‘That was not my meaning.’
‘She will lose all heart now.’
‘Can you be certain of that?’ said Avenell, putting the pistol on the table and turning to him. ‘She has Brinklow blood in her, remember. You know how stubborn her brother could be. Thomas would not be moved.’
‘Emilia will be. Chaloner was her right arm.’
‘She still has a left one to hold you at bay.’
‘Not for long,’ said Tarker. ‘I am too used to having my own way to be baulked. It is only a question of time.’
‘You may have met your match in her.’ Avenell flicked the matter from his mind. ‘We have both had a good day. You have removed the largest thorn in our flesh and I have done excellent business. What more could we ask?’
‘The position of Queen’s Champion.’
‘That is beyond even my gift!’
‘I wish to earn it, not be granted it as a boon.’
‘Shine in combat and it may one day be yours.’
‘I have no peer in the saddle.’
Avenell grinned. ‘No man wears more expensive armour, I know that. Be worthy of it and I will forget the cost.’ He picked up the pistol again. ‘This weapon has a deadly voice but it lacks the beauty of a lance. You should have killed Chaloner in a joust. There would have been a poetry in that.’
‘He is gone,’ said Tarker. ‘Why care by what means? Master Chaloner’s brains are hanging out and all is well.’
‘Not quite, sir. You are remiss.’
‘How so?’
‘I called for the name of an author.’
‘That is in hand.’
‘The Roaring Boy was too sharp a piece for comfort. Find the man who wrote it and silence his tongue as well.’
‘Master Hoode is my assistant here.’
‘He has revealed his co-author?’
‘He will do in the morning,’ said Tarker with another snigger. ‘I used your name with the Lord Chamberlain to secure another favour. He was quick to oblige you.’
‘So I should hope. We have always been close friends.’
‘He has arranged for Master Hoode to have a meeting.’
‘With whom?’
‘Someone who is practised in the art of digging the truth out of even the deepest shafts. He is the ablest miner in London and uses only the sharpest pick.’
‘Topcliffe!’
‘You approve?’
Sir Godfrey Avenell smirked. ‘The perfect choice.’
***
Even the most delicious food could not have tempted Edmund Hoode to eat. The name which the keeper had dropped into his ear was like a slow poison, working its way into his brain to paralyze his body and deprive it of all appetite. As the night wore on, he sat hunched up on the floor in the position he had occupied for several hours, wondering what he had done to bring such affliction down upon himself, vowing that he would never again write a play of any kind and wishing that he had been more regular in his devotions. Prayer was his last resort but he was so out of practise in communing with the Almighty that he could find neither the right words nor the appropriate tone. The Marshalsea was truly punishing his spiritual just as much as his theatrical misdemeanours. He felt humbled.
Richard Topcliffe! The name was an act of torture in itself. What appalling crime had Hoode committed that required the intervention of such a vile man? Topcliffe was the most feared and odious government official in England. Taken into the service of Lord Burghley, he made his grisly reputation by the systematic and merciless torture of Roman Catholics, breaking the bones of his victims for gratuitous pleasure and squeezing confessions out of them along with large amounts of their blood. Innocence was no bulwark against Topcliffe. An hour at the mercy of his gruesome instruments could have even the most blameless of people pleading guilty to the blackest of crimes.
This was the man who had sent for Edmund Hoode. The fact that the playwright had been invited to Topcliffe’s house made the prospect even worse. The interrogator so dedicated himself to the finer points of his work that he had a torture chamber built in his own home. Those rare few who resisted the rack and thumb-screws in the Tower were introduced to deeper realms of suffering in the privacy of his abode. Topcliffe was a one-man Inquisition.
Hoode was not a brave man. The wonderful speeches he had written for his martial heroes on the stage were mere empty words now. He could not hold out against any form of torment let alone that applied by a master of the art. The whirligig of time brought hideous changes. On Saturday, he had been the harmless co-author of The Roaring Boy, proud of its qualities as a play and committed to its nobler purpose. His infatuation with Emilia Brinklow had given the whole venture a sense of elation. That abruptly vanished. On Sunday, he was locked in a stinking cell at the Marshalsea before being handed over to a cruel monster who preyed on religious dissidents. What justice was there in this?
The one faint ray of hope came from Westfield’s Men. They would be working assiduously on his behalf. Their efforts had not yet secured his release but they would continue the struggle. The prisoner was not forgotten. His friends loved him. One of them, in particular, would not rest until he had saved Hoode from his dire predicament. What worried him was that Nicholas Bracewell might not be in time.
‘Help me, Nick!’ he murmured. ‘Help me! Soon!’
***
Nicholas Bracewell took charge of the situation at Greenwich in order to expedite matters. The local constable was a willing and good-hearted man but quite unequal to the task which had been thrust upon him. Minions of the law were not known for their efficiency even in London. Their provincial counterparts were even less equipped to deal with any crime of a serious nature. The plodding incompetence of the constable at least proved something to Nicholas. Even with the help of his two assistants, roused from their beds to join in the latest investigation, the man could never have solved the murder of Thomas Brinklow. Their success must have been engineered by someone else. This trio of law officers would need a week even to begin their pursuit of the killers, let alone to make an arrest.
