Her name was Lucy and she had a rich cackle that made her whole body shake violently. When the massive powdered breasts leaped free from their moorings, George Dart covered his eyes with his hands. Elias spent some time working his way into her friendship before he dropped out the name he had brought with him to Bankside. Lucy became defensive.
‘I may have known such a man,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Because we have good news for him.’
She snorted. ‘For Maggs? What is it—a royal pardon?’
‘No,’ said Elias, ‘but it is a pardon of a kind. From beyond the grave, as you might say.’
‘What mean you, sir?’
‘We have a small legacy for him.’
‘Legacy?’
‘Part of it sits beside you,’ he said, pulling Dart’s hands down from his eyes. ‘This is his son.’
She was sceptical. ‘Maggs? A son? He never married.’
‘A bastard child. Born out of wedlock.’
‘He had enough of those, I daresay,’ she said with a cackle. ‘Maggs was a lusty little rogue. I miss him.’ She peered at George Dart. ‘So this is his son, is it? He’s as skinny as Maggs for sure, with the same mean face, but I doubt that he could stand to account in a woman’s arms like his father. Maggs had a pizzle the size of a donkey’s. Does this lad have anything between his legs at all?’
‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘He’s no gelding.’
Cheeks like beetroot, Dart put his hands over his ears this time. Lucy was the most frightening woman he had ever met in his life. Her vivacity was overwhelming.
‘What is this legacy you speak of?’ she asked.
Elias dropped his voice. ‘From the boy’s mother. She died of the sweating sickness. Poor wretch! She had cause to hate Maggs yet she still loved him. And she doted on his issue here. Did she not, George? On her deathbed, she made her son promise to take a small sum of money to Maggs as a token of her love. Thus it stands.’
‘If that is all,’ she said obligingly, ‘I’ll save you the trouble. Give me the money and I’ll see that Maggs gets every penny of it. You have my oath on that.’
Elias shook his head. ‘We would happily do that, for I am sure that we could trust you, Lucy, but there is a solemn oath involved here. George is compelled to hand over the bounty himself. How else can he get to meet his father?’ He put a familiar arm around her shoulders. ‘Tell us where he is and we will be more than grateful. So will Maggs.’
She eyed them for a moment, then let out another cackle.
‘I know where his father dwells but it would not help the lad to know. This dribbling booby would not get within a hundred yards of Maggs.’
‘Why not?’
‘He would be eaten alive as soon as he ventured there.’
‘Where, Lucy?’ coaxed Elias. ‘Where is Maggs?’
‘The Isle of Dogs.’
***
Darkness had fallen on the house in Greenwich but Valentine was still moving stealthily around the garden. It was his true home. Plants and flowers blossomed under his ugliness. Trees gave forth their fruit without recoiling from his touch. Nature accepted him in a way that human beings could not. Valentine lived alone in a hovel nearby but he often neglected it for days in summer months, curling up instead under a bush in the garden with one eye on the house itself. His vigil was sometimes rewarded with the sight of Agnes, the maidservant, coming to her window at the very top of the house to close the curtains or to tip a bowl of water out on to the grass far below. Moonlight once gave him a fleeting glimpse of her naked shoulders. It kept him below her window every night for a month.
As he looked up at the house now, light was showing in various rooms. Through the windows of the buttery, candles were throwing a ghostly glow out on to the ruins of the laboratory. Agnes would still be at her duties and it might be hours before she was allowed to retire to her own room. Valentine would wait. She might despise him but she gave him an enormous amount of pleasure, albeit unintended. It was enough. Night under the bushes brought rich compensation.
This particular night also brought a surprise. As he took up a vantage point in the undergrowth, he was alerted by a noise that seemed to come from the front of the house. Living so close to nature had given him the instincts of an animal and his back arched for a moment in fear. He quickly recovered and set off through the darkness towards the source of the disturbance. Valentine heard it more clearly now. There was the faint jingle of harness mingled with an unidentifiable dragging sound. Someone grunted under a strain, then he caught a few words that baffled him. Feet moved away from the house and a horse neighed as it was mounted. Two riders departed quickly into the void.
Valentine moved close enough to the front door of the house to pick out the shape of something on the hearth. It made him step back quickly into the bushes to consider what he should do. If he went to investigate more fully, he might be caught and unfairly blamed. If he knocked on the door to rouse the household, awkward questions would be asked about his presence there at that time of night.
He opted for another solution. Bending to gather some stones, he threw one at the lighted window beside the door. It bounced off harmlessly but produced no enquiry from within. He took a bigger stone and hurled it with more force at the door itself. Its thud was heard throughout the house and response was swift. The front door was opened by a manservant. Light spilled out from his lantern to illumine the figure on the ground. Valentine saw that it was a dead body which had been dragged up to the hearth.
The servant was so shocked that he let out a shriek.
