‘I’ll find you there,’ said Nicholas.
‘Does Lawrence know what we are about?’
‘No, Frank. Nor must he, until it is all over. Impress that upon James.’
Quilter was puzzled. ‘Why the need for secrecy?’
‘You’ll be told anon.’
It took some time for the yard to empty. Hundreds of spectators had hailed the play and some wanted to remain there to discuss it with their companions. Many people headed for the taproom to slake their thirst or to take the opportunity to have a closer look at the actors who had entertained them so royally. Up in the galleries, several of the gallants and their ladies lingered until the rougher sort had dispersed. Still seated at the rear of the upper gallery, two men watched as George Dart and the other assistant stagekeepers came out to take down the trestles. Ralph Olgrave and Gregory had enjoyed the play more than they expected, even though they had been distracted by the sight of Owen Elias in his contrasting roles. When a burly
figure strode out of the tiring house to take control of the dismantling, Olgrave nudged his friend.
‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘He’s a strapping fellow,’ noted Gregory. ‘Look at those shoulders of his.’
‘A broad back gives you a bigger target.’
‘What of the Welshman, Owen Elias?’
‘Kill him first,’ decided Olgrave. ‘And do it as soon as you can.’
Chapter Twelve
The search was in vain. Though she spent a long time scouring the streets around her home, Anne Hendrik could not find any trace of the girl. Even when she widened the search, it was all to no avail. Anne was accompanied by her apprentice, Jan Muller, a sturdy lad whose muscular presence gave her the protection that she needed, and whose urge to find the missing girl was almost as great as Anne’s own. Though he had only met Dorothea Tate briefly, the apprentice had warmed to her at once and he was distressed to hear that she had gone missing.
‘Why should she run away?’ he asked.
‘I do not know, Jan.’
‘I thought that she liked us.’
‘Yes,’ said Anne. ‘I believe that she did. But Dorothea had a troubled mind. She may have gone somewhere to be alone with her thoughts.’
‘If she had troubles,’ he said, ‘she could have turned to me.’
‘That’s kind of you to say so.’
‘I was fond of Dorothea. We all were, even Preben.’
Anne smiled. ‘Then she was indeed popular, for Preben is too shy even to look at most girls. But he noticed this one and saw how unsettled she was.’
‘I hope she was not fleeing from me,’ said Jan, seriously.
‘No, no. You are not to blame in any way.’
‘Where would she go?’
‘I wish that I knew, Jan.’
‘Does she not know how dangerous Bankside is, even in daylight?’
‘That did not stop her from taking to her heels.’
‘Let’s move farther on,’ he suggested. ‘Along the river bank.’
‘No, Jan. We’ve hunted long enough. Dorothea is not here.’
He was upset. ‘You are going to stop looking for her?’
‘We have to,’ said Anne, resignedly. ‘We are wasting our time here. I fear that she’s gone back to the city.’
‘Then we’ll never find her.’
‘No, but Nick might.’ She pondered. ‘Can you ride a horse?’
‘Well enough to stay in the saddle.’
‘Let’s go back to the house, then,’ she urged. ‘And quickly. I’ll write a letter and you can bear it to him at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street. Can you manage that?’
The lad stuck out his chest. ‘If it will bring Dorothea back to us,’ he said, bravely, ‘I’ll manage anything. Let’s make haste.’
Joseph Beechcroft had regained much of his accustomed nonchalance. He was wearing his most garish doublet and his hat sprouted no less than four ostrich feathers. As he and Ralph Olgrave walked together around one of the courtyards in Bridewell, he was very encouraged by what he heard.
‘You saw them both at the Queen’s Head?’ he enquired.
‘We did,’ replied Olgrave. ‘The Welshman is a good actor, I have to concede that. Though he took two roles in the play, they bore no resemblance to each other. One moment he was a treacherous Turk, the next, the Viceroy of Sicily.’
‘What of Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘It was as Gregory told me. The man is the book holder, and reckoned to be a power in the company for all that he’s only a hired man. We saw him when the performance was done, helping the others to pack their stage away.’
‘How did two such people come to know Hywel Rees?’
