The Counterfeit Crank (16 page)

‘This is not your quarrel, Nick,’ he argued. ‘Keep out of it. Westfield’s Men must come first. Let officers of the law look into these matters.’

‘They would not bother to do so. Who cares about the death of a vagrant? Whether from disease, starvation or violent assault, beggars like Hywel Rees end up in the morgue all the time. Murder a wealthy man,’ said Nicholas, ‘and a hue and cry is set up. Kill a poor one and he vanishes into oblivion.’

‘My fear is that you and Owen will vanish into oblivion.’

‘You lose me alone. Owen will be here to play in
Love and Fortune.’

‘But Edmund will not,’ said Firethorn. ‘That means we shall have to rehearse someone else in his part. I want you there to do that, Nicholas.’

‘A moment ago, you said you’d grant me any favour.’

‘To my dear friend, I’d grant as many favours as he sought. But I’ve no obligation to a street girl who was arrested for begging. This favour is for Dorothea Tate, let’s be clear about that.’

‘Are you not moved by her plight?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Firethorn, defensively. ‘I’m moved by the plight of any vagrant. I often toss them a coin as I pass them by. That’s Christian charity. But I’d not turn my back on the company in order to help one of them arraign a man for stealing her virginity. The wonder is that she kept it so long.’

Nicholas was annoyed. ‘Can you treat murder and rape so lightly?’

‘No, Nick. Both are dreadful crimes. Those that commit them should be punished. But I still do not see that you should take it upon yourself to find the malefactors. To put it more plainly,’ he said, ‘why do you bother?’

‘Because I gave my word.’

‘And is that more important than your duty to Westfield’s Men?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘It is.’

Dorothea Tate had been so shocked to hear of the murder of Hywel Rees that she had been unable to speak for a long time. Sobbing quietly, she rocked to and fro on her seat as she contemplated a future without her dearest friend. Anne Hendrik sat beside her with a consoling arm around the girl’s shoulders. Sharing her sorrow, she tried to offer words of comfort but Dorothea did not even hear them. She was consumed by her grief. At length, the girl sat up and made an effort to pull herself together. She used a hand to brush away the tears that had coursed down her face.

‘I want to see him,’ she announced. ‘I want to see Hywel.’

‘No, Dorothea.’

‘It may not be him. Nicholas said that he could not be certain.’

‘He and Owen were as certain as they could be.’

‘But they might have made a mistake.’

‘For your sake,’ said Anne, ‘I hope that they did. In that case, Hywel is still alive and he’ll come looking for you. But you must prepare yourself for the worst.’

‘That’s what I’ve been doing.’ She straightened her back. ‘I’m ready for anything now, Anne. I want to visit the morgue. I want to see his face.’

‘You heard what Nicholas said. He’d been in the water for days. That distorts the body horribly and changes the face.’

‘I’d know him anywhere.’

‘Spare yourself the horror.’

‘It’s my right,’ insisted Dorothea. ‘Hywel was my friend.’

‘Then ask yourself this. Would he have wanted you to see him in that condition?’

The question made her pause. Doubts began to form in her mind. The girl brought a hand to her mouth as she searched for an answer. It was minutes before she turned back to Anne. There was a pleading note in her voice.

‘I
have
to know the truth.’

‘I fear that you already do,’ said Anne, gently.

‘What if it is not Hywel?’

‘How many young men have that scar on the nose that Nicholas described? He recognised it at once. We know that Hywel was discharged from Bridewell. There’s a record of that. Where did he go?’

‘If only I knew!’ exclaimed Dorothea.

‘From what you’ve told me about him, Hywel was loyal and loving.’

‘He was like a brother that I never had.’

‘Then he would never dream of leaving you,’ said Anne. ‘However long it took, he would have waited until you were let out as well. Is that not so?’

‘Yes. He swore he’d look after me.’

‘Only one thing would stop him from doing that, Dorothea.’

The girl stared unseeingly ahead of her as she tried to fend off the truth of what she had just heard. She clung to the hope that Hywel might still be alive but her grasp was slowly weakening. In the end, after a long interval, her
body sagged as she accepted the fact that her friend must be dead. She turned to Anne.

‘I think that I’m ready to sleep now,’ she murmured.

Edmund Hoode was also ready to sleep but the arrival of Nicholas Bracewell helped him to shake off his drowsiness at once. He sat up in the bed with a smile of relief.

‘I feared that you’d forgotten me today.’

‘I could never do that,’ said Nicholas, lowering himself on to a chair beside the bed. ‘I remembered you in my prayers at church and I came as soon as I could.’

‘You must have had a busy day, then.’

‘It has kept me occupied, Edmund.’

Nicholas gave no details. Hoode was a sick man who should not be burdened with additional anxieties. If he told his friend about the investigation on which he had embarked, Nicholas knew that the softhearted playwright would worry incessantly about what became of Dorothea Tate. He was not strong enough to cope with such tidings.

‘Lawrence tells me that you were up and about this morning,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, Nick. I felt better than I had for a week or more.’

‘And now?’

‘I was fading badly when you came,’ said Hoode. ‘Doctor Zander warned me that the disease would ebb and flow like the sea.’ He laughed grimly. ‘Perhaps that is why I feel seasick most of the time.’

‘I think the time may have come to seek another opinion on your health.’

