Returning to the village, he went along the main street to the Brinklow house. The servant who answered the front door carried word of his unheralded arrival to Emilia. She was highly surprised to learn that he was on her doorstep but agreed at once to see him. Nicholas was shown into the parlour and greeted by the mistress of the house. Emilia looked drawn and jaded. Her red-rimmed eyes had obviously shed many a tear during the night. Her voice was brittle.
‘Please take a seat,’ she said, indicating a chair.
‘Thank you.’
‘I hardly thought to see you here again.’
‘It was needful,’ said Nicholas, sitting opposite her. ‘I am glad to find you at home. Is Master Chaloner here?’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Why should he be? Simon and I are betrothed but it would be most unseemly for us to live beneath the same roof until the proper time. I hope that you did not think otherwise.’
‘I thought only of yesterday’s sad events. In view of those, I wondered if Master Chaloner felt obliged to remain here in order to offer you his protection.’
‘He has done that every night for months but I have always refused. I need no protection. I am not afraid. This is my home. I am quite safe here.’
‘That is what your brother believed,’ he said softly.
Emilia recoiled slightly as if from a blow. Nicholas chided himself for such a tactless remark and reached out an appeasing hand. Making a swift recovery, she waved it away and stared levelly at him. He sensed once again the single-minded determination that had reminded him so much of Anne Hendrik. Most women would be frightened to be alone in such a large house filled with so many bitter memories but Emilia Brinklow was not. She loved the home and wrapped it around her like a garment.
‘Why did you come, sir?’ she asked.
‘To speak with you and Master Chaloner.’
‘Do you not have problems to deal with in London?’
‘They can only be solved here.’
‘In Greenwich?’
‘In this house—and at the palace.’
‘How?’
‘That is what I have come to find out.’
A considered pause. ‘You may certainly count on my help,’ she said at length. ‘I am racked by guilt at the way that Westfield’s Men have suffered at my hands. If there is any way in which I may alleviate that suffering, you have only to tell me what it is.’
‘I need to put some more questions to you,’ he said.
‘You will find me ready in my answers.’
‘Necessity compels me to be blunt.’
‘That will not vex me.’
She held his gaze for a long time and he felt the pull of her attraction. It was patently mutual. Completely alone for the first time, each felt a surge of affection for the other which was at once incongruous yet perfectly natural. Nicholas wished that he could have met her in another place and in different circumstances. The smile in her eyes told him that she read and approved his thoughts.
‘Very well, Nicholas,’ she said, using his name for the first time. ‘Do not spare me. Be blunt.’
‘On the night of the murder, you were not in the house.’
‘That is true.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Staying with friends at a cottage in Dartford.’
‘When did you learn of the tragedy?’
‘The same night,’ she said. ‘One of the servants rode out to fetch me. I came back with him at once to find the house in turmoil. You can imagine my grief. Thomas, my dear brother, so full of life and feeling—murdered.’ She bit her lip as the memory stung her afresh. ‘It was unbearable.’
‘When had you last seen him?’
‘Seen him?’
‘Your brother. Before that terrible discovery.’
Emilia hesitated. ‘Two days earlier,’ she said finally. ‘Thomas had been away on business.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know the nature of that business?’
‘How should I?’
‘You took such an interest in his work.’
‘I was proud of it,’ she said vehemently. ‘Thomas was a brilliant man. He excelled at everything he touched. But he was also very secretive and only let me see what he wanted to show me. He never discussed his business with me.’
‘What was he working on when he was killed?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Have you no idea at all?’
‘None. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I think it has a bearing on his murder.’
‘Sir John Tarker instigated that.’
‘He was involved in the plot certainly.’
‘It was all his doing,’ she argued. ‘You have seen the evidence that Simon collected. It cannot be denied. Sir John Tarker had my brother killed. The Roaring Boy proved that.’
‘The play may have been wrong.’
It was a mild statement but it ignited a spark of anger in Emilia, casting out any vestige of affection for him and replacing it with an icy disdain. She was shaking as she rose to her feet and stood over him.
‘What do you know about it, sir?’ she demanded. ‘Have you learned more about this case in five minutes than I have in five months? Have you risked life and limb to gather all the facts as Simon has done? What gives you the right to tell us that we are mistaken? If Sir John Tarker is not the villain here, why did he have the play destroyed before it could pronounce his detested name?’
‘Calm down,’ he soothed. ‘I spoke not to rouse you.’
‘Well, that is what you have done.’
‘It was a suggestion only.’
‘Then you have seen my estimation of it.’
‘We are on the same side,’ he urged. ‘If we are ever to see this matter resolved, we must work closely together.’
Her rage subsided and she nodded her agreement, sinking back down on to the chair. But her cheeks were still inflamed and her manner was far more watchful. Nicholas set about repairing some of the damage.
