He chuntered on but Nicholas was not listening. He was still absorbing what he had just heard. Robert Bracewell had lied yet again. To explain the disappearance and continued absence of his son, he invented a death at sea for him in some distant part of the globe. It was his father’s way of coping with the problem. He simply killed his elder son off.
The Gabriel made good speed along the coast and Nicholas was no idle passenger. When sail needed to be trimmed, he worked alongside the crew. When navigational skills were called for, he weighed in with friendly advice. The captain found him a tidy seaman and even let him take the wheel for a time. It was a costly treat. Though Nicholas enjoyed his moment at the helm, he had to listen to yet another barrage of moans from the captain. Sailors were like fishermen. The ship which got away from them was like the monster salmon which just escaped their clutches. This man could never have commanded a ship as large or as difficult to sail as the Mary but he would nurse his grievance for the rest of his days. The captain of Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple was lashed to the mast of his dreams.
Contrary winds obliged them to tack as they sailed past Ilfracombe but they found a kinder passage once they had come round the promontory and struck due south. Barnstaple Bay finally crept up on the horizon and Nicholas experienced the sudden joy of the sailor, catching a first glimpse of home after a long and tedious voyage. When he thought of what awaited him in the town, joy became apprehension. For one last time, he trespassed on the captain’s prejudice.
‘Did Matthew Whetcombe leave a family?’ he said.
‘Indeed, sir,’ replied the other. ‘A pretty wife and a slip of a daughter.’
‘Only one child?’
‘You may well ask, sir. I’ve six myself and few of the merchants in Barnstaple have less than three or four. But not Matthew Whetcombe.’ He gave a rasping chuckle. ‘The curse I put on him must have worked. The rogue could only bring one girl into the world and she was so half-made that he would never be seen with her in the street.’
‘Half-made?’
‘Deaf and dumb, sir.’
‘Poor child!’
‘Poor child, rich mother.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The wife, sir. He named his ship after her.’
‘I gathered that,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘Mary. Her name is Mary Whetcombe. He was blessed in his wife.’
‘Blessings now fall on her,’ said the captain. ‘She will have ship and houses and fortune and all. This is a rare woman. I’ll wager that Mary Whetcombe is the richest widow in Devon. She’ll have more suitors around her than flies around a cow’s arse in summertime.’ He gave Nicholas a confiding nudge. ‘Are you looking to get married, sir?’
He timed his visit perfectly. Barnard Sweete was shown into the hall of the house in Crock Street fifteen minutes after Arthur Calmady. The vicar had unloaded his daily shipment of condolence and read to her from the Bible. Mary Whetcombe was in a receptive mood. She made no protest when the lawyer was shown in by the maidservant.
‘I apologise for coming so early,’ he said. ‘I did not wish to intrude upon you and the vicar.’
‘We were almost done,’ said the vicar solemnly. ‘I will leave you alone with Mistress Whetcombe.’
‘Stay!’ said Sweete.
‘You will wish to discuss business.’
‘Your presence will advance it.’
‘Then I obey.’
The vicar sat back in his chair with the readiness of a man who was not in any case going to stir from it. He had already been warned that he would have to remain but Mary Whetcombe was too numbed to realise this. Eye signals which passed between her two visitors went unnoticed by her. With the Church and the law shutting her in, she felt trapped.
Barnard Sweete cleared his throat and delivered the speech he had rehearsed in his chambers. His tone was smooth and plausible, his expression one of polite sadness.
‘The question of your husband’s last will and testament must be addressed,’ he said. ‘Matthew Whetcombe was a very wealthy man and he wanted that wealth distributed to a number of different people. The nature of his illness and the unlooked for speed of his death left no time for long discussions about the inheritance of his estate. He penned no detailed instructions himself. What we have …’ He coughed again as Mary’s attention wavered. ‘What we have is a nuncupative will. That is to say, a will which is declared orally by the testator and later written down. This is a perfectly legal form of procedure and not at all uncommon.’
A glance at the vicar brought his endorsement at once.
