Lawrence Firethorn tore off the wig and flung it on the floor. He had given one private performance that had not been commissioned. Israel Gunby stood there petrified. He had himself escorted Firethorn to a chamber in the Black Swan. How could the actor be in two places at once?
‘Sit down and wait, sir,’ ordered Firethorn. ‘Owen Elias will soon be here with your wife. When you steal money from a man, you only injure his purse. But when you mock his profession, you hurt his pride and that will not be borne.’
Israel Gunby smiled in respect and then began to laugh. A man who had made a career out of duping others had himself been turned into a dupe. He relished the irony.
‘You will not laugh on the gallows,’ said Firethorn, ‘but Westfield’s Men will have cause for mirth. We will not only get back the money you stole from us, we will collect a handsome reward for the capture of Israel Gunby.’
‘You deserve it, sir,’ said the other. ‘You deserve it.’
He was still laughing when the others arrived.
Nicholas Bracewell knew that he was being followed. The man had trailed him from the moment he left Crock Street. He was lurking in the churchyard when Nicholas came out. It was not a threatening presence like that of Lamparde but it still irked him. The sky was darkening now and the churchyard was dappled with shadow. Nicholas pretended to make another visit to his mother’s grave and knelt in silent prayer. The man crept up behind a yew tree and watched. When Nicholas rose, he slipped his dagger from its scabbard and turned the blade inwards so that the handle showed. He walked past the tree where the man was concealed and went around the angle of a vault. The man waited a few seconds and followed but his was a short journey. As he peered around the edge of the vault, he could not see anyone leaving the churchyard. He moved a pace forward and Nicholas struck hard, bringing the handle of the dagger down on the back of the man’s head, knocking him senseless.
When Nicholas reached the gate, he felt another pair of eyes on him and fingered his dagger once more but it was not needed this time. The figure who stepped out from behind the wall was small and friendly. Lucy Whetcombe looked at him with a hesitant excitement then offered her hand. She trusted him. The affinity that he had felt earlier was stronger than ever now. They seemed to know each other. As if understanding his need, she led Nicholas Bracewell back the way that she had come.
Mary Whetcombe sat in the fore-chamber of her house and wept bitterly. It was the room where she had spent most of her marriage. While her husband slept in the Great Chamber next door, she had sought a measure of freedom from him but it was only illusory. His spirit followed her everywhere and there had been many times when he had forced her to join him in the marital bed. Mary had never stayed the night. That was one concession she had refused to make. Matthew Whetcombe had died and released her from all that, but he was now imposing another form of imprisonment from beyond the grave. The terms of his will were punitive. To retain any of the things she valued, she would have to consider the horror of marriage to another rich merchant. Gideon Livermore would be another version of Matthew Whetcombe.
She was completely distraught. At the moment when she was contemplating a hideous future, a name had come out of her past to intensify her distress. After all those long and remorseful years, Nicholas Bracewell had come back. When she had needed him, he had gone away from the town. Why had he returned now and what did he hope to do? Mary could not bear him to see her in this state. She had been young and happy when they were last together. That world had gone.
The tap on the door made her sit up on the bed.
‘Go away,’ she called. ‘I must not be disturbed.’
There was a louder knock and she dabbed at her eyes.
‘Leave me alone. I will see no one!’
But the caller was insistent. The tapping got louder and longer and continued until she went across to unlock the door and fling it open with anger. Lucy’s whitened knuckles were raised to strike again but Mary did not even see her daughter. It was the tall man who waited quietly behind the girl who seized all her attention. She let out a gasp.
‘Nicholas!’
‘I must speak with you, Mary.’
‘Why are you here? How did you get into the house?’
‘Lucy showed me a way in.’
The girl looked up hopefully at her mother who noticed her at last. Since Nicholas had been turned away from the front door, she had brought him in through her secret entrance in the granary. Mary was torn between astonishment and alarm. Nicholas was still trying to think calmly. The sheer joy of seeing her again was marred by her patent suffering. Only the girl seemed to be happy that all three of them were together. With a tremor of delight, Lucy held both their hands for a second then ran off quickly downstairs and left them alone together.
‘May I come in?’ asked Nicholas softly.
‘You should not be here.’
‘We must talk, Mary.’
She backed into the room and he went after her, closing the door behind him. When he glanced around the room, his eye fell on the bed and he flinched slightly. Their last meeting had also been in a bedchamber though it lacked the elegant furnishings of this one. When Mary sat down, he brought a chair to place opposite her. They stared at each other in hurt silence for some time. Faded memories of what had drawn them together were still there, but they were overlaid with things that would keep them forever apart. Nicholas saw that the gulf that had opened could not be bridged. All that he could hope to do was to call softly across it.
‘You sent for me,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘But the messenger came to London.’
‘Messenger?’
‘Susan Deakin.’
‘Dear God!’ she said, bringing her hands to her mouth. ‘Is that where Susan went? All the way to London?’
‘I thought she had come from you, Mary.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘We did not even speak.’
‘But you said that Susan came to find you.’
