Olgrave ran out of patience. Unable even to wound his man, he suddenly dived forward to grab him by the shoulder, intending to ram the dagger into his body with the other hand. Instead, Nicholas caught him by the wrist and tried to twist the weapon from his grasp. Olgrave reacted swiftly, tripping Nicholas up so that fell down and pulled his attacker on top of him. They grappled furiously. Olgrave’s wrist was still held in an iron grip but the point of the dagger was only inches away from Nicholas’s face.
‘I’ll blind you first and kill you afterwards,’ boasted Olgrave.
‘Your luck has finally run out, I think.’
‘You are the one in need of luck, my friend.’
‘I doubt that, Master Olgrave.’
‘Die, you rogue!’
With a surge of strength, he pressed down hard but Nicholas was too quick for him again. He flicked his head aside so that the dagger embedded itself harmlessly in the timber, then he rolled Olgrave over and sat astride him to deliver a relay of punches. Getting to his feet, Nicholas dragged his adversary up after him. Olgrave was not finished yet. He flailed away with both arms until Nicholas hit him with a fearsome uppercut that sent him reeling backward. The next moment, Olgrave had fallen off the edge of the landing stage into the water. As soon as he surfaced, he began to thresh about wildly.
‘Help me!’ he begged. ‘I cannot swim!’
‘What help did you give to Dorothea Tate?’
‘For the love of God, get me out of here!’
‘Confess your crimes first,’ said Nicholas. ‘Did you violate the girl?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘And did you murder Hywel Rees?’
‘No, I swear it!’
‘Then stay in the river and drown.’
‘Spare me. I’ll tell all.’
‘Then say how he was battered to death.’
‘Three of us did it,’ admitted the other, expelling a mouthful of water. ‘My partner and I were helped by a man named Gregory Sumner.’
Nicholas was satisfied. ‘Then come out and join them in court,’ he said.
He retrieved one of the oars from his boat and offered the blade to Olgrave, who clung on tightly as he was pulled out of the Thames. Sodden and spluttering, the man was soon twitching on the landing stage like a giant fish.
‘Let’s get you back to Bridewell,’ said Nicholas.
Anne Hendrik was so thrilled to see Dorothea again that she kissed her on both cheeks. The girl burst into tears and gabbled her apologies. It was late when Nicholas arrived back in Bankside with her, but Anne did not mind being roused from her bed to welcome them. To have them both safely returned was more than she had dared to hope. Dorothea began to tell her story until exhaustion made her eyelids droop. Anne put her to bed then came back into the parlour, where Nicholas was still sitting.
‘I never thought that we’d see her again,’ she said.
‘I am sorry to bring a problem back to your door, Anne.’
‘It relieves my mind to know that she is alive and well. And Dorothea may not be a problem for long. I’ve a neighbour who is looking for a servant girl. If we can teach her what to do,’ suggested Anne, ‘we may find a new home for her. And she will not lack for a young friend. Jan Muller, my apprentice, is quite smitten with the girl.’ She sat beside Nicholas. ‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘Tell me what really happened.’
‘Owen is the hero, Anne. He rescued both Dorothea and me.’
‘What was she doing outside Bridewell?’
‘Remembering what happened inside the place.’
Calmly and with typical modesty, Nicholas told her about his own adventures in the workhouse, and the subsequent arrest of Beechcroft and Olgrave. He recalled the fight on the landing stage.
‘Is it not strange?’ he said. ‘Ralph Olgrave was so afraid of drowning that he would rather be hauled out of the water to face certain death on the gallows.’
‘You mentioned something about ledgers.’
‘They were account books for Bridewell. One was accurate, and the other a tissue of lies concocted to fool any inspectors. When I got back there, I collected them from the roof where I’d left them. Yes,’ he added with a laugh, ‘and I helped down the poor keeper who was stranded up there. He managed to get up on the roof with a musket to shoot me, then lacked the courage to climb down again.’
‘You should have left him there, Nick.’
‘I saw one man fall to his death. That was enough.’
