‘Why?’
‘Because the messenger who came to London was murdered before the message was delivered to me. They tried to stop me from getting to Barnstaple. I was attacked by the same man.’ Nicholas paused. ‘He now lies dead in Bristol.’
‘You killed him?’ The old man was shocked.
‘Defending myself.’
‘Who was the rogue?’
‘His name was Lamparde.’
‘Adam Lamparde?’
‘You know the man?’
‘I did at one time,’ recalled his father. ‘Lamparde was a sailor. A Tiverton man by birth. A good seaman, too, who could have looked to have his own vessel one day. But he was too fond of a brawl. A man was killed in a tavern one night. Lamparde disappeared. They say he made for London.’
‘Which ship did he sail in?’
‘The Endeavour. She was only twenty tons, but she flew between Barnstaple and Brittany like a bird on the wing.’
‘Who owned the vessel?’
‘Two or three. Gideon Livermore among them.’
‘His name guided me here.’
The old man snarled. ‘Livermore is offal!’
‘He stands to inherit the bulk of Whetcombe’s estate.’
‘Let him. What care I?’
‘You were a witness to the man’s will.’
‘Yes,’ said the other with a sigh of regret. ‘I could speak to Matthew in those days, visit his house, discuss all manner of business, mix with his friends.’
‘You saw that will, Father.’
‘I would not have signed it else.’
‘What did it say?’
‘That is a private matter.’
‘You may save Mary, if you can tell us. She is cut out by the new will. Gideon Livermore seizes all. I do not believe that that was Matthew Whetcombe’s true wish.’
‘He was a deep man, Matthew. A very deep man.’
‘What was in the first will?’
‘Ask the lawyer!’
‘You read it, Father!’ shouted Nicholas. ‘For God’s sake, tell us what was in it! Did he leave the ship to Gideon Livermore? Did he leave the house in Crock Street? Did he all but disinherit his wife and child? Tell us.’
Robert Bracewell pulled himself forward in the chair as if to strike his son, but the blow never came. Nicholas was instead hit by a peal of derisive laughter that made his own fists bunch in anger.
‘So that’s your game, my lad,’ said his father with weary cynicism. ‘That’s why you came back here. For her. You wanted Mary Parr then and you want her even more now that she is Mary Whetcombe and a wealthy widow. That’s what my son has turned into, is it? A privateer! Drake has taught you well. Hoist your flag and set sail. Seize the richest prize on the seas. No wonder you want her. Mary Whetcombe is a treasure trove.’ The laughter darkened. ‘But she’ll never want you. She’d sooner look at a rogue like Livermore!’
Nicholas was so incensed that it was an effort to hold himself back from attacking his father and beating him to the ground. The speech had opened up old wounds with the ease of a sharp knife ripping through the soft underbelly of a fish. Nicholas closed his eyes and waited for the pounding in his temples to cease.
Robert Bracewell was typical of the merchant class. He was a practical man, toughened by a harsh upbringing and by the struggle to survive in a competitive world. Marriage was essentially a business proposition to him. Merchants’ sons married merchants’ daughters. A prudent choice of wife brought in a widening circle of friends and relations who could improve a man’s prospects considerably. The dowry, too, was important. It could save many a poor credit balance. That was a factor that weighed heavily with Robert Bracewell, and he had selected a bride for his elder son partly on that basis.
Fathers struck bargains. Katherine Hurrell was selected for Nicholas Bracewell in the same way as Mary Parr was the designated wife of Matthew Whetcombe. Love and happiness were a matter of chance. The commercial implications of the match were far more important. Paternal pressure on all sides was immense, but Nicholas and Mary resisted it. They rejected their chosen partners. They wanted each other, no matter what their fathers decreed. Robert Bracewell had been adamant that his son should marry Katherine Hurrell. His preference for her family had become an obsession.
Nicholas remembered why and his loathing intensified.
‘You stopped us!’ he accused.
‘I had to, Nick. You must see that.’
