Nicholas was oddly unsettled by the compliment. Having worked so hard over the years to make himself indispensable to the company, he now felt the weight of responsibility a little oppressive. Though he was not looking forward to the journey to Barnstaple, it would buy him an appealing release from his onerous duties. Nicholas still had to negotiate the major obstacle that stood between himself and his former home. The man who had used his name at a Marlborough inn had been mocking the book holder. He had stayed his hand at Chippenham but would almost certainly strike in Bristol. Nicholas had taken the precaution of showing Anne Hendrik’s portrait of the man to his friends. Lawrence Firethorn, Edmund Hoode and Owen Elias would also know whom to guard against now. Four pairs of eyes could scour the streets of Bristol for danger.
The waggon was emptied and its cargo stowed securely away until it was required next day at the Guildhall. Work was over. Westfield’s Men had a whole evening of pleasure in front of them. Firethorn watched them roll off into the inn.
‘Cakes and ale, Nick. Cakes and ale.’
‘They deserve some jollity.’
‘And so do we, dear heart. What more could I want now than a plate of eels and a pint of sack to wash them down?’ His voice darkened. ‘One thing more to please my appetite.’
‘What is that?’
‘The head of Israel Gunby on a silver platter.’
Barnaby Gill was a vital element in the success of any performance by Westfield’s Men, and he blended perfectly with the rest of the cast when he was onstage. As soon as he stepped off it, however, he felt completely detached from his colleagues and treated them with lordly disdain. Their world was not his. Bristol impressed this strongly upon him. With an evening of freedom at their disposal, the members of the company responded in ways that were all too predictable, and this gave Gill even further cause for remaining aloof.
Lawrence Firethorn drank heavily in the taproom and flirted with female guests and staff alike. A few of the sharers joined him but others had gone off to the stews in search of wilder women and noisier company. The hired men found the prices in the taproom a little too high for their leaner purses and they were dicing and drinking in a nearby alehouse. The apprentices watched their elders with patent envy and longed for the time when broken voices and manly bodies would help them to break out of the dresses they wore onstage and entitle them to take their full due of sinful pleasure. Richard Honeydew was the exception, and Gill missed his contemplation of the boy’s naive beauty, but the youngest of the four apprentices had left with Edmund Hoode on a tour of the city. Nicholas Bracewell was their guide because he had known Bristol intimately since his youth and had promised to show them all the sights. There were some places in the city, however, that even the book holder could never find, and it was to one of these haunts that Barnaby Gill set off as the light began to fade over the port.
Bristol was a fine and ancient city with the mediaeval pattern of its streets largely unchanged. It boasted a formidable castle, an abundance of churches and some civic buildings that could startle both with their quantity and quality. The whole city was enclosed within a high stone wall, which was pierced by a number of gates, many of them crowned by churches. Its position made it the guardian of the West Country, and it had been built to defend. But the predominant feature of Bristol was its magnificent natural harbour. Ships that came up the Severn Estuary could sail up the supremely navigable River Avon into the very heart of the city, and its mercantile life had always been vigorous and profitable as a result. Wharves, warehouses and cellars were always piled high with goods from coastal or foreign trade. Bristol felt in recent years that it was suffering unfair competition from London, but its harbour was still kept busy and the inns, taverns and ordinaries along the Shambles were always swarming with sailors.
It was in the direction of the harbour that Barnaby Gill now strode, and the seagulls were soon crying and dipping above him to teach him the way. Out of deference to the more subdued fashions of the provinces, he had eschewed his more elaborate apparel and chosen a doublet of scarlet and black satin with slashed sleeves and a pair of matching breeches. His red hat sported a white ostrich feather and his buckled shoes had a bright sheen as they clacked over the paving. An Orient pearl dangled from one earlobe.
