‘God help him!’ cried James Ingram, speaking for all of them. ‘Has Lawrence been stabbed in the back as well?’
‘I can only tell you what I know, James. He’s not here.’
‘Where else could he be?’
‘I wish that I knew.’
‘Only death would keep him away from a rehearsal.’
‘Or an attack of pox,’ said Gill, still unwilling to believe the worst. ‘I think that Lawrence wandered off into the stews and lost track of time.’
‘He would never do that, Barnaby,’ said Hoode mournfully. ‘The ugly truth has to be faced. He’s disappeared. The likelihood is that he was ambushed.’
‘Never!’ shouted Owen Elias. ‘An army would not dare to ambush him in the middle of a town. He’d fight them all off, and create such a din in doing so that there would be scores of witnesses to tell us what occurred.’
‘There are none,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve spoken to dozens of people.’
‘Are they all blind? They must have seen something.’
‘If only they had, Owen!’
The Welshman squared his shoulders. ‘I think we should go out in search of him,’ he said firmly. ‘Let’s turn Dover upside down until we find him.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Ingram.
‘Why stand here and do nothing?’ asked Frank Quilter, another of the actors. ‘We should be out there now, looking for Lawrence.’
‘Wait,’ said Nicholas, holding up both hands. ‘Do not be so rash. We do not even know if Lawrence is still in Dover or if – God willing – he’s still alive. The question we must ask ourselves is what he would want us to do.’
‘Rescue him!’ asserted Elias.
‘Yes,’ said Quilter. ‘And punish those who dared to touch him.’
Ingram was keen to leave. ‘Let’s track him down,’ he urged.
‘Nicholas has already tried to do that,’ argued Hoode, ‘and we all know how thoroughly he would have gone about the business. Bear this in mind. We came to Dover to display our work. Are we going to let someone prevent us from doing that?’
‘How can we perform any play without Lawrence?’ asked Gill.
‘How can we perform one without Barnaby Gill?’ countered Nicholas. ‘It is simple. We hire Giddy Mussett as a substitute. And when Giddy is removed from our ranks? How do we manage then? By changing our plays to make room for a clown with a broken leg. There’s always a way out.’
‘Not this time, Nick,’ sighed Ingram.
‘It’s hopeless,’ decided Elias. ‘Who could possibly replace Lawrence?’
Nicholas smiled. ‘You could, Owen.’
‘Me?’
‘Your brain is agile enough to learn the part in time.’
‘I’m no match for Lawrence.’
‘You like to think that you are,’ said Nicholas, ‘and this is your chance to prove it. For whatever reason, someone is determined to drive us from the stage. They thought to do it by killing Giddy Mussett but they failed. Their next target, as it seems, is our leading actor. Are we going to let them achieve their end?’
‘No,’ said Quilter. ‘We’ll get Lawrence back from them.’
‘All in good time, Frank. First, we must make a decision. Do we abandon the performance here tomorrow? Or do we honour our commitment and show that Westfield’s Men will not be frightened out of their occupation?’
There were no immediate answers. Everyone needed a few moments to reflect on the dilemma facing them. Their first impulse was to institute a search but Nicholas’s words made them pause. There was no certainty that Firethorn was still alive. If someone had been clever enough to lead the actor astray, they would know how to conceal his whereabouts. Combing the town of Dover might relieve their sense of frustration but it would make it virtually impossible to present A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady on the following afternoon. Forced to make changes to their play, they needed some serious rehearsal. Nicholas suggested a compromise.
‘Let’s divide our forces,’ he said calmly. ‘The scenes we have to work on most are those that involve Lackwit and Bedlam. In short, only half of you will be called upon this afternoon. While we stay here,’ he went on, indicating Quilter, ‘Frank will lead a search of the town. I’ll teach him the best way to do that. This covers both our needs. Dover will have a play to watch tomorrow and Lawrence will not be abandoned.’
‘We’ll find him,’ said Quilter confidently.