‘You killed our hopes.’
‘I had no choice.’
‘Mary was waiting for me,’ said Nicholas. ‘She would have run away with me sooner than marry him. She hated Matthew Whetcombe. He had nothing to offer her.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said his father. ‘He offered something that nobody else could match. There was more to Matthew than you might think. A deep man, believe me. Hidden virtues.’
‘Mary had no time for him.’
‘That is not true.’
‘She couldn’t bear the fellow near her!’
‘Yet she married him.’
It was offered as a simple statement of fact, but it had the impact of a punch. Nicholas recoiled. Matthew Whetcombe had indeed married Mary Parr, but only because Nicholas had deserted her. His one impulsive action all those years ago had committed a woman he wanted to a loveless relationship with a man whose death she could not even mourn. By extension, it had also thrust her into the humiliating situation that now faced her. Guilt pummelled away at Nicholas again but the real culprit was sitting calmly in front of him. His father was enjoying his son’s discomfort.
It had been a mistake to come. Robert Bracewell would not help a son who ran away from him or a woman who ruined his marriage plans for that son. The old man would take a perverse delight in obstructing them. Nicholas got up abruptly and moved to the door. His father’s voice halted him.
‘I witnessed that will,’ he said, ‘but I am not able to tell you its contents. They are confidential. If you insist on seeing it, apply to Barnard Sweete. He should have a copy of the first will.’
‘He has destroyed it.’
‘Matthew had a copy drafted.’
‘That, too, has disappeared.’
‘Find it, Nick.’
‘The house has been searched from top to bottom.’
‘Search again.’
‘Was Livermore the main beneficiary of the first will?’
‘Find it and you will know the truth.’
‘Will you give us no help at all, Father!’
‘What have you done to deserve it?’ said the other with scorn. ‘Get out of my house! Get out of my life!’
‘A crime is being committed here!’ urged Nicholas. ‘You can prevent it. We need you!’
But Robert Bracewell had said all that he was going to on the subject. The interview, which had been a torment for his son, had been an ordeal for him as well. All the strength had drained out of him and the pouched skin quivered. The woman came in from the scullery to stand behind him in case she was needed. They looked once again like two old servants in a farmer’s cottage. Nicholas was saddened.
He went quickly out but paused a few yards down the path, turning to call a question through the open door.
‘Why did you go so often to Matthew Whetcombe’s house?’
Robert Bracewell got up and lumbered towards him. One hand on the door, he stared at his visitor with a mixture of nostalgia and dismay.
‘Why did you go?’ repeated Nicholas.
‘To see my granddaughter.’
He slammed the door shut with echoing finality.
His mind was an inferno as he rode away from the cottage. Past and present seemed so inextricably linked that they had become one. Mary Whetcombe had reminded him of the young man he once was and Robert Bracewell had warned him of the old man he could become. Both experiences had torn at his very entrails. He rode at a steady canter and vowed never to return to the house. Seeing his father again had laid some ghosts to rest but awakened too ma
ny others. The picture of two aged people side by side in a run-down cottage stayed in his mind. Robert Bracewell had once lived with a handsome woman of good family who loved him devotedly and who bore him two children. That wife was sent to an early grave with a broken heart. All that the merchant had left now was a shuffling servant to fetch and carry for him.
So much had happened since he had come back to Barnstaple that he could not absorb it all. Nicholas Bracewell tried to pick out the salient facts. Mary Whetcombe was in serious danger of losing her inheritance through a conspiracy. Gideon Livermore was dispossessing her in order to bring her within his reach. As a rich widow, she would never deign to look at a man like him, but she might change her mind if marriage restored to her all that she had lost. Mary was an essential part of the property, and Livermore would not part with her. She had been forced to marry one man she hated. Why not another?