‘Someone stopped her reaching me.’
‘Then where is she now?’
Nicholas tried to put it gently. ‘Susan will not be returning here, I fear,’ he said.
‘She is surely not dead!’
His expression was answer enough and Mary went off into a paroxysm of weeping. Nicholas put a comforting arm around her but it was minutes before she was able to speak again. Her body still heaved and shook as she looked up at him. A new and deeper level of despair came into her eyes.
‘How did it happen?’
‘That need not concern you,’ he said.
‘How did it happen? I must know, Nick.’
‘She was poisoned.’
‘Lord in heaven – no!’
She trembled on the edge of hysteria again and he kept his arm around her, but Mary Whetcombe did not collapse again. Guilt and sadness consumed her. Her voice was a faraway murmur of pain.
‘I killed that girl,’ she said.
‘No, Mary.’
‘She went to London because of me.’
‘You did not send her.’
‘Susan wanted to do all that she could. She was a headstrong girl and would not be ruled by anyone.’ Mary raised her shoulders in a shrug of remorse. ‘I was sorely troubled. I needed help. Susan thought she could find it in London.’
‘But why did she come to me?’ asked Nicholas.
‘There was nobody else.’
‘The girl did not even know me.’
‘Your name was often spoken in this house.’
Mary detached herself from him and walked a few paces away before standing beside a small table. She wrestled with a vestigial fidelity to her husband and then glanced down at the documents that Barnard Sweete had left for her. Matthew Whetcombe had shown her no loyalty and she owed none to him now. He had cut her completely adrift.
‘Matthew and I often argued,’ she said, tossing a look towards the other bedchamber. ‘Your name was m
uch used by him in those arguments. He spoke it with great bitterness and always in a raised voice. You are known here, Nick. To every servant in the household, Susan among them.’ She turned away from him. ‘Then there was your father.’
It brought him to his feet. ‘My father?’
‘He often came here at one time.’
‘Why?’
‘Matthew and he did business together.’
‘You let my father come here, Mary?’ he accused.
‘Only at my husband’s invitation,’ she said. ‘The name of Bracewell is familiar in this house. Your father never talked about you. He wanted to believe you had died at sea.’ She turned to face him. ‘He looked so much like you, Nick.’
‘How did you know I was in London?’
‘From my husband.’
‘Matthew?’
‘He prospered, Nick. He made a fortune. But the more Matthew had, the more he wanted, and he set up a company in London. He went there last September. They took him to all the theatres.’
‘The Queen’s Head was amongst them, I’ll wager.’
‘He saw Westfield’s Men three times. The last time …’
‘He saw me.’ She nodded then bit her tongue. ‘There is more to come, Mary. Do not spare my feelings. What did your husband say about me?’
‘Matthew could be very cruel.’ She took a deep breath and blurted it out. ‘If I had married you, he said, I would be the wife of a vagabond in a theatre company. He gave me all this – you could offer me nothing!’
‘In some sense, that is true,’ admitted Nicholas sadly. ‘You were better off with Matthew Whetcombe, after all.’
‘I was not!’ she retorted vehemently. ‘I was married to a man I despised instead of to one I loved. Matthew may have given me all this – but he has taken it away again now!’
The force of her outburst had distracted them from the noise of the opening door. Lucy stood there watching them with anxiety. Mary recovered quickly and went across to close the door after drawing the child in. Lucy was carrying her collection of dolls. She set the bundle down in front of Nicholas and unrolled it with great care. One by one, she stood the dolls in a line. When Lucy picked up the last one, she offered it to Nicholas.
‘Take it,’ said Mary. ‘I think it is you.’
‘Me?’
‘Susan and Lucy made the dolls between them. Matthew would have beaten them again if he had known. That is you.’
Nicholas took the doll and looked at its fair hair.
‘But they had no idea what I looked like.’
‘They saw your father.’
‘This is me?’ he said with surprise, and Lucy nodded vigorously as she read his lips. He thanked her with a smile then looked at Mary. ‘Am I so important in Lucy’s life?’
‘Yes, Nick.’
The girl was down on her knees, moving the other dolls about and placing them into little groups. Nicholas looked over her and asked a question with his eyes. The idea had almost become a certainty in his mind, but Mary replied with glistening tears and a shake of the head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Lucy is not yours.’
‘Can you be sure?’
‘She was Matthew’s child. I should know! He spent most of his time blaming me for her. That is why he’s struck back at me now. Because of Lucy and because of …’ Her voice trailed away.
Nicholas watched Lucy happily at play, at once disappointed and relieved by the news. Mary ran an affectionate hand through the girl’s hair, but Lucy did not look up. Her mother turned back to her visitor.
‘Susan was Lucy’s closest friend,’ she said. ‘Her only real friend in some ways. I can never tell her that Susan has been …’ She put a hand to her face. ‘Lucy would be heartbroken.’
‘Why did Susan Deakin come for me?’ he asked.
‘She knew that I needed help.’
‘How?’
Mary picked up the documents from the table and handed them to Nicholas. He read the first page of the will and understood the nature of the crisis at once.