‘All is now settled, then.’
‘Not quite, Anne.’
‘What more remains?’
‘Some unfinished business at the Queen’s Head,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to borrow your horse again for I have to be at the inn soon after dawn. Otherwise, I may miss him.’
‘Who?’
‘A man who was hoping to sneak away tomorrow with a large amount of money in his purse that he obtained by trickery.’
‘Trickery?’
‘Cards and dice, Anne.’
‘What’s the fellow’s name?’
‘Philomen Lavery.’
Philomen Lavery was up early to eat a frugal breakfast before packing his bags. There was a tap on the door of his room and the landlord let himself in. He pumped Lavery’s hand appreciatively.
‘I am sorry to see you leave,’ he said.
‘It would be foolish to stay any longer, Adam.’
‘Where will you go next?’
‘Back to St Albans, I think. Then on to Bedford.’
‘Do not forget us in Rochester,’ said Crowmere. ‘It’s two years since we last saw you at The Red Lion. I expect you back again one day.’
‘I’ll be there,’ promised Lavery. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing, my friend. All debts are settled.’
‘Then I’ll bid you farewell and steal away.’
‘Let me help you,’ volunteered the landlord, picking up one of the bags.
‘Thank you, Adam.’
Lavery reached for the other bag and the large satchel beside it. When the two men turned towards the open door, however, they found their way blocked by Nicholas Bracewell. Quite unperturbed, Lavery produced one of his innocuous smiles.
‘If you wish to play cards,’ he said, softly, ‘you come too late. I must away.’
‘We need to have words, Master Lavery,’ said Nicholas.
‘About what?’
‘A pupil of yours, now working in Bridewell.’
‘A pupil? I’m a merchant, sir, and not a schoolmaster.’
‘Yet you taught this particular lad well,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name is Ben Hemp and you instructed him in the art of making false dice.’
‘Dice?’ repeated Lavery in surprise. ‘But I know nothing of dice. I devote myself to a pack of cards, as many of your fellows will testify.’
‘I’m told that dice were also rolled on your table last night, Master Lavery, and that you won game after game. When you faltered,’ Nicholas went on with a meaningful glance at Crowmere, ‘your confederate inherited your good fortune.’
‘Are you accusing me, Nick?’ said the landlord.
‘The two of you worked together from the start.’
‘I’d never even met Master Lavery until he turned up at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Oh,’ said Nicholas, ‘I suspect that you and he are old partners. You bring in the gulls and your friend cleverly fleeces them. By using an accomplice, he makes it appear that he does not win all the time. That would only attract suspicion.’
‘These are vile allegations,’ warned Lavery with vehemence. ‘Especially when you have no proof to back them up.’
‘It lies in one of those bags. Wherever you keep your marked cards and your false dice, there’s proof enough of your villainy. Be glad that I’m the one to find it, Master Lavery,’ said Nicholas. ‘Were some of my fellows here instead, you’d not escape without a sound whipping.’ He turned to Crowmere. ‘Neither of you.’
‘I thought that we were friends, N
ick,’ protested the landlord.
‘It was only a counterfeit friendship.’
‘Did I not arrange a feast for Westfield’s Men?’
‘You did,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but you made us pay for it ourselves when you stole the takings for one of our performances. And your friendship was seen in its true light when you made off with half our wardrobe.’
Crowmere turned puce. ‘I deny it!’
‘Then perhaps you can explain this, Adam.’
Nicholas stepped into the room so that the massive frame of Leonard could come into view in the doorway. Across his arms, he was holding a velvet cloak, two velvet gowns and a mayoral robe.
‘There’s much more besides in that chest,’ he announced.
Crowmere flared up. ‘What were you doing in my room, you oaf?’
‘Searching the one place that you somehow forgot to search,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Leonard acted on my instructions. I thought that our wardrobe might still be here somehow, and you were the only person who could possibly have it. Just think, Leonard,’ he said. ‘If you had not found these costumes, you would have carried them downstairs in that chest when the landlord left us. We’d never think of looking for them in his tavern in Rochester.’