‘I hope so, Frank,’ added Hoode. ‘But if you fail, the rest of us will lend our eyes to the search when we’ve finished here at the Guildhall. I say that Nick has hit on the answer to our woes. Is everyone agreed?’
‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘Nobody will scare me from the stage.’
‘Are we all of the same mind?’ asked Nicholas.
‘No,’ said Gill, waving a dissentient palm.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I do not think the play is possible without Lawrence.’
‘It is, if Owen takes his part.’
‘But who will take Owen’s part?’ said Gill, nodding towards the Welshman. ‘He was to have been my legs, wheeling Bedlam around the stage. Everyone else has a role of his own to play. Nobody is left, Nick. How can we even contemplate a performance when I have no strong hands to push me to and fro?’
‘I had already thought of that,’ said Nicholas.
‘There’s no remedy.’
‘Yes, there is.’
‘Who will be in charge of my wheelbarrow on stage?’
Nicholas put a hand to his chest. ‘I will,’ he said.
The rehearsal went badly. Unnerved by the loss of their manager and confused by a change to the play’s main character, they stumbled from one scene to another. Elias felt his way uncertainly into his new role, Gill was at his most petulant and George Dart, deputising for Nicholas whenever the latter was on stage, had great difficulty following the play from the copy that he held in his trembling hands. Too quiet and too late, his prompts were often directed at the wrong actor. It took Nicholas almost three hours to establish a semblance of control over A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady. His own role as Bedlam’s companion was the only one played with a measure of confidence. He wheeled the clown around the stage at breakneck speed, drawing loud protests from a dizzy Gill yet managing to produce from everyone else the few laughs of the afternoon.
When the long catalogue of mistakes finally came to an end, Elias was agitated.
‘That was truly a nightmare!’
‘Our minds were on other things,’ said Nicholas.
‘We cannot present a play in that state.’
‘Nor will we, Owen. You have a whole evening to master the part and there’ll be long hours at our disposal in the morning. At the next rehearsal, you’ll see a new play.’
‘It wants a new cast as well,’ said Elias bitterly, ‘for none of us was worthy of it. Least of all,’ he added, raising his voice so that Dart could hear him, ‘an ass of a book holder who held the book upside down and who could not tell the difference between a prompt and a whisper.’
‘I crave your pardon,’ whispered Dart.
‘George gave of his best,’ said Nicholas defensively.
‘But I achieved the worst results.’
‘You should have let him push the wheelbarrow instead,’ decided Elias.
‘No, no!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘Spare me that. It calls for someone with a strong pair of hands. Nicholas at least kept me on the stage. George is so weak and nervous that he’d have tipped me out of the wheelbarrow.’
Dart was distraught. ‘I cannot stop thinking of Master Firethorn,’ he said.
‘It is so with the rest of us, George,’ said Nicholas softly.
When they had stored everything away, they were ready to leave the Guildhall. Nicholas sent the four apprentices back to the Lion in the company of Edmund Hoode. Wheeled along by Dart, the peevish Gill went with them. The clown was as disturbed as any of them by the disappearance of Firethorn and his fears expressed themselves in the fo
rm of a heightened irritability. Dart suffered a verbal whipping every inch of the way back. Nicholas and the others, meanwhile, met up with some of those who had spent the afternoon hunting for the missing man. He could see from the gloomy expressions of James Ingram and Frank Quilter that their search had so far yielded nothing.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Where you told us to go, Nick,’ replied Ingram. ‘We’ve looked under every stone between the Guildhall and the Lion.’
‘Yes,’ said Quilter. ‘We’ve tried all the taverns and ordinaries but nobody remembers seeing Lawrence, and he’s hardly a man you would easily forget. The only place we haven’t tried so far is the harbour.’
‘Owen and I will scour that now,’ resolved Nicholas. ‘You and James can start at the other end of King Street.’
Quilter nodded then set off with Ingram. The others turned in the direction of the harbour. It was early evening and the place was still seething with people. Elias noted the tavern at the edge of the harbour.
