The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘I think I can guess.’

  ‘Banbury!’

  Marmion Hall that morning was in the grip of a deep sorrow. Sir Clarence put on a brave face in front of his family and his servants but they sensed what hung over them and it introduced a sombre air. The arrest of Robert Rawlins had been a devastating blow and they were still reeling from it. There was an additional setback for Sir Clarence. The man whom he had dispatched to York had been killed by his own intended victim. It was very alarming. The informer who had betrayed both of the accomplices was now closing in on Sir Clarence himself. Instant flight could be necessary. Preparations were made.

  ‘Is everything in order?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘Keep a horse saddled and ready.’

  ‘It is all in hand.’

  ‘You will ride with me.’

  ‘That will be an honour, Sir Clarence.’

  The servant bowed humbly then moved off about his duties. His master hoped that the emergency would not arise but could not rule it out. After occupying Marmion Hall with such pride for so many generations, the family now faced a tragic possibility. The incumbent head of the house might be chased out of it like a rat.

  There was one small compensation. Westfield’s Men were visiting them that day and they might help to lift the veil of sadness, even to allow them a few hours of harmless pleasure. Sir Clarence knew of the company’s work in London and had selected the play from their repertoire that would be most apposite. It was the same drama which had thrilled the spectators at the inn.

  Soldiers of the Cross. It appealed to him because it sounded so many chords. He believed that he was engaged in another form of crusade.

  Sir Clarence was in the hall to welcome Nicholas Bracewell when the latter arrived. The book holder was fatigued and explained what had kept him up most of the night. His host was dismayed.

  ‘Master Quilley dead?’

  ‘Murdered, sir.’

  ‘Has the villain been apprehended?’

  ‘Not yet, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘This is bleak intelligence.’

  ‘The fellow was amusing company.’

  ‘That is what I found.’

  ‘I believe that you commissioned him.’

  ‘Master Quilley was to have painted my portrait. I wanted it quickly so that I could present it as a gift to my wife.’ He looked up balefully at the oil painting of his father. ‘I have not the time to wait for something of this order. Oliver Quilley was my only hope.’

  ‘There are other limners for hire.’

  ‘He came by special recommendation.’

  Nicholas tried to pursue the subject but his host dismissed it with a wave of his hand, preferring instead to talk about the play and its mode of presentation. He was clearly knowledgeable about the theatre and had visited the playhouses during his occasional visits to London. It was a treat to discuss drama with him and it served to brighten his manner immeasurably. Nicholas soon decided that the stage would be erected at the far end of the hall. A panelled door opened into a room that could be used as the tiring-house. Curtains could be rigged up on a rail. Large windows let in a fair amount of light but it would need to be supplemented by candles and tapers.

  While the book holder continued to work out the logistics of performance, Sir Clarence gave orders to his servants and rows of chairs were brought into the hall. Standees in abundance had watched the play at the inn but all the guests would be seated here. There would be far less sweat, swearing and jostling and a lot more refinement. At the personal invitation of Sir Clarence Marmion, all the gentry of the West Riding were coming that afternoon. It would be a select audience.

  A large gilt armchair was brought in and placed at the end of the front row, directly beneath the portrait of the host’s father. Evidently, it was Sir Clarence’s own chair for he tried it out and glanced over at the stage. Nicholas could not understand why the master of the house did not occupy a prime position in the centre of the row. It seemed perverse to place himself at such an angle to the action of the play.

  When all the arrangements were made, Nicholas was given refreshment then left alone to await the arrival of the company. He took the opportunity to stroll outside in the sunshine and admire the magnificent formal gardens. One outcrop of rhododendrons claimed his attention. They were a hundred yards or more from the house and trained into a small circle. What intrigued him was the fact that the bushes were moving about as if blown by a minor gale and yet there was no breeze at all.

  Shielded by an avenue of yews, Nicholas made his way towards the rhododendrons. They were still now but a noise told him what might have caused the movement. He was hoping to confirm his theory when a thickset man stepped out to block his way.

