‘We’ll hit them again.’
‘Who?’ asked Ned.
‘Westfield’s Men.’
‘Think of the danger,’ warned Ellen.
‘They would tear us apart if they knew,’ said Ned.
‘That is the attraction,’ explained their leader. ‘It is a battle of wits here. Lawrence Firethorn is the prince of his profession and I of mine. We are well matched. He can play fifty parts at a moment’s notice but he could not dissemble as well as I can.’
‘Do you think he knows who you are?’ said Ellen.
‘He will, my sweet.’
She was proud of her husband. ‘The landlord will tell him when he sees the truth. There is only one man who could lay such a bold plot for a whole company of players – and that is the famous Israel Gunby.’
‘The infamous and wanted Israel Gunby,’ said Ned.
‘The great Israel Gunby,’ she added.
Ellen snuggled up to her husband and they lay entwined. Though they shared a mean hovel in the Chilterns instead of a comfortable bed at the Fighting Cocks, she did not mind. This was where she wanted to be. They were rich, happy and free. The open road was their kingdom and they could feed off travellers whenever and wherever they liked. Westfield’s Men had been given a generous amount of money by them and then robbed of far more. It lent a sense of style to the whole enterprise. She kissed her husband again then clung to his lean body like a squirrel holding on to the bark of the tree. Israel Gunby was the most notorious highwaymen of them all, and she loved him for it. Life with him was continuous excitement. Only one question now remained.
When would they need to kill their accomplice?
Chapter Five
Lawrence Firethorn’s wrath did not abate during the night. He awoke at cock-crow, caught sight of his defiled capcase and lusted for blood. George Dart was the first to feel the impact of his employer’s ire. Hauled from his bed and beaten soundly, Dart was ordered to get the rest of the company up before doing a dozen other chores, which would deprive him of all hope of breakfast. As fresh targets came down into the taproom at the Fighting Cocks, the actor-manager aimed abuse and accusation at them. Barnaby Gill was roundly mocked, Edmund Hoode was berated, Owen Elias was threatened, Richard Honeydew was criticised for his performance as Cariola on the previous night, John Tallis was treated to a withering analysis of his character defects and other members of the company came off far worse. In his general animosity, Firethorn even had stern words for Nicholas Bracewell. It was disconcerting.
Westfield’s Men were even more disturbed when they heard about the loss of their money. The success of their first night on the road had been illusory. They now saw only rank failure and it was less than reassuring to be told that they had been the latest prey of a daring criminal. Everyone had heard of the man who outwitted them.
‘Israel Gunby!’
‘The master thief of the highway.’
‘The most pernicious villain alive.’
‘He would rob you of the clothes you stand up in.’
‘’Tis a wonder we were not murdered in our beds.’
‘Israel Gunby is a monster.’
‘A sorcerer.’
‘A fiend of hell.’
‘They say that Gunby once stole fifty sheep from a Warwickshire farmer then sold them back to the poor fool at market for three times the price.’
‘Another time, he robbed a small party of travellers in a wood near Saffron Walden and rode off with their belongings. Not knowing that the rogue had placed an accomplice among them, they fell to boasting how clever they had been in giving the highwaymen the dross in their purses while holding back their real valuables, which they kept hidden about their persons. When Gunby robbed them again but two miles down the road, he was able to take everything he missed the first time.’
‘I heard that he took their horses and boots as well.’
‘Israel Gunby would steal anything!’
‘The hair off your head.’
‘Off your arse.’
‘And your balls.’
‘He’d rob Christ of his cross on the road to Calvary.’
‘Add one more tale,’ said Gill wickedly. ‘Of how Israel Gunby dangled his whore in front of a great actor until his pizzle was giving off steam. She invited this idiot to share her bed for the night and while he was gone, she and Gunby broke into his chamber and took everything they could lay their thieving hands on. The great actor then—’
‘No more!’ decreed the great actor with stentorian force. ‘I do not wish to hear the name of Israel Gunby ever again – unless it be linked with the date of his execution. I would ride halfway across England to see that foul rogue hanged by the neck. Until then, gentlemen, until then, Israel me no Israels and – if you value your lives – Gunby me no Gunbies.’
Lawrence Firethorn enforced his edict by glaring in turn at each man then he gave the signal to leave. He was keen to get away from the scene of his disgrace as soon as he could. With their leader at the head of the column, they set off from the Fighting Cocks on the road to Oxford, hoping that it might offer a fairer return for their labours. The exhilaration of the previous day had been replaced by a nagging pessimism. It was almost as if they had packed Alexander Marwood into the waggon with the rest of the luggage.
Nicholas Bracewell was glad to leave the inn but not before he had questioned the landlord and his ostlers. None of them could shed any light on the mystery attacker in the stables. After Westfield’s Men arrived, no other traveller sought a bed for the night at the same hostelry. This meant that the man was either already there when they reached the Fighting Cocks or he had come along later and bided his time in the darkness until his chance came. Nicholas settled for the latter explanation. The would-be killer could not have been certain that they would choose that particular inn as their resting place. It was much more likely that he had trailed them from London, watched through a window and waited for the moment to pounce. Nicholas soon came round to the view that he was jumped on by the same man who had poisoned the girl. That gave him two scores to settle. He was riding the same horse that had carried the girl to her death, and he was determined it would not lose another passenger until it reached home in Barnstaple. Nicholas was therefore extremely wary as they moved along, scanning the horizon on all sides of them and exercising caution whenever the road took them beneath overhanging trees.