‘Let me say now that I had nothing to do with the theft of your wardrobe,’ declared Lavery, righteously. ‘That was Adam’s idea.’
‘Be quiet, Philomen!’ said the landlord.
‘I’ll not be arraigned for your crimes.’
‘You’ve committed enough of your own,’ noted Nicholas. ‘I fancy that the Queen’s Head is only the latest inn where you have tricked money out of honest purses. I hope that you enjoyed your stay here.’
Lavery grinned unashamedly. ‘It was a profitable visit.’
‘Then you’ll have some pleasant memories to take with you to prison.’
Crowmere thought only of himself. His confederate was too puny to fight his way out but the landlord was a strong man. Pretending to concede all the charges against him, he offered his hand to Nicholas in congratulation then brought it up suddenly to push the book holder in the chest. He lunged for the door but Leonard stood in his way. When he tried to shove him aside, Crowmere had the costumes thrust in his face. He was then lifted bodily by Leonard and tossed back into the room with ridiculous ease. Falling to the floor with a thump, he stared up resentfully at the man he used to employ.
‘Why did you do that, you lumbering fool?’ he demanded.
Leonard shrugged. ‘Nick is my friend,’ he said. ‘You pushed him.’
Lawrence Firethorn could not remember a time when he had been so happy. Reconciled with his wife, he was the manager of a theatre company that had its wardrobe restored, its stolen money repaid, its playwright returned from his sick bed and its book holder back in charge. It even had an exciting new play, The Siege of Troy, to present that afternoon. The final rehearsal went so well that the diminutive George Dart only dropped his spear once by mistake, and took four minor roles without ever getting them confused. As they broke for refreshment, Firethorn came bounding over to Nicholas Bracewell.
‘I sense another triumph in the air, Nick,’ he said, confidently.
‘I always thought it a fine play.’
‘Thanks to you, its fine author now gets credit. Otherwise, we would be staging a tragedy by a counterfeit playwright. The real tragedy is that Stephen Wragby was the one to die while Michael Grammaticus lived.’
‘Wish no man to an early grave, Lawrence.’
‘Why not?’ said Firethorn. ‘I’d happily dig the graves of Philomen Lavery and that crafty landlord, then bury their bodies while the two of them were still breathing.’
‘They are not here to vex us any more,’ observed Nicholas.
‘Thanks to you again.’
‘Leonard helped me, remember. He discovered our wardrobe.’
‘Hidden away right under our noses,’ said Firethorn, snorting. ‘Have you ever met a more audacious rogue than Adam Crowmere?’
‘Yes, I have. Two of them, in fact.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave,’ said Nicholas. ‘Both of them, born liars, cheats, thieves, lechers, embezzlers, murderers and much more. It gives me great pleasure to send them to the gallows.’
Firethorn was vengeful. ‘I’d have Crowmere and Lavery dangling beside them,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Yes, and if there was any rope left, I’d make a noose for Michael and that poisonous Doctor Zander.’ He put a companionable arm around Nicholas’s shoulder. ‘You’ve had a busy time of late, Nick, filling the city’s prisons.’
‘Each one of those villains deserves his new residence.’
‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias, overhearing them. ‘Do not forget to include Gregory Sumner. He’s behind bars as well. His confession will drown out all the lies of his egregious masters. We did the city good service by revealing what was happening behind the walls of Bridewell.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘But only because we met a counterfeit crank.’
‘What we met was a true Welshman. No man can counterfeit his nation.’
‘We’ll need to do so this afternoon,’ argued Firethorn. ‘I’ll be a warlike Greek and you’ll be a worthy Trojan. Beware, Owen. I’ll besiege your Welshness.’
‘Never!’ said Elias.
‘I’ll pelt your Celtic heritage.’
‘Over my dead body!’
‘Let’s move this quarrel into the tiring house,’ said Nicholas, easing the two men away. ‘We need to clear the stage. Our audience will be here ere long. Do not let them see you in costume until the play begins or you rob us of surprise.’