‘Indeed, no,’ he said. ‘Nuncupative wills are accepted practice. I myself have been a witness of some. The Church has many functions at the death-bed.’
‘Thank you, Mr Calmady,’ continued Sweete, opening his satchel to take out a sheaf of documents. ‘Here is the last will and testament of Matthew Whetcombe of Barnstaple as witnessed by myself and other persons, Gideon Livermore among them.’ He put slight emphasis on Livermore’s name and looked up for a reaction but none came. ‘I leave it with you for your perusal but its main clauses are as I have already indicated. You and your daughter, Lucy, are well provided for and need have no financial worries but the bulk of the estate, together with the Mary, has been left to your late husband’s close friend and former partner, Gideon Livermore.’
This time there was a reaction and it was one of such acute loathing that Barnard Sweete made a mental note to omit it from the full report he would need to make to Livermore of his visit. The merchant had been a frequent caller at the house while Matthew Whetcombe was alive and he made no secret of his admiration for Mary. It was not mutual. Mary Whetcombe shivered at the thought that Gideon Livermore would not only be able to visit the house in future, he would own it. With Lucy and her servants, she would have to move out and take up residence in their country house some five miles away from Barnstaple. It was a grim prospect. Hers had been an unhappy marriage but Matthew Whetcombe had given her both countenance and security. Both had now been stripped away by means of legal process.
‘Let me clarify the procedure,’ said Sweete, referring to a page in front of him. ‘Matthew Whetcombe’s nuncupative will was made on April 23rd. He died two days later. He was buried on May 1st. On the following day, as is customary, an inventory was made of all his worldly goods. I have a copy of it here, dated May 2nd, and duly witnessed by myself and others. That inventory will be exhibited here in Barnstaple in ten days time when the will is proved.’
‘That is admirably clear,’ said Arthur Calmady.
‘Have you any questions?’
‘None, sir,’ said the vicar with lofty obsequiousness.
‘I was speaking to Mistress Whetcombe.’
‘My apologies, sir.’
‘Do you have any questions?’ nudged the lawyer.
The vicar tried to coax her. ‘Mary …’
They waited for some time before deciding that Mary Whetcombe had nothing to say. Sweete tidied the documents he had brought and left them in a neat pile on the table. He was confident that she would do no more than glance at them. The inventory was plain enough but the will was so enmeshed in legal jargon that she would never be able to disentangle it to her advantage. Barnard Sweete thought it foolproof.
Muttering niceties, he rose to leave and the vicar got simultaneously to his feet. Both were backing away when she spoke in a voice of remarkable firmness.
‘Matthew made a proper will.’
‘And here it lies before you,’ said Sweete easily.
‘I talk of a written will, set down in his own fair hand and witnessed by others.’ The men resumed their seats. ‘The end was quick but the doctor had warned him about his heart. Matthew made a will then. Dr Lymette was a witness.’
‘He was also a witness of the nuncupative will.’
‘Can one cancel out the other?’
‘That is its function.’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Calmady, singing the prescribed response. ‘What we decide at one time ma
y seem inappropriate at another. It is only when a man faces his Maker that he is able to make a true judgement.’
‘The last will and testament,’ noted Sweete. ‘It does not matter how many came before. The last one only counts.’
‘Where is the first one?’ she asked.
‘That is immaterial.’
‘It is not to me, sir. Where is it?’
‘A copy must have been lodged with you,’ said Calmady innocently, turning to the lawyer. ‘Do you have the document still in your possession?’
‘We do not, Mr Calmady.’
‘Why not?’ asked Mary with a flash of spirit.
‘Yes, why not?’ said the vicar, changing his allegiance.
‘Because, sir,’ replied Sweete pointedly, ‘we have many clients in Barnstaple and in the surrounding area. Hundreds of wills are deposited with us and some are altered or refined many times. If we retained every version of every invalid will, we should have no room in our chambers for anything else. Does that satisfy you, Mr Calmady?’
The vicar was suitably cowed. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, yes.’
‘What of the copy?’ wondered Mary.
‘Copy?’ said Sweete.
