‘Enough! I’ll not endure this!’
Barnaby Gill stamped his foot so hard this time that it jarred his body and made his teeth rattle. He and Firethorn knew how to rub salt in each other’s wounds then add vinegar for full measure. They smarted together for a long time before common sense finally deprived them of their weapons and imposed a truce. Another brawl between them would not bring their errant poet back into the fold. Joint action had to be taken and swiftly. They shook hands on it.
‘We must find out who this woman is, Barnaby.’
‘Then pluck him from between her lusty thighs.’
Firethorn grinned. ‘That will be my office …’
Nicholas Bracewell removed another garment from its hook and folded it carefully before placing it in the basket. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, a conscientious soul with responsibility for making, altering and taking care of the costumes worn by the company, identified each one as it was packed away by the book holder, and he ticked it off on the list before him.
‘Item, one scarlet cloak faced with green velvet and silver lace,’ he intoned. ‘Item, one woman’s gown of cloth of gold. Item, one black velvet pea with gold lace and blue satin sleeves. Item, Charlemagne’s cloak with fur. Item, a hermit’s grey gown. Item, one white satin doublet. Item, one pair of embroidered paned hose scaled with black taffeta …’
Nicholas was about to fold the next garment when he noticed the scorch marks and set it aside. The antic coat had been used during The Devil’s Ride Through London and was one of many casualties. All the costumes worn by actors who fought the blaze were damaged, and many of those hanging in the tire-house had perished when the flames penetrated to that area. What fire had not destroyed, smoke had blackened. The foul smell still lingered in the material. It was the day after the tragedy and Nicholas had slipped unseen into the Queen’s Head with Hugh Wegges to salvage what they could from the tiring-house and add it to the larger stock of costumes, which was kept in a private room at the inn. It was important to make a proper inventory before the whole collection was moved to safer lodgings in the attic of Firethorn’s house. The list that the tireman would present to his employer would help to determine the plays that could be performed on tour.
‘The Devil will ride no more,’ said Wegges feelingly. ‘Not unless the whole cast goes naked for penance. The costumes are ruined, and I’ve no time to make new ones.’ A resigned note sounded. ‘Master Firethorn will not have room for me when the company moves on. I am like that antic coat you hold there – burnt out of my occupation.’
‘We shall return to London ere long,’ said Nicholas.
‘When we have no theatre?’
‘Our landlord may relent.’
‘And it may rain sovereigns!’ came the sarcastic reply. ‘Those of us set aside may never work with a company again.’
‘Take heart, Hugh. Bear up.’
But Nicholas did not feel as optimistic as he sounded. In order to tour, Westfield’s Men would have to reduce the size of the party to its bare essentials. The sharers would go along with the apprentices, but many of the hired men would be discarded. A tireman and his assistant were luxuries that could not be afforded when the troupe took to the road. Nicholas would be given the unhappy job of telling several actors, musicians and other members of the company that their services were no longer required. For men like Thomas Skillen, stagekeeper with Westfield’s Men since its creation, the parting could be final because he might conceivably have died before they returned. The defects of age, which debarred him from the multiple rigours of a long tour, were only kept at bay by the daily exercise of his functions behind the scenes. Without chores to do and underlings to berate, the venerable figure would soon go into decline.
It all served to increase the sense of guilt that Nicholas felt about the fire itself. Though he could not have foreseen the freak gust of wind that turned the glowing coals into a lethal inferno, it had been his idea to place the lighted brazier onstage in the final scene, and none of the praise that was afterwards heaped upon him for his bravery could hide the fact that he was somehow obscurely responsible for the disaster. Since he had inadvertently brought about the loss of the company’s venue, he vowed that he would restore it to them when the renovations were complete. That would entail more delicate restoration, the careful rebuilding of a relationship with the irascible landlord, and such work could not be rushed. In the short term, therefore, everything must be done to appease Alexander Marwood and all trace of his despised tenants removed from the premises.
