The Silent Woman

by Edward Marston

  Gideon Livermore at last put the list aside.

  ‘I must have her!’ he said covetously.

  ‘All things proceed in that direction.’

  ‘There must be no let or hindrance.’

  ‘You have the law on your side.’

  ‘And a cunning lawyer to interpret it.’ He gave a curt nod of gratitude. ‘I am a generous man, Barnard.’

  ‘I have always found it so.’

  Livermore added a rider. ‘When I am pleased,’ he said.

  ‘You will have no cause for complaint.’

  ‘Good.’ He flicked a bloodshot eye once more at the paper. ‘One hundred and nineteen pounds! Matthew Whetcombe had all that spent on his funeral, yet it still could not buy him some honest tears from his wife. And what of the girl? Lucy Whetcombe could not even let out a cry of pain at her father’s passing. Fate is cruel. Matthew created all that wealth yet he could only produce one child, and she is such a poor monument to his manhood. The girl can neither hear nor speak. With her father in his grave, Lucy Whetcombe cannot even call out for her share of his inheritance.’

  ‘A strong voice is needed at such times,’ said the lawyer pointedly. ‘Silence can bring ruin.’

  ‘I rely on it.’

  Gideon Livermore stood up and took his goblet across to the table to refill it from the glass decanter he had bought on a visit to Venice. He stared into the liquid for a second then drank it off in one draught. Barnard Sweete was certain that he would now be offered more wine, and he emptied his own goblet in readiness. But the invitation never came. There was a knock on the door and a young man entered with some urgency. He stopped when he saw the lawyer but Gideon Livermore beckoned him on. The two of them stood aside and the newcomer whispered rapidly to his employer.

  Sensing trouble, the lawyer rose to his feet and watched his host in trepidation. The merchant’s rage needed no time to build. His geniality became a malign fury, and he reached out to grab the decanter before hurling it violently against the wall and sending shards of glass flying to every corner of the room. His clerk withdrew and closed the door behind him. Gideon Livermore turned to glower at his guest.

  ‘He is coming to Barnstaple,’ he rumbled.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘Heaven forfend!’ exclaimed the lawyer.

  ‘He is on his way here.’

  ‘But that cannot be.’

  ‘My information is always sound. I pay enough for it.’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell! Did the message then reach him?’

  ‘The messenger did. Before she died.’

  ‘How much does he know?’

  ‘Enough to bring him to Barnstaple.’ He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘He must be stopped. We do not want a Bracewell meddling in our affairs, especially this member of the family. Bracewells are stubborn.’ Perspiration now glistened on his upper lip. ‘They have long memories.’

  ‘Can he be prevented?’ said Sweete.

  ‘He must be.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By the same means.’

  ‘Lamparde?’

  ‘He will know what to do.’

  ‘Then why has he not already done it?’ said the lawyer nervously. ‘Why has Lamparde not honoured his contract? This alters the case completely. If Nicholas Bracewell were to come to as far as—’

  ‘He will not!’

  ‘But if he did …’

  ‘He will not!’ thundered the merchant. ‘Lamparde will not let us down. He values his own life, so he will not cross Gideon Livermore.’ His explosion of rage had reassured him. ‘Nicholas Bracewell will not get anywhere near us. We do wrong to have such foolish fears. We are safe and beyond his reach. Let us forget about him and his family.’

  ‘Yet he is still on his way, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘He travels with a theatre company.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Close to death.’

  Nicholas Bracewell rode with them to the edge of the town and waved them off. He still had business in Marlborough and could soon overtake them on the roan. It was a spirited animal and a full day in the stable had made it restless for exercise. Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe off on the road to Chippenham. Westfield’s Men were still buoyed up by the success of their performance that afternoon, and they could look to repeat it in Bristol. Firethorn himself was torn between elation and disquiet. Though his company had twice distinguished themselves before an audience, he was worried by the interference of Israel Gunby. The incident at the Fighting Cocks in High Wycombe still rankled, all the more so because he had found no balm for that particular wound. He had spent three nights away from his wife now and found nobody to take her place in his bed. Black Antonio rarely failed to excite some female interest, and he had hoped to snatch a fond farewell in his chamber with some local maiden while the waggon was being loaded but it was not to be. The mayor had been thrilled with the second performance and would not stir from Firethorn’s side until he had explained why at least a dozen times. Guilt rustled beneath his mayoral chain. He spent so much time apologising to Firethorn for even thinking that he would wish to ravish another man’s wife that the other men’s wives who had come to throw themselves upon the actor could not get anywhere near him. Israel Gunby had come between Lawrence Firethorn and the spoils of war. Retribution was needed.