‘True, Nick,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘But Owen and I will not quarrel.’
‘No,’ said Elias. ‘We’ll settle this dispute with swords.’
‘Swords or leeks?’ taunted the other.
‘Both, Lawrence!’
Still bickering, the actors went off, leaving Nicholas to make sure that everything was ready for the performance that afternoon. When the stage had been set for the first scene, he checked that the gatherers were at their posts, and that all the properties stood in readiness in the tiring house. Returning to the yard once more, he saw that the first two spectators were already taking their seats in the lower gallery. Anne Hendrik had brought Dorothea Tate to take her first excited look at Westfield’s Men.
An hour later, they were only a tiny part of the large crowd that had descended on the Queen’s Head to watch The Siege of Troy. Surrounded by his entourage, Lord Westfield was in his usual place, quite unaware of the vicissitudes endured by his company. Two people who did have some insight into what the troupe had suffered sat side by side in the upper gallery. Doctor John Mordrake and Margery Firethorn made an unlikely couple but they had been invited along at the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell to see a new play being launched upon the choppy waters of a demanding audience.
Margery’s principal interest was in her husband, but Mordrake was more concerned to see how his patient fared. Recovered enough to take a supporting role, Edmund Hoode was overjoyed to be back with his fellows and, from the moment that he entered in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue, it was clear that his doctor had effected a remarkable cure. Like Caesar’s Fall, by the same author, The Siege of Troy recounted a story that had been told on stage many times. Where it outshone rival versions, and where it rose above Stephen Wragby’s other play, was in the quality of its verse, the delineation of its characters and the sheer verve of its action.
A decade of war was displayed at the Queen’s Head. Lawrence Firethorn was a wily Ulysses, spinning seductive webs of words, while Owen Elias was a defiant King Priam. Richard Honeydew found pathos and cynicism in the role of Cressida. James Ingram was a commanding Agamemnon and Frank Quilter, a bellicose Ajax, teased and tormented by Barnaby Gill’s prancing clown. Mistakes were inevitably made but they went unnoticed by the audience as the play swept on from scene to arresting scene. In the fi
nal act, when the huge wooden horse made by Nathan Curtis was wheeled out of the stables where it had been concealed, it earned the biggest cheer of the afternoon.
Appropriately, it fell to Edmund Hoode, who had suffered the worst ordeal because of his unique position in the company, to deliver the Epilogue that he had written to replace that by Michael Grammaticus. Standing in the centre of the stage, relishing his moment, he declaimed the speech to the sound of music.
‘Our tale is told of Trojan and of Greek,
Of ancient malice, treachery and meek
Surrender to a wooden horse, a toy
Whose silent neigh brought down the walls of Troy.
Upon these boards, false Cressida has walked,
Ulysses hatched his plots, Achilles stalked
The gallant Hector with a shameful plan
To murder him by ambush. Every man
Was traitor or betrayed. This self-same flower
Of perfidy and lies has left its dower
To each succeeding age. It charms our mind
And with its scent makes all of us go blind.
We do not see what stands before our eyes
Until it is too late. Deceit now thrives
And forgery runs wild. This Grecian trick
Has spawned a thousand ruses just as quick
To steal our purses or to take our lives.
The innocent go down, the cheat survives.
For proof of this, behold our little stage,
Where you have seen the bloody battles rage
And mighty generals meeting face to face
While cunning politicians swift embrace.
You let illusion take its benefit
For we, your actors, did but counterfeit.’
Alexander Marwood was a picture of dejection. The high hopes that had taken him to Dunstable had been dashed. After sitting interminably beside his dying brother, he did his best to put aside old enmities, only to learn, when the will was finally read after the funeral, that he had been left nothing at all. Accompanied by a vindictive wife, who blamed him for wasting their time, he travelled back to London in great discomfort on their cart. Not even the sight of the capital could inspire him. Having left a brother who had betrayed him, he was going back, with a wife he feared, to an inn he hated and an occupation that he despised.
The Counterfeit Crank Page 26
