Nicholas was thrilled. ‘By all, it’s good to see you!’
They exchanged embraces of welcome, then compared news. Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias had not tarried in the Isle of Dogs. The killing of Maggs made their own presence at once unnecessary and dangerous. Survival was the only law that existed in that human jungle. They left while they still could and were ferried across the Thames on a barge with their horses. Who despatched the naked Maggs with such brutal finality they could not tell but they felt that Freshwell’s partner in crime had somehow met his just deserts.
Nicholas took them into the house and introduced them to Emilia Brinklow. She had expected to meet the whole company after the performance of The Roaring Boy but she had been hustled away from the fiasco by Simon Chaloner and had forgone that pleasure. She was clearly honoured to meet Lawrence Firethorn, an actor whose work she revered, and she delighted Owen Elias as well by complimenting him on a number of performances. Emilia had obviously been a keen follower of the fortunes of Westfield’s Men for some time. For their part, they were charmed by her grace and composure. Firethorn was so taken with her that he even started to make flirtatious remarks. Nicholas cut short this standard reaction to female admiration by telling him about the second murder. The newcomers were duly outraged.
‘Here on the doorstep?’ exclaimed Firethorn.
‘Slaughtered by the same hand,’ decided Elias.
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Solve one murder, solve both.’
He saw that Emilia was sinking back into her grief once more and he quickly moved on to another topic. She rallied within minutes and remembered the duties of a hostess. Sensing that the men wished to be alone, she went off to the kitchen to order refreshment for the guests and to give them the chance to talk more freely.
‘Where did you spend the night, Nick?’ said Firethorn.
‘Here at the house.’
Elias chuckled. ‘We can see why you did not rush to get back to London. A warm bed here is better than a cold lodging in Shoreditch.’
‘Mistress Brinklow invited me to stay.’
‘Say no more, Nick,’ advised Firethorn. ‘We are green with envy already. On to our discoveries in the Isle of Dogs.’
‘You found Maggs?’ said Nicholas.
‘Found him and lost him.’
Firethorn recounted the tale and the book holder was spellbound. Everything he heard tallied with what he himself had found out or suspected. Between the three of them, they had made substantial progress and they at last knew the name of the man who was the true author of all the evils that had beset the Brinklow household.
‘Sir Godfrey Avenell!’ said Elias. ‘He’s worse than Freshwell and Maggs together. At least, they were honest rogues. He hides behind his rank.’
‘I’d like to meet up with the knave!’ said Firethorn.
‘You will get your chance,’ promised Nicholas. ‘Both he and Sir John Tarker are close by in Greenwich Palace. We three must find some way to smoke the two of them out. And we may not do that until we have first uncovered the deepest mystery of them all.’
‘The deepest?’ asked Elias.
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why was Thomas Brinklow killed?’
‘The play explains that,’ said Firethorn. ‘He was the victim of a malignant enemy. Sir John Tarker hated him.’
‘It is not enough,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Sir John would do nothing without the approval of Sir Godfrey Avenell. He is the key to all this. Why did he want Thomas Brinklow dead?’
‘Were Sir Godfrey and Master Brinklow also at each other’s throats?’ suggested Elias.
‘Far from it. They were good friends. They even dined in each other’s company at the palace. Indeed, it was there that Master Brinklow was introduced to the lady who was to become his wife. And who brought the two of them together?’
Even as he asked the question, Nicholas caught a glimpse of an answer he had never even considered before. It made him revalue the whole situation. Before he could share his thoughts with his friends, Emilia returned with the promise of food and drink. They rose courteously from their seats and insisted that she rejoin them. When all four were once again seated, Nicholas explored an area which had been brought to light by the visit to the Isle of Dogs.
‘When you showed me your brother’s laboratory,’ he said, ‘you spoke of his papers having been destroyed.’
‘Why, yes. In the fire.’
‘What sort of papers were they?’
‘Drawings, calculations, inventions.’
‘None survived?’
‘None at all, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘Thomas was a careful man, as I told you. His papers were like gold to him. He kept them locked away at all times out of fear.’
‘Of what?’
‘Theft by his rivals, jealous of his success.’
‘Only rivals?’ She looked perplexed. ‘Was your brother ever commissioned to work for Sir Godfrey Avenell, the Master of the Armoury?’
‘He was. On more than one occasion.’
‘What was the nature of those commissions?’
‘I cannot say. Thomas did not discuss his work with me. I explained that to you. All I know is that he paid regular visits to the workshops at the palace to consult with Sir Godfrey. And then those visits stopped.’
‘Why?’ asked Firethorn.
‘Thomas would not tell me.’
‘Did you have no inkling of your own?’
‘None, Master Firethorn. It was not my place.’
Nicholas was curious. ‘How soon after these regular visits broke off did your brother meet his death?’
‘Less than a month.’
The three men were exercised by the same thought. Thomas Brinklow was not killed at the behest of a spiteful enemy who lusted after the former’s sister. He was removed out of the way so that his papers could fall into the hands of Sir Godfrey Avenell. Something in among those drawings and calculations was a sufficient motive for murder.