***
Nicholas Bracewell was the first to react to the noise. He told Emilia Brinklow to remain in the parlour, then he ran along the corridor to the front door. The servant was now backing away in horror. Nicholas took the lantern from his quivering grasp and knelt down to hold it over the supine figure. Simon Chaloner lay on his back. Sightless eyes gazed up at heaven with a look of supplication but it was the grotesque wound in the forehead which transfixed Nicholas. A pistol had been fired at point-blank range into the skull to lodge deep in the brains. Dripping with blood, the gaping hole was like a third eye. Whatever else happened, Emilia had to be prevented from seeing such horror.
He stood up to give a stern order to the manservant.
‘Go to your mistress,’ he said. ‘Bid her stay where she is until I return. Say nothing of what you saw or you will answer to me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘About it straight.’
The man scurried away and Nicholas used the lantern again to make a closer inspection of the corpse. Matted blood in the hair at the back of the neck showed that there was another wound. He wondered if Simon Chaloner had first been knocked senseless before being shot. When he searched for the German cavalry pistol, it was gone from its holster. Sword and dagger were also missing from their scabbards. His killer was obviously fond of souvenirs. Yet the dead man’s purse had been left unmolested. He was not the victim of thieves.
Stifled gasps made Nicholas turn round. Other servants had now come to see what was happening and they were deeply shocked. Simon Chaloner was a regular and popular guest at the house but it was this last gruesome visit that would stick in their minds. Nicholas urged them to say nothing to Emilia, then sent most of them back into the house. The ostler stayed behind to guard the body while the book holder conducted a search of the front garden. The lantern failed to pick up the bloodstains on the grass but it clearly showed the route along which the body had been dragged.
Nicholas came to a verge in which eight hooves had gouged their autographs. Two horses had been spurred away from the spot only recently. They had galloped off in the direction of Greenwich Palace.
Two priorities existed. The murder had to be reported and—a far more difficult task—Emilia had to be info
rmed of the death of the man she was betrothed to marry. Nicholas went back to the house. He told the ostler to let nobody near the corpse, then sent a manservant to fetch the local constable. Noises from inside the parlour told him that Emilia was protesting bitterly at being kept there without sufficient reason. When Nicholas went in, she was upbraiding the manservant for daring to give her orders in her own house. Anger faded to alarm when she saw the book holder’s grim expression.
The manservant left them alone and closed the door behind him. Nicholas conveyed the message with a glance. Emilia swallowed hard and her eyes filmed over.
‘Simon?’ He nodded. ‘Where is he? I must see him.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, catching her as she tried to run past him. ‘It is better if you do not. There is nothing that you can do. His body lies at your door. Who put it there, we do not yet know. The constable is on his way.’
Emilia almost swooned. ‘Simon is dead?’
‘Shot through the head.’
‘Dear God!’
She collapsed in his arms and he helped her to a chair. Fate was cruel. Before she had even come to terms with one violent loss, another had been rudely visited upon her. A brother and a betrothed had been murdered. Emilia was in despair. Her life no longer had direction or meaning. There suddenly seemed to be no point in going on.
‘Simon was such a good man!’ she said. ‘A brave man.’
‘Perhaps too brave for his own good.’
‘I knew that he would do something too wild in the end. I stopped him a dozen times from riding off to confront Sir John Tarker on his own. I warned him this would happen.’
‘We do not know the precise details yet,’ reminded Nicholas, still with an arm around her. ‘We must not make a hasty judgement. I admit that suspicion points only one way but we must be certain of our evidence before we proceed.’
‘Why did Simon have to be killed?’
‘Because he got so close to the truth.’
‘When they tried before, he always fought them off.’
‘He was one man, they came in numbers.’
‘But why bring his body to lay at my door?’ she said.
‘Two reasons,’ he suggested. ‘First, it is a warning to us of what we may expect if we pursue our case against a certain person. Second…’ His voice trailed away.
‘Go on.’
‘That concerns you.’
‘In what way?’
‘Sir John Tarker—if this is indeed his work—is sending you a personal message. When he insulted you at this house, your brother was here to take your part and throw him out. Master Chaloner then offered you his strong arm to protect you.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘It is no longer there. That is the message—you are highly vulnerable.’
‘I am not afraid of him,’ she said, recapturing a little of her spirit. ‘He now has two murders to pay for and I will not rest until he has been brought down.’ Her voice cracked and her eyelids fluttered. ‘But what can one lone woman do against the power that he has at his command?’
‘Call on her friends.’
She looked at him with the most profound gratitude. A man who might well be ruing the day she ever came into his life was actually offering his service to her. Nicholas Bracewell was a rock in shifting sands. She had lost Simon Chaloner but there was still one source of strength to cling to her in her hour of need. Emilia reached up to place the lightest of kisses on his cheek. Nicholas was touched but she pulled back in embarrassment, as if unsure about the rightness of what she had just done. Grief battled with affection for a second, then she fell to sobbing again.
There was a knock on the door. Nicholas looked up.
‘Come in,’ he said.
Agnes entered and curtseyed. ‘The constable is here.’
‘I will speak with him. Stay here with your mistress.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let nobody else into this room.’
‘I will not.’
Nicholas crossed to the door. Emilia got up and tried to go after him. He restrained her gently and shook his head.