‘Your husband made this will?’
‘They say that he did.’
‘It cuts you right out of the estate. Apart from a house to live in and a small income, you get nothing. It all goes to Gideon Livermore.’ Nicholas knew the name and spoke it with contempt. ‘Livermore takes precedence over a man’s wife and child. This will is an insult. It is obscene!’
‘The lawyer assures me it is legal.’
‘He even inherits the Mary.’
‘That was Matthew’s pride and joy.’
‘It should be yours now,’ said Nicholas. ‘You are being abused here, Mary. This will must be contested.’
‘I have no means to do that,’ she complained. ‘They are all against me here. The lawyer, his partner, Gideon Livermore and even the vicar. Who can hold up against all those?’
‘We can,’ he said. ‘Together.’
‘This is not your fight, Nick.’
‘It is, Mary. Susan Deakin taught me that.’ He held up the document. ‘This is a nuncupative will. Did Matthew not write out a will of his own?’
‘Yes, but this second one rescinds it.’
‘Where is the first?’
‘It was lodged with the lawyer but destroyed when this new will was made.’ She sighed helplessly. ‘Matthew had a copy of the first will but we do not know where he kept it.’
‘Who were the witnesses?’
‘Why?’
‘They will know what was in it.’
‘Barnard Sweete was one. He is Matthew’s lawyer. He swears the second will is almost a replica of the first.’
‘Then why need to make it?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Can the other witnesses support what this lawyer says?’
‘I fear they will, Nick. They are mostly the same men who witnessed the second will. There is but one exception.’
‘Is he an honest man?’
‘Only you will know that.’
‘Tell me who he is and I will go to him at once. This will turns Gideon Livermore into the master here. You would be thrown out of your own house.’
Mary lowered her head. ‘He wants me to stay.’
Nicholas understood and his anger soared. The will was not just being used as a way to deprive Mary Whetcombe of her rightful inheritance. It was a crude lever to get her into the bed of an ambitious merchant. Susan Deakin had not understood the details of her employer’s plight but she knew enough to summon Nicholas. She had been killed in an attempt to cover deceit and gross malpractice. A legal will did not need a professional killer to enforce its terms. The document was rigged for the benefit of others and it needed to be contested. A huge fortune was at stake. One honest man might guide it into the right hands. If Nicholas could have some indication of the contents of the first will, he could carry the fight forward. But he desperately needed the other witness.
‘Who was the man, Mary?’ he said.
‘Your father – Robert Bracewell.’
Chapter Eleven
Alexander Marwood had suspended all belief in the notion of divine intervention. After a lifelong study of the phenomenon, he concluded that there was no such thing as a benevolent deity who watched over the affairs of men with a caring love and plucked those in danger from beneath the wheels of fate. Marwood spent most of his existence beneath those wheels and they had left deep ruts across mind, body and soul. If there really was any pity in heaven, it would surely have been shown to someone in his predicament yet none came to relieve the unrelenting misery of his lot. His plight should make angels weep and archangels wring their hands in sorrow but compassion was always on holiday. He became ungodly.
Work, wife and Westfield’s Men. Those were the triple causes of his ruin. A man of his temperament should never have become an innkeeper. He hated beer, he hated people and he hated noise yet he chose a profession which tied him forever to them. His introspective nature was ill-suited to the extrovert banter of the taproom. It was a crime to make him serve out hi
s sentence at the Queen’s Head. Marriage had compounded the felony. Sybil Marwood bound him to the inn and fettered him to her purpose. One year of muted happiness in her arms had produced a daughter who was miraculously free from the spectacular ugliness of both parents. It had also turned a tepid marital couch into a cold one and so much ice had now formed around its inner regions that Marwood felt he lay beside a polar bear. Westfield’s Men completed his nightmare.
Separately, each of his tribulations was enough to break the heart of man and the back of beast. Together, they were unendurable. The fire at the Queen’s Head had somehow welded all three of them together and the combined weight of his afflictions was now pressing the last glimmer of life out of him.
‘Have you come to a decision yet, Alexander?’
‘Not yet, my love.’
‘Move swiftly or we lose the advantage.’
‘There is no advantage in a theatre company.’
‘Then why does this other innkeeper woo them?’
‘Madness.’
‘Profit.’
‘Suicide.’
‘Respect.’
‘Ignominy.’
‘Fame!’ cried Sybil. ‘Do not lose that, Alexander, or we perish. Be wise, be proud, be famous!’
The polar bear roared at her husband every day now.
Marwood left his wife in the taproom and scurried out to the yard, bracing himself for the sight of devastation and vowing that Westfield’s Men would never again be given the chance to set fire to his premises. A surprise greeted him. The restoration work had advanced much faster than expected. Diligent carpenters had now completely removed all the charred timbers and replaced them with sound ones. Behind the wooden scaffolding, the gaping hole was slowly being filled. The galleries no longer sagged in the corner. Fresh supports had lifted them back up to something like their former shape. There was still much to do but the yard of the Queen’s Head was recognisably his again.
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