‘That does not matter, Joseph. They have to be silenced.’
‘Yes,’ said Beechcroft. ‘They know far too much for my peace of mind. The last thing we need at the moment is for anyone to peep into our affairs. We’ve another banquet arranged for tonight and I wish to enjoy it without worrying about Nicholas Bracewell and his friend.’
‘You shall, Joseph. And so shall I.’
Beechcroft smirked. ‘Whom will you choose tonight, Ralph?’
‘I’ve not made up my mind.’
‘Joan Lockyer? She’s always a favourite with our guests.’
‘Then let them take her,’ said Olgrave, holding up a hand. ‘Joan is a comely wench but I’d hate to purchase a French welcome from between those ample thighs of hers. I’ll look for safer company in my bed tonight. Someone younger and freer from disease.’
‘Only a virgin would bring that surety, and we’ve few of those left in Bridewell.’
‘Alas, yes. There’s such a special pleasure in deflowering an innocent, especially if she fights as fiercely as Dorothea Tate. You missed a treat there, Joseph.’
‘So you say.’
‘And what I missed was the chance to close that pretty little mouth of hers for ever,’ said Olgrave, bitterly. ‘That would have saved us all his bother. Well,’ he added, ‘I’ll make amends in due course. She’ll not live much longer.’
‘The two men are the greater danger,’ said Beechcroft.
‘I know that well.’
‘What have you told Gregory?’
‘To wait for his moment and strike.’
‘And who’s to be the first victim, Ralph?’
‘Owen Elias,’ said Olgrave, complacently. ‘That vexatious Welshman. Even as we speak, he may already be dead.’
Owen Elias was in his element. Having adjourned to the taproom, he was celebrating the triumphant performance of The Knights of Malta with a tankard of ale and enjoying the admiration of the spectators who were gathered there. Adam Crowmere had been watching in the yard that afternoon and, at the landlord’s instigation, Elias declaimed his opening speech as the Viceroy of Sicily. It earned him a round of applause. When he saw Nicholas Bracewell come into the taproom, the Welshman knew that his friend wanted a private word with him. Finishing his drink, he sauntered across to the book holder.
‘Will you not have some ale, Nick?’ he asked. ‘You’ve earned it.’
‘I need to keep my head clear.’
‘When will you go there?’
‘Very soon,’ said Nicholas. ‘First, I must pass on some disturbing news. A message from Anne was just handed to me, brought by her apprentice, Jan Muller.’
‘Well?’
‘Dorothea has vanished.’
Elias was rocked. ‘She was kidnapped?’
‘No, Owen. She ran away.’
‘But why? The girl was safe with Anne. Why put herself in peril again?’
‘Only she can tell us that,’ said Nicholas. ‘According to Jan, they searched Bankside for hours but saw no sign of her. The lad is clearly upset that she’s gone.’
‘So am I, Nick. What are we to do?’
‘Try to find her ourselves. Keep your eyes open, and not only for Dorothea.’
‘Who else?’
‘That man I wa
rned you about is here somewhere,’ Nicholas told him. ‘Leonard saw him earlier on. He may well be lurking to waylay one of us. Take care, Owen.’
Elias patted his dagger. ‘I will.’
After giving the two men a signal, Nicholas went out of the taproom with Frank Quilter and James Ingram, leaving Elias to order another tankard of ale and join in the merriment. The actor was soon singing a bawdy song to amuse the others. In the convivial atmosphere, he was completely at ease and could have stayed all evening, but he had other priorities. Downing his ale, he soon bade farewell to his friends and rolled out of the inn.
It was a fine, warm evening as he walked along Gracechurch Street in the direction of the river. By the time he turned right into Canning Street, he knew that he was being followed and even caught a fleeting glimpse of the man. Elias sauntered on at the same unhurried pace, listening for the sound of the footsteps behind him, and noting that his stalker was slowly gaining on him. Crossing the road, he turned left down one of the alleyways that led to Thames Street. Once out of sight, he darted towards a lane on his right and dived swiftly down it.
