The Silent Woman

by Edward Marston

  Nicholas did not need to look again at Anne Hendrik’s sketch of the man. It was fixed clearly in his mind. He had learnt something else about his adversary now. He was a Devonian. Only a local man would have known that Nicholas Bracewell’s apprenticeship as a merchant entailed a three-month stay in Bristol. Wise Street and Meek Row would be meaningless names to most of the inhabitants of the city. Someone who had worked in and around the port would know them, however, and the man had banked on that knowledge. The killer might even be from Barnstaple. It would explain why he had been selected to intercept the messenger to London.

  He was close to the harbour now and his steps slowed involuntarily. From this point on, the utmost vigilance was needed. Having drawn him out of the inn, the man might well have laid an ambush. Nicholas jerked the poniard down inside his sleeve so that its handle could be flicked into his palm in a split second. He kept to the middle of each thoroughfare so that he could not be jumped on from any doorway or recess.

  Wise Street eventually stood before him. Some of the warehouses were already opening and several people were arriving for work. Meek Row was at the far end. There was a building at the junction of the two, and Nicholas saw at once why it had been chosen. It was a small warehouse, but part of it had been gutted by fire and it had no roof. Doors and windows were boarded up but there were gaps between the timbers where a man could easily squeeze through. It was the ideal place to hold a hostage. Nobody would search for him amid the debris of a burnt-out property, and the location gave the man holding him three possible exits. He could come out into Wise Street, into Meek Row or into the courtyard at the rear of the building then vanish into a veritable maze.

  Nicholas walked around the warehouse twice before he ventured in. One of the timbers had been torn away from the door at the rear and this was his entrance. He came into the main body of the warehouse and scrunched his way over the charred remains of its stock. When he was in open space in the middle of the area, a voice rang out.

  ‘Stay there!’

  Nicholas halted. He had been right. The voice had a distant echo of Barnstaple. He was up against a fellow Devonian. He tried to work out where the man was hiding.

  ‘Throw down your weapons!’ ordered Lamparde.

  ‘When I see Master Gill.’

  ‘Throw down your weapons or I’ll kill him now.’

  ‘Prove to me that he is still alive.’

  There was a long pause and Nicholas began to fear that the man had carried out his threat. A dragging sound then fixed his gaze on the door to the other part of the warehouse. Still bound and gagged, Barnaby Gill was being hauled unceremoniously through the debris. He looked across at Nicholas Bracewell with eyes that were bulging with fear and panic. Gill was alive but harrowed by his ordeal.

  ‘Throw down your weapons!’ repeated the man.

  ‘How do I know you won’t kill both of us?’

  ‘This idiot is of no interest to me,’ said Lamparde as he kicked the prone figure. ‘And I keep a bargain.’

  Nicholas Bracewell took the full measure of the man who had stalked him so relentlessly. After two murders and two attempts on his own life, he was finally face-to-face with him. Anne Hendrik’s drawing had a flimsy accuracy but it caught nothing of the man’s menace. The missing earring was now back in place and the beard was positively glistening.

  The man drew a sword and held it to Gill’s chest.

  ‘You have one more chance to throw down your weapons.’

  Gill writhed around on the ground but the sword was still aimed at his heart. He stared up at the man with whom he had entrusted his most intimate secret. Betrayal at such a moment and in such a place was totally unbearable.

  Nicholas tossed his rapier and dagger to the ground.

  ‘Step towards us!’ ordered the man then stopped him again when he was well clear of his weapons. ‘Take off your jerkin!’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Take it off so that I may see you have no concealed weapons.’ His sword touched Gill’s chest again. ‘Now!’

  Nicholas obeyed. He was now only ten yards away from them but twice that distance from his sword and dagger. There was no hope of reaching his rapier in time to tackle the man on equal terms. He took off the jerkin with great care, first removing his left arm then letting the garment drop down his back before peeling it down his other arm. Nicholas now held it over the wrist of his right hand to cover the poniard. Spreading his arms wide, he exposed his shirt and belt.

  ‘Turn round!’ said Lamparde. ‘Turn slowly!’