When Nicholas and Hugh Wegges finished, they loaded their baskets on to a waiting cart to make a stealthy exit, but their secret visit to the inn did not go unnoticed.
‘Master Bracewell!’
‘Good day, sir,’ said Nicholas, throwing the words over his shoulder and eager to leave. ‘We must hurry.’
‘But I have news for you.’
The amiable voice made him turn and he saw a welcome face approaching. It belonged to Leonard, a huge, waddling barrel of a man with a beard still flecked with the foam of his last draught of ale. They were good friends, who had been drawn together while imprisoned in the Counter, and it was Nicholas who had secured Leonard’s employment at the Queen’s Head. The erstwhile brewer’s drayman had much to thank him for and did so on a regular basis with touching sincerity.
‘I did not know you were here,’ said Leonard.
‘It is but a brief visit,’ explained Nicholas, ‘and we would keep all knowledge of it from a certain landlord.’
‘He shall hear nothing from me.’
‘Thank you, Leonard.’
‘I have shielded your good name once already today.’
‘How so?’
‘By speaking to the youth.’
‘What youth?’
‘The one enquiring after Master Nicholas Bracewell. He came into the taproom this very hour, worn out by travel and by the weight of the message he bore.’
‘Message?’
‘It was for you, sir, and needed instant delivery.’
‘What did you tell this youth?’
‘Well,’ said Leonard, putting his hands on his broad hips to relate his tale, ‘my first task was to drag him away from Master Marwood, for when the young man spoke of you, my employer began to curse you and your company with such an uncivil tongue that you might have ravished his wife and run off with his daughter, Rose.’ Leonard chortled then he grew serious. ‘I took the youth aside and assured him of your worth, then – seeing his honesty – I gave him the address of your lodging in Bankside. I hope I did right, master.’
‘You did, Leonard. You say there was a message?’
‘I judged it to be important because it had come on such a long journey. It was his way of speaking, you see.’
‘Way of speaking?’
‘The youth. His voice was just like yours.’
Leonard tried to mimic his friend’s West Country accent, but his unskilled tongue mangled the consonants and tripped over the vowels. He shrugged an apology but he had made his point. Someone from North Devon had come in search of his friend. Nicholas sensed trouble. He thanked Leonard for his news, told Hugh Wegges to drive the cart and its cargo out to Shoreditch then took his leave of them both. He went out into Gracechurch Street and headed towards the river, dodging his way along the crowded thoroughfare and wondering what bad tidings were now pursuing him from the home that he had decisively turned his back on so many years ago.
Anne Hendrik was alarmed when her servant brought the youth in to her. The boy was bent almost double as he clutched at his midriff and yet he would not hear of any relief for his distress. His one concern was to deliver a message to her lodger. When Anne suggested that she might take charge of the missive until Nicholas returned, the youth explained that he had no letter to hand over. His was a verbal message, but he went off into such a fit of coughing that Anne doubted if he would be in a condition to utter it. She and her servant guided the visitor up to Nicholas’s ch
amber and made him rest on the bed. The servant was then dispatched to fetch a surgeon to the Bankside house. Anne was a compassionate woman who hated to see anyone in such pain, but when she tried to nurse the stricken messenger, she was once more waved away. Desperately ill as he clearly was, the youth still refused to be touched and begged to be left alone until Nicholas Bracewell came home.
Bankside was notorious for its haunts of pleasure and vice, but Anne Hendrik represented one of the pockets of respectability in the area. The English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she had inherited his house, his thriving little business in the adjacent premises and his positive attitude towards life. Instead of mourning his demise, therefore, she took over the management of the business and worked hard to improve its fortunes. She also took in a lodger – largely to provide a modicum of male company – but the relationship between them had developed well beyond the accepted one. In Nicholas Bracewell, she found an upright, caring and sensitive man, and he saw in her a handsome, intelligent and remarkable woman. They were kindred spirits and occasional lovers.
