The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell insists,’ continued Firethorn. ‘And I always listen to his advice. We need you.’

  ‘I cannot stay, sir.’

  ‘It would keep Will’s memory alive for us.’

  Ruff ran a hand through his grey hair and pondered. It was no easy decision for him to make. He had resigned himself to a course of action and he was not a man who lightly changed his mind. As the clamour went on outside, he tossed another glance towards the window. His old way of life beckoned seductively.

  ‘How much were you paid with Banbury’s Men?’

  ‘Eight shillings a week.’

  ‘Ah!’ Firethorn was checked. He had been ready to offer a wage of seven shillings but something told him the man might be worth the extra money. ‘Very well. I’ll match that.’

  ‘London has not been kind to me,’ said Ruff quietly.

  ‘Give it another chance.’

  ‘I will think it over, sir.’

  Firethorn smiled. He had himself a new hired man.

  Murder caused only a temporary interruption at the Hope and Anchor. Everything was back to normal by the next evening. Fresh rushes hid those which had been stained by Will Fowler’s blood. Beer and wine had already erased the memory from the minds of the regular patrons and they were preoccupied once again with their games, their banter and their vices. The low-ceilinged room was a throbbing cacophony.

  Nicholas Bracewell coughed as he stepped into the smoky atmosphere. When he looked down at the spot where Will Fowler had lain, his heart missed a beat. He crossed quickly to the hostess, who was drawing a pint of sack from a barrel. She was a short, dark, plump woman in her forties with a pockmarked face that was heavily powdered and large, mobile, bloodshot eyes. Her dress was cut low to display an ample bosom and a mole did duty as a beauty spot on one breast.

  She served the customer then turned to Nicholas.

  ‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ Her features clouded as she saw who it was. An already rough voice became even more rasping. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

  ‘I need some help.’

  ‘I told you all I know. So did my customers.’

  ‘A man was killed here last night,’ protested Nicholas.

  ‘You think we don’t know that?’ she retorted vehemently. ‘When the watch and the constables and goodness knows who else come running into the house. We like to keep out of harm’s way down this alley. We don’t want the law to pry into us.’

  ‘Just answer one question,’ said Nicholas patiently.

  ‘Leave us alone, sir.’

  ‘Look, I’ll pay you.’ He dropped coins on to the counter and they were immediately swept up by her flabby hand. ‘That man with the red beard. Samuel Ruff says that he came downstairs.’

  ‘He didn’t lodge here,’ she asserted. ‘He was a stranger.’

  ‘Then he was up there for another reason.’

  The bloodshot eyes stared unblinkingly at him. Nicholas took more money from his purse and handed it over. She leaned forward to thrust her face close to his own.

  ‘I want you out of here in five minutes.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘For good.’

  ‘For good,’ he agreed. ‘Now, who was she?’

  ‘Joan. She has the end room on the first floor.’

  Nicholas did not waste any of his meagre time. Bounding up the stairs, he found himself in a passage that was so narrow his shoulders brushed the walls. Crude sounds of love-making came from rooms where whores were busy earning their income. The stench made Nicholas cough again. Samuel Ruff’s fortunes must have been at a very low ebb to drive him into such an unwholesome place.

  He reached the end room and listened for a moment. No sound came from within. He tapped on the door with his knuckles. There was no answer and so he used more force.

  ‘Come in,’ said a frail voice.

  He opened the door and looked into a tiny room that was lit by one guttering tallow. On the mattress that took up most of the floor space, a young woman was lying in heavy shadow. She seemed to be wearing a shift and was half-covered by a filthy blanket. He peered at her but could only see her in outline.

  ‘Joan?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you want me?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come in properly and close the door,’ she invited in a girlish voice, sitting up. ‘I like visitors.’

  He stepped forward a pace and pulled the door shut. Joan reached for the tallow and held it so that its thin beam shone upon him. She gave a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  ‘Nicholas.’