‘I spoke out of turn and accept your just rebuke.’
‘You touched unwittingly on raw flesh.’
‘My clumsiness distresses me.’
‘It did not deserve such fury,’ she apologised.
‘Perhaps it did. I know now where I stand.’
Emilia Brinklow looked at him with a curious amalgam of suspicion and wistfulness, still hurt by what he had said while remembering his many good qualities. She made a visible effort to subdue her irritation and even managed a smile of conciliation.
‘This is a poor welcome after your long journey.’
‘I brought it upon myself.’
‘No, Nicholas,’ she said wearily. ‘I have been too bound up in this affair to view it coolly from without. The slightest breath of criticism is like a dagger in my breast. My wrath was ill-judged. Forgive me.’
‘There is no need.’
‘For me, it is everything: for you, it is just a play.’
‘It is far more than that,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘The Roaring Boy has put my friend in prison, my fellows into the street and our whole future in jeopardy. No mere play could do that. This is a matter of utmost significance to us and that is why I have taken such trouble to come here. I was eager to talk with you and this house is the only place where I may reach Master Chaloner.’
‘Simon lives but five miles’ ride from here.’
‘Can he be sent for?’
‘I’ll despatch a servant straight.’
‘He cannot be spared from this debate.’
‘Nor will he be.’
Emilia crossed to the door and opened it to call for her maidservant. Agnes came running at once, took her orders,
then rushed off to convey them to the ostler.
‘He will be in the saddle within minutes.’
‘Let us pray that he finds Master Chaloner at home.’ Nicholas stood up and glanced through the window. ‘I have another favour to ask of you.’
‘It is granted.’
‘Show me your brother’s laboratory.’
‘But you saw it on your last visit here.’
‘Only from the outside,’ he said. ‘I would go within.’
‘If you wish. Follow me.’
Emilia led him down a corridor, through the kitchens and into the buttery. The locked door that now confronted them was clad with steel. Nicholas was struck with its thickness.
‘This door would keep an army out,’ he observed.
‘It saved the house from the fire.’
‘What needed such careful protection?’
‘His privacy,’ she said. ‘And his work.’
She produced a key from a pocket at her waist and used it to unlock the door. It opened on to ruination. Nicholas took a few steps into the laboratory, then paused to look around him, trying to reconstruct in his mind its fallen walls and its shattered windows. Emilia moved familiarly around the room, noting with pleasure that her orders for the removal of weeds had been followed to the letter. Valentine and his assistants had plucked up nature from around the ankles of science.
Nicholas walked forward in silent wonder. Even in its devastated state, the laboratory preserved a strange order and pattern. Burned-out tables were aligned, charred stools knew their place, wrecked equipment of all kinds stood in unforced symmetry. The punctilious mind of Thomas Brinklow survived the fire intact. Nicholas crouched down before a forge.
‘Your brother smelted his own metals?’
‘The forge was always busy.’
‘He had some assistant to feed its hunger?’
‘No,’ she said fondly. ‘Thomas looked after it himself like a favourite pet. He would let nobody near his forge.’
‘Not even you?’
‘Not even me. His workshop was sacrosanct.’
‘He would need the finest metal if he built a compass.’
‘That is what he produced.’
‘A remarkable man,’ said Nicholas with admiration. ‘I begin to feel his presence. Where did he keep his papers?’
‘In that desk,’ she said, pointing to pile of cinders.
‘All destroyed?’
‘Lost forever. His inventions died with him.’
Nicholas thought long and hard before he spoke again.
‘I have one last favour.’
‘Ask anything if it helps our cause.’
‘Who wrote The Roaring Boy?’ he said, stepping closer to her as she pursed her lips and lowered her head. ‘I must be told. Was it Master Chaloner? He said that the author had gone away but no man deserts a work like that at such a fatal hour. Did Master Chaloner pen The Roaring Boy?’
She looked up at him in evident distress. Before she could speak, however, Nicholas was distracted by a noise in the bushes. Fearing that someone was eavesdropping, he ran to the remains of a wall, jumped quickly over it and pushed his way into the undergrowth. Nobody was there. When he came out the other side, however, he saw a figure no more than twenty yards away, tying some rambling roses back on their trellis-work and apparently absorbed in his task. Valentine became aware of his scrutiny and turned to acknowledge him, touching his cap in deference with a gnarled finger and flashing the infamous grin once more.
***
Frustration finally provoked Simon Chaloner into action. Long months of hard and dangerous work had come to fruition in the yard of the Queen’s Head, only to be squashed out of recognition by the man he was trying to convict of a murder. The Roaring Boy was a legal and highly public means of calling Sir John Tarker to account. Since that had signally failed, a more irregular and private means had to be used. There was no point in discussing it with Emilia because she would never condone such a course of action. Chaloner had to strike on his own.