If she took Gideon Livermore, however, she would be sharing her life with a murderer. Lamparde had killed Susan Deakin and attempted to send Nicholas after her but the orders had come from Livermore. He stood to gain most and had just as much blood on his hands as Lamparde himself. Barnard Sweete was an accomplice. Against two men of such guile, a distraught widow would have little chance. They had even enlisted the aid of the vicar on their side to render Mary Whetcombe completely powerless.
Another consideration scalded its way into Nicholas’s brain. Mary was the mother of his child. The feeling that Nicholas had when he first saw Lucy had been strengthened. In spite of her mother’s denial, he sensed that the girl was his, and his father had confirmed it. The forlorn creature who was locked away with her dolls in a silent universe was Nicholas’s daughter. She deserved special protection.
Robert Bracewell’s regular visits to the house were now explained, but questions were raised about Matthew Whetcombe. Did he know that the child was his? Had his revulsion been based on the girl’s afflictions or on her true parentage? Nicholas’s father had called the merchant a deep man. In what sense? Would such a proud merchant accept a cuckoo in the nest? Was he aware of Mary’s pregnancy when he married her? The house in Crock Street was full of phantoms.
Nicholas had gone to such lengths to exorcise the demons from his mind that he could not be certain about dates and times. The specifics of Lucy’s birth did not matter. His own instinct was more reliable, especially as it now had his father’s endorsement. What hurt him most was that Mary had lied to him about the girl. Their daughter was conceived in love even if she had grown up with very little of it around her. Nicholas was sorrowful as he thought about the thin little body and the pinched face, but he also felt a strange joy. He knew the truth at last.
He passed the signpost to Marwood again and his thoughts turned once more to the company. With all its problems and pressures, life with Westfield’s Men was far preferable to this. He had a recognised position there and was able to impose some order. Barnstaple was chaos. Nicholas no longer had a place in the community and his feelings about it were ambivalent. Mary had hardly given him an ecstatic welcome and his own father had treated him like an intruder. Instead of being in control, he was being swept along by events.
Nicholas had to affirm his purpose. Action was needed. His immediate priority was to find the first will. Gideon Livermore was the architect of the villainy but his guilt would still have to be proved. Possession of that first will would be a major piece of evidence against him. If it was not in the house, where else could it possibly be?
He was still asking the question as he rode through a patch of woodland. The horse cantered along and its rider let it find its own way along the trail. It proved fatal. The forelegs of the animal suddenly made contact with the stout cord that had been stretched across its path between two trees. Down went the horse in a writhing heap and Nicholas was thrown clear. He knew at once that it was an ambush. After rolling over on the damp ground, he looked for cover and dived swiftly behind the nearest tree. He was just in time. There was a loud twanging noise and something thudded into the trunk only inches away from his face.
He drew his sword to defend himself and leapt to his feet, but his unseen attacker was already spurring his own horse away. Nicholas examined the short steel arrow which was embedded in the tree. It was the bolt from a crossbow.
They had found a new Lamparde.
Barnard Sweete was livid. As he paced the room, his coolness and poise were cracking audibly around the edges.
‘You should have consulted me first, Gideon!’
‘And given you the chance to stop me?’
‘I warned you not to lay hands upon him.’
‘Who are you to give orders?’ said Livermore.
‘They are not orders!’ protested the lawyer. ‘I simply want to stay alive. You cannot attack a man like Nicholas Bracewell. It is one thing to kill off a mere servant hundreds of miles from here but we do not want a corpse like this on our doorstep.’
‘It is not on our doorstep,’ assured the other with a complacent grin. ‘My man will have buried it in the wood by now. Nobody will ever find Nicholas Bracewell or know why he came to Barnstaple.’
‘Questions will be asked.’
‘By whom? Mary? His father?’ He shrugged. ‘We tell them that he has fled the town. He walked out on both of them before now and he has done so again. They will never know the truth. Trust me, Barnard. My way is best.’
‘It incriminates us.’
‘Lamparde has already done that.’
‘Far away in London – not here!’
Gideon Livermore chuckled. ‘You are too squeamish, man. Be grateful to me for having rid us of the problem. I was only taking your advice, after all.’
