‘Something is puzzling you, is it not?’ she said.
‘No, Emilia,’ said Chaloner, trying to seize the initiative once more. ‘We have been through every aspect of the case. There is nothing left to discuss. Let me show our visitors the spot where the hideous deed took place, then they can make their way back to London.’
‘Do not rush our guests away so fast, Simon.’
‘But Edmund is eager to resume work on the play.’
‘Indeed, I am,’ said Hoode willingly.
‘We must not detain them, Emilia.’
‘Something must first be resolved,’ she said, her gaze still on Nicholas. ‘I still await your answer.’
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Many things puzzle me.’
‘Tell me what they are.’ Her hand shot up as Chaloner sought to intervene. ‘Leave this to me, Simon. I do not need your protection. I have nothing to hide.’
‘Why do you not appear in the play?’ said Nicholas.
‘Because I was not involved in the murder.’
‘Indirectly, you were. Through Sir John Tarker.’
‘That was a distressing episode that I have tried to forget. My brother was not killed because of me. Other reasons prompted his death. If the play brings the real villain to light, we shall learn what those reasons were.’
‘Emilia Brinklow should still be a character in the action,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Thomas would then have someone in whom he could confide his worries about his wife. I am sure that Edmund could write some touching scenes between brother and sister.’
‘It would be an honour!’ said the playwright.
‘But it would also confuse the audience,’ rejoined Emilia. ‘Their sympathy must be wholly with Thomas. He must command the stage. If I am dragged into the story, I will draw away attention that rightly belongs to my brother. They will feel sorry for me when they should be saving all their pity and compassion for Thomas.’
Hoode purred with admiration. ‘A sound reason!’
‘And one that I accept,’ said Nicholas graciously, not wishing to pursue an argument he could never win. ‘We will keep Emilia Brinklow in our minds but out of the play.’
‘Thank you.’ She got to her feet. ‘Come with me.’
‘Where are you going, Emilia?’ said Chaloner anxiously.
‘To show him something.’
‘I can conduct them both to the place.’
‘We will go alone. I wish for private conference.’
Chaloner was bewildered by her decision but he did not contest it further. Seeing his distress, she put a consoling hand on his shoulder before leading Nicholas up the garden in the direction of the house.
‘Simon watches over me too closely,’ she explained.
‘Why?’
‘He fears for my safety.’ She turned to look up into his face. ‘You have seen for yourself how dangerous is our situation. I am truly sorry that you suffered a beating.’ Her voice faltered slightly. ‘You have such a kind face. It reminds me of Thomas. I hate to see such injuries on it.’
‘You know of the attack, then?’
‘Simon tells me everything. He has spoken well of you and holds you in high esteem. That is a compliment.’
‘I am duly flattered by it,’ said Nicholas, ‘and even more so by your trust in me. Master Chaloner is indeed fortunate to be betrothed to such a lady.’
She gave him an enigmatic smile, then led him along the path through the trees. They came around the angle of a hawthorn hedge and were confronted by the rear of the house. Nicholas stopped in surprise when he saw the fire damage.
‘What was that building?’
‘My brother’s laboratory and workshop. Thomas virtually lived there. There never was a man so wedded to his work.’
‘When was it burned down?’
‘The same night that he was killed.’
‘Who started the fire?’
‘We do not know,’ she said. ‘The villains who murdered him, we believe. His life’s work was in that laboratory. It was destroyed as cruelly as he himself.’
‘Why?’
‘They were vindictive men.’
‘Then why not burn down the whole house?’
‘We can only guess.’
Nicholas looked down at her and inhaled her fragrance. Seated in the arbour, she was handsome and composed. Seen in close proximity, however, her beauty was far more striking. He felt a distant envy of Simon Chaloner. There was something about Emilia Brinklow which set her apart from the common run and he could not quite decide what it was. All he knew was that it made her infinitely appealing. When he had parted company with his beloved Anne Hendrik, he feared that he would never meet her like again yet Emilia Brinklow had many of Anne’s qualities, allied to features that were all her own. Both of them, he reflected, had been devastated by the loss of a loved one and forced to rebuild their lives. It gave Emilia the same subdued but steely resolve.
Determination made her eyes glint and her jaw tighten.
‘This play gives purpose to my life,’ she said. ‘Simon is a dear man but he is only involved because of his devotion to me. I am the moving spirit here. The Roaring Boy has become my obsession. Can you understand that?’
‘I think so.’
Her voice took on a new intensity. ‘I lost a brother and a sister-in-law in this business. One was murdered by hired killers, the other by judicial process. Cecily was no saint, it is true, but neither was she a murderer. In her own way, I believe, she cared for Thomas.’
‘But it was an unhappy marriage.’
‘They were simply not suited.’
‘Why, then, did they wed?’
Emilia shrugged. ‘It seemed the natural thing to do. Cecily was fond of him and Thomas had great respect for her. Other people kept saying that they were an ideal couple.’
‘Marriage needs more than fondness and respect.’
‘Yes,’ she said sadly. ‘You have a wife yourself?’
‘Alas, no.’
‘Thomas was a kind husband but Cecily loved another.’
‘Walter Dunne. They paid dearly for their passion.’ He looked at the debris in front of him. ‘What sort of work did your brother do in his laboratory?’
‘Anything and everything,’ she said proudly. ‘Thomas loved all the sciences but his abiding interest was in mathematics. That workshop was his private sanctum. His finest inventions were conceived within those walls.’
‘Inventions?’
‘Thomas had a questing mind. He was always looking for new solutions to old problems. When he was retained by the royal dockyards at Deptford, he designed a compass that was far more reliable than any of its predecessors. An astrolabe, too, if you know what that is.’
‘Most certainly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I sailed with Drake around the world, so I learned all there is to learn about navigation. An astrolabe is an instrument for measuring the altitude of heavenly bodies, from which latitude and time may be calculated. Your brother invented one, you say?’
‘The best of its kind.’
‘I would dearly like to see that.’
‘His own version perished in the fire with the rest.’
‘A tragedy.’
‘Vindictiveness.’
A look of sudden helplessness came into her eyes.
‘Why did you wish to speak to me alone?’ he asked.
‘Because I feel I can trust you.’
‘Nobody is more trustworthy than Edmund Hoode.’
She shook her head. ‘He can be trusted to refashion the play but you are the only one who can be relied upon to see it staged. Simon is an excellent judge of character and he singles you out.’ A smile danced around her lips. ‘We are not ignorant provincials in Greenwich, sir. When
Thomas was alive, we often came to London to see a play. I love the theatre and my brother indulged my taste. Westfield’s Men were always my favourite company.’
‘I’ll tell that to Master Firethorn.’
‘Beg him to present The Roaring Boy.’
‘He will implore you to give us that privilege.’
‘Whatever setbacks, whatever dangers…’
‘It will be staged. I give you my word on it.’
She touched his arm. ‘I knew that I could trust you.’
Voices approached and she stepped back involuntarily. Simon Chaloner came up with Edmund Hoode and the latter reacted with horror to the destruction of the laboratory. Thomas Brinklow had not just been killed. His life’s work had been obliterated. Emilia soon took her leave of them, giving Hoode a smile of gratitude that would keep him happy for days but reserving a more meaningful glance for Nicholas.
Chaloner now took them into the house to view the actual scene of the crime. It was near the foot of the main staircase, a shadowy area even by day. Thomas Brinklow had returned at night to be ambushed in his own home.
‘How did the villains get in here?’ said Nicholas.
‘They must have picked the lock,’ replied Chaloner.
‘Or had a confederate inside the building.’
‘Emilia will not hear of such an idea.’
‘What is your opinion?’
He looked around to make sure that Emilia was not within earshot. ‘This house was well-protected with locks and bolts. Thomas saw to that. They were either given a key or let in.’
‘Did no one hear the commotion?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Agnes, the maidservant. She was awakened by cries and raised the alarm. Not soon enough, alas. Before anyone got downstairs, the killers had made good their escape.’
‘After first setting fire to the laboratory?’
‘No,’ said Chaloner. ‘That happened much later in the night. They must have returned to wreak further havoc.’
‘Was the fire not part of Freshwell’s confession?’
‘He admitted the murder. That was enough to hang him.’
Nicholas walked up and down the hallway and tried all the doors to see which was the most likely mode of entry and exit for the two villains.
‘Was Thomas Brinklow a big man?’
‘Big and strong, Nicholas. Something of your build.’
‘He would have fought his attackers?’
‘No question of that.’
It made surprise a vital element in the ambush and that confirmed Nicholas’s feeling that the killers had concealed themselves beneath the staircase. As Thomas Brinklow tried to mount the steps, they must have leapt out and hacked him down from behind. Edmund Hoode stared ghoulishly at the spot where the mathematician fell but Nicholas was concerned to analyse the murder in great detail. He also made a mental note of the setting of the crime for use in the performance of the play itself. Only when he had explored every possibility in the location did he announce that it was time to go.
The visit to Greenwich had been a revelation and his few minutes alone with Emilia Brinklow were invaluable. He and Hoode would have much to debate on their return journey. As he looked around the sumptuous house with its costly furnishings and its air of formal luxury, one question kept nagging away at him. He turned to Simon Chaloner.
‘When did he realise that his marriage was a mistake?’
‘Too late, I fear. Far, far too late.’
‘How did he meet his wife?’
‘At Greenwich Palace. They were introduced by a mutual friend, who often stayed there.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Sir Godfrey Avenell.’
‘The Master of the Armoury?’
‘No less.’
‘How did Thomas Brinklow come to know such a man?’
‘He had many friends in high places,’ said Chaloner. ‘His circle of acquaintances was very wide. He dined with Sir Godfrey at the Palace one day when Cecily was also a guest. She warmed to Thomas and showed a keen interest in his work. That is rare among women.’
‘How soon did they marry?’
‘Less than a year after that first meeting. Sir Godfrey was delighted to have played Cupid. At their wedding, he showered them with the most generous gifts. He had a real investment in that marriage.’
