The Counterfeit Crank

by Edward Marston

  The banquet was under way. Almost thirty people were seated at the long table and all them were relishing the occasion. Three musicians played in the background and their lively airs caught the spirit of the evening. The food was rich, the wine plentiful and the guests blandished by the women in their gaudy plumage. Seated at the end of the table, Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave looked on with satisfaction.

  ‘How much have we made this evening?’ asked Olgrave.

  ‘A handsome profit. When men are drunk, their purse strings are much looser.’

  ‘They get their money’s worth, Joseph.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Beechcroft, looking down the table to see one of the guests fondling a swarthy young woman with large, round breasts spilling out of her bodice. ‘I think that Master Greatorex will be pleasuring Joan Lockyer tonight. He cannot keep his hands off her.’

  ‘Is it not strange?’ said Olgrave with a grin. ‘Master Greatorex would never dare to venture into the stews of Clerkenwell Street, where Joan and her sisters ply their trade, yet he’ll play with her paps for hours in here.’

  Beechcroft smirked. ‘Bridewell is a palace, remember.’

  ‘And we are its kings.’

  A servant filled their cups with wine and Olgrave joined in the noisy badinage. His partner was more circumspect. While he was delighted that yet another banquet was such a success, he remembered what had happened the last time that the hall had been filled with guests. When there was a lull in the general hilarity, he turned to Olgrave.

  ‘The girl still worries me, Ralph,’ he confided.

  ‘Forget her, man. She belongs in the past.’

  ‘Not while she’s still alive to accuse us.’

  Olgrave sneered. ‘Who will listen to the word of a beggar?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell did.’

  ‘And he’ll pay for his folly, Joseph. When that Welsh friend of his has been dispatched,’ he explained, ‘Gregory will follow the book holder to his lodging, for that’s where Dorothea will be hiding, I feel certain. Gregory has orders to kill them both.’

  ‘Good,’ said Beechcroft, reassured. ‘He’s a ready assassin.’

  ‘The fellow has never let us down before.’ Olgrave let his gaze travel up and down the table. ‘Now, then, which of these fine ladies shall I take tonight?’

  ‘Choose two, Ralph. There are more than enough to spare.’

  ‘One is all I need before I go home to my wife,’ said the other, as his eye settled on the youngest woman in the room. ‘Nan Welbeck tempts me, I must confess.’

  ‘She’s clean and fresh enough.’

  ‘And more than willing. There’ll be good sport for both of us, I fancy. Nan is no Dorothea Tate,’ he added with a lecherous cackle. ‘I’ll not need Gregory Sumner to hold her down for me.’

  Bruised and bloodied, Gregory Sumner sat in a chair in the lawyer’s office. His legs were bare, he wore no shoes and his hands were still tied behind his back. Owen Elias was a menacing presence behind him but it was Henry Cleaton who asked all the questions, and who noted the answers down on a sheet of paper. Sumner was amazed at how much the two of them seemed to know about the death of Hywel Rees and the violation of Dorothea Tate. Involved directly in both crimes, he did his best to shift the blame entirely on to Beechcroft and Olgrave. Encouraged by an occasional sharp prod from Elias, the man tried to save his own skin by incriminating others and new facts tumbled out of him.

  Henry Cleaton read carefully through what he had written down.

  ‘We have enough,’ concluded the lawyer. ‘Let’s take him before a magistrate.’

  Ned Griddle slept as soundly as the others in the room until the breeze picked up and brushed his face and hair. He came awake to see that one of the windows was wide open. He turned instinctively to the man who had slumbered on the mattress beside him but Tom Rooke was not there. Griddle sat up and rubbed his eyes. Even in the gloom, he could see that the newcomer was no longer in the room. Casting aside his tattered blanket, he scampered to the open window and looked out. A scraping sound took his gaze upward and he gaped in wonder. Silhouetted against the night sky, the crooked beggar who had earlier had his arm in a sling, and a patch over his eye, was now moving with remarkable agility along the roof.