It was an hour before he accepted that he was safe in the bosom of the company. The man would not strike at him there. Nicholas was still a long way from Devon and there would be ample opportunities for a surprise attack on him during the journey. Lawrence Firethorn and the others were still inwardly cursing Israel Gunby and his two associates, but at least they had been visible rogues. The man who tried to strangle Nicholas had been a phantom, a creature of the night who was a natural predator. Nicholas knew his strength and could guess at his height from the feel of his body. A beard had brushed his head in the struggle. Beyond that, he had no information whatsoever about the man except that he brought a remorseless commitment to his work. He was not a person to abandon a task he had been set. The only way that Nicholas Bracewell could save his own life was by taking that of his assassin first.
‘Not arsenic, I think, for that bears no taste in acid form. And we have evidence that the deceased found the ale very bitter to the tongue.’ His sigh had a distant admiration in it. ‘The means of death was very cunning. The girl had never drunk ale before and would not recognise its taste. She must have thought it was always as sharp as that.’
‘So what was put into her ale?’
‘I could not say unless they held a post mortem and even then we might not be certain. There are so many poisons that will serve the purpose and she was given a lethal dose of one, no doubting that. She must have been strong and healthy to hold out against it for so long.’
Anne Hendrik was still brooding on the death of her visitor and its sad consequences. That morning, in search of elucidation, she
called on the surgeon who had been summoned to her house when the girl’s condition had given alarm. He was a small, fussy, self-important man in his fifties with a grey beard that curled up like a miniature wave and bushy eyebrows of similar hue. He treated Anne with the polite pomposity of someone in possession of an arcane knowledge that can never be shared with those of lesser intelligence.
She tried to probe the mystery of his calling.
‘Can you tell me nothing else about her?’ she said.
‘I examined her for barely two minutes.’
‘Nicholas thought he smelt sulphur on her lips.’
‘Master Bracewell is no physician,’ he retorted with a supercilious smile. ‘Do not rely on his nostrils to give us a diagnosis here.’
‘He mentioned hemlock and juice of aconite …’
Sarcasm emerged. ‘Then you should apply to him for counsel and not to me. Clearly, he can teach us all in these matters. I had not thought some minion of the theatre would one day instruct me in my profession.’
‘He simply offered an opinion.’
‘Do not foist his ignorance upon me.’
‘Nicholas has seen victims of poison before.’
‘I see them every week of my life, Mistress Hendrik,’ said the outraged surgeon. ‘Husbands poisoned by wives and wives by husbands. Brothers killing each other off with ratsbane to collect an inheritance. Enemies trying to win an argument with monkshood or belladonna. I have watched arsenic do its silent mischief a hundred times, and I could name you a dozen other potions that scald a stomach and rot the life out of a human being.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘And will you tell me that Master Nicholas Bracewell is a worthier man than I to discuss these matters?’
‘Of course not, of course not …’
Anne had to spend two minutes calming him down and a further three apologising before she could get anything like guidance out of him. Surgeons were jealous of the high regard in which doctors and physicians were held, and it made them acutely conscious of occupying a more lowly station in the world of medicine. This member of the fraternity was especially prone to stand on his dignity. Only when his ruffled feathers had been smoothed did he consent to offer his informed opinion.
‘I look for three things in a corpse,’ he said briskly.
‘What are they, sir?’
‘Colour, position, odour. They are my spies.’ He plucked at his beard. ‘Her complexion told me much and her grotesque position indicated the agony of her death. The odour was faint but I could detect the aroma of poison.’
‘What did it contain?’ she pressed.
‘Who knows, mistress? Some deadly concoction of water hemlock, sweet flag, cinquefoil and monkshood, perhaps. I could not be sure. White mercury, even.’ He flicked a hand as he made a concession. ‘And there might – I put it no higher than that – there might have been the tiniest whiff of sulphur. Red and yellow sulphur, mixed together with the right ingredients, could leave that tortured look upon her face.’
‘How would it have been administered?’
‘In the form of a powder or a potion.’ He put the tips of his fingers together as he pondered. ‘It must have been a potion,’ he decided. ‘Powder would not have dissolved fast enough in the ale. It would have stayed on the surface too long. My guess is that the guilty man carried the poison in a little earthenware pot that was closely corked. A second was all he would need to empty his vile liquid into the girl’s drink.’ He signalled the end of the conversation by opening the door for her to leave. ‘That is all I may tell you, mistress. I bid you good day.’
‘One last question …’
‘I have other patients to visit and they still live.’
‘Where would such a poison be bought?’
‘Not from any honest apothecary.’
‘It was obtained from somewhere in London.’
‘Apply to Master Bracewell,’ he said waspishly. ‘He is the fount of all human wisdom on this subject. Goodbye.’