  ‘This part of the garden is out of bounds, sir.’

  ‘I was merely stretching my legs.’

  ‘Stretch them in another direction.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Sir Clarence has given strict order.’

  As he headed back towards the house, Nicholas asked himself why such privacy was maintained. Something else puzzled him as well. The man had the clothes and the bearing of a gardener yet he wore a dagger at his belt.

  Why did he need to be armed?

  Lawrence Firethorn arrived with his company to take possession of a new part of his empire. Having conquered York in such style, he was sure that he could score another victory at Marmion Hall. The complete change of performing conditions stimulated him and he took up the challenge at once, strutting about to get the feel of the stage and throwing his voice at the walls to test the acoustics. A rehearsal was called and everything was set up at speed. The company used the occasion to shake off some of the hangovers from the excesses of the previous night. Firethorn, by contrast, was brimming with energy. Hours of marital reunion had simply invigorated him.

  Food and beer were provided by their host and they spent a pleasant hour in rest. The actor-manager stood aside with Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill.

  ‘I like the feel of this place!’ he said.

  ‘We have not come here to grope it,’ observed Gill drily. ‘Save yourself for Margery.’

  ‘I sense that something extraordinary will happen.’

  ‘You will remember all your lines?’

  ‘Take care, Barnaby. Do not try me, sir.’

  ‘I wish I could share your optimism, Lawrence,’ said Hoode gloomily. ‘Marmion Hall feels oppressive to me. As for extraordinary events, one has already occurred.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Gill. ‘We were paid yesterday.’

  ‘I was talking about Master Quilley.’

  ‘Do not remind us, Edmund,’ sighed Firethorn. ‘It was a tragedy of the first degree but it must not be allowed to blight our work. Master Quilley was but a traveller who rode along the way with us. His death is shocking but it does not directly affect us.’

  ‘We cannot shrug it off like that, Lawrence.’

  ‘We must. We are players, sir.’

  Hoode argued for compassion but the others were too caught up in the performance that lay ahead to accord the dead man more than a token pity. When the playwright went on to suggest that the murder might somehow be linked to Westfield’s Men, they ridiculed the idea at once. He was still trying to argue his case when Nicholas came up.

  ‘It is time to prepare ourselves, gentlemen.’

  ‘We are always prepared,’ said Gill petulantly.

  ‘Our audience is starting to arrive.’

  ‘Then I must get into my costume,’ decided Hoode.

  He and Gill drifted off to the other side of the tiring-house but Nicholas detained his employer for a quiet word.

  ‘We have a slight problem, sir.’

  ‘Nothing that cannot be surmounted.’

  ‘Christopher Millfield is nowhere to be found.’

  ‘The man was right here but five minutes ago.’

  ‘Ten,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘He is not here now.’

  ‘Then he ha
s gone outside to look upon the hedge.’

  ‘Nobody was to leave the room unless they spoke to me first. Master Millfield ignored that ruling.’

  ‘Then reprimand him, Nick.’

  ‘I will when we can find him.’

  ‘Send George Dart out on patrol.’

  ‘I did that,’ said Nicholas. ‘He searched house and garden thoroughly but came back empty-handed. That is why we have a problem, sir. Master Millfield has disappeared.’

  Mark Scruton waited in the shadow of a copse until he saw a dozen riders canter past on the road to Marmion Hall. He spurred his horse and came out from his cover. It did not take him long to attach himself to the rear of the other guests. When they turned into the long drive that led up to the house, he could see other people being shown in by servants. There was enough commotion for him to mingle with the crowd. When a female rider turned to appraise him, he touched his hat graciously. A coach was trundling up behind them now and fresh hooves could be heard back in the distance.

  Scruton dismounted and a servant took care of his horse. The actor walked with an upright gait, leaning on his cane for support. He was part of a crowd that swept in through the main door of the house. Waiting to greet them in the entrance hall was Sir Clarence Marmion and his wife, both attired in their finery for the occasion.