  Keeping his arms out, Nicholas rotated his body and took a firmer grip on the handle of the poniard. It was soon needed. With his prey now apparently at his mercy, Lamparde lunged forward to cut him down with his rapier, but Nicholas was ready for him. Swinging on his heel, he flung the jerkin around the end of the blade and deflected its viciousness. At the same time, he brought the poniard flashing up to slash at his assailant’s doublet and open up the sleeve. Blood gushed out and Lamparde let out a cry of indignation. He pulled his sword free and lunged again but the swinging jerkin was this time thrown into his face. His own dagger once again drew blood, cutting across his sword hand and forcing him to drop the weapon.

  Nicholas flung himself upon the man and knocked him to the ground, but Lamparde was a powerful man in any brawl. He grabbed the wrist which held the poniard and applied such brute strength that he turned the point of the weapon towards Nicholas’s face. As they rolled and grappled on the ground, the book holder saw the poniard moving inexorably closer and aimed at his eye. To release the dagger from his grasp would be to yield his weapon but it had been turned against him with such force that he was finding it hard to resist. Pretending to fight against the downward pressure, he suddenly gave in to it and twisted his head sharply to the left, allowing the poniard to sink harmlessly into the ground and throwing his assailant off balance.

  A well-placed knee and a roll of the shoulder sent Lamparde off him and Nicholas leapt to his feet with the dagger turned on him. Lamparde dived for his rapier but a heavy foot got first to the blade. The man was not finished yet. Scooping up a handful of blackened debris, he threw it in his adversary’s face and gained a precious moment to get up and flee towards the doorway. Nicholas wiped the dust from his eyes then gathered up the rapier. When he got to Barnaby Gill, he used the latter to slice through the cord that held his hands then left him the weapon to cut through the rest of his bonds. He himself went through the door into the other part of the warehouse.

  Fire damage had been less extensive here and many of the old beams still stood. Down one wall was a series of bays where the goods had been stacked. Boxes and huge piles of old sacks offered further hiding places. Nicholas was back on equal terms again. The man would certainly have a dagger and his prowess with the weapon had already been shown. As Nicholas crept along the wall of the warehouse, he knew that the first thrust would be decisive. One mistake would be fatal.

  Lamparde was motionless. Incensed by his wounds, he was determined to kill Nicholas for sheer pleasure now. He tried hard to control his laboured breathing. All he had to do was to wait behind the thick wooden beam and his target would present itself. Through a chink in the timber, he could see Nicholas approaching. The advantage had swung his way again. To poison a girl had given him no real satisfaction and to stab a pickpocket during a play was a reflex act of revenge. This would be different. He would slowly cut the life out of Nicholas Bracewell.

  Moving carefully in a crouched position, Nicholas looked down and saw the spots of blood on the ground. The man was somewhere in front of him. He got closer and closer to the beam that concealed his enemy but did not sense the danger at first. It was only when he was almost level with the hiding place that something made him pause. He sniffed the air. Leonard had spoken about a smell and the serving wench in Marlborough has noticed it as well. Nicholas identified it again. Oil of bergamot. A sickly sweet fragrance for a man who set such great store by his appearance t
hat he courted the looking glass every day. The aroma was quite unmistakable and it saved Nicholas’s life.

  He mimed a step forward past the beam then lurched straight back as the murderous dagger came out at him. His own weapon struck home this time, piercing the man’s heart and sending him to the ground with a long wheeze of outrage and pain. Nicholas stood panting over him. Barnaby Gill came staggering up with the rapier in his hand and looked at the dead man with a squeal of relief.

  ‘Did you see him!’ he said. ‘He all but killed me!’

  ‘We are both safe now.’

  ‘He took me hostage because of you.’

  ‘Where did that happen?’ asked Nicholas levelly. ‘How did you allow a man like that anywhere near you?’

  Barnaby Gill’s anger was quickly replaced by shame and just as quickly superseded by gratitude. He burst into tears and clutched pathetically at Nicholas. Seeking pleasure, he had unwittingly surrendered himself to a killer who had used him to entice Nicholas to the warehouse. But for the book holder’s bravery, both he and Gill would have been murdered.