‘My advice?’
‘You said that I could not have him killed off like a poacher who has been found on my land. But that’s exactly what I have done. I own this town and Nicholas Bracewell has trespassed on it. I merely enforced the law.’
Barnard Sweete came to rest in front of the table. He sat against it and his foot tapped anxiously as he feared repercussions. If Livermore disposed of his enemies so ruthlessly, what would happen to the lawyer if the two of them ever fell out?
‘I still do not like it, Gideon,’ he said.
‘You will learn to live with it.’
‘Think of the risk that you were taking.’
‘I am a merchant,’ said Livermore. ‘Risk is the essence of my business. Every time I send a ship across the sea, I risk its loss. Every time I strike a bargain, I risk a high cost. But these are calculated risks and they have always paid off in the past. Put trust in my merchant’s instinct now. This is the most profitable deal I have ever made.’
Barnard Sweete calmed down. Horrified when told about the ambush in the wood, he was now coming to see its positive advantages. Nicholas Bracewell was a threat to the whole enterprise and had to be removed. This way was dramatic and worrying, but it did eliminate the one last obstacle. When he looked down at his hands, they were white and spotless. He might feel the blood on them but there was no visible sign of it.
Gideon Livermore wanted progress. Having disposed – as he thought – of a major problem, he was impatient to take possession of his prize. He had been down to the wharf to see the Mary again that morning and had watched her for an hour as she lay at anchor in the middle of the River Taw. She dwarfed all the craft around her. Livermore would soon occupy that position in Barnstaple. In every sense, his tonnage would be the heaviest in north Devon and all would make way for him for fear of being caught in his wash.
He was still preening himself when a knock on the door brought an anxious clerk into the room. When he told them who had arrived at the chambers, both men blanched. Barnard Sweete recovered first. He told his clerk to send in the visitor after two minutes. Alone once more with Gideon Livermore, he treated him to a burst of vituperation. The merchant had boasted of the death of Nicholas Bracewell yet that same man was now calling on the lawyer. Another of the merchant’s schemes had miscarrie
d.
After a bitter exchange with his colleague, Sweete showed him into an adjoining room and left the door slightly ajar so that the latter could overhear everything. The lawyer took a deep breath to compose himself before sitting behind his desk. Nicholas Bracewell was conducted in. Brief introductions were made then the clerk withdrew again.
‘Pray take a seat, sir,’ invited the lawyer.
‘I will not be staying,’ said Nicholas. ‘Why did you wish to see me?’
‘On a matter of mutual concern.’ He attempted a smile. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet another member of the Bracewell family. I acted for your brother, Peter, and I know your father well.’
‘I have not long returned from him.’
Nicholas was standing defiantly in front of the table. His jerkin was scuffed and there were traces of mud on his face but he was plainly unhurt. Equally plainly, he was in no mood for polite conversation. The lawyer plunged straight into business.
‘I believe that you may have been misled, sir.’
‘In what way?’
‘Last evening,’ said Sweete, ‘you were seen leaving the Whetcombe house in Crock Street, though my informant was not quite sure how you gained entry.’
‘You need a more vigilant informant. But warn him that he will get more than a crack on the head if I chance to meet up with him again.’
The lawyer swallowed hard. ‘Evidently, you spoke with Mistress Whetcombe,’ he said. ‘She may have raised the question of her husband’s will. It may appear uncharitable to her on the surface but there is much comfort for her between the lines.’ After pausing for a response that did not come, he went on. ‘I am also in a position to offer certain emendations.’
‘You are empowered to change the will?’
‘By no means, sir,’ said Sweete fussily. ‘It has been signed and witnessed, so its terms must hold. But a number of concessions can still be made.’
‘How?’
‘By deed of gift.’
‘You have lost me, Mr Sweete.’
‘I am not quite sure how much you know of the will.’
‘Enough to distrust you.’
The Silent Woman Page 28