  Giving them a false name and a confident smile, the old man with the grey beard withstood their scrutiny without a flicker of concern. Host and hostess bestowed a welcome on the next influx of guests.

  The first test was over and he had come through it with perfect aplomb. Mark Scruton was in. It was now only a question of biding his time.

  Christopher Millfield returned ten minutes before the play began and faced a tirade from Lawrence Firethorn and a stern reproach from Nicholas Bracewell. He apologised profusely and claimed that he had got lost in the garden but the book holder did not entirely believe him. With the performance at hand, however, Nicholas was in no position to press him on the matter. He did his rounds and made a final check before taking up his position behind the curtains. It enabled him to see most of the stage and a little of the audience. He was in time to watch Sir Clarence filing into his seat beside his wife and family. Directly behind the host was a distinguished old man in a black doublet and breeches. As the guest scratched his grey beard, Nicholas had a sense of knowing the man but he could not put a name to the face. Nor did he have any time for reflection. Audience and actors were ready. The book holder gave the signal to begin.

  A trumpet sounded and the Prologue was spoken by Edmund Hoode in shining armour. Music played and the action commenced. It never ceased for a second. Westfield’s Men adapted their style superbly to the conditions and to the spectators, working on both to get maximum return. Their audience was much quieter than at the inn but their concentration did not waver.

  The seneschal made them laugh, Berengaria made them sigh, the impaled crusader made them weep and King Richard himself made them proud to be English and Christian. The performance by Lawrence Firethorn touched the heights and swept everyone away, including Sir Clarence himself who was patently enraptured. As the play moved into its final gripping climax, Nicholas stole a glance at their host and saw something that he had missed before. The old man who sat behind Sir Clarence was wearing a familiar earring. A brilliant disguise was spoiled by an actor’s vanity.

  Alarums and excursions brought the stage battle to a close and Firethorn delivered his address to the troops in his most compelling vein. He was calling them to arms in the service of the Lord when the main door of the hall opened and they poured in. At first, the audience thought that the intrusion was part of the play and they marvelled at the number of extras who had been dressed in uniform and armed, but they soon saw that the newcomers were the real thing.

  Sir Clarence Marmion was ahead of them. Darting out of his seat, he clicked open the secret door in the oak panelling and dived through it. The old man went after him with astonishing sprightliness and got to the door before it closed. As he went through the aperture, he shut the door behind him. Nicholas observed it all and now understood why his host had taken the seat at the end of the row. He was right next to his escape route.

  There was complete chaos in the hall as guests stood up to protest and soldiers pushed them roughly aside in their search. Firethorn finished his concluding speech but the play was already over. The real drama was now taking place elsewhere. Nicholas Bracewell was off at full pelt. Guided by instinct, he went out into the garden and sprinted along the avenue of yews. If the secret panel was a means of escape then there had to be an exit somewhere outside. He believed he knew where it was.

  He reached the circle of rhododendron bushes and went through a gap in the foliage. What he had heard earlier was the whinny of a horse and he found two of them tethered to a post. Behind them lay a man in the Marmion livery with blood gushing from a wound in his chest. Nicholas stepped over the corpse to the thickest part of the bushes and pulled them back. A small door was revealed, cleverly set in a mound that was screened by foliage. He opened it and went in, finding himself in an underground passage that was lit at intervals by a few guttering candles. There was a pervading smell of damp and decay.

  Abandoning all caution, Nicholas went blundering off down the tunnel at full speed. He felt certain that the explanation of all the mystery lay at the far end of the passage and he ran furiously towards the truth. His dash was far too reckless and he soon came to grief, tripping on some loose stones and pitching forward to strike his head on a small boulder. Dazed and hurt, he spat out a mouthful of earth then felt the blood that was running down his face from the gash in his temple. As he pulled himself slowly upright, he became aware of the danger he was in. Nicholas was completely unarmed.