Nicholas Bracewell spoke for all three of them.
‘Have you nothing of your brother’s work to show us?’
‘Go to Deptford and you may see many examples of it,’ she said. ‘The royal dockyards worship the name of Thomas Brinklow. They will show you his navigational instruments.’
‘I hoped for something here in the house.’
‘It was all consumed in the fire.’
‘Some tiny item must surely survive,’ he continued. ‘He lent his skills to the design of this beautiful house. Did he not also create something to use or display in it?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Except one trifling gift for me.’
‘Gift?’
‘It is hardly worth mention, Nicholas. I would certainly not offer it as an example of Thomas’s genius. He was a man who could invent telescopes to read the heavens and devices to plumb the depth of the sea. A simple knife is but a poor epitaph for him.’
‘Knife?’
‘He gave it to me to unseal letters.’
‘May we see it, please?’
‘If you wish, but what interest can it hold for you?’
Nicholas was adamant. ‘Send for it, I pray.’
‘I’ll fetch it myself directly,’ she volunteered.
In the short time it took her to get the knife, the three friends had agreed on the likely motive for the first murder. It was grounded in the scientific and engineering experiments of Thomas Brinklow. He had been killed for his papers. Failure to steal them had led Freshwell to the gallows with his tongue cut out and Maggs to the Isle of Dogs. What was so important about the mathematician’s work that justified such a wholesale waste of human life?
Nicholas Bracewell was made aware of another anomaly.
‘Maggs told you that they found the place on fire?’
‘Yes, Nick,’ said Elias. ‘It was not their work.’
‘Whose then was it? Someone started that blaze.’
Emilia came back into the room bearing a long, thin knife with a pearl handle. At first glance, it looked no more than an attractive implement for domestic use but Nicholas had second thoughts when he handled it. The knife was unusually light in his grasp and gave off a peculiar sheen. He passed it to Firethorn who was quite intrigued.
‘Your brother made this for you?’ he asked.
‘In his workshop.’
‘From what metal?’
‘He did not say.’
‘It is lighter by far than any knife I have seen,’ said Nicholas, taking it back into his own hands. ‘Yet its balance is perfect and its edge well-honed. May I test it against my dagger? I am loathe to damage it if it is the only keepsake you have of your brother.’
‘This house is keepsake enough,’ she said, realising that the knife might after all hold significance. ‘Do as you think fit with it, Nicholas.’
He slipped his dagger from its sheath and used it to clip the blade of the knife sharply. The latter withstood the blow without a blemish. Nicholas hit the blade much harder next time but it was still equal to the test. He passed the dagger to Owen Elias, then held the knife in front of him by its handle and its tip so that it lay horizontal. The Welshman lifted the dagger and smashed its blade down against the target.
‘Aouw!’ he yelled, shaking his hand. ‘I have jarred my wrist. It was like striking against solid stone.’
Nicholas examined the two weapons. There was a deep nick in the blade of his dagger but the knife was unscathed.
‘Germans,’ he murmured.
‘Speak up, Nick,’ ordered Firethorn.
‘Germans. The two men who brought Master Chaloner here last night spoke to each other in German.’
‘This is Greenwich,’ said Elias, ‘and full of musicians from the palace. They come from all nationalities and you may hear a dozen languages in the streets. French, Italian, Dutch, Portuguese. Even German, I daresay.’
‘They were no musicians, Owen. But armourers.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because the best craftsmen in Europe were brought to the palace to make armour in its workshops. Most of them were German. They are experts at their work. They know how to bend the finest metals to their will. The finest—and the strongest.’
He held the knife out on the palm of his hand.
***
When Topcliffe lifted the poniard from the table, Edmund Hoode went weak at the knees. Wrists manacled, he had been hauled out of the Marshalsea and taken by prison cart to the house of the interrogator. Richard Topcliffe was seated behind a long table when the prisoner was brought in by the two gaolers. He made Hoode stand directly in front of him so that he could appraise him in minute detail, searching—or so the playwright feared—for the points of greatest weakness and vulnerability about his anatomy. As Topcliffe picked up the little dagger, Hoode feared that it would be used to cut a first morsel of flesh but his host reached instead for one of the large red apples in a bowl. Slicing it in two, he looked up quizzically at his guest.
‘Remove the manacles,’ he said.
‘We have orders to keep him restrained,’ said one of the gaolers. ‘He may be desperate.’
Topcliffe was curt. ‘I will not have the fellow trussed up in irons before me. Remove them without delay and then remove yourselves.’ The two men hesitated. ‘Master Hoode will not try to run away. I can vouch for him.’
The playwright had neither the strength nor the will-power to take to his heels. He was grateful to have the manacles unlocked and pulled off the wrists that they were chafing so badly but he would have preferred his two companions to remain. As the gaolers left the room, he hoped that they would linger nearby. Richard Topcliffe was the last man in the world with whom he cared to be left alone.
His host bit into the apple and chewed it slowly. He was much older than Hoode had anticipated, perhaps sixty, and his grey hair had an almost saintly glow. The doublet and hose of black satin came in stark contrast to the whiteness of his face. His body was lean, his shoulders rounded, his hands covered in knotted veins. Hoode found it difficult to believe that a man who looked like a retired bishop could possess such an insatiable appetite for cruelty.
Then he looked into Topcliffe’s eyes. They were dark whirlpools of malice that seemed to contain the frothing blood of his countless victims. Hoode felt as if he were staring at an evil force of nature. No further torture was needed to make him submit. Those eyes caused pain enough.
Topcliffe’s voice was like a poniard between his ribs.
‘Welcome to my home, Master Hoode.’
‘Thank you,’ gulped the other.
‘I have been asked to speak with you in private.’ He swallowed a piece of apple and sat back. ‘How do you like the Marshalsea, sir?’
‘I do not.’
‘Are the food and company not to your liking?’
‘Indeed, they are not.’
‘Then let us see if we can improve your accommodation. If you help me, I will see what I may do to assist you. I do not like to see you suffer so.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘And carry such an abominable stink.’ He glanced down at a sheaf of papers in front of him and read something that made him click his tongue in admonition. ‘You have been reckless, Master Hoode. Seditious libel is no light matter.’
‘But I am innocent of the crime!’ cried Hoode.
‘That is for me to determine.’
‘No libel was intended or employed, Master Topcliffe.’
‘Then why are you here?’
Topcliffe raised a mocking eyebrow to silence Hoode. The playwright saw the sheer hopelessness of his position. If someone in authority had brought a charge against him, it was lunacy to imagine that the interrogator would take the playwright’s part. Richard Topcliffe did not make impartial judgements. Those who were sent to him were already presumed guilty and thus fit for extreme punishment.
The old man bit off another piece of apple.
‘What is your opinion of pain, Master Hoode?’
‘Pain?’
‘Have you ever considered its nature or purpose?’
‘No, sir.’
‘A poet like you? A man whose profession must make him contemplate all the mysteries of existence? Yet you have never studied the philosophy of pain?’ He swallowed his food and gave a faint smile. ‘It has been my one true passion in life. Suffering is a most rewarding subject of study. If you can control and inflict pain, you have unlimited power. That is the great difference between us, Master Hoode. You have devoted your life to giving pleasure while I have dedicated mine to administering pain.’
Hoode was given a few minutes to weigh the import of the words he had just heard. The playwright was already in agony. He and the interrogator had indeed operated in two opposing worlds. What terrified him was the thought that they might now be united in one with Hoode providing pleasure to a fiend who revelled in pain. He shuddered as he felt the old man’s gaze raking his body again. There was no escape.
‘I always find it in the end,’ said Topcliffe.
‘Find what, sir?’
‘The truth. No matter where a man may hide it, I will root it out. Sometimes I have to look in their heart and sometimes I have to prise open their brains. I will even lay bare a man’s soul in order to get at it.’ He stood up and came around the table. ‘Where do you keep the truth?’
‘About what, Master Topcliffe?’
‘This play of yours, The Roaring Boy.’
‘It is not my play,’ insisted Hoode. ‘I was merely the carpenter who made the necessary repairs. Another hand wrote the p
iece. Look for him.’
‘I do, sir. That is why you are here.’
‘But I do not know his name!’
‘You will remember it in time.’
‘The author preferred to remain anonymous. I have no idea who he was or why he wrote what he did. I will swear that on the Bible, sir.’
‘They all say that.’ Topcliffe grinned. ‘Follow me.’
He walked to the end of the room and opened a door. Hoode went after him with reluctant footsteps and found himself in a passageway that led to a flight of steps. Topcliffe went down them with his victim in tow. They came into a long, low, stone-floored chamber that was lit by altar candles. One glance at the contents of the room was enough to make Hoode’s stomach heave.
In the middle of the room stood a large, solid, wooden contraption with all manner of straps, spikes and ropes attached to it. Stout handles on all four sides of the rack allowed it to be tightened inexorably in all directions. Other devices were ranged around the walls. These further refinements of torture included iron bridles to fit over the head and deep into the mouth, an array of thumbscrews and a wooden coffin lined with razor-sharp teeth that could bite ever deeper into the flesh of its occupant when its sides were beaten with hammers. Red-hot tongs and pokers nestled in the brazier that stood in a corner.
It was not just the sight of these objects that made Hoode retch. The atmosphere in the room was unbearable. The smell of suffering was almost tangible. Richard Topcliffe thrived on it but his guest was inhaling the reek of a charnel-house.
The interrogator indicated the rack with immense pride.
‘Have you ever seen such a wonderful machine?’ he said. ‘It is my own invention. Compared to this, the one at the Tower is child’s play. Do you see what I have done here? Every part of a man’s body can feel a separate agony. Look at this device for the hands, Master Hoode. You will be able to appreciate its cunning.’
‘Will I?’ Hoode murmured.
‘You spoke of your carpentry on a play. Well, here is carpentry of a much higher order. Each finger slots into its own individual hole, as you may see. I simply turn this one handle and the subtlety of my design becomes apparent.’ He was almost drooling now. ‘All ten fingers are simultaneously crushed and a tongue is invariably loosened.’
The Roaring Boy Page 22