  Nicholas Bracewell had no fear of heights. His years at sea had accustomed him to climbing the rigging even in the most inclement weather, and his time in the crow’s nest of the Golden Hind during a heavy swell had prepared him for anything. It was a fine night and he was clambering over a solid surface. He felt completely secure. All that he had to do was to find an open window through which he could re-enter the building. Sling, eye patch and anything else that might encumber him had been cast off so that he could move freely.

  He first climbed to the apex of the roof, to take his bearings and to survey the whole building. With the sketch of Bridewell in his mind, he tried to work out where Ralph Olgrave’s bedchamber was situated. Dorothea had said that it was somewhere above the main hall. Nicholas edged his way forward in that direction. To his left was the forbidding outline of Baynard’s Castle. Down below, the River Fleet gurgled along before merging with the Thames. To his right was Greyfriars, the ancient monastery now converted into living quarters, its church renamed, its function changed forever. Ahead of him, across the water, Anne Hendrik would be asleep in Bankside. Nicholas had no idea where the girl was.

  Easing himself down the angle of the roof, he reached one of the gables and felt his way around it. The window was locked. It was the same with the next gable and the one beyond it, but a fourth proved more amenable. Not only was the window wide open to admit fresh air, a candle had been lighted in the room, enabling him to see that it was unoccupied. In a manoeuvre he had used hundreds of times at sea, he grabbed the side of the gable and swung himself in through the window as if descending to the deck of a ship. Nicholas was back inside the building.

  After taking a quick inventory of the room, he padded across to the door. It was locked and would not give way to his shoulder. He would need another point of access. Before he went in search of it, however, he looked around the room more carefully. A large table stood in the middle of it with two chairs beside it. Ledgers, books, papers and a series of letters were stacked neatly side by side. Using the candle to illumine the items on the table, Nicholas realised that he must have stumbled into the room that was Bridewell’s counting house.

  He picked up a piece of paper and saw that it was a receipt for money paid in rent at the workhouse, clear proof that those who ran the place were breaking the terms of their contract. Nicholas’s curiosity was whetted. He leafed his way through some of the other documents and found further evidence of the misuse of Bridewell. Sitting on one of the chairs, he opened a ledger and saw that it was the account book for the institution. He studied the most recent entries. Income and expenditure were listed in parallel columns, but there was no mention of any rental money. Instead, the income appeared to come entirely from what was manufactured by the inmates and sold at a commercial price.

  When he flicked back through the pages, Nicholas saw a convincing record of what seemed to be a legal enterprise that fulfilled all the requirements enjoined by the city authorities who leased the workhouse to Beechcroft and Olgrave. Anyone looking at the accounts would congratulate the two partners on the way that they had kept the institution, and balanced loss so punctiliously against profit. It was obvious to Nicholas that what he held was a counterfeit ledger, carefully devised to appease any inspectors who might pry into it.

  Putting the book aside, he reached for an identical ledger that had been beneath it. When he opened it to examine the most recent entries, he found a very different story. Income was now vastly in excess of expenditure, and it came from a variety of sources. Bridewell was the home for dozens of residents who paid a considerable rent for their rooms and who, in some cases, worked at skilled trades within the building and gave a percentage of their earnings to Beechcroft and Olgrave. A name t
hat caught Nicholas’s attention was that of Ben Hemp, the forger. The sale of marked cards and loaded dice brought in an appreciable sum.

  There was an item that had especial interest for Nicholas. Under the heading of entertainment, the costs of food and drink were set down. Listed opposite them was the amount of money that guests paid for the pleasure of enjoying one of the regular banquets. The ledger was quite specific. Those who wanted more than a delicious meal in congenial surroundings were charged extra for the company of one of the prostitutes. Every penny clearly went into the coffers of Bridewell rather than to the women themselves. Nicholas thought about Dorothea Tate, dressed to entice the men then hustled along to the hall with dire threats to bring her to heel.

