘I leave this as surety. When the wings return, you give me back this purse. Is not this fair?’
‘It is, sir.’
‘Then the deal is settled.’
‘Why do you want those wings?’
‘I do not wish to be an angel, that I can tell you.’
‘Is it for some kind of play?’
‘Come to St Paul’s on Saturday.’
Cornelius Gant would say no more but his money was real and his terms generous. The wings had been made for an early play by Edmund Hoode that had now fallen out of the repertoire and they were simply taking up space in the room at the inn where Westfield’s Men stored their costumes and properties. Nicholas consented. When he showed Gant to the storeroom, the latter was delighted with what he saw. The wings were some five feet in length, covered in white feathers and joined by a leather halter which had been fitted around the shoulders of the actor playing the angel. It was this device that particularly thrilled Gant and he tried the wings on, flapping them for effect.
‘Thank you, Master Bracewell. They are ideal.’
‘Be careful, sir. They are partly held by wax.’
‘So?’
‘Remember Icarus. Do not fly near the sun.’
Gant went off into a paroxysm of reedy cackling.
Nicholas was now treated to one of the most unlikely sights he had ever witnessed at the Queen’s Head. Its landlord came skipping blithely over to them. At a time of national calamity, when a dying sovereign was turning the capital into a city of sadness, Alexander Marwood might finally have come into his own. His sustained misery would at last be appropriate, his skulking despair a common mode of behaviour. Instead of this, he was sprightly and joyful. He fell on his visitor as if Gant were his oldest friend and he pressed him to free ale and victuals. Nicholas watched it in bewildered silence. When the two men went off arm in arm, he wondered if he had taken leave of his senses.
Cornelius Gant was not the only angel on the premises.
‘Good morning, Master Bracewell.’
‘Mistress Carrick! What brings you here at this hour?’
‘I thought to catch you before your rehearsal.’
‘Then must your reason be important.’
‘It is.’ Marion Carrick handed him the scroll. ‘My father said that I was to put it into your hand without delay. It contains a report about one Master Fellowes.’
‘That makes it almost as welcome as you, mistress.’
Nicholas had never seen her looking so lovely or so like her brother. With the sun slanting down to give her a halo, she really did have an angelic air. Her smile had a sweet innocence which he did not want to remove but there was no helping it. Taking her aside and sitting her down on a bench, he explained that her brother’s killer had himself been killed in a Clerkenwell street. Her ignorance of the area obscured its true character from her and he was able to give a version of the story which obscured the fact that Sebastian’s visit to a prostitute had set the whole tragedy in motion. Marion Carrick was so grateful to hear the news that she burst into tears and had to be comforted.
As he soothed her with gentle patting, he looked down into the beautiful moist face and reflected how different she was from the two other women who had become entangled with Westfield’s Men. Frances from the Pickt-hatch and Beatrice Capaldi from Blackfriars were sisters under the skin. One was paid for nightly promiscuity while the other was more highly selective in her clients but both were courtesans with a streak of madness in them. And neither would baulk at murder. Frances stabbed herself through the heart but Beatrice Capaldi inserted the blade through the breast of her victims. Lawrence Firethorn was being slowly bled to death and his company might perish with him.
Nicholas sighed and helped Marion Carrick up from the bench. In contrast to the other women, she was a decent and wholesome presence but she did not belong in the world of the theatre. Now that her brother’s death had been properly avenged, she could return to her own life. Nicholas was sorry to see her go and she lingered at the parting to give him a soft kiss before hurrying off with the servant who escorted her out into the street. There was no flapping of wings but he felt as if an angel had departed from his life.
The missive remained and he unrolled it at once. Andrew Carrick had been diligent in his research. His letter was an absolute mine of information gleaned from Harry Fellowes and bearing upon the operation of the Ordnance Office. Facts and figures were set down in tabulated profusion. Nicholas knew that his plan could now be put into effect. The search for the man with the axe was over. He could now tackle the conspirators who were trying to chop down Westfield’s Men.
Before that, another rehearsal beckoned.
‘Gentlemen!’ he yelled. ‘About it straight!’
The studious inertia of Cambridge oppressed her more each day and she grew increasingly restless. She bulked large in a small house even when she was stationary but Margery Firethorn was positively overwhelming when she was on the move in such a confined space. Mother and child found her ubiquity rather unsettling. Jonathan Jarrold felt it was like sharing a cage with a hungry she-tiger. While giving her the daily dose of gratitude, he assured his sister-in-law that they could now cope without her. His son, Richard, had come through the real trial and was making visible progress. The bookseller and his wife had every reason to believe that they had finally produced a baby who had come to stay.
Margery agreed to his suggestion. Reasons to leave now greatly outnumbered reasons to stay. She would depart on Friday and break the journey to London at some intermediate hostelry where she could spend the night.
‘That way,’ she told her sister, ‘I may arrive home in good time on Saturday.’
‘Lawrence will be overjoyed to see you, Margery.’
‘I will take my husband unawares.’
‘That was ever your way.’
‘Goodbye, sister.’
‘Give our love to the whole family.’
‘Mine remains with yours.’
‘Lawrence will have missed your warming presence.’
Margery was rueful. ‘That is my fear!’
‘I love her! I need her! I want her! I must have her, Nick!’
‘She sets a high price on her favours, sir.’
‘Beatrice puts my devotion to the test.’
‘Westfield’s Men will suffer.’
‘I will be away but one afternoon.’
‘The company needs you tomorrow as never before.’
‘Do not vex me so!’
Lawrence Firethorn was being ripped apart by competing claims on his loyalty. Lord Westfield had overridden his choice of Cupid’s Folly as the play to be performed at the Queen’s Head on the following afternoon and the determined patron had substituted Love’s Sacrifice. It was an attempt to bring the actor-manager to heel but, as the first playbill was put up to advertise the event, a second letter arrived from Beatrice Capaldi to give details of the sl
ow voyage along the Thames and to hint at the ultimate reward for her doting lover. Firethorn agonised between the demands of professional duty and private dalliance. Anger finally sent him running to the arms of Beatrice Capaldi.
‘Lord Westfield insults me!’ he snarled.
‘No man admires you more,’ said Nicholas.
‘I’ll not take it!’
‘Our patron chose you as his manager.’
‘Then why does he treat me as a hired man who must play as cast?’ Firethorn worked himself up into a fury. ‘I’ll not be bullied, I’ll not be forced, I’ll not dance to the tune of Lord Westfield or any other man in London! Let him put up his playbills for Love’s Sacrifice. It will not be staged.’
‘It will, sir.’
‘Without me?’
‘With or without you, Master Firethorn.’
Nicholas Bracewell allowed an interval of silence so that his irate companion could calm down slightly. Having come out through Bishopsgate, they were now walking together in the direction of Shoreditch. Rehearsal and performance had gone well because Lawrence Firethorn had acted with Beatrice Capaldi’s second missive next to his heart. It would have been unwise to tackle him at the Queen’s Head where his raised voice abolished walls and made privacy quite impossible. Nicholas therefore waited until the two of them were well clear of the city walls before he touched once more on the delicate topic. Firethorn was leading his horse by the reins. The three of them passed Bedlam.
‘Consider one more time,’ pleaded Nicholas.
‘It is too late.’
‘Renounce this lady, sir.’
‘I am too far gone in to turn back now, Nick,’ said the other with sudden passion. ‘This is no mere conquest that I pursue here. Beatrice is my own true love. I worship her with every fibre of my being. I would do anything to show her that I am in earnest. I fret, I sigh, I long for her. Did I but know where she dwells, I would lie before her threshold all night and sleep in contented adoration.’
Nicholas steeled himself to disillusion his master.
‘Mistress Capaldi lives beside the river,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I tracked her to Blackfriars one night.’
‘Why?’ hissed Firethorn. ‘What reason had you to spy on her? You followed my love without telling me? What kind of treachery is this?’
‘It was on your account that I went.’
‘Behind my back!’
‘I had no other means of helping you.’
‘Helping me! You have lost my friendship for ever!’
‘It grieves me to tell you any more …’
‘Then let us part now.’
‘No, Master Firethorn,’ said Nicholas, detaining him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘When I went past Mistress Capaldi’s home, a visitor left. It was her shrewd stage manager.’
‘I hope he was shrewder and more honest than mine.’
‘It was Giles Randolph.’
‘Never!’
‘He has rehearsed this whole play, sir,’ argued Nicholas bravely. ‘He sent Mistress Capaldi to The Rose and he was there himself to witness her performance and its effect on you. That is how he came to see Owen Elias. Love’s Sacrifice would not have brought him to the playhouse any more than the work of Banbury’s Men would take you to The Curtain. Master Randolph was there with Beatrice Capaldi. They are trying to kill our company by cutting off its head.’
‘ENOUGH!’
Lawrence Firethorn’s anguish echoed for a mile and sent his horse into a panic. The man he trusted most of all had betrayed him and his love in the most comprehensive way. Controlling his steed, he mounted with a leap, then glared down at Nicholas with a loathing he never suspected he could ever feel for him. No more words were necessary. In his now seething rage, Firethorn believed that Nicholas was trying to discredit Beatrice Capaldi on behalf of Westfield’s Men. Partnership with his book holder was over, fidelity to his patron a thing of the past, commitment to his company a trifling irrelevance.
Sharp heels dug into the horse’s flanks. It reared up on its hind legs then took its rider homewards at a gallop. Nicholas Bracewell sighed deeply at his failure then walked on swiftly. He still had business in Shoreditch.
Andrew Carrick gazed through the window of his cell with a glow of satisfaction in his soul. His daughter, Marion, had told him of the apprehension of the murderer in Clerkenwell and, though her account fell short of the full truth, the lawyer was able to shed a father’s tears of contentment. Sebastian’s death had been paid for in full and he could now rest in peace. Carrick longed for the moment when he could extract more details from Nicholas Bracewell whom he knew was the chief architect of events in Turnmill Street. In relating the tale to the bereaved sister, the book holder played down his own part in the affair but the acute father could see behind this show of modesty.