He felt certain that his quarry would be at hand. With a Court tournament in the offing, Sir John Tarker would be practising in the tiltyard at Greenwich Palace once more. Having knocked The Roaring Boy from its saddle, he would be trying to unseat other challengers to his position. Chaloner might not get such an opportunity again. It had to be seized on ruthlessly. One shot from a pistol would achieve what five acts of a play would never do.
Having been in the palace many times, Chaloner knew how to find his way through its courtyards and apartments if only he could gain entry. That depended on good fortune. Armed and excited by the prospect of revenge, he rode out that morning in the direction of Greenwich, skirting the village itself so that he would not be seen by anyone from the Brinklow household and trotting on to find a copse where he could tether his horse and approach the palace on foot.
The main entrance was in the riverside frontage but there were postern gates at various points around the building. As he approached the rear of the palace, he saw a small crowd of people listening to a tall, distinguished man who was delivering some sort of lecture. Chaloner was in luck. A group of foreign visitors was being shown around the premises by the chamberlain. From their attire and general deportment, Chaloner guessed that they were Dutch, most probably the ambassador and his entourage. Intermingled with them were a few other nationalities. The ostentatious garb of one man combined with his extravagant gestures to mark him out as an Italian. His two companions also had a Mediterranean cast of feature.
Simon Chaloner did not hesitate. He walked slowly towards the group until he could merge quietly into it. The chamberlain was too caught up with listening to the sound of his own voice to see the intruder and the visitors assumed that he was a legitimate member of the party who arrived late. Chaloner had picked up snatches of Dutch and Italian in his army days. An occasional phrase and a benign smile were all that he needed to employ by way of response.
‘Let us now step back inside the palace,’ droned the chamberlain, leading them through the gate. ‘I mentioned earlier that Duke Humphrey had called it Bella Court…’
The visitors followed, listened and gaped. Secure in the middle of them, Chaloner kept his head down and his hand on his sword. He was in. It was only a matter of minutes before he could detach himself from the knot of foreigners and slip into the building itself. He walked along a corridor with a confidence that suggested a legitimate right to be inside a royal palace. Doublet and hose of a colourful and expensive cut would not look out of place at Court and he had the true bearing of a gentleman. When two guards marched past, they did not even throw him a second glance. Now that he was inside Greenwich Palace, he was invisible.
The noise of mock battle rose up from the tiltyard to guide his footsteps. He came out on the leaded roof where Henry VIII had loved to stand and he gazed down on the assembly below. Men in armour were fighting on foot or practising on horseback with the lance. Retainers were everywhere. There was no sign of Sir John Tarker but the watching Chaloner sensed that he would be there. He hid behind the corner of a chimney-pot to keep the yard under surveillance while remaining out of sight himself. His intended victim was bound to emerge in time.
It was only a matter of waiting and watching.
Five hours of acute hunger made Edmund Hoode pick up the hunk of stale bread which had been flung to the ground. It was as hard as rock and his teeth could do little more than chip off a few crisp edges. He began to wish he had been more politic in his dealings with the keeper. Hoode had money about him and would willingly part with it for wholesome food and restorative drink. Since he could be locked away in the Marshalsea for some time, it was important to keep body and soul together. He longed for the man’s return and listened in the meantime to the accumulated misery of the prison as it reverberated along the gloomy
corridors. The only time he had heard such wild cries before was when he had visited Bedlam to observe the behaviour of madmen.
It seemed an eternity before anyone recalled his existence. The footsteps were more ponderous this time and the key scraped in the lock before it engaged. Hoode was standing so close to the door that it caught him a glancing blow as it creaked open. The same keeper regarded him with mocking eyes. The man had no meal with him this time.
‘Do you have any garnish?’ he said.
‘What will it buy me?’
‘Depends how much you pay, sir.’
‘A shilling?’
‘That will keep you well fed for a day or two.’
‘No more than that?’
‘We have rates here in the Marshalsea,’ said the man before spitting on to the floor. ‘Any prisoner who is an esquire, a gentleman or a wealthy nobleman can eat heartily for a weekly charge of ten shillings.’
‘I do not look to be here as long as a week.’
‘It is good fare, sir. Bone of meat with broth. A piece of bone beef. A loin or breast of roasted veal. Or else a capon. As much bread as you will eat and a quarter of beer and claret wine.’ He leered at Hoode. ‘How like you that?’
‘Indifferently.’
‘Then you must stick to bread, water and some meat.’
‘I cannot stay alive on that.’
‘Buy yourself more, sir.’
‘I’d rather buy some information,’ said Hoode, putting a hand into his purse to pull out some coins. ‘I am dragged here by the sheriff and thrown into this cell without due explanation. Why am I here?’
The Roaring Boy Page 16