  On its own, the second ledger was enough to reveal the fraudulent operation run by Beechcroft and Olgrave, and to ensure their conviction, but Nicholas wanted more than that. Murder and rape had also occurred, and he knew the victims of each. It was time to go in search of those responsible. Before he could do so, however, Nicholas heard footsteps coming along the passageway outside the door. When a key was inserted in the lock, he had no time to flee through the window. Replacing the ledgers as he found them, Nicholas dived behind the arras and held his breath.

  Two people came into the room and closed the door behind them. The heaviness of their tread suggested to Nicholas that they were both men. He listened to what sounded like a large bag of money being dropped onto the table. Coins were emptied out and someone began to count them. Hidden from sight, Nicholas hoped that he could stay where he was until the two men left the room, but his stench gave him away. The rags that he wore were impregnated with sour milk and its reek had not been dispelled by the breeze that blew in through the open window.

  While he was still hunched behind the arras, it was suddenly pulled aside by Joseph Beechcroft. He held a dagger in his other hand and the keeper who accompanied him was carrying a cudgel. Both men glared accusingly at him. Nicholas shrunk back and brought his arms up protectively. Beechcroft brandished his weapon.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘And how on earth did you get in here?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dorothea Tate kept a lonely vigil outside Bridewell. A number of people had gone in through the gate, some in carriages, others on horseback, but nobody had come out. As evening shaded into night, she began to wonder if Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave were even inside the workhouse, but she did not abandon her post. The hope that one, or both of them, would ultimately appear, kept her huddled in the doorway on the opposite side of the road. The heavy stone in her pocket, she believed, would help her to avenge the murder of Hywel Rees. Once that had been achieved, Dorothea did not care what happened to her. She would be content.

  Her position had rendered her vulnerable to various hazards. Stray dogs had bothered her, children had mocked her and a parish constable had chased her away for a while, but she quickly returned to her chosen spot. One passer-by had even tossed her a coin. As light began to fade, there had been less traffic on the street and the two watchmen who went past on patrol did not even notice the bundle of rags in the doorway. Obsessed by one ambition, Dorothea was not frightened to be alone on the street at night. Indeed, darkness helped her to merge with the stonework all round her and more or less disappear from sight.

  She was not free from regret. Dorothea was sad that she had to flee from people who had befriended her at a time when everyone else turned away. Anne Hendrik and Nicholas Bracewell would doubtless be anxious on her behalf, and she was sorry about that, but she consoled herself with the thought that she was doing the right thing. Why should she expect others to exact justice for her when she could do so herself? She simply had to confront her detractors. That was the only way she would get true satisfaction.

  She felt another pang of regret when the genial face of Owen Elias came into her mind. Delighted to hear another Welsh voice in the capital, it was he who had first come to their aid when Hywel’s performance as a counterfeit crank had been exposed. Her disappearance would disappoint and hurt Elias. He was bound to feel betrayed yet that could not be helped. Had she turned to him – or to Nicholas Bracewell – she knew that neither of them would have condoned what she was now planning to do. On the contrary, they would have done everything they could to keep her well away from Bridewell.

  At long last, the gate was opened and a man emerged, leading a horse. Dorothea was on her feet at once, pulling the stone from her pocket in readiness. As soon as he mounted, however, and she could see him in profile, she knew that it was neither of the men for whom she lay in ambush. She returned to her place in the doorway and settled down once more. Her moment, she was certain, would eventually come.

  Nicholas Bracewell’s disguise was effective. Even at such close range, Beechcroft did not recognise him. When the beggar flinched and spoke in a cracked voice, he was taken for what he appeared to be. The keeper raised his cudgel to strike.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

  ‘Tom Rooke, sir,’ croaked Nicholas.

  ‘When were you admitted to Bridewell?’

  ‘Today, sir.’

  ‘How did you get in here?’

  ‘I lost my way.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ snarled Beechcroft. ‘The room is always kept locked. He must have sneaked in earlier when I was in here myself.’ Sheathing his dagger, he stood back and snapped his fingers. ‘Beat him hard for his impudence.’

  ‘I’ll do so with pleasure,’ said the keeper.