  ‘Why does he stay?’ asked Barnaby Gill.

  ‘Your visage offends his eye,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘What does Marlborough hold for Nicholas Bracewell?’

  ‘Go back and ask him.’

  ‘No,’ said Gill, ‘I will give thanks for this small mercy and put distance between the two of us. I said that he would bring more misery down upon us and he did.’

  ‘Yes,’ teased Firethorn, ‘he persuaded me to stage The Happy Malcontent and we had two hours of your strutting and fretting.’

  ‘I was supreme.’

  ‘It escaped my notice.’

  ‘But not that of the spectators.’ Gill preened himself as they rode along. ‘They loved me. I could feel the ardour. My talents left them breathless. I was inspired.’

  ‘Feed off your vanity, if you will. Caress your own sweet self. But do not accuse Nick.’

  ‘He killed that man in the audience.’

  ‘How? With a prompt book in his hands?’

  ‘Consider but this, Lawrence. Three days on the road have brought three disasters. Robbery, plague, murder. That is our book holder’s record. Robbery, plague, murder. Zounds! What more do you need?’

  ‘Women!’

  ‘When Nicholas is with us, misfortune strikes,’ said Gill. ‘He is like some Devil’s mark upon us. Let him stay in Marlborough as long as he may. We need no more stabbing among the spectators.’

  ‘Then you must retire, Barnaby,’ said the other, ‘for your performances are daggers in the back of any audience.’

  Barnaby Gill sulked on horseback for another mile.

  They were approaching a tiny hamlet when they saw him. He was propped up against a tree by the side of the road. Even from a distance, they could see his tattered rags and wretched condition. The twisted figure was one of the vast and ever-increasing number of vagrants who wandered the countryside in search of charity. Rogues and vagabonds were a recurring nuisance to Marlborough and the town beadle was paid twopence for each one that he whipped. This old man had crawled to one of the outlying hamlets to escape yet another beating and to throw himself on the mercy of passing travellers. When they got nearer, they saw the matted hair and clogged filth of a creature who spent his nights in the fields with other wild animals. One eye was closed, the other sparkled hopefully as they approached. A begging bowl came out from beneath his shredded coat. They caught his stench from twenty yards away.

  Edmund Hoode put a compassionate hand into his purse.

  ‘Poor fellow!’ he said. ‘Let’s give him comfort.’


  ‘No,’ counselled Gill. ‘Give to him and you will have to give to every beggar we pass. There is not enough money in the whole kingdom to relieve all these scabs.’

  ‘Show some pity, Barnaby.’

  ‘Ignore the fellow and ride past.’

  ‘Leave him to me,’ said Firethorn.

  He raised a hand and the company came to a halt. They looked down at the old man with frank disgust. He was in a most deplorable state and did not even have strength or sense to drag himself into the shade. There was a further cause for revulsion. The beggar seemed to have only one leg.

  The bowl was shaken up at them.

  ‘Alms, good people!’ cried a quavering voice. ‘Alms!’

  ‘Why?’ said Firethorn coldly.

  ‘For the love of God!’

  ‘Beggars are no more than highway robbers.’

  ‘I seek charity, sir.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘To live.’

  ‘Men who wish to live must work.’

  ‘I am too old and too weak, sir.’

  ‘Are you so?’

  ‘I lost a leg in the service of my country.’

  ‘You were a soldier, then?’ mocked Firethorn.