The book holder lapsed into his customary role. He cued in the constable to take a statement from the manservant who found the body on the doorstep, then he prompted the former to ask the relevant questions. Nicholas himself gave a succinct and straightforward statement, omitting all mention of the deductions he had already made. The murder of Simon Chaloner involved complexities that were far beyond the capacity of the three men to understand. A surgeon was summoned to examine the dead man and to pronounce an interim verdict on the nature of his death, then Simon Chaloner was removed to the crypt of the nearby church. There, at least, he would be accorded the respect due to the deceased.
After a lengthy and wholly unproductive search of the immediate area, the law officers suspended their enquiry and went home with their lanterns. There would be much further questioning in the morning when sworn statements would need to be given to the local magistrate but there was nothing more to be done that night. Nicholas saw the men off the premises and wondered how they had ever been selected to represent law and order in Greenwich. Their inadequacy brought one blessing. It enabled him to shield Emilia Brinklow from any form of questioning. Instead of taking a statement from the person who knew Simon Chaloner best, and who might therefore give them the most accurate and useful information, they accepted Nicholas’s explanation that she had taken to her bed in a state of shock and must on no account be disturbed.
The situation compelled him to stay in Greenwich. He would first acquaint Emilia with his decision, then collect his horse and ride to the nearest inn. As he walked back to the house in the moonlight, however, he became aware that he was being watched. It was the same feeling that he had when he and Emilia were in the ruined laboratory. Sudden movement had frightened the person away on that occasion and s
o he adopted a different approach. When he heard the rustle of bushes off to his right, he did not lunge off in their direction. He simply strolled past and went around the house, pretending to walk towards the stables but ducking into the first doorway that became available.
Stealthy footsteps came after him. Nicholas slipped his dagger into his hand and waited until a figure loomed up out of the darkness. He pounced quickly, pushing the man against a wall and holding the dagger to his throat.
‘Do not harm me, sir!’ cried a voice.
‘Who are you?’
‘Valentine the gardener.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I sleep here, sir.’
‘In the open?’
‘On warm nights like tonight.’
‘Why were you creeping up on me?’ demanded Nicholas.
‘To speak with you, sir,’ said Valentine. ‘Search me, if you wish. I am not armed. I want to help.’
Nicholas ran a hand over the man’s body to feel for weapons but found none. Taking his dagger from the other’s throat, he pulled the gardener out into the moonlight to take a closer look at his face. The repulsive visage was split by its disgusting grin. Nicholas remembered the man and held the point of the dagger on him again.
‘You have eavesdropped on me before,’ he accused.
‘It was not deliberate, sir.’
‘Whose spy are you?’
‘Nobody’s, I swear it. I could not help hearing.’
‘How much did they pay you to betray your mistress?’
‘Heaven forfend!’ said Valentine, bursting into tears and clutching at his sleeve. ‘I would not hurt her for the world. She and her brother have been kind to me. A man with a face like mine does not find work easily. Master Brinklow was my friend. I worshipped him and his dear sister. Please believe me, sir.’
The plea was evidently sincere. Nicholas sheathed his dagger and took pity on the man. He gave the latter a moment to recover before he continued.
‘You wished to speak with me?’ he said.
‘If I may, sir.’
‘But you do not even know who I am.’
‘You are a friend of this family and that is enough for me. I saw the way you took control this night. I watched you deal with those foolish constables. You are Master Bracewell and I want to help you all I can.’
‘How?’
‘I heard them come.’
‘Them?’
‘Dragging the dead body.’
Nicholas grabbed him by the arms. ‘You saw them?’
‘No, sir. I was too late.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘Voices only. Then the horses galloping off.’
‘These voices. What did they say?’
‘I do not know, sir. The language was unknown to me.’
‘Foreigners?’
‘Deep and gruff.’
‘Can you you remember no words at all?’
‘None, sir. Except “smell.” They were in a hurry. One of them kept saying “smell” or something much like it.’
‘Could it have been “schnell”?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Indeed, it could. Say it again.’
‘Schnell. Schnell.’
‘That was it, sir!’ said Valentine. ‘What language?’
‘German.’
‘Why should two Germans kill poor Master Chaloner?’
Nicholas said nothing. He was quite certain that the men were only delivering the corpse of someone who had been murdered elsewhere by another hand. Their nationality was an important clue, however, and he took due note of it.
‘I wish I could tell you more,’ said Valentine.
‘You have been most helpful and I thank you for that.’ His tone became much sterner. ‘But that does not excuse your eavesdropping. Why did you listen to me when I talked with Mistress Brinklow earlier in the ruins of the laboratory?’
‘I did not, sir.’
‘You admitted it only two minutes ago.’