There was prosperity and poverty in Bristol, and he saw examples of both as he picked his way through the streets. The city burgesses had plenty of money but little idea of how to spend it on their apparel or on that of their wives. Gill groaned with contempt at some of the fashions he saw and he averted his gaze in disgust at some of the vagabonds and crones who crossed his path. Bristol had the same heady mixture of fortune and filth as London itself. Barnaby Gill spent so much time reflecting on the close juxtaposition of the two that he did not realise that he was being followed.
The Black Boy was in a narrow, fetid lane than ran down to the harbour. From the outside, it looked like any of the scores of other inns and taverns in the area. But its door was locked and admission was carefully controlled. Gill knocked boldly and a small grille opened before him. Dark eyes studied him closely for a second then heavy bolts were drawn back on the other side of the door. It swung ajar for him to enter then slammed behind him. He was in a large and ill-lit room that was cluttered with tables and chairs. Barnaby Gill looked around with the satisfaction of a weary traveller who has been a long time on a hostile road before reaching a favoured destination. The room was only half full but its atmosphere was captivating. Well-dressed men lolled in the chairs or on the settles. Attractive young girls served them with drinks or reclined in their arms or even shared their pipes of tobacco. The thick fug of smoke was an added attraction for Gill. A big, beaming woman wobbled over to him and conducted him to a seat, calling for wine with a click of her fingers and offering Gill her own pipe. When he had inhaled his first lungful of tobacco, he blew it out through pursed lips and the woman planted a soft kiss on them.
Two of the youngest and prettiest serving girls now came to sit beside their new guest, and all three sipped Canary wine. Barnaby Gill was soon deep in conversation with the two of them, transferring his affections from one to the other with capricious joy and ordering another flagon of wine when the first was empty. This was his private universe and he so relaxed into it that he did not observe the man with the raven-black beard who was allowed into the room by the doorkeeper. Barnaby Gill was in Elysium. Here was pleasure of an order undreamt of by any of his colleagues. They had only base appetites and conventional tastes. Gill lived on a higher plain. The woman who presided over the establishment shook with mirth, the girls replied with brittle laughter and the swirling smoke ignited desire. Barnaby Gill was a man at home among men. As the two boys giggled beside him in their taffeta dresses, he decided to choose the one who resembled Richard Honeydew.
‘A word in your ear, kind sir.’
‘With me?’ said Gill, looking up.
‘Are you not the man I take you to be?’
‘And who is that, sir?’
‘You may not wish me to name you before others.’
Lamparde had waited half an hour before he moved across to speak to Gill. He drank freely, spent money liberally and enjoyed the company of one of the serving girls but his gaze never strayed far from the actor. When he sensed that Gill was ready to leave, he stepped across to interrupt him.
‘Name me, by all means, if you may,’ said Gill proudly. ‘Fame is a cloak which I wear wherever I go. Who am I?’
‘One of the best actors in the world, sir.’
‘You know me well enough.’
‘I have seen you play in London many a time.’
‘My name?’
‘Master Barnaby Gill. You have no peer.’
Lamparde knew how to flatter. He let the purring accent of his native Devon give the words a more honeyed charm, but it was his eyes that did most of the talking. They gleamed with such a powerful amalgam of admiration and challenge that Gill was hypnotised. Here was a man indeed,
sturdy and well-favoured, educated in his tastes and worthy of note. His apparel was made by a London tailor and the earring was the twin of that worn by Gill himself. It was the beard that really enthralled the actor. Sleek and well trimmed, it lent a satanic quality to its owner that was irresistible. No boy could compare with a man like this.
Lamparde gave him a respectful nod of the head.
‘I have hired a room here, sir. Will you wait upon me?’
‘Gladly.’
‘Let me conduct you to the place.’
‘I follow willingly.’
‘This privilege is overwhelming.’
‘Lead on.’
The two boys who had worked so hard to entertain their guest were somewhat peeved, but a signal from their employer sent them off to blandish a newcomer. If the men wanted a private room in which to improve their acquaintance, they would pay a high price. Whatever guests chose, the Black Boy would profit accordingly.
Barnaby Gill was taken along a dark passageway with the utmost courtesy by his newfound friend. Both of them were denizens of such establishments and spoke its language. Plague had deprived Gill of his visit to a similar haunt in Oxford and there had been no equivalent in the dull and unenlightened Marlborough. Male brothels were highly illegal places, and both prostitutes and clients would face bestial punishments if they were caught, but this danger only served to intensify the pleasure involved. Gill’s favourite haunt in London was a brothel in Hoxton, but its premises were relatively safe from official raids because it numbered among its clients such influential people as Sir Walter Raleigh and Francis Bacon. The fear that was missing there was ever-present here, and it sharpened the edge of his desire. Peril was his aphrodisiac.
They climbed a staircase and stopped outside a door. Lamparde unlocked it with the key that he had been given. He then stood back and gestured for his companion to enter.
‘This way, Master Gill,’ he invited.
‘After you, kind sir.’
‘You are my guest at this time.’
‘Then I’ll be ruled by me.’
‘You are the actor. I am but a humble spectator.’
‘That is as it should be.’
There was a touch of arrogance in Barnaby Gill’s walk. He went into the room as if making an entrance onstage. The door shut behind him. He was about to turn to face his new friend with a benign smile when the club struck him so hard across the back of the head that he was knocked forward onto the floor. Lamparde did not need to check the efficacy of the blow. He used cords to bind his victim hand and foot then gagged him with a piece of cloth.
Barnaby Gill had entered the Black Boy with a confident strut. He now left it over the shoulder of a murderer.
The Parish Church of St Peter was, appropriately, the tallest building in Barnstaple, and its massive tower, which was topped with a lead-covered broach-spire, reached much nearer to heaven than any other structure in the town. Set on open land between the High Street and Boutport Street, it had withstood centuries of attack by the elements and frequent squalls in the religious climate. Systematic rebuilding had been carried on throughout Elizabeth’s reign, and it was paid for by the raising of a church rate. New slates were fixed on the roof, the ceiling over the communion table was repaired, the floor was retiled, the lead guttering was renewed and the whole building washed with seven bushels of lime. The churchyard was newly paved and given a new gate.
Another change that had occurred was the developing interest in private pews. Wealthy families who worshipped regularly in the church wanted more comfort during the long sermons of Arthur Calmady. They paid to have pews erected for their own use, thereby exhibiting their status in public while ensuring a privileged degree of privacy. The pews were known as sieges, and it was in the Whetcombe siege that a small figure in a black coat was now kneeling in prayer. When Matthew Whetcombe rented the pew, he did so to attest his position in the community and to hide away the deaf-mute child who was such a constant embarrassment to him. That same daughter was now praying, not for the soul of her dead father, but for the safe and speedy return of a household servant.
Lucy Whetcombe rose from her knees and looked around. Her plan had worked. She and Susan had often played games of hide-and-seek in the labyrinthine interior of the house in Crock Street, and the girls knew every inch of it. That knowledge had helped her to escape. The two men outside the street could only watch who entered or left the building by the front or side doors. They could not see the entrance at the rear of the warehouse, still less the door to the granary, which stood above it. Lucy had waited until the sky began to darken then made her move. Dressed in hat and coat, she made her way stealthily across the Great Court, into the warehouse and up the ladder into the granary. Grain was lifted up in sacks by means of a rope and pulley. Lucy used the device for her own purpose, shinning swiftly down the rope before racing off towards the church. Those who caught a glimpse of the darting child did not recognise her and the two men on duty did not even know she was gone.
Now, however, it was time to go back. Lucy offered up a prayer that her means of escape had not been detected. She needed the rope to regain entry to the house. It was now dark outside and the curfew would soon be sounded. She crept towards the church door and lifted the iron latch before swinging the massive timber back on its hinges. After a final glance up at the main altar, she slipped out and closed the door behind her.