  ‘You’re a fine, upstanding man, Nicholas. Sit beside me.’

  ‘I came to talk.’

  ‘Of course,’ she soothed. ‘We’ll talk all you want.’

  ‘A man was up here with you last night, Joan.’

  ‘Three, four, maybe five men. I can’t remember.’

  ‘This one was tall with a red beard.’

  Joan stiffened and let out a cry. Putting the candle aside, she wrapped her arms around her body for protection and huddled against the wall. Her voice was trembling now.

  ‘Go away!’ she begged. ‘Get out of here!’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’

  ‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’

  ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘Just go away,’ she whimpered.

  She broke down into frantic sobbing. When Nicholas bent over to comfort her, however, she pushed him away and drew herself into the very corner of the room. He watched the waif-like creature until her fear subsided a little then he spoke gently.

  ‘I need to find him, Joan.’

  ‘Leave me be, sir.’

  ‘He killed a friend of mine. I want him.’

  She curled herself up into a frightened ball and shook her head vigorously. Nicholas held out his purse to her.

  ‘Keep your money!’ she said.

  ‘Listen to me!’ he pressed. ‘My friend was murdered last night by that man with the red beard. I’ll find him no matter how long it takes. Please help me, Joan.’

  She stayed in the shadows as she weighed him up, then she uncurled and sat up again. He crouched down beside her and tried once more to enlist her aid.

  ‘There must be something you can tell me.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ she said ruefully.

  ‘Had you seen him before?’

  ‘Never! And I don’t want to see him again.’

  ‘Did he give you a name?’

  ‘He gave me nothing but rough words, sir. But there is one thing I will always remember about him.’ A shudder went through her. ‘His back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He told me not to touch it, and I didn’t at first. But I like my arms around a man and I couldn’t help it. When my fingers touched his back …’

  ‘What was wrong with it?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Scars. Dozen of fresh scars all over it. Long, thick, raw wounds that made my flesh creep when I felt them.’ A second shudder made her double up. ‘He warned me. He did warn me.’

  ‘What did he do to you, Joan?’

  ‘This.’

  She pulled the shift over her head and tossed it aside, then she lifted the tallow so that its pallid light fell on her. Nicholas blenched. He felt as if he had been kicked in the pit of the stomach. The slim, naked, girlish body was covered in hideous bruises. Thick powder was unable to disguise the swollen face, the split lip and the blackened eyes. There was a telltale lump across the bridge of her nose.

  He understood her fear all too well now. She could scarcely be much more than sixteen. In a fit of rage, her client had beaten her senseless and put years on her. Joan would bear her own scars for the rest of her life.

  Nicholas put the purse into her hands and closed her fingers around it before leaving the room. He had learned something new and revolting about the killer with the red beard. It was not much but it was a start. There had been two victims th
e previous night. Will Fowler had been killed and Joan had been brutally assaulted. Both of them deserved to be avenged.

  Chapter Four

  Richard Honeydew was finding too much talent could be a disadvantage in the theatre. It excited envy. In the few months that he had been with Lord Westfield’s Men, he had worked hard and shown exceptional promise but there was a high price to pay. The other three apprentices ganged up against him. Seeing him as a threat, they subjected him to all kinds of hostility, teasing and practical jokes. It was getting worse.

  ‘Aouw!’

  ‘That will cool you down, Dicky!’ sneered John Tallis.

  ‘Don’t tell on us,’ threatened Stephen Judd. ‘Or it won’t be water next time.’

  ‘Unless it’s our own!’ added Tallis with a snigger.

  The two boys scuttled away and left Richard shivering with fright. As he came back from the privy, they had drenched him with a bucket of water. His blond hair was plastered to his head, his shirt was soaked and he was dripping all over the floor. It was as much as he could do to hold back tears.