  It was not just Sir Clarence and Mark Scruton who posed a problem. Evidently, someone had entered the tunnel before him and the corpse in the rhododendrons bore ugly witness to the man’s sense of purpose. Nicholas had to be more circumspect, especially as the passage ahead of him was in complete darkness. He crept along with the utmost care and caught the faint whiff of burning tallow. The candles in this section of the tunnel had just been extinguished. It put him even more on his guard.

  Feeling his way along, he discovered how many spiders and insects had made their homes down there. When he felt something brush against his ankle, he stepped back in horror then heard the telltale patter behind him. It was a large rat. He was grateful that Richard Honeydew was not with him. Straining his eyes against the blackness, he inched his way along, finding the tunnel more and more oppressive. Its walls narrowed and his sense of being imprisoned became more acute. Something else troubled him and he lashed out with an arm.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  There was no answer but he knew he was not alone.

  Sounds of a struggle came from up ahead and he heard Sir Clarence yell with rage. It forced him into a run that had him virtually bouncing off the walls as he hared along. Light surrounded a steel door ahead of him. He flung it open to find himself in a tiny chapel. Two men were locked in a desperate struggle.

  Sir Clarence Marmion grappled with the old man who had pursued him and tore off his false beard. Mark Scruton tried to shake himself free and use his dagger. Before Nicholas could intercede, the actor seized the advantage. Getting a firm grip on his adversary, he threw him hard against the stone wall. Sir Clarence’s head made contact with solid granite and he subsided to the floor with a groan, lapsing at once into unconsciousness. Mark Scruton stood over him then he swung around to confront the intruder. He began to circle Nicholas with his dagger at the ready.

  ‘You have followed me once too often, Nick.’

  ‘I had not thought to see you again.’

  ‘It will be the last time.’

  He made a pass with his weapon but the book holder eluded its point with ease. The actor laughed.

  ‘This was not your fight,’ he said. ‘It had nothing to do with you, Nick. You
should have kept out.’

  ‘Villainy must not go unchecked.’

  ‘You know too much for your own good yet not nearly enough to understand the truth.’

  ‘I know that you are Walsingham’s man.’

  ‘I was,’ conceded the other. ‘Until today, I was. It should have ended here at Marmion Hall. I gave them Rickwood. I gave them Pomeroy. This was to be my last employment as a spy. I would have been free to follow my real profession in the theatre.’

  ‘You are no actor, sir,’ said Nicholas with contempt.

  ‘I was skilful enough to fool you,’ reminded the other. ‘What is spying but a form of acting? I was a master of my art.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Then you came along and ruined my plans. Because you escaped me at the Three Swans, I had to run away from the company. They will never accept me as a sharer now.’

  ‘Then I have done them a favour.’

  Scruton jabbed with the dagger again but Nicholas was too nimble for him. The actor continued to circle his man and look for an opening. Nicholas stayed on the alert and tried to keep him talking.

  ‘You betrayed your fellows,’ he accused.

  ‘It was needful.’

  ‘But quite unforgivable.’ He hazarded a guess. ‘And you murdered Oliver Quilley.’

  ‘I had to. He had told me all he could.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Marmion Hall. I used him as my eyes. He got in here and saw what I needed to know. When I had persuaded him to part with the information, I closed his eyes for good.’ Scruton grinned. ‘He was a scurvy painter and will not be missed.’

  ‘You will be arraigned for his killing.’

  ‘No, sir. I have friends in high places.’

  Scruton made a sudden move and thrust hard with his dagger but Nicholas grabbed his wrist. They wrestled back against one of the pews and threshed about wildly for the best part of a minute. Nicholas managed to twist the weapon out of the other’s hand and it fell to the floor with a clatter. Mark Scruton was enraged. With a fresh burst of energy, he flung the book holder back against the altar rail and got his hands on his throat. Nicholas was slowly being strangled.