She was about to sprint off back home when she saw two figures a short distance away. They were engaged in an animated conversation. Lucy could only see them in stark profile but she recognised them immediately. Arthur Calmady seemed to be having a heated argument with Barnard Sweete. The vicar and the lawyer were both men of extraordinary self-possession, yet here they were in open dispute, waving their arms about like two customers haggling over the same purchase in the market. Lucy Whetcombe could not hear what they said but it involved the church in some way. At the height of the argument, Sweete pointed towards the building to emphasise a point and Calmady finally backed down. It was a subdued vicar who finally slunk away.
Lucy Whetcombe ran back to the house and climbed in through the door of the granary. Nobody saw her and she had not been missed from the house. When she got back to Susan’s chamber, she let herself in and took the dolls out of their hiding place. Arthur Calmady was in one hand and Barnard Sweete in the other. She held them up to examine them then banged them together in a fierce fight. The vicar’s head eventually snapped off. The lawyer was the man to fear.
The flapping sound brought Nicholas Bracewell instantly awake. He sat up in his bed with a knife at the ready in his hand, but no attack came and the door remained locked. When the noise continued, he wondered if a bird had somehow got into the chamber and was flying around. Nicholas had chosen to sleep alone in one of the attic rooms. After the injury to Owen Elias, he did not wish to put the life of another friend at risk by sharing a bedchamber with him. It was dawn and a tiny filter of light was probing the shutters. Nicholas peered into the gloom and listened intently. What he could hear was no bird but it might be the softer beat of a bat’s wings. The creature might somehow have gained entry through the cracks in the roof. Nicholas got out of bed and opened the shutters to throw more light into the room.
It was then that he saw it. The piece of parchment was trapped under his door. A stiff breeze was blowing in off the river and causing a draught in the attic of the Jolly Sailor. The parchment was vibrating like a wing. Nicholas picked it up and opened the door but there was no sign of any messenger. Unfolding the paper, he took it to the window and held it up to the light. He could just make out the words and they jerked him completely awake. The message was from his appointed assassin. It was written in a fine hand and its doggerel was a derisive sneer at the company.
Fair exchange is all I seek
Bracewell Nick for Master Gill
Merchants wise are never meek
Strike a bargain or I kill
Come at once or Westf
ield’s Men
Will ne’er see Barnaby again.
Nicholas blenched. He was being offered the hardest bargain of all. If Barnaby Gill really were in the man’s hands, then he would be murdered without scruple. The only way to release him was to confront the man. Care had been taken with the message. In case it went astray, it was in a code that only Nicholas could understand. The key line jumped out at him to give him the meeting place.
Merchants wise are never meek.
Wise Street lay in the network of lanes and alleys around the harbour. Meek Row joined it at the far end. It was an area full of warehouses and cellars. The cargo waiting there for collection was Barnaby Gill, but there was no proof that he was even still alive. Nicholas dressed quickly and wore sword and dagger. When he put on his buff jerkin, he concealed the poniard up his sleeve. Even with three weapons, he felt he was at a disadvantage. The man was several steps ahead of him all the time.
Nicholas first went down to check Barnaby Gill’s chamber, but it was empty and the bed was unused. He really was being held hostage. It was a way of luring Nicholas out of the safety of the company. There was no point in taking anyone with him. Nicholas was quite sure he would be watched all the way to the harbour. If he left the Jolly Sailor with Owen Elias or Edmund Hoode, they would arrive to find Gill beyond rescue. The choice of target showed the man’s keen intelligence. Having watched the performance of The Happy Malcontent at Marlborough, he had seen Barnaby Gill’s crucial importance in the work of Westfield’s Men. He had also picked out the loner in the company, the man who wandered off to enjoy his pleasures in private and who therefore made himself more vulnerable.
Leaving the inn, Nicholas made his way briskly towards the harbour. It was a dry day with a searching breeze. A number of people were already moving about the streets. Traders were streaming in from the country to sell their wares at market. Eager housewives waited with baskets to get the earliest bargains. The whole city would soon be buzzing with the sound of trade. He hoped that his own transaction would somehow end in success.
The Silent Woman Page 21