Gregory, meanwhile, increased his own speed. Spying his chance to catch his victim alone, he quickened his step until he came to the alleyway. But there was nobody in sight. Elias seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Had he let himself into one of the gardens that backed on to the alleyway? Or had he slipped down one of the lanes off it? Gregory tried each garden door as he passed but they were all bolted. When he came to the lane on the right, he sensed that Elias must have gone that way, trying to outrun him. Pulling out his dagger, he broke into a trot.
He did not get very far. As he hurried along the lane, he was suddenly grabbed from behind by Elias, who had been concealed in a doorway, waiting to strike. Before he knew what was happening, Gregory was slammed hard against a stone wall. His dagger was knocked from his grasp and Elias kicked it away. Seizing him by the throat, the Welshman pressed him to the wall and held him there by sheer power.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘Nobody,’ said the other, still dazed. ‘I was simply walking to Thames Street.’
‘Then you came the wrong way.’ Elias unsheathed his own dagger to hold the point under the man’s chin. ‘Now, let’s have the truth or I’ll cut that lying tongue out.’
‘I mean you no harm, sir.’
‘Well, I mean you some harm. You followed me.’
‘No, that’s not true.’
‘Then why did you have a weapon in your hand, you cur?’
‘Dangers can always lurk in an alleyway.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Nobody, sir.’
‘Who sent you?’ repeated Elias, jabbing the point of his dagger into the man’s neck. ‘Was it Joseph Beechcroft or Ralph Olgrave? Yes,’ he said, seeing the look of alarm in the other’s eyes. ‘You know them both, I think. One of those rogues sent you to find us at the Queen’s Head.’ He jabbed the dagger again and drew blood. ‘Which one of those monsters from Bridewell was it?’
Gregory was shivering. ‘Master Olgrave, sir,’ he bleated.
‘What were your orders?’
‘To follow you, that’s all.’
‘Oh, to follow me, was it?’ said Elias with sarcasm. ‘What did you intend to do when you caught up with me? Make a present of your dagger?’ He tightened his grip on the man’s neck. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Gregory Sumner,’ spluttered the other.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Leave off, sir, or you’ll strangle me!’
‘Answer my question or I’ll squeeze every ounce of breath out of you.’
‘I dwell in the workhouse,’ admitted the other. ‘I’m a keeper in Bridewell.’
‘Then you’ll know what happened to my good friend, Hywel Rees,’ said Elias, releasing his hold. ‘You’re to come with me, Gregory Sumner. I can see that you must be a religious man,’ he taunted. ‘I’ve a lawyer nearby who’ll happily hear your confession.’
Still in pain, Gregory Sumner rubbed his neck ruefully but he was only biding his time. As Elias stepped back to look at him properly, the man came to life and tried to retrieve his discarded dagger. It was a foolish move. The Welshman was ready for him. Holding him by the scruff of his neck, Elias swung him round with vicious force and threw him against the wall, drawing fresh blood and knocking all the resistance out of him. Sheathing his own dagger, Elias tucked the other weapon into his belt then bent down to remove the shoes of the fallen man. Without ceremony, he tore off Sumner’s hose and used it to tie the prisoner’s hands behind his back.
‘Come, sir,’ said Elias, lifting the man up and putting him over his shoulder. ‘I want you to meet a friend of mine. But I warn you now,’ he added with a growl. ‘Do not dare to bleed over me on the way.’
Edmund Hoode felt so much better in himself that he was able to read A Way to Content All Women once more. Indeed, by the afternoon, he had even made a tentative stab at writing a new scene for it. Doctor John Mordrake was responsible for his recovery. Having identified the poison that had been keeping the patient drowsy and confused for so long, Mordrake concocted his own remedy and administered it in person. As a result, Hoode’s brain was functioning again. His body was still tired, but his mind was racing and eager to make up for lost time.
One of the clearest indications of his improvement was the return of his subdued lust for the landlady’s daughter. When Adele came into his room that evening, Hoode hoped that she had come to change the sheets on his bed and allow him to watch her nubile body as it bent and swayed before him. In fact, the girl was only delivering a message. As she spoke, Hoode stared with idle pleasure at the expressive dimples in her cheeks and at the delicate arches of her eyebrows.
‘There’s someone below who would speak with you, Master Hoode,’ she said.
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Yes, sir. It was Tom Rooke.’
‘Tom Rooke?’ he echoed. ‘But that’s the name of a character from a play of mine called The Faithful Shepherd. Are you sure that is what he is called, Adele?’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘But this fellow is no shepherd. I can vouch for that.’
‘What sort of man is he?’
‘Not one that my mother would let into the house, sir. He’s a scurvy beggar. But he insists that he’s a friend of yours, and will not leave until he has seen you.’
Hoode was mystified. Outside of his play, he knew nobody by the name of Rooke and was not acquainted with any beggars. Curiosity took him down the stairs. When he reached the front door, he opened it to find himself looking at a bedraggled creature with a filthy cap, a patch over one eye and his arm in a sling. Either side of him was an officer but Hoode ignored them. His only interest was in the crooked figure who had sent up the name of Tom Rooke. He was certain that he had never seen the man before.
‘Do you know me, sir?’ croaked the beggar.
‘No,’ said Hoode, turning his head away in disgust, ‘and I’ve no wish to know someone who stinks as much as you. Away with you, man!’
The beggar raised himself to his full height and lifted the eye patch up. Slipping his arm out of the sling, he put both hands on his hips and used his real voice.
‘Will you deny me now?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell.
Hoode was amazed. ‘Nick!’ he gasped. ‘Is that you?’
‘It is, Edmund. I did not think to fool you so easily, but it seems that I did. Had you looked at my companions, you’d have seen that they, too, are old friends.’
‘Frank and James,’ said the playwright, recognising Quilter and Ingram and shaking each by the hand. ‘What mean these disguises?’
‘All will be explained in time,’ said Nicholas. ‘I must be brief. I called simply to see how remarkable a recovery Doctor Mordrake has brought about, and to tell you what happened after I left here last night.’
‘I thought that you went off to see Michael.’
‘And so I did. By the time I
’d delivered him and Doctor Zander to a magistrate, it was far too late to call back here. And today has kept me fettered to the Queen’s Head.’
Hoode blinked. ‘What’s this about a magistrate?’
Nicholas gave him an abbreviated account of what had taken place in Cornhill. Hoode was extremely angry at Doctor Zander but, in spite of what had been done to him, managed a vestigial sympathy for Michael Grammaticus.
‘Ambition is a cruel master,’ he said. ‘It drove Michael much farther than he was able to go. I’ve been at the mercy of that ambition myself. I know the overwhelming urge to see your play performed upon a stage. It’s like a madness.’
‘Michael will pay dearly for it,’ said Nicholas. ‘But we must away, Edmund.’
‘Dressed in those rags? Will you beg in the streets?’
‘We’ll not allow that,’ said Quilter sternly, taking Nicholas by the arm.
Hoode laughed. ‘You’d make a good officer, Frank. But do not treat my friend Tom Rooke too harshly. I need him for one of my plays. And when he’s Nick Bracewell again,’ he went on, grinning happily, ‘I need him for all my plays.’
Nicholas slipped his arm back into the sling and replaced the eye patch. After giving the playwright a wave, he twisted his body into a grotesque shape and limped away between the two officers. Hoode went back inside and met Adele on the stairs.
‘No,’ he told her. ‘He was no friend of mine. I’ve never set eyes on that mangy creature before.’
Lawrence Firethorn did not know what sort of reception he would get at home. On the ride back to Shoreditch, he was not certain whether his wife had mellowed or if a night apart from her husband had merely hardened her heart. When he reached the house in Old Street, therefore, he tethered his horse to the gatepost in case he needed to make a swift departure. Finding that the front door was no longer locked, he took it as a good omen and stepped inside.
‘Margery!’ he cooed. ‘Where are you, my sweetness?’
‘In the kitchen,’ she announced in a rasping voice.
‘I’m back early today, as you will see.’
He went into the kitchen where his wife had been talking to her brother-in-law as she mixed some dough in a bowl. Jarrold could see that Margery was throbbing with displeasure. Not wishing to come between the couple at such a delicate moment, he gave a nervous smile and tried to steal away, but Firethorn flung his arms around the man to embrace him.
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