  ‘This will have to be reported,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I’ll vouch for you, Nick,’ promised Gill. ‘You killed in self-defence. No man can be arrested for that.’

  ‘We may have further proof of this man’s villainy.’

  Nicholas bent to search the body and found a letter inside his doublet. It was an instruction to murder the messenger who was travelling from Devon and it gave details of the girl’s appearance and likely time of arrival at the capital. The writer had been careful not to reveal his own identity but the recipient of the letter was one Adam Lamparde. It was a name that meant nothing to Nicholas and neither did the other that was in the document, but two vital parts of the mystery had finally been solved. Nicholas at last knew who had been trying to kill him and who had ridden all the way from Barnstaple to fetch him.

  The murdered girl’s name was Susan Deakin.

  The Long Bridge in the town of Barnstaple was almost three hundred years old. Spanning the tidal River Taw, it had sixteen arches that were built high enough to admit the passage of small craft. The bridge was an architectural wonder whose impact had been dulled by familiarity, but there was still a momentary excitement – even for the most jaded and cynical – in sailing up the river and catching the first sight of the structure. On a sunny day, its reflection was caught so perfectly on the surface of the water that an approaching craft seemed to be offered a right of way through any one of sixteen huge oval openings. The value to pedestrian traffic was incalculable and the Long Bridge was an integral part of Barnstaple life.

  Gideon Livermore stood at the quayside and gazed up at the bridge. He remembered being pushed from it as a small boy by his brother and discovering that he could indeed swim. He recalled his first disastrous attempts at rowing beneath one of the arches and of the damage he did to the boat when he collided with the uncompromising stone. The quay was the hub of Barnstaple. Ships, barges, wherries, smacks and fishing vessels bobbed at anchor. Cargoes were loaded or unloaded. Woollen felts, calico, linen, canvas, brass and pewter pots, shoes, soap, wine, ginger, cheese, salt, sugar and pepper were being sent to the Welsh coast while a ship from Milford Haven was delivering sheepskins, rabbit skins and leather along with barley, wheat, rye and a consignment of oysters. More exotic imports came from countries farther afield. Newfoundland, Guinea and Bermuda all traded regularly with Barnstaple. Maritime enterprise had even brought the Caribbean Islands within reach of the north Devon port.

  Gideon Livermore had watched with fascination the changes and developments over the years. He now stood near the spot where local merchants sealed their bargains in the Jewish manner by putting a down payment on the Tome Stone before witnesses. Trust underpinned all mercantile activity. Barnard Sweete came hurrying over to greet him, but Livermore had no time for the courtesies. He had left his beloved mansion to ride into town and wanted good news by way of reward.

  ‘Did you see her, Barnard?’ he said.

  ‘I spent an hour with her,’ replied the lawyer.

  ‘How did you find her?’

  ‘Still distracted.’

  ‘Does Mary understand the implications?’

  ‘I have explained them to her more than once.’

  Gideon Livermore sighed. ‘Why on earth did she marry Matthew Whetcombe?’

  ‘She is asking that same question of herself,’ said Sweete. ‘Grief still sits on her but it is streaked with regret. Mary Whetcombe was not a happy wife and she has been forced to see that. I feel pity for her, Gideon.’

  ‘So do I, Barnard. So do I.’

  ‘She is still such a beautiful woman.’

  ‘The whole world can see that, man!’

  ‘Not if she hides herself away.’

  ‘That will soon be changed.’ Livermore massaged his chin with a flabby hand. ‘Did you commend me to her?’

  ‘I have done so every time we meet.’

  ‘How did she respond to my name?’

  Sweete was diplomatic. ‘Favourably.’

  ‘Has she consented to see me?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How much longer must I wait, Barnard?’ said the other. ‘I grow impatient. Use your lawyer’s smooth tongue. Bend her to my wishes. Work, work, man!’

  ‘The business cannot be rushed, Gideon.’