The lawyer was overcome with delight, therefore, when Nicholas actually appeared below in the yard but he was not alone on this visit. Five others marched with him. Lord Westfield led the way with a purposeful figure in the robes of a bishop and a black-garbed clerk who carried writing materials in his satchel. Two soldiers from the Palace guard flanked the deputation. Nicholas Bracewell excused himself to slip into the Beauchamp Tower and Carrick ran to his door to listen for the sound of his footsteps on the stone steps. It seemed like an hour before his gaoler unlocked the door to admit the visitor. Carrick embraced him, thanked him and asked for a complete account of what had transpired outside the Pickt-hatch. Nicholas first took him to the window and pointed at the five men who were now going into the building across the yard with firm footsteps.
‘Did you see them, Master Carrick?’ he asked.
‘I recognised Lord Westfield.’
‘He is prosecuting this matter.’
‘Who was the noble churchman?’
Nicholas was impassive. ‘John Aylmer, Bishop of London. With him was his clerk. And two soldiers to enforce the gravity of their embassy.’
The truth dawned. ‘They visit Harry Fellowes?’
‘The Clerk of Ordnance is being interviewed. Your information was of immense help, sir, and Lord Westfield has used his wide circle of friends to make further enquiry.’
‘Harry has embezzled,’ said Carrick unequivocally. ‘There can be no doubt of his guilt. But proving it is quite another matter. A man who has defrauded the Crown so long and so cunningly will be able to wriggle out of any charge.’
‘That is why I sought the power of the Church.’
‘John Aylmer?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Fellowes is a rogue but he is also a priest. He will not be able to withstand the pressure that the Bishop of London may bring upon him.’ His face was still impassive but his eyes twinkled. ‘Our scheming Clerk will never have met a man quite like this John Aylmer.’
The Bishop of London glowered under bushy eyebrows and put the crackle of authority into his voice. Harry Fellowes swallowed hard and backed away slightly. He was seated at his desk when his room was invaded by the five menacing figures. The Clerk of Ordnance was caught offguard.
‘Remember!’ intoned John Aylmer, ‘that you speak under oath. Do not perjure yourself before your Maker or He will call you to account for it on the Day of Judgement. Speak the truth before us here and we may be inclined to mercy. Lie, deceive or prevaricate and the full majesty of the law will descend upon you.’ A finger of doom pointed. ‘One thing more, Master Fellowes. Though you have neglected your flock this long while, you are still an ordained priest. It was my predecessor as Bishop of London, Edmund Grindal, who brought you into the clergy. That revered Churchman, who went on to become His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, looks down on you from Heaven at this moment and implores you to hold faith with him. Confess your sins to him, to us and to God.’
Harry Fellowes reeled from the grim warning. It was his first meeting with the Bishop of London and he knew instantly that he would not seek to renew the acquaintance. John Aylme
r was a sturdy man of middle height with a challenging religiosity about him. In his distress, it never occurred to Fellowes to wonder why a man who hailed from the Norfolk gentry spoke with a Welsh lilt.
Lord Westfield read out the stern indictment.
‘Harry Fellowes, Clerk of Ordnance, we charge you with fraud and embezzlement in the execution of your office and summon you to appear before Sir Walter Mildmay, Chancellor of the Exchequer. The allegations are as follows, that you did wilfully indulge in false recording in the office books, that you did sell Crown property into private hands for your own profit, that you did misappropriate government monies, that you did maliciously and unlawfully …’
It was all there. Harry Fellowes was hit with such a powerful blend of fact and conjecture that he did not pause to disentangle the two. Guesswork was cruelly on target. He was arraigned for sending unserviceable shot to Barbary, for shipping a consignment of unwearable boots to the army in Ireland, for selling ammunition, already paid for, to a naval depot so that he could pocket the second amount, for listing equipment in the two ledgers delivered to the Auditors of the Prest which had not been purchased as stated, but simply taken from the Ordnance store. Indeed, it was Fellowes’s skill at making departments pay for things they never received or requisitions they never made that was the basis of his fraud. One consignment of muskets circulated between six different regiments without ever leaving the boxes in which they were stored. Harry Fellowes embezzled with a sense of humour.
Lord Westfield rolled on remorselessly, John Aylmer lent his ecclesiastical presence and the black-clad secretary wrote down every word. Fellowes could not have done it alone and they soon prised out of him the names of his now wealthy accomplices, Geoffrey Turville, the Purveyor of Materials and Richard Bowland, the Keeper of the Store. Collusion between the trio defeated all the administrative precautions taken and allowed Harry Fellowes, as the instigator of the various schemes, to amass a large personal fortune which he either disseminated throughout his family or used to finance a series of highly profitable loans. When Lord Westfield put the tentative figure of deceits at £10,000, Harry Fellowes admitted it at once in order to conceal the fact that it was almost twice that amount.
The Mad Courtesan Page 22