  Richard Honeydew was only eleven. He was small, thin and had the kind of exaggerated prettiness that made him an ideal choice for a female role. John Tallis and Stephen Judd were older, bigger, stronger and much more well-versed in the techniques of persecution. Hitherto, however, Richard had been fairly safe at a rehearsal because Nicholas Bracewell was usually on hand to take care of him. The book holder was his one real friend in the company and it was he who made life tolerable for the boy.

  The apprentice’s first instinct was to run straight to Nicholas but the warning from Stephen Judd still rang in his ears. He decided to clean himself up and say nothing. At the back of the tiring-house was a room that was used partly for storage and partly as a rest area where actors could sit out lengthy waits during a performance. Richard trotted along there and he was relieved to find it empty. Pulling off his shirt, he grabbed a piece of hessian and used it to dry his hair and body.

  He did not hear Barnaby Gill. The actor stood in the doorway and marvelled at the pale torso with its delicate tracery of blue veins across the chest. There was something so natural and beautiful about the scene that his heart took flame. Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him and caused Richard to spin around in alarm.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Master Gill.’

  ‘Don’t be afeard, Dick. I won’t harm you.’

  ‘I was just drying myself.’

  ‘I saw.’

  Innocence is its own protection. As the actor moved stealthily towards him, Richard had no understanding of the danger he faced. He continued to work away with the hessian.

  ‘That’s too rough,’ observed Gill. ‘You need something softer for a body such as yours.’

  ‘I’ve finished now.’

  ‘But your breeches are wet as well. Slip them down and dry yourself properly.’ As Richard hesitated, his voice coaxed on. ‘Nobody will see you. Come, take them down. I’ll help to rub you.’

  The boy was still reluctant but he was at a disadvantage. Barnaby Gill was a leading member of the company with an influence upon its composition. He was not someone to antagonise. Besides, he had always been kind and considerate. Richard recalled gibes made about Gill by the other boys but he still could not fathom their meaning. As the avuncular smile got closer to him, he was ready to submit trustingly to the actor’s touch. But it never came. Even as Gill reached out for him, the door opened and a voice spoke.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Dick!’

  ‘Hello, Master Ruff.’

  ‘What do you want?’ growled Barnaby Gill.

  ‘I was looking for the lad,’ explained the hired man easily. ‘Come, Dick. The best place for you is out in the hot sun. The yard is an Italian piazza today. We’ll hang you up to dry with the washing.’

  Before Gill could stop him, Samuel Ruff whisked up the shirt and led the boy out of the room. The sharer was left to fume alone. He reached for the hessian which Richard had used and he caressed its surface for a few seconds. Then he threw it violently aside and stalked back into the tiring-house.

  Ruff, meanwhile, had taken the boy into the yard to watch some of the rehearsal. Without quite knowing how, Richard had the feeling that he had just been rescued.

  ‘If that ever happens again,’ said Ruff, ‘you tell me.’

  Richard nodded happily. He had found a new friend.

  Patriotism is a powerful drug. In the wake of the victory against the Armada, it affected almost everyone. There was a surge of self-confidence and a thrill of pride that coursed through the veins of the entire nation. Master Roger Bartholomew also felt the insistent throb of patriotic impulse. He imbibed the details of the Spanish defeat, he listened to the sermons preached at St Paul’s Cross and he attended many services of thanksgiving. In the faces all round him, he saw a new spirit, a greater buoyancy, a permissible arrogance. People were conscious as never before of the immense significance of being English.

  The drug helped Bartholomew to forget all about his earlier setbacks and vows. Inspiration made him reach for his pen and a play seemed to fall ready-made from his fertile brain. It was a celebration of England’s finest hour and it contained speeches which, he believed, in all modesty, would thunder down the centuries. The verse bounded from the page, the characters were moulded to stake their claim to immortality.

  As he blotted the last line and sat back in his chair, Bartholomew allowed himself a smirk of congratulation. His first play was juvenilia. With An Enemy Routed, he had come of age in the most signal way. The success of the piece would wipe away any lingering memories of his disappointment and disillusion. Only one problem remained. Master Roger Bartholomew had to make the crucial decision as to which dramatic company he would favour with his masterpiece. He luxuriated in the possibilities.