  ‘Proceed apace.’

  ‘She is still in mourning.’

  ‘That is the best time.’

  Gideon Livermore marched a few paces away to show his displeasure. Barnard Sweete went after him to offer apology and explanation. Mary Whetcombe was still in a delicate state of mind and could not be expected to consider such major decisions so soon after her husband’s demise, but the lawyer promised to advance at a swifter pace from now on. He then came to news that he imparted with some reluctance.

  ‘She had a visitor yesterday.’

  ‘A visitor?’

  ‘He called again this morning but she refused to see him. The man was sent packing in no uncertain manner.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘She will admit nobody but myself and the vicar.’

  Livermore turned on him. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Robert Bracewell.’

  ‘Robert Bracewell?’ he growled.

  ‘He was turned away twice and that smartly.’

  ‘You allowed Robert Bracewell to call at the house?’

  ‘He only came to pay his respects, Gideon.’

  ‘Keep him away.’

  ‘My men had orders simply to watch the house.’

  ‘Keep him away!’ roared Livermore. ‘He is the last person I want bothering Mary Whetcombe at a time like this. Inform your men. Bracewell is to be warned off.’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘I do wish, Barnard.’

  ‘He cannot do any harm now.’

  ‘Heaven forbid, man! The mere sight of that creature would be enough.’ He squeezed the lawyer’s shoulder to instil his commands more forcefully. ‘Robert Bracewell must not be allowed anywhere near her. He has done enough damage in this town as it is. That is one of the reasons I wish to take her completely away from Barnstaple. It is too full of cruel memories.’

  Barnard Sweete nodded and the hand was removed. He tried to rub away the pain in his shoulder. Gideon Livermore was a strong man who liked to use that strength to hurt.

  ‘What of the girl?’ asked Livermore.

  ‘Lucy is quite bewildered.’

  ‘Did you talk with her?’

  ‘I tried to but she ran away. I seem to frighten her.’

  Livermore guffawed. ‘With a face like that, you could fright any woman. Maybe it was the sight of your visage that struck her dumb, Barnard.’ He saw the other’s dismay and patted his arm. ‘I tease, man. I do it but in fun.’

  ‘Lucy is no problem to us. Mary Whetcombe is.’

  ‘I must have her!’

  ‘The possibility grows stronger every day, Gideon.’
/>   ‘I must have her!’

  Sweete was about to add a comment when he realised that his companion was not talking about Mary Whetcombe at all. With a merchant’s instinct for the approach of a new sail on the horizon, Gideon Livermore had turned to look downriver. A stately vessel was approaching the harbour. Even at that distance, Livermore could pick it out. Its size and its position in the water were clues enough for him. He was looking at the ship that Matthew Whetcombe had named after his wife, a one-hundred-ton vessel that carried eighty men aboard and was the pride of Barnstaple. Few of the merchants owned their own ships. Even wealthy ones like Gideon Livermore only had shares in one. Matthew Whetcombe was the exception to the rule in this as in everything else, and it stirred great envy. After a career based largely on a quarter-share of a sixty-ton ship, Gideon Livermore coveted the vessel that was now riding towards them on the waves.

  Mary Whetcombe might one day lie beside him as his wife, but a much deeper desire burned inside him. He wanted the Mary itself. That was the real marriage that he sought. The love affair between a merchant and a ship could only be sanctified in ownership.

  ‘I must have her!’ he repeated.

  They broke away and walked back up towards the town. Livermore had documents to sign at the lawyer’s chambers and business to conduct with associates. He led the way in through West Gate so that they could look up at the house where Mary Whetcombe kept her forlorn vigil, but it was not the lovely face of his future wife who gazed down on him. It was the hard and inexpressive countenance of Lucy.

  Gideon Livermore turned away and hurried quickly past.

  ‘Have you spoken with Calmady?’ he said curtly.

  ‘We had a long discussion.’

  ‘Is he of our mind?’

  ‘He is now, Gideon.’

  ‘You had resistance from this prating vicar?’ said the other with irritation. ‘What is the fool playing at?’