Anne Hendrik found herself back out in the street with only half an answer, but she had learnt enough to encourage her to continue her line of enquiry. She went straight off to seek an interview with the coroner who had taken statements from them when the unnatural death was reported. It was a typically busy morning for him and she had a long wait before he could spare her a few minutes of his time. When she identified herself, he opened his ledger to look up the details of the case in question. The coroner was a distinguished figure in his robes of office but a lifelong proximity to death had left its marks upon him. Slow and deliberate, he had a real compassion for the people whose corpses flowed before him as unceasingly as the Thames. Anne Hendrik’s request was both puzzling and surprising.
‘A post mortem?’ he said.
‘To establish the cause of death.’
‘We have already done that.’
‘Can you name the poison that killed her?’
‘No,’ he confessed. ‘Nor can I show you the dagger that murdered this man or the sword that cut down that one. Death scrawls its signature across this city every hour of the day. We cannot have a post mortem each time in order to decipher its handwriting.’
‘If it is a question of money …’
‘I do not have men enough for the task.’
‘This girl died in my house. I am involved.’
‘Then you should have attended her funeral, mistress.’
Anne gaped. ‘Funeral?’
‘The girl was buried earlier this morning.’
‘Where? How? By whose authority?’
‘Master Bracewell gave order for it.’
‘But he did not know the young woman.’
The coroner gave a wan smile. ‘He cared enough to pay for a proper burial. The poor creature was not just tossed into a hole in the ground with nobody to mourn her, like so many unknown persons. Master Bracewell is a true Christian and considerate to a fault. Because he could not be present himself, he arranged for a friend to take his place and pray for her soul.’
‘A friend? Do you know the name?’
‘He did not give it, mistress.’
‘Was it a man or a woman?’
‘A man.’
‘A member of the company who was left behind?’
‘All I remember is the name of an inn.’
‘The Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street?’
‘Yes, that was it. This friend worked there.’
Anne Hendrik had an answer. It was not the one she either expected or wanted but it pointed her in a direction that might yield a fuller reply. An upsurge of emotion warmed her. The body may have been buried but Anne’s love for Nicholas Bracewell had come back emphatically to life. He had shown kindness and concern for the murdered girl. In paying for her funeral – he earned only eight shillings a week from Westfield’s Men – he was making a real financial sacrifice. There was another factor that weighed heavily with Anne. The coroner spoke of Nicholas with the respect he would only accord to a gentleman. The surgeon made slighting remarks about Nicholas and dismissed him out of hand, but the coroner, an older and more perceptive judge of character, took the book holder at his true value. That pleased her.
She asked where the funeral had taken place, thanked the coroner profusely for his help then went off to pay her last respects to the dead girl.
Bright sunshine and beautiful landscapes were completely wasted on Westfield’s Men. Lawrence Firethorn was forcing such a pace upon them and spreading such an atmosphere of gloom that they had no chance to enjoy any of the pleasures of travel. Actors were contentious individuals at the best of times and they now began to bicker in earnest. Nicholas Bracewell expended much of his energy intervening in quarrels with good-humoured firmness and trying to lift the company out of its Marwoodian mood of triumphant unhappiness. It was a very long and punishing journey to Oxford.
Barnaby Gill was at the forefront of the cavalcade and the carping. He heaped ridicule on Firethorn for being tricked so easily out of the money they had
won with their extempore performance at the Fighting Cocks, and he insisted that he should take charge of any income in future, since he would never be enticed away from it by a devious woman. The actor-manager endured the vicious criticism for as long as he could then launched a counter-attack. Both men lapsed back into a sullen restraint. It was another five miles before Gill felt able to speak again.
‘The Queen has visited Oxford on two occasions,’ he said knowledgeably. ‘The first time was long ago and the second but last year.’
‘What care I for Her Majesty’s perambulations?’ said Firethorn grumpily. ‘They have no bearing on us.’
‘But they do, Lawrence. Oxford is a university town and it was university theatre that they thrust upon her. True players were passed over for callow undergraduates.’ He pulled his horse in close to that of his colleague. ‘Will you hear more of this?’
‘Do I have any choice?’ moaned the other.
‘Let me begin …’
Barnaby Gill was not just an outstanding actor with comic flair, he was also the self-appointed archivist of Westfield’s Men and of the wider world of theatre. His mind was an encyclopaedia of plays and players, and he could call up with astonishing clarity every performance in which he had ever appeared. Other companies were not ignored and he could list the entire repertoires of troupes such as the Queen’s Men, Worcester’s Men, Pembroke’s Men, the Chamberlain’s Men, Strange’s Men, now amalgamated with Admiral’s Men, having already merged with Leicester’s Men on the death of the latter’s patron in Armada year, and – since they were the major thorn in the flesh of his own company – he knew every detail of the work of Banbury’s Men. For other reasons, Gill also kept abreast of the activity of the boy players attached to the choir schools of St Paul’s and the Chapel Royal at Windsor, as well as at such schools as Merchant Taylors’. If a play had been staged during his extensive lifetime, he knew when, where and by whom.
The Silent Woman Page 9