  ‘A sailor, sir. I was young and lusty once. But a man without a leg grows old so quickly. Give me a penny, sir, to buy some bread. Give me twopence and you’ll have my blessing hereafter. Please, good people! Help me!’

  Edmund Hoode was about to throw a coin into the bowl but it was kicked from the man’s hand by Lawrence Firethorn. Dismounting at once, the actor-manager drew his sword and held it at the man’s neck. The whole company gasped at what they saw as an act of wanton cruelty.

  ‘This is no beggar!’ said Firethorn angrily. ‘This is the same vile rascal who fleeced us in High Wycombe. The same mangy old shepherd who played with us on the road from Oxford. The same slanderous villain who wrote letters to blacken my reputation.’ He flashed his rapier through the air and the beggar retreated into a bundle of fear. ‘Here is no honest wretch, gentleman. A sailor, does he say! This dunghill has never served his country in his life. He does not fool Lawrence Firethorn. He will not hide his leg from me and swear he lost it in a battle on the waves. I will not be beguiled again!’ He grabbed the man by his hair to hoist him up. ‘Behold, sirs! This is Israel Gunby!’

  There was a groan of horror. As the beggar was lifted from the ground, his deformity became all too apparent. The hideous stump made the company turn away. The man was not Israel Gunby in a new role designed to taunt them. He was a decaying remnant of the young sailor he had once been.

  Lawrence Firethorn was overwhelmed with guilt. He put the man gently to the ground and set him against the tree once more. Grabbing the bowl, he dropped some coins into it before taking it around the entire company. Instead of being killed by the actor-manager, the beggar now had enough money to feed himself for a fortnight. He croaked his thanks. Westfield’s Men rode away in a cloud of shame and remorse.

  It took him an hour to find the inn. Nicholas Bracewell had reasoned correctly. Convinced that the man would have taken lodging for the night in Marlborough, he went around every hostelry in the town. The portrait that Anne Hendrik had sent him was shown to a dozen or more innkeepers before he found one who vaguely recognised it.

  ‘It could be him,’ said the man uncertainly.

  ‘When did he arrive?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Yesterday morning before noon.’

  ‘Did he stay the night?’

  ‘He paid for a bed, sir. But when the chamberlain went up this morning, it had not been slept in. Nor was the man’s horse in our stables. He must have stolen away.’

  Nicholas pondered. The man who was trailing him must have intended to bide his time and stay the night before he attacked again. During the performance at the Guildhall, he had killed Israel Gunby’s accomplice and been forced to quit the town at speed. Nicholas had no doubt which direction the man had taken. He was somewhere on the road ahead. His task was to stop the book holder from reaching Barnstaple and he would stick to it with tenacity.

  ‘Nan may help you, sir,’ said the landlord.

  ‘Nan?’

  ‘One of my serving wenches. She was taken with the man, which is no great thing, sir, for Nan has a soft spot for any upright gentleman.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I’ve warned her that it will be the ruin of her one day but the girl will not listen and she is popular with travellers.’

  ‘May I speak with her?’

  ‘I’ll call her presently.’

  The landlord went out of the taproom and reappeared a few minutes later with the girl. She wore the plain garb and apron of her calling but had teased down the shoulders of her dress to expose her neck and cleavage. When a man sent for her, she always came with a ready smile, and it broadened when she saw the tall, sturdy figure of Nicholas Bracewell. He showed her the drawing and she identified it at once. She was certain that the man had lodged there on the previous day and spoke with some asperity about him. The only false detail in the sketch was the earring. He had not worn it when he stayed there.

  ‘Did he give a name?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the landlord, ‘but I have forgot it. We have so many travellers through here each day that I cannot remember more than a handful of their names. But if it is important, I can ask my wife.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Her memory is sounder than mine.’

  ‘She would earn my deepest gratitude.’

  Nicholas asked for permission to see the bedchamber where the man had stayed. While the landlord went off to find his wife, the girl conducted Nicholas up two flights of creaking stairs to a low passageway. She moved along it with the easy familiarity of someone who could – and had done so on many occasions – find her way along it in the dark. She came to a door and unlocked it.