‘Let me try my luck in there,’ he said, moving off. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
‘Do not get distracted,’ warned Nicholas.
‘At a time like this, even I can stay sober.’
While his friend strode towards the tavern, Nicholas weaved his way along the crowded wharf. His eyes were everywhere, searching each new face, appraising each building and pausing beside anything that might be construed as a hiding place. He was halfway along the harbour when he noticed the ship he had earlier seen at anchor in the bay. Moored behind a larger vessel, the Mermaid now stood at the quayside. It looked even more neglected at close quarters, its hull in need of attention and its decks in need of a good swabbing. Nicholas felt sorry that his old shipmate could find no better means of employment. John Strood had been evasive when questioned about the Mermaid because he was ashamed of it. After serving under one of the greatest seaman of the day, and sailing around the world with him, Strood was now condemned to routine voyages in a vessel that was as pitiful as the man himself.
Nicholas decided to take a closer look at the ship, walking along the quay from stem to stern then gazing up at the rigging. The Mermaid creaked noisily as it rode on the dark green water. Since there was nobody on deck, he went up the gangplank to explore. Even at its best, the ship had never been anything more than serviceable. It was now approaching the end of its days and Nicholas wondered how much longer it would remain seaworthy. He went across to the open hatch and looked down.
‘Is anyone aboard?’ he called, cupping his hands.
There was no reply. Some of the cargo had already been loaded and covered with a sheet of canvas. Nicholas knelt down to study it. Peeping out from one corner of the canvas was a piece of beautifully carved oak. He wondered what it could be. Before he could even begin to speculate, he heard a harsh voice ring out behind him.
‘You’re trespassing, sir!’ shouted John Strood.
Nicholas rose to his feet and turned. ‘It’s me, John.’
Strood’s manner changed at once. ‘Nick?’ he said in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Inspecting the Mermaid, that’s all.’
‘It will hardly bear inspection.’
‘Curiosity brought me aboard.’
‘There’s little enough to see.’
‘You’re carrying cargo on this voyage.’
‘Yes,’ said Strood. ‘We’re sailing for Boulogne in due course.’
‘Was that furniture I saw in the hold?’
‘No, Nick. Merely some timber that we take to France.’
‘Then it’s timber that’s profited from the attentions of a wood-carver.’
Strood gave a dismissive shrug. ‘One or two pieces, perhaps,’ he said. ‘The rest of it is fit for little else but the fire. But why do we stand here when we might be talking about old times over a tankard of ale? Shall we step across to the tavern?’
‘Another time, John.’
‘Oh, I thought you’d come looking for me.’
‘I will do,’ said Nicholas, ‘I promise you that. But I’m searching for someone else at the moment so you’ll have to excuse me.’ After exchanging a farewell handshake, he stepped off the ship. Something jogged his memory. ‘Boulogne, you say?’
‘We often sail there, Nick.’
‘I thought that Calais was the more usual destination.’
‘It is,’ said Strood, ‘though some ships call at Nieuport, near Ostend, and a few sail to Dieppe. We’ve been to both in our time.’
‘What was the name of the ship that sailed to Calais on the afternoon tide?’
‘That’s something I can’t tell you.’
‘Were you not down here at the harbour?’
‘Yes, Nick,’ said Strood. ‘I was helping to load the cargo. That’s why I know there was no ship to Calais. Two arrived from there but no vessel went out to sea this afternoon.’ He squinted at his friend. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason, John.’
‘Do you intend to go on a voyage yourself?’
Nicholas laughed. ‘Heaven forbid!’ he said. ‘No, my sea-going days are over.’
Owen Elias stayed so long in the tavern, and spoke to so many people, that the landlord told him either to buy a drink or to leave the premises forthwith.
‘I’m searching for a friend,’ explained Elias.
‘Then do so with a tankard of ale in your hand.’
‘Perhaps you remember him.’
‘I only remember customers who pay their way in here,’ said the landlord, a big, bovine character with an unforgiving eye. ‘Now, then, what will you buy?’