‘I said I overheard you by accident. But not today. It was when you first came to Greenwich. You and your friend talked in the arbour with the mistress and Master Chaloner.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Caught nearby and forced to listen.’
‘Why did you not discover yourself and leave?’
‘It would have thrown suspicion on me, sir,’ said the gardener. ‘Once I had heard a little, I had to hear all. Besides, sir, I was interested. Master Brinklow was like a father to me. I mourn him every day.’
Nicholas warmed to the man. Disfigurement was only skin deep. Valentine was a loyal and compassionate man underneath his repellent exterior. He could yet be of more help.
‘Why do you sometimes sleep in the garden?’ he said.
‘I like it, Master Bracewell. I am at peace here.’
‘There must be another reason.’
Valentine grew restless. ‘I’d blush to acknowledge it.’
‘Why?’
‘Come, sir, you are a man. You may guess at it.’
Nicholas was surprised. ‘This concerns a woman, then?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the other, strangely bashful. ‘Not that the woman in question knows anything about it. Nor must she or all is lost. I’ll say no more unless you keep my secret.’
‘The matter will go no further.’
‘Then hear her name.’ The grin broadened. ‘Agnes.’
‘The maidservant?’
‘As fine a piece of flesh as any in Greenwich.’
‘You and she have some…understanding?’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Valentine with bitterness. ‘She looks at my ugliness and blames me for it. I am never allowed near her. Agnes goes out of her way to abuse me. Why, only today she caught me near the window of the parlour and chided me for trying to listen to your conversation within.’
‘Mistress Brinklow and I?’
‘Agnes chased me off down the garden.’
‘Then what did she do?’
‘I have no idea.’
Nicholas did. It was conceivable that the maidservant had cleared Valentine away from the vantage point outside the window so that she could take it up herself. If she had overheard the conversation in the parlour, she would have known that they moved on to the laboratory. Someone had been listening to them in the bushes. Since it had not been the gardener, it may well have been Agnes. She had always been in the vicinity on his previous visit to the house. When he and Hoode had first arrived, the maidservant had actually been in the arbour with Emilia.
‘It is Agnes who keeps you in the garden at night?’
‘Yes, sir. I cannot but be fond of her.’
‘Even though she rails at you.’
‘That is the fault of my face and not her temper.’
‘You are very forgiving.’
‘All I want is to see her now again,’ said Valentine in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘To catch her unawares at some simple task. Opening her window, closing her curtains, even just blowing out her candle. In those moments—though Agnes will never know—she is mine.’
‘Where is her chamber?’
‘At the top of the house. I see her from the garden.’
‘I cannot think she would enjoy your surveillance.’
‘What harm does it do?’ He plucked at Nicholas’s sleeve and let out a chuckle. ‘I watched her window for a whole month once. She did the same thing every night bar Fridays.’
‘What was different about those?’
‘She did not sleep in her room. Or if she did, she entered it in darkness and came not to the window. Why do the same thing six nights a week and not the seventh?’
‘Haply, she was released f
rom service on Fridays.’
‘No question of that, sir. It is one of her busiest days with Saturday even more so. We work a full week here, sir. Sunday morning is our only time of rest and part of that must be spent in church.’
Nicholas was fascinated by the information. The insight into the weird emotional life of Valentine had started a line of thought which led in only one direction. If there was a spy in the household, the maidservant was best placed to perform the office.
‘Thank you, Valentine,’ he said. ‘I am glad we met.’
A grim chuckle. ‘Nobody has ever said that before.’
‘Tell nobody else what you have told me.’
‘I must ask the same of you, Master Bracewell. This is my domain out here. I stalk it like a cat. Do not take it away from me, sir. It is all I have.’
Nicholas nodded. He had no reason to rob the gardener of anything, especially as Valentine had helped him. They shook hands to seal their bargain and parted.
***
Emilia Brinklow was dogged by fatigue but kept awake by remorse. The murder of Simon Chaloner was devastating. Coming as it did in the wake of the attack on the play, it completely disoriented her. She did not know what to do or where to go next. Agnes sat with her in the parlour and tried to offer some words of comfort but they fell on deaf ears. All that Emilia could hear was the fearful thud on the front door which had announced the arrival of Chaloner’s corpse.
Guilt coursed through her like molten lead. She blamed herself for his death. But for her, he would never have been drawn into the long and fretful search for justice with regard to her brother’s murder. Chaloner had now joined Thomas Brinklow on a premature slab. Emilia believed that it was all her fault, that she should somehow have prevented him from taking such precipitate action against an enemy far stronger than him. She even wished that she had agreed to marry him sooner instead of offering him conditions. Her anguish was proof against all solace.
There was a tap on the door and it opened to admit the head of Nicholas Bracewell. She sat up with a start.
‘Have they gone?’ she asked.
‘Their enquiries are over for tonight,’ he said, coming into the room. ‘I made sure that they did not trouble you.’
The Roaring Boy Page 19