  ‘Here it is, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It is just as he left it.’

  ‘Has the linen been changed?’

  ‘There was no need. It was not slept in.’

  Nicholas looked around the room. Nothing had been left behind, but there was the possibility that the visitor had lain down to rest. He may not have slept in the bed, but his head may have rested on its flat pillow. Anne Hendrik’s letter had contained a verbal description of the man to support the rough portrait. Leonard had talked about the man’s ‘smell’, though he could be no more specific than that. Nicholas bent over the bed and sniffed. He inhaled the faintest whisper of a fragrance.

  ‘He did smell sweet,’ said the girl. ‘That’s what I liked about him. Most travellers have foul breath and stink of sweat but not this one. It was a pretty smell and I would like some for myself. What was it, sir?’

  Nicholas inhaled again. ‘Oil of bergamot.’

  In his two encounters with the man, he had not had time to notice any fragrance. The musty atmosphere in the stable at the Fighting Cocks would subdue any sweeter odour and the scuffle at the Dog and Bear was over in seconds. What Nicholas had missed, both Leonard and the serving wench had remarked. He thanked the girl and slipped her a few pence. She stole a giggling kiss as further reward then took him back downstairs. The landlord had still not returned and Nicholas stepped out into the yard while he was waiting. Fresh air hit him like a slap across the face and forced realisation upon him.

  He was alone. Westfield’s Men were miles ahead of him and he was unprotected. It brought him no fear. Instead, it gave him a sudden sense of freedom. He was somewhere near the middle of his journey between London and Barnstaple. Behind him lay the ruins of a love that had sustained him for some years now: ahead of him was nothing but danger and uncertainty. If he turned back, he might yet recover what he had lost in Bankside. Anne Hendrik still cared. She sent word to him that might help to save his life, but that life would not be threatened if he abandoned his purpose. What could he hope to achieve in Barnstaple? The town was a branding iron that had burnt so many white-hot mes
sages into his mind. Why suffer that hissing pain once more?

  It was not just a decision between a new home and an old one. Nicholas was standing at a spiritual crossroads. If he went back, he would be renouncing a way of life as well. Westfield’s Men were his closest friends, but it was a highly unstable friendship. The loss of the Queen’s Head had not just expelled them from Gracechurch Street, it might keep them out of London for ever and condemn them to an almost permanent tour of the provinces. Lawrence Firethorn would never tolerate that and neither would Barnaby Gill. Other theatre companies would woo them back to the capital and Westfield’s Men would collapse. Nicholas did not wish to be there when that happened. A clean break now would rescue him from a slow professional death with an ailing troupe.

  Even if the company found a new base in London, he was not sure whether he wanted to share it with them. Theatre was still a flight from reality. Owen Elias had reminded him of that. Nicholas was hiding. If he stayed in London and forged a new love with Anne Hendrik, he would be able to leave his refuge and live a normal life: if he pressed on to Devon, he would be calling up the very ghosts that had sent him away. Lawrence Firethorn and the others put enormous reliance on him, but it was not reflected in his status. Nicholas was still only a hired man with the company, one of the floating population of theatre people who were taken on and dismissed according to the whims of the sharers. The book holder might have created a fairly constant position in the company but it gave him only a very fragile security. In essence, Nicholas Bracewell was no better off than the disillusioned George Dart.

  Going forward meant certain anguish while going back offered possible release. He would be insane to drive himself on. A settled life with a woman he loved was the best that any man could hope for. Nicholas wanted to start out for home at once and begin afresh with Anne Hendrik. She was the decisive factor in his life and it was time to acknowledge it. His love was guiding him back to her. Visions of quiet contentment came before him but they soon evaporated in the chill air of truth. Anne Hendrik was no longer alone. She had another lodger at her house, a dead girl who had made the long journey from Barnstaple in search of Nicholas. Her shadow would lay across that bedchamber for ever unless she was avenged. Returning to London meant considering only himself. When he remembered the girl and thought of the man who had poisoned her, he needed no signpost to point his way. He simply had to go on to the end of the journey.