‘He was about my height,’ said Elias. ‘Strong of build, handsome of face and wearing a bright green doublet. Ah, yes, and with a black beard that he trims every day out of vanity. In all, a striking man of my own age. Did you see such a person?’
The landlord stroked his chin. ‘I believe that I did, sir.’
‘When?’
‘Earlier on. A well-trimmed black beard, you say? He may still be here.’
‘Where?’
‘Follow me and I’ll show you.’
Elias was too excited to realise that he was being tricked. As soon as they got to the rear of the building, the landlord opened a door and pushed the Welshman through it into a little yard. Before Elias could get back into the tavern, he heard the door being bolted. He controlled the urge to enter by means of the front door so that he could confront the landlord because nothing would be served by a quarrel. Firethorn was clearly not in the tavern and nobody inside it had either seen or heard of him. Elias walked around the side of the tavern in time to meet Nicholas Bracewell.
‘I thought I’d lost you, Owen. What did you learn?’
‘That you should never trust an innkeeper in a seaport.’
‘What happened?’
‘I overstayed my welcome, Nick. And you?’
‘Wherever Lawrence is,’ said Nicholas with a sigh, ‘it’s not here in the harbour.’
‘Then where can he be?’
‘Who knows? He could be miles away.’
Elias was distressed. ‘You think that he could have set sail?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s one fear we can put aside. I spoke to John Strood, an old shipmate of mine. Since the time when Lawrence disappeared, no vessel has left the harbour. He must still be ashore.’
‘Where do we look for him next?’
‘Nowhere, Owen.’
‘We abandon the search?’ said Elias, shocked at the notion. ‘We must never do that until we find Lawrence.’
Nicholas pondered. ‘I think that we are going the wrong way about it,’ he said at length. ‘Instead of looking for him, we should be trying to find the people who are, in all probability, behind his disappearance.’
‘Conway’s Men!’
‘The evidence certainly points at Tobias Fitzgeoffrey.’
‘My sword will point at him when I catch up with the villai
n.’
‘He and his company stay at Walmer, not far from here.’
‘Is that where they’ve taken Lawrence?’
‘We’re not even sure that he was taken anywhere,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘though I can find no other explanation that fits the situation. It’s hard to believe that he would wander off by himself. That means he has either been kidnapped or killed.’ He came to a decision. ‘It’s time to accost Master Fitzgeoffrey. We’ve much to talk about with him.’
‘Let’s straight to the Lion to saddle up. You can take Lawrence’s horse.’
‘Away, then!’
They walked swiftly in the direction of the inn. Elias was fired by a spirit of revenge but Nicholas was considering a more cautious approach. Impatient for action, the Welshman had a hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘What shall we do, Nick?’ he asked.
‘Try to get him on his own.’
‘Do we beat the rogue until we get the truth out of him?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘We question him about an unpaid bill in Maidstone.’
Still tied to his chair, Lawrence Firethorn tried to work out where he was. He listened with great care. The room in which he was guarded by the two men sounded small. As he leant back slightly, Firethorn’s shoulders brushed the wall. His captors seemed to be a yard or so away. When one of them left the room, he took only a few short steps to reach the door. As it opened, Firethorn heard the noise of revelry from below. He decided that he was in the upstairs room of an inn and, since the cries of gulls never ceased outside the window, he knew that he was not far from the harbour. Who had kidnapped him and what did they intend to do with him? How had the messenger got hold of a letter in Lord Westfield’s hand? What would the rest of the company do when they discovered that Firethorn was missing? Why had the man who boasted of killing Giddy Mussett not thrust a dagger into his back as well?
Firethorn was still grappling with the questions when the door opened and footsteps came in. Something was put down on a table then a voice he had not heard before spoke. It was lighter and younger than that of the assassin.
‘This ale will help to pass the time.’
‘I’m sick already of waiting,’ grumbled his companion.
The Vagabond Clown Page 23