‘It gave him a miserable dividend.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘He was mortified. Sir Godfrey Avenell must wish that he never brought them together.’
***
Greenwich Palace was a magnificent structure built around three quadrangles. Faced in red brick and ornamented with pillars, it lay on the bank of the Thames like a giant alligator basking in the sun. A long pier gave access to the river at all states of the tide. The main entrance was through a massive gatehouse which led to the central court. Successive members of the Tudor dynasty had lavished money and affection unstintingly upon their favoured residence and Queen Elizabeth was no exception. Having herself been born in the riverside palace, she always had a special fondness for it and liked nothing more than to spend her summers there, holding court, entertaining foreign dignitaries or watching plays, masques and musical concerts.
She particularly enjoyed the regular tournaments that were held at Greenwich Palace, glittering occasions that would find her seated amid her retinue in the permanent gallery above the tiltyard. Tournaments were immensely popular but exclusively reserved for the elite. Only the rich could afford to take part in an event which imposed enormous costs upon them. Only the very rich could finance such a contest. The Queen’s own father, Henry VIII, once spent £4000 on the Westminster tournament, almost double the cost of his huge warship, The Great Elizabeth. The Tudor monarchy took jousting very seriously.
A lone figure sat in the permanent gallery and surveyed the busy tiltyard. Sir Godfrey Avenell had much to divert him. Greenwich was an ideal place for would-be knights to practice their horsemanship and to hone their technique with the lance. The tilt itself was a permanent wooden fence some one hundred and fifty yards long, gaily painted and defining the nature of combat. It prevented any collision when jousting knights thundered towards each other on horseback on either side of the fixture. It also obliged them to attack an opponent from an angle. Several pairs of knights were in action, some fighting on foot but most taking their turn in the saddle.
Sir Godfrey Avenell watched it all with an imperious air. Dressed in his finery, he cast an expert eye over the proceedings. He had been a keen jouster in his day and still took part in the occasional practice but he left competition in the prestigious Court tournaments to younger and stronger riders. One such man, Sir John Tarker, rode into the tiltyard below and Avenell’s interest quickened. He had good reason for such bias towards the newcomer. The splendid armour worn by Tarker was commissioned and paid for by his friend. Sir Godfrey Avenell was scrutinising his own money.
The Office of the Armoury was based at the Tower of London. As its Master, he operated largely from that base but made frequent visits to Greenwich because the finest armour was made in its workshops. The Green Gallery and the Great Chamber at the palace housed a display of supreme examples of the armourer’s art and Avenell never saw them without wishing that he could take some of the pieces away for his own collection. There was something about their design and craftsmanship that he found truly inspiring.
Leaning forward in his seat, he examined Sir John Tarker’s new suit of armour with meticulous care until he was satisfied that his money had been well spent. The gleaming breastplate was decorated with white and gilt bands into which the Tarker coat-of-arms had been inscribed. The helmet had similar decoration and a latticed visor which protected its owner’s face completely while giving him a fair degree of visibility. The leg armour was beautifully tailored to allo
w easy movement. Even from that distance, the Master of the Armoury could see that the gauntlets were masterpieces of construction, the left one a manifer or bridle gauntlet, designed to cover hand and lower arm on the exposed side of the jouster.
Sir John Tarker’s destrier was also arrayed. Its shaffron, a superbly moulded piece of armour that covered its forehead, cheeks and nose, allowed clear vision through the flanged eyeholes. A spike projected from the centre of the forehead to give it the appearance of a steel unicorn. The horse also wore a patterned crinet, a section of armour that was attached to the shaffron in order to guard the animal’s neck and mane. During a tournament itself, the destrier would also wear armour plate to protect its chest, crupper and flank but Tarker had dispensed with that during the practice in the interests of speed. Other knights would have baulked at exposing their mounts to unnecessary danger in this way but Tarker was confident that his skill in jousting was a sufficient safeguard for the animal.
Sir Godfrey Avenell was suitably impressed. His man cut a fine figure in the saddle. When he fought in the Accession Day Tournament in November, Sir John Tarker would need to call on his friend for some additional expenditure. Much preparation went into such an illustrious event. A knight had to decide on a theme for his entry into the tiltyard and choose the costumes for himself, his pages, his servants, his lance bearers, his grooms, his trumpeters and any other musicians he hired for extra effect. His horse, too, would require a caparison to match the costumes. Sir Godfrey Avenell had already laid out well over £400 on the suit of armour and its garniture. He was quite happy to meet further exorbitant costs in order to attain the best results.
Sir John Tarker trotted across to him and dipped his lance in acknowledgement. Avenell took a closer inventory.
‘How does the armour feel?’ he said.
‘It fits me like the supplest of leather.’
‘Weight?’
‘Heavy enough to protect, light enough for movement.’
‘Decoration?’
‘Exactly as prescribed.’
‘Total cost?’
‘Murderous!’ They shared a laugh. ‘I am eternally in your debt. Shall I put it to the test?’
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