Nicholas had been enormously helpful to her and his solid presence had been a convenient refuge from the unwanted attentions of other admirers. Anne had never felt more in need of him than now. A sick youth was babbling his name as if he were some kind of saviour. She wanted Nicholas there to take control of the situation, to give succour to the ailing visitor and to calm the unsettling thoughts that were beginning to flit through her own mind. Even in their most intimate moments, Nicholas never talked about his life in his native Devon. It was a closed book to Anne. This youth had staggered in to open the pages of that book and she was not at all sure that she would enjoy reading them.
There was a dull thud from upstairs that made her jump then start towards the stairs. At the same time, however, the latch was lifted and Nicholas Bracewell came hurrying in. Anne had an impulse to fling herself gratefully into his arms but she was somehow held back. The expression of mingled anxiety and remorse was one she had never seen on his countenance before. He was both lover and stranger now.
‘Did anyone call here for me?’ he said.
‘A young man. He is still here and failing fast.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In your chamber. I have sent for the surgeon.’
‘What has the youth said?’
‘He will speak to none but you, Nick.’
She stood aside as he dashed up the staircase then she hurried after him, but they were far too late. When they went into the bedchamber, the youthful caller lay twisted on the floor at an unnatural angle, the face pallid and contorted with agony. Nicholas felt for signs of life but there were none. He caught a whiff of something from the lips and bent low to inhale the sour odour more carefully.
‘Poison!’ he whispered.
‘May God have mercy on his soul!’
He stood to comfort her. ‘Come away, Anne.’
‘Leave me be.’
‘You should not dwell on such a sight.’
‘It is my house, Nick.’
‘This is villainous work.’
‘But the issue of it lies dead under my roof.’
‘There is nothing you may do here. Turn away.’
‘No!’
Wanting his embrace, she yet held up her palms to keep him away. Intuition overcame need. Anne Hendrik knew at that precise moment in time that a trusting relationship that had flowered over some years had changed irrevocably. He was no longer the man she thought she knew. Nicholas Bracewell inhabited another world and part of it lay sprawled out on the floor of the bedchamber like some dreadful accusation. He saw her consternation but could find no words of apology or explanation. Instead, he bent down again to make a closer examination of the corpse.
A rush of sympathy brought tears to Anne’s eyes.
‘Poor wretch! What a hideous way to die!’
‘Someone will pay dearly for this,’ he murmured.
‘He came all that way to see you.’
‘No, Anne.’
‘And this is his reward.’
‘Look more closely.’
‘Can anyone deserve such a miserable death?’
‘There is something you have missed.’
‘He was but a youth on the threshold of life.’
‘I fear not,’ he said, rising to his feet once more and speaking with quiet outrage. ‘This is no youth, Anne. The killer is more callous than we imagined. He has poisoned a young woman.’
Edmund Hoode was racked with doubt and tortured with regret. The surge of power that had enabled him to defy his colleagues and walk out of the house in Shoreditch had now spent itself. He was left feeling weak and helpless. As he ambled through the streets of Bishopsgate Ward, his heart was pounding and his feet encased in boots of lead. The impossible had happened. In a rare burst of single-minded action, a modest and highly unselfish man had behaved with brutal selfishness. Edmund Hoode put his own needs and desires before those of the company he had served so faithfully for so long. A series of interlinked betrayals – of Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and the other sharers – was exacerbated by the wilful negation of his own creative role. In spurning Westfield’s Men, he was helping to suffocate his own career as a playwright.
