So absorbed were they in their fight that they did not observe the figure who slipped in through the steel door nor did they see the gold crucifix being removed from the altar. Nicholas was in distress. A steel band was around his neck and it got tighter by the second. Scruton was a blurred object before his eyes. Making a last supreme effort, he grabbed his opponent by the arms and threw him violently away. Scruton went back a few yards. They were the last steps he would ever take. Before he could move in again, his skull was smashed open by one vicious blow from the crucifix and his brains spattered the white cloth of the altar. Having spent so much time betraying Roman Catholics, he had now been cut down by a symbol of their faith.
Christopher Millfield looked down at the corpse then threw the crucifix away. Banging sounds from above warned that the soldiers would soon find their way into the secret passage. Millfield did not seem perturbed. He flashed a smile at the panting Nicholas.
‘You were right to suspect me.’
‘Another of Walsingham’s men?’
‘Yes, Nick, but of a different order from this fool.’ He kicked the dead body. ‘Scruton had served his purpose as a spy. Such people have no further use. My job is to pay them off and send them on their way.’
‘You have a brutal livelihood, sir.’
‘It is well-paid and very well protected.’
Nicholas rubbed his throat and looked around at the scene of carnage. Mark Scruton lay dead, Sir Clarence Marmion was in a coma and the chapel had been wrecked by the force of the violence. He finally began to understand the steps which had led to this grim ending. Revulsion against Christopher Millfield stirred in his stomach but he had the grace to offer a grudging compliment.
‘I should have listened to you, sir.’
‘When?’
‘When you told me you were the finer actor.’
Millfield was still beaming as soldiers rushed in.
It was a day of departures. Banbury’s Men had already slunk away with their tails between their legs. Sir Clarence went off to London under armed guard. With her ruffled feathers now smoothed, Susan Becket returned to her own hostelry. Humphrey and Eleanor Budden went home to a new life in Nottingham. In the company of four liveried servants, Margery Firethorn rode back to Shoreditch to pay some bills and count the days until her husband’s return. Mark Scruton joined Gabriel Hawkes in the grave. Christopher Millfield went off to terminate the careers of other spies on behalf of Walsingham.
Westfield’s Men were to stay on for a few days in York. Their success at the inn brought in requests for further performances and they were to offer other delights from their repertoire. It was an immense comfort to know that their plays were once again their exclusive property. The man who had most cause to be pleased was instead subdued and withdrawn.
Nicholas Bracewell sought him out in the taproom.
‘Be of good cheer, Edmund. Our troubles are over.’
‘They leave much sadness in their wake.’
‘We must strive to put it behind us.’
‘I have done so,’ said Hoode gloomily, ‘but my mind is fixed on misery. I liked them both, you see, Christopher and young Gabriel, as I took him to be. I trusted them.’
‘We were all taken in,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘Nobody more completely than me. I feel humbled by it all. I should have listened to Mistress Budden.’
‘Did she throw light on these dark deeds?’
‘She did, Edmund. That good lady warned me about Master Millfield. She told me that he was an atheist.’
‘Was he so?’
‘No Christian would use a crucifix to commit a murder. He is a godless man in every sense. And now I realise why he has escaped the law.’
‘He hides behind Sir Francis Walsingham.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
Hoode put a congratulatory hand on his friend’s arm.
‘Take heart, Nick,’ he said. ‘You can still be proud of your part in this business.’
‘Can I?’
‘You found that tunnel to the secret chapel.’
‘I stumbled on it by accident. Master Millfield knew where to look and found it by design. That is why he disappeared after the rehearsal. He was conducting a search.’
Hoode sighed. ‘Sir Clarence was a traitor and I am glad that he has been called to account but it grieves me that our company was used as a cloak for so much deception.’
‘It has been rooted out now.’
‘Let us hope so. I do not want another play of mine to be ruined by the arrival of soldiers. Which of those spies called them to Marmion Hall? Scruton or Millfield?’
‘Neither, Edmund.’
‘Then who, sir?’
‘Master Oliver Quilley.’
‘But how?’
‘From beyond the grave,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was no spy but a disappointed artist who felt he was never paid his worth. He exacted further payment from the great houses where he worked by stealing things and selling them for gain. Master Quilley brought a book from Marmion Hall because its silver clasp promised a good price. They found it in his room. The book was a Roman Catholic missal.’
‘And that led to the arrest of Sir Clarence.’
It was a last ironic twist to the whole affair. They shared a drink and Nicholas did his best to cheer his friend up but Hoode was still gripped by dejection. One question still tormented him.
‘Sicinius …’
‘Who, Edmund?’
‘Sicinius.’
‘Ah, your play.’
‘I still do not know who stole my part, Nick.’
‘Is it that important to you?’
‘I would give anything to learn his name.’
‘Then let me put you out of your pain,’ said the book holder. ‘I made enquiry about the performance by Banbury’s Men of Pompey the Great.’
‘Well? Well?’
‘Your play was much admired in spite of their poor treatment of it.’
‘And Sicinius? My Sicinius?’
‘Gabriel Hawkes.’
‘But he is dead.’
‘Along with Mark Scruton.’ He patted Hoode on the back. ‘Be happy, sir. Do you not see what this means?’
‘No.’
‘You are the only man alive to have played Sicinius. The part is solely and wholly yours again.’
Edmund Hoode let out a whoop of joy.
‘Thank you, Nick. This puts me in Heaven.’
‘Close enough to it.’
‘What?’
‘Jerusalem.’
The playwright’s smile widened into a broad grin.
A spiritual journey had finally come to an end.
ALSO BY EDWARD MARSTON
THE NICHOLAS BRACEWELL SERIES
About the Author
EDWARD MARSTON was born and brought up in South Wales. A full-time writer for over forty years, he has worked in radio, film, television and the theatre and is a former chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. Prolific and highly successful, he is equally at home writing children’s books or literary criticism, plays or biographies.
www.edwardmarston.com
By Edward Marston
THE BRACEWELL MYSTERIES
The Queen’s Head • The Merry Devils • The Trip to Jerusalem
The Nine Giants • The Mad Courtesan • The Silent Woman
The Roaring Boy • The Laughing Hangman • The Fair Maid of Bohemia
The Wanton Angel • The Devil’s Apprentice • The Bawdy Basket
The Vagabond Clown • The Counterfeit Crank • The Malevolent Comedy
The Princess of Denmark
THE RAILWAY DETECTIVE SERIES
The Railway Detective • The Excursion Train
The Railway Viaduct • The Iron Horse
Murder on the Brighton Express • The Silver Locomotive Mystery
Railway to the Grave • Blood on the Line
The Stationmaster’s Farewell • Peril on the Royal Train
The Railway Detective Omnibus:<
br />
The Railway Detective, The Excursion Train, The Railway Viaduct
THE CAPTAIN RAWSON SERIES
Soldier of Fortune • Drums of War • Fire and Sword
Under Siege • A Very Murdering Battle
THE RESTORATION SERIES
The King’s Evil • The Amorous Nightingale • The Repentant Rake
The Frost Fair • The Parliament House • The Painted Lady
THE HOME FRONT DETECTIVE SERIES
A Bespoke Murder • Instrument of Slaughter
Five Dead Canaries
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Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
12 Fitzroy Mews
London W1T 6DW
www.allisonandbusby.com
This ebook collection edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2013.
The Queen’s Head © 1988 by EDWARD MARSTON
The Merry Devils © 1989 by EDWARD MARSTON
The Trip to Jerusalem © 1990 by EDWARD MARSTON
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1600–5
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 69