  Two weeks wrought many changes among Lord Westfield’s Men. As soon as Will Fowler’s funeral was over, the general gloom began to lift. Samuel Ruff was an able deputy for his friend and, in spite of occasional remarks about leaving for Norwich soon, he settled in very well. Richard Honeydew was glad to have someone else to look out for him and he revelled in the fatherly concern that the hired man showed him. Lawrence Firethorn moved about in a cloud of ecstasy. Each day, he was convinced, brought him closer to the promised tryst with Lady Rosamund Varley; each performance gave him a fresh opportunity to woo her from the stage. Barnaby Gill’s acid comments on the romance were largely unheard and totally unregarded. The company was grateful to the lady. When Firethorn was in love, everyone stood to gain.

  The punishing round of the book holder’s life gave Nicholas Bracewell less time than he would have wished to pursue his investigation of Will Fowler’s murder, but his resolve did not slacken. After a fortnight, the casual brutality of it all still rattled him. Time after time, he went over the events that had taken place at the Hope and Anchor that night.

  ‘And Redbeard was carrying a bottle in his hand?’

  ‘Yes, Nick,’ said Samuel Ruff.

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Completely. When he got close, I could smell the ale on his breath. The man had taken too much and could not hold his drink.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  Ruff had been through the details a score of times but he did not complain. He was just as committed to finding the man who had murdered his old friend.

  ‘Redbeard lurched against the settle on which Will was sitting and pushed it a good foot backwards. Some of his ale was spilled over Will.’

  ‘So he took exception?’

  ‘The row flared up in a matter of seconds, Nicholas.’

  The book holder sighed. Will Fowler’s short temper had caught up with him at last. Nicholas saw the familiar image of his friend, roused in argument, eyes blazing, cheeks aglow, voice howling and brawny arms ready to exact stern punishment. When he was in such a choleric mood, Will Fowler could not easily be calmed down. It had taken a cunning thrust from a sword to blee
d all the rage out of him.

  ‘I will never forgive myself,’ said Ruff sadly.

  ‘You tried to protect him.’

  ‘I gave that ruffian his chance,’ admitted the other. ‘I would rather he had run me through than dear Will!’

  ‘In some ways, I think he did,’ observed Nicholas.

  The two men had just come out of The Queen’s Head at the end of another full day. Redbeard preyed on their minds. Nicholas reasoned that a man with a fondness for whores would not keep away from the brothels for long and he was visiting them all in turn. He was carrying a rough sketch of the stranger which Ruff had helped him to draw. They felt it was a good likeness of the man they sought but it had so far failed to jog any memories.

  Samuel Ruff was eager to do his share of the work and he had taken the sketch around the stews in Eastcheap. Nicholas was concentrating on the more numerous brothels of Bankside, certain that their quarry would surface sooner or later.

  ‘I think Redbeard is lying low,’ said Ruff.

  ‘He’ll come out to play at night,’ added Nicholas. ‘The smell of a bawd will tempt him back.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about those wounds of his.’

  ‘The scars on his back?’

  ‘They might have cost Will his life.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Redbeard must have taken a severe beating from someone and his wounds still smarted. He wanted revenge. First of all, he attacks that poor girl and makes her pay for it, then he comes rolling downstairs in a drunken fury. Those scars were still on fire.’

  ‘Did Will touch his back at all?’

  ‘A glancing blow as he lashed out at the man. No wonder Redbeard drew his sword. He’d been caught on the raw.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for murder, Sam,’ reminded Nicholas.

  ‘Of course not, but you take my point? If that villain had not been given such a beating, Will might be alive today.’

  Nicholas thought it through carefully before speaking.

  ‘There’s truth in what you say but I must disagree about those scars on his back. He was not given a beating.’