‘Not now. Take your leave of him at another time.’
***
George Dart could not believe his ears. Sitting in Lawrence Firethorn’s house, he was actually being praised for once. The lowliest and most misused member of Westfield’s Men was being congratulated on his performance by the greatest actor in London. The humiliation in Bankside was now being followed by acclaim in Shoreditch. It was all too much for him. Dart became light-headed and almost keeled over. Owen Elias was just in time to catch him.
‘The lad is tired, Lawrence,’ he said. ‘Rightly so.’
‘Yes,’ added Firethorn. ‘You have done a worthy deed this night, George, and it has exhausted you. Go home, boy. Sleep in the knowledge that you have rendered Westfield’s Men a wondrous service.’
‘Is that it, Master Firethorn?’
‘Your bed awaits you.’
‘Will I have to play the part of his son again?’
‘That little drama is done.’
He escorted the assistant stagekeeper to the door and showed him out into the street before returning to his other guest. Firethorn was delighted with the progress that they had made even though Maggs still had to be confronted. At least, they now knew where to find him. Lucy had more than repaid the money that Elias had spent on her.
Left alone together, the two men could now talk more freely. The Welshman gave a much fuller account of the visit to the Red Cock than was tactful in front of George Dart and the actor-manager laughed royally. When it was time for him to take up a tale, however, his mirth evaporated.
‘Lord Westfield has busied himself at Court,’ he said.
‘Without success, I fancy.’
‘Our patron succeeded in getting the information that we needed, Owen, but it brings little joy. Nick Bracewell was right. A more powerful voice than Sir John Tarker’s had to put Edmund in prison.’
‘Say on.’
‘He was arrested at the suit of Lord Hunsdon.’
‘The Lord Chamberlain himself!’
‘No less. Henry Carey, first Baron Hunsdon.’
‘But he is not even mentioned in The Roaring Boy.’
‘That makes no difference,’ said Firethorn. ‘When a member of the Privy Council takes out a suit, the law jumps to obey him. If Hunsdon wanted to arrest your grandmother on a charge of treason, he could do so.’
‘Not without a spade and a peg on his nose. We buried the old woman thirty years ago.’
‘You take my point, Owen.’
‘Indeed, I do.’
‘The injunction against us also serves Hunsdon well. He has his own troupe of players vying with us for fame and advancement. With our company becalmed, Lord Chamberlain’s Men can steal a march on us.’
‘It is iniquitous!’
‘It is politics.’
‘Is there no remedy?’
‘None, sir. Lord Westfield’s writ cannot contest that of a Privy Councillor. When Nick was wrongfully imprisoned in the Counter, our patron had influence enough to haul him out again. With some help from my dear wife, Margery, if I recall aright.’
‘Can he not also free Edmund from gaol?’
‘The Lord Chamberlain is too big a padlock.’
‘How has he become involved, Lawrence?’
‘Because it is to his advantage.’
‘There must be deeper workings than that,’ said Elias. ‘Is Sir John Tarker so close with the Lord Chamberlain that he can demand such large favours from him?’
‘Sir John served under him in the north.’
‘And fawns upon his old commander.’
‘They are both enamoured of jousting.’
‘That gives
them interest in common but not complicity in a murder.’ Elias was mystified. ‘Will a man as eminent as Lord Hunsdon stoop to protect such a guilty man from punishment?’
‘It is not what he is doing, Owen. I doubt if the Lord Chamberlain knows any of the fine detail. A friend makes a demand on him, he obliges. And since there is gain for his own company in our disappearance, he is happy to do so.’
Owen Elias sat back on his chair to scratch his head.
‘Something is missing,’ he decided.
‘Any whiff of hope for us.’
‘A stronger link.’
‘Link?’
‘Between Sir John Tarker and Lord Hunsdon,’ said Elias. ‘I return to Nick’s argument. Sir John is but on the outer fringe of the Court. He would not have the ear of the Lord Chamberlain. Someone else is involved here.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone whose name does have enough substance.’
‘Who, Owen?’
‘Someone who does his devilry behind the scenes.’
‘I agree, man,’ said Firethorn. ‘But who on earth is he!’
‘We must find the rogue.’
***
Sir Godfrey Avenell held the ball-butted pistol up to the light of a candle so that he could study it in detail. He was in his apartment at Greenwich Palace. Delighted with the news he had received, he was equally pleased with the present which Sir John Tarker had just offered him.
‘Thank you,’ he said, fondling the butt. ‘It is a most welcome addition to my collection.’
Tarker sniggered. ‘I can vouch for its efficiency.’
‘Good. I am only interested in weapons of death.’
‘This pistol proved itself but hours ago.’
‘And it is of German design,’ said Avenell. ‘That is a happy coincidence. It lends a symmetry to this adventure.’
‘It put an end to Master Chaloner’s interference and that is all I am concerned with. He came to play the hero and went away as the victim. He will trouble us no more.’
‘What about Mistress Emilia Brinklow?’
‘I will pay my respects to her one of these fine days.’
The Roaring Boy Page 18