  Nicholas was forced to act. If he took the punishment, he knew that he would be beaten senseless then locked up more securely. Defence was vital. As the man wielded his cudgel for the first time, therefore, Nicholas dodged the blow, grabbed the tapestry and tore it from its pole so that he could wind it around the keeper. The two men then grappled fiercely. Beechcroft was astounded. The cowering beggar had suddenly turned into a vigorous man, who was patently getting the upper hand in the brawl. Beechcroft pulled out his dagger again and tried to stab Nicholas, but the latter simply twisted the keeper around so that he felt the point of the weapon in his shoulder.

  Letting out a yell of agony, the keeper stumbled back, enabling Nicholas to wrest the cudgel from his grasp. Beechcroft continued to jab away without success. Nicholas pushed the keeper roughly to the floor and used the cudgel to knock Beechcroft’s dagger from his hand. When the latter made a dash for the door, Nicholas grabbed him by the arm, spun him round then shoved him with force against the wood. Panting with fear, eyes bulging from their sockets, Beechcroft had the uncomfortable feeling that he could identify his attacker.

  ‘I think I know you, sir, do I not?’ he said.

  ‘My name is not Tom Rooke,’ said Nicholas in his normal voice. ‘That much I’ll freely confess.’

  Beechcroft goggled at him. ‘Nicholas Bracewell!’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to talk about the murder of Hywel Rees, and what that partner of yours did to a defenceless creature named Dorothea Tate.’

  ‘I had no part in that! I swear it!’

  ‘The girl told me that two men were involved. One of them held her down.’

  ‘That was Gregory Sumner, a keeper here. He assisted Ralph, not me.’

  ‘Yet you were the one who beat Dorothea,’ said Nicholas, holding the cudgel over him. ‘You pummelled the girl until her friend came to her rescue.’

  ‘I did not mean to hurt her,’ claimed Beechcroft, starting to tremble.

  ‘Then I’ll not mean to hurt you, when I beat the truth out of you.’

  Beechcroft cringed against the door. ‘No!’ he begged. ‘Do not strike me!’

  ‘Then tell me what you did to Hywel Rees.’

  Nicholas made the mistake of taking an eye off the wounded keeper. The tapestry in which he had been caught up had saved him from serious injury, muffling the impact of the dagger thrust. Blood had been drawn but it was only a minor flesh wound. Thr
owing off the tapestry, the man soon struggled to his feet. He dived at Nicholas from behind and got an arm around his neck, pulling him backward across the room. Beechcroft needed no second invitation to escape. He was through the door in a flash and locked it behind him. Nicholas, meanwhile, had to contend with a strong arm across his throat, squeezing the breath out of him. He pumped away with his elbows to wind his adversary then stamped hard on his toe to produce a howl of rage. The man released his hold. Spinning round, Nicholas cracked him on the head with the cudgel and sent him to his knees. A second blow knocked the man unconscious.

  There was no sense in remaining in the room. Beechcroft would soon be back with armed men and Nicholas would be trapped. He collected the fallen dagger and stuck it in his belt. Apart from saving himself, Nicholas also wanted to take the two ledgers with him as additional proof of the mismanagement of Bridewell. Left in the room, they could always be hidden or even destroyed. Wrapping the books in the tapestry, therefore, he took them to the window and swung them up behind the gable. He then clambered after them and made his way along the roof, wedging his cargo behind one of the chimney pots, out of reach of any but the most intrepid climbers.

  From down below, he heard the sound of the door being unlocked and of many feet rushing into the room. Beechcroft’s roar of anger was clearly audible.

  ‘Where the devil has he gone now?’

  The banquet in the hall had reached the stage where couples were starting to peel off and adjourn to nearby rooms. Music still played, wine still flowed but only half of the guests remained at the table. While his partner went off to count the evening’s takings, Ralph Olgrave decided to sample the charms of Nan Welbeck, a sprightly young woman with long fair hair, who still had something of a bloom on her. He beckoned her over, took a first kiss then eased her onto his lap. Caressing her with one hand, he held his cup of wine in the other and took a long sip before handing it to her. Nan Welbeck drained it, laughed merrily then gave Olgrave a long, luscious, searching kiss on the lips.