‘Of the first will.’
‘I have just told you that it was destroyed.’
‘That was your copy, sir. I speak of Matthew’s.’ The two men shifted uneasily in their chairs. ‘My husband had his faults – which husband does not – but he was meticulous in his affairs. The will may have been lodged with you but he would have retained a copy of it in case yours were mislaid.’
‘Wills are never mislaid by us.’
‘Destroyed, then.’
‘Is the copy not here in the house, Mary?’ said Calmady.
‘We have searched in vain.’
‘Nothing was found among his papers when the inventory was done,’ said Sweete. ‘His own copy must therefore have been mislaid or destroyed.’ He rode over her objection before she could voice it. ‘In any case, the earlier will has neither value nor interest here. It is replaced by another. Though I may tell you now that the terms of the first are very largely replicated in the second.’
Mary was so hurt by this information that she did not question it. Barnard Sweete was a reputable lawyer. He had served her husband for years. Why should he lie to her? She glanced wearily across at the pile of documents and nodded her head. It was a sign of defeat.
The lawyer jumped smartly to his feet and gestured for the vicar to follow suit. They bade a farewell then stole across to the door but their departure was blocked a second time. After a loud tap, the maidservant entered and stood between them, not sure if she should wait till they had gone before she delivered the message. Mary had nothing to hide.
‘Well, what is it?’ she said.
‘A gentleman waits below for you.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
As soon as he disembarked with the roan, Nicholas rode along the Strand and entered the town through West Gate. He did not pause to take stock of his birthplace or to allow any room for sentiment to intrude. He was there on urgent business and that took precedence over everything else. All he had to guide him was the name of a dead girl, but it was enough. Coupled with the information he had learnt at sea, it took him straight to Crock Street. The captain had spoken with snarling envy of a big house, and he soon located it. He went first to the stables at the rear of the house. The lad who was cleaning the tack recognised the horse at once and was delighted to have the animal restored to his care, but Nicholas did not tell him how the roan had come into his hands. That information was reserved for the mistress of the house. Certain that he was at the correct address, he walked back to the front door to knock. A maidservant took his name then invited him to step inside and wait while she went to see if he would be received.
Nicholas Bracewell stood in a passageway between the shop and the parlour. He could smell leather. A flight of stairs led up to the first floor, and the maidservant had gone up them. He waited patiently until he heard a creak above his head. Looking up the stairs, he expected to see the maidservant return but he was instead confronted by a sight that made his heart thump and his brain mist. Watching him carefully with large, questioning eyes was a young girl in a black dress. Her face was so like her mother’s that this had to be her child. Nicholas was transported back twenty years to a time when Mary Parr and he had played together in the streets and chased each other through the churchyard of St Peter’s. He was looking at his childhood sweetheart. Other memories joined the first to turn it sour.
The girl was studying him with intense curiosity. She detected a friend. When Nicholas smiled up at her, she even gave him a small wave of the hand. She was not Mary Parr any longer. She was the deaf-mute daughter of Mary Whetcombe. Though she had something of her mother’s beauty, she had hair that was much lighter and a cast of feature that was subtly different. The girl liked him. In that brief moment while he waited at the bottom of the stairs, an affinity existed between them. Nicholas was still wondering what that affinity might be when the maidservant’s shoes clattered on the oak treads. The girl vanished and the flat-faced woman returned.
‘She will not see you today, sir,’ she said.
‘Did you give my name?’ he asked in hurt tones.
‘My mistress is indisposed, sir.’
‘She will surely receive me.’
‘I have given you her reply.’ The maidservant tried to motion him towards the door. ‘This is a house of mourning.’
‘Tell her I have important news for her.’
‘Call again tomorrow.’
‘I know what happened to Susan Deakin.’
The maidservant’s manner changed at once and she threw up her hands to clutch at her puffy cheeks. Nicholas had rightly guessed that the dead girl belonged to a prosperous household. She had been in the employ of the late Matthew Whetcombe.
‘Where is Susan?’ said the maidservant anxiously.
‘I will tell your mistress.’
‘Have you seen her? Is she well?’
‘You will hear all in time,’ said Nicholas discreetly. ‘Susan was servant of the house, I believe.’
‘Bless you, sir, yes. Like her mother before her. Susan followed in Joan Deakin’s footsteps.’
‘Is her mother still alive?’
The maidservant shook her head. ‘Dead, sir. Years ago.’
‘And was Susan a reliable girl?’
‘None more so,’ she said. ‘Susan worked as hard as anyone in the house and took care of Miss Lucy. We were so surprised when she ran away from the house.’
‘Ran away?’
But the maidservant had said enough and retreated into a watchful silence. The stranger would not be received. She had given her message and must show him out. Nicholas Bracewell was a name she had heard often but it was evidently not welcome there. The arrival of the visitor had had such a powerful effect on Mary Whetcombe that she had needed time to recover, and Barnard Sweete had been equally discomfited. The maidservant judged the newcomer to be the son of Robert Bracewell, and the father was no longer allowed into the house. A man who could cause upset simply by calling there must be shown the door.
‘You must go, sir,’ she insisted.
‘Commend me to your mistress,’ he said. ‘Tell her that I will lodge at the Dolphin in the High Street. It is but a small step from here and I can easily be reached.’
‘Good day, sir.’
‘Remember the name. Nicholas Bracewell.’
The maidservant remembered it only too well as a cause of mild panic in the hall upstairs. She was anxious to hear about Susan Deakin but feared the tidings were not good. Nicholas was ushered to the door and out into the street. As he walked slowly away, he was conscious of being watched, and he turned around to gaze up at the house. Faces moved away from the windows of the hall but one remained at the window in the upper storey. Lucy Whetcombe waved to him again and held something up to h
im, but he could not see what it was. From that distance, the tiny wooden object was just a vague blob in her little hand. It never even crossed his mind that her doll might be Nicholas Bracewell.
Ellen was propelled by a mixture of envy and daring. Though she had enjoyed all she had seen of the work of Westfield’s Men, the role of the apprentices troubled her. Young boys could never be true women. Wigs and dresses only took the impersonation so far. It stopped short of completion. She had watched Lawrence Firethorn play a tender love scene with Richard Honeydew in one play then seduce the lad with equal skill in another, but on neither occasion had they kissed properly. Words took the place of embraces. Passion was distilled into blank verse. If she were on the stage, she believed, the feeling between the lovers would strike a deeper resonance, and it pained her that she would never be given the chance to prove it.
What she could not do in public, however, could perhaps be accomplished in private, and it was here that envy made way for daring. She had simpered and smiled as Judith Grace to lure him to her bedchamber, but a very different net was needed to land her catch this time. Firethorn would be on his guard. If her performance faltered in any degree, he would unmask her. Ellen’s daring, however, had another level to it and it was one she kept even from her husband. Firethorn was a dupe, but he was also a handsome, virulent man who gave off a shower of sparks whenever he stepped onstage. She would not have to dissemble on one score. His attraction for her was real. Ellen was confident of her ability to draw him to her bedchamber but she was less certain about what she would do then. Her task was to distract him while her husband was searching Firethorn’s room at the Jolly Sailor. There was one sure way to distract any red-blooded man.
There was a respectful tap on the door.
‘Are you ready?’ asked a voice.
‘Come on in and judge for yourself.’
The door opened and a coachman lumbered in. Israel Gunby was transformed by his hat and long coat. He gaped in astonishment when he saw his wife. Ellen had undergone a metamorphosis. The winsome daughter who was such an effective shield behind whom to hide had now become a lady of aristocratic mien. She wore a dress of dark blue satin that was padded and quilted at the shoulders, stiffened with whalebone, lavishly embroidered with a paler blue and slashed to reveal an even richer lining of pure silk. The shoes, which peeped between the low hem, were silvered. The wig, which swept her whole face upwards, was auburn. Make-up had turned an attractive young woman into a stunning one. Israel Gunby would not have recognised her at first glance.
The Silent Woman Page 24