Dejection turned an already bloodless face into a white mask of sorrow. Hoode was a traitor. He felt like a convicted felon in Newgate prison, who, given the choice between the summary horror of hanging and the languid misery of being pressed to death, opted for the latter because it permitted his heirs still to inherit his estate. Great weights were indeed loaded onto him, but they were not all made of steel and stone. One of them was Nicholas Bracewell, his closest friend in the company, stunned by Hoode’s treachery and pressing down hard in the way he had done on the burning roof of the Queen’s Head. Firethorn was there, too, along with Gill, the one stamping unceremoniously on him and the other dancing one of the famous jigs that adorned so many of Hoode’s plays. Both left deep footprints on his wayward heart. As for his own last will and testament, what did he have to bequeath except his work for Westfield’s Men? As an author and an actor, he existed only in performance. Piracy was rife in the theatre. Those same plays of his – staged with unvarying distinction by the company – were guarded by the book holder with his life. Could Edmund Hoode really put his private urges before the public good? Could he hold Westfield’s Men to ransom?
The weight of guilt and indecision was so excruciating that it brought him to a halt. If he went on, he lost the respect of his dearest friends: if he turned back, he missed his one real opportunity for true happiness. He had walked aimlessly for a long time but his feet had known their duty for they had brought him to the very place where the first glimpse of Elysium had been vouchsafed to him. He was in her street, standing opposite her house and looking up at her chamber window. An invisible hand must have guided him there to resuscitate his drooping spirits. No sooner did he realise where he was than the sweet face of his beloved rose up before him. A hundred friends would not separate him from her. A thousand theatre companies could not induce him to leave London so long as she graced it with her angelic presence. A million spectators could not deflect him.
She was called Mistress Jane Diamond and her beauty sparkled as preciously as her name. Edmund Hoode was entranced from the moment he set bulbous eyes on her. Poised, graceful and vivacious, she was brimming with a delightful wit. Jane Diamond was a veritable queen among women, and the fact that she was already encumbered with a king – her husband was a dull but prosperous vintner – did not diminish his readiness to pay court to her. Hoode’s romantic involvements always verged on calamity and he had characterised them, in a moment of savage introspection, as examples of the unlovable in pursuit of the unattainable. Jane Diamond was different. Not only did she encourage his interest, she actually returned his affection. She admired his plays, she doted on the verses he sent her and she loved his many sterling qualities. It was only a matter of time before consummation followed.
As he remembered that, he realised why he had walked insensibly in the direction of her house. Jane Diamond had agreed to be the jewel in his bed when time would serve, and she had promised to signal the fateful night by putting a lighted candle in her bedchamber on the same afternoon. For the past fortnight, Hoode had found reason to go back and forth to her house ten times a day but the darkness of his desire was not illumined with the flickering flame of hope. Until – did his eyes deceive him? – this moment. Even as he looked up at the casement, a slim figure appeared in it and set a tallow candle on the ledge. There was a pause, a tiny explosion of light and then a shimmering invitation that warmed his whole being. On the previous day, a spark of fire had ruined his play and destroyed part of their theatre, but this new flame was benign and joyful. It told him that an undeserving husband would be away for the night and that a gorgeous wife would be his.
Every trace of recrimination left him and he now felt as light as air. Westfield’s Men could no longer impinge on his consciousness. The assignation had been made and that was all that mattered. London was paradise.
Events moved swiftly in the house at Bankside. The surgeon arrived to find the girl beyond his help and to confirm the likely cause of her death. There was nothing about her person to indicate her identity, and whatever momentous news she carried had expired with her. Constables were summoned and the body was taken off to a slab in the morgue. Nicholas Bracewell, Anne Hendrik, the servant and the surgeon all made sworn statements to the coroner but there was no question of any rigorous pursuit of the killer by the forces of law and order. The coroner’s rolls contained countless murders by person or persons unknown, and it was possible to investigate only a tiny fraction of them. Priority was based firmly on the importance of the victim. Resources would never stretch to a full inquiry into the fate of a nameless girl from a distant county. Innocents were always at risk in a crime-infested city where a ragged army of predators waited to pounce on the unwise and the unwary. There was hardly a day when some battered corpse was not discovered in some dark corner or lugged out of the stews or dragged from the river. This hapless young woman, decided the coroner with a world-weary sigh and threadbare sympathy, was just one more fatality to enter in his records with her death unexplained and unavenged.
The Silent Woman Page 3