‘But that’s already been done. Doctor Rime examined me and was able to identify the malady. Two doctors are in agreement here, Nick. How many more do we need?’

‘Did either of them tell you how you first caught the disease?’

‘That remains a mystery, though Doctor Rime felt that it must have been caused by something that I ate. The poison got into my blood.’ His gaze switched to the papers on his table. ‘Did Lawrence talk to you about
A Way to Content All Women
?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘He mentioned that you might consider a co-author.’

‘Not willingly, I admit. I have my pride and would not easily share the credit for a play of mine with someone else. But these are unusual times,’ he went on. ‘Illness keeps me from lifting my pen and I know how much a new comedy is needed. That being the case, I listened to Michael’s offer.’

‘The notion came from him, then?’

‘Oh, yes. I’d not have thought of him at first. Other playwrights are much more well versed in the rules of comedy than Michael. But he was so persuasive, Nick. He said it would be an honour to work with me.’ Hoode chuckled quietly. ‘How the fellow has changed! When he first came to us, Michael Grammaticus was so shy that he could not even look us in the eye.’

‘Success has emboldened him, Edmund.’

‘I’ve half a mind to accept his offer.’

‘Hear my device first,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Lawrence
has given it his blessing so it needs only your approval. Before we engage Michael to finish the play, let him see what you have already written before adding a couple of new scenes to show us what he can do. That way, we do not commit ourselves too far too soon.’

‘I’ll happily agree to that,’ said Hoode, ‘on one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘My plays are my progeny, Nick. I do not like to let them out of my sight. If Michael would read the new comedy, he must do so here where I can watch him. Do not tell him to take it away with him.’

‘Nor will I,’ said Nicholas, crossing to the table and picking up the sheets of parchment. ‘You are right to guard your new child like a watchful parent.’ He looked down at the Prologue, written in Hoode’s neat hand. ‘You give advice that every man longs to hear –
A Way to Content All Women.’

‘Lawrence boasted that he had already mastered the art.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that. I’ve seen him enrage Margery a dozen times.’

‘She’s a choleric woman, Nick, and it is not easy to calm her when she’s roused.’

‘Then the secret is not to rouse her in the first place.’

Hoode laughed. ‘You’ve hit the mark, Nick,’ he said. ‘That’s the very moral of my new comedy. Why do I need Michael Grammaticus?
You
should be my co-author.’

The first two people to enter the room that evening were Frank Quilter and James Ingram, the first hoping to repair his losses while the second intended to exploit his good fortune. Philomen Lavery gave them a warm welcome and poured each a glass of wine. The cards were waiting on the table but there was no sign of the Bible now. While the visitors took their seats, Adam Crowmere ambled into the room.

‘Do you come to join us?’ asked Lavery.

‘I’ll watch a little before I play,’ said the landlord. ‘After bearing such losses last night, I’ll be more cautious today. I want to study the cards first.’

‘A sensible decision.’

‘Do we play with the same pack as yesterday?’ said Ingram.

‘The very same.’

‘Then I do not need to hesitate. I know that my luck will hold.’

‘I pray that mine changes,’ said Quilter, feeling his purse.

‘You must not be allowed to rob us all again tonight, James. It’s my turn to play the pickpocket.’

‘Everyone at the table has the same chance to win,’ said Lavery, sitting opposite the two actors. ‘That’s the beauty of the game. It makes us all equal.’

‘Deal the cards,’ urged Ingram. ‘I want to savour another victory.’

‘And I,’ said Quilter, ruefully, ‘to get my revenge.’

The cards were dealt and the game began. Before it was over, however, there was a tap on the door and it opened
to reveal another player. As the man walked slowly into the room, Lavery looked up in astonishment.

‘Come in, come in, sir!’ he said with delight. ‘This
is
a pleasant surprise!’

Henry Cleaton’s office was small, musty and filled with books, documents and piles of papers. His desk was covered with so much clutter that it was impossible to see a square inch of the wooden top. Before his visitor could sit down, Cleaton had to move some writs off the chair for him. He grinned at Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Take a weight off your feet,’ he said. ‘It’s a long walk from Bankside.’

‘I came to see if you’ve any news for me.’

‘Then you come upon your hour. I’ve been a true bloodhound, Nicholas.’

‘What have you learnt?’

‘Where both of the men live,’ he explained. ‘When I put my mind to it, I soon saw how easily it could be done. Joseph Beechcroft is a weaver and Ralph Olgrave a tailor. I sent my clerk to enquire at the Weaver’s Hall and he was given the address at once. The Merchant Tailors’ Hall likewise supplied Olgrave’s house and street.’

‘Did they surrender the information so willingly?’ asked Nicholas.

‘We had to put bait on the hook. My clerk pretended that each man had been mentioned in a will and was due an inheritance. That quickly loosened tongues.’

‘May I have the addresses?’

‘As soon as I can find them,’ said Cleaton, searching under the mounds of paper on his desk. ‘I wrote them down and put them somewhere safe.’

Nicholas was amused. ‘There’s nowhere safer, Master Cleaton. You are the only man in the world who could find what you wanted in here.’ Cleaton retrieved a few scrolls that fell from the desk and put them back again. ‘I’ll start with Joseph Beechcroft.’

‘He lives in Basinghall Street, