The Roaring Boy nb-7

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 t
o 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.’

  ‘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 feelin
g that he had when he and Emilia were in the ruined laboratory. Sudden movement had frightened the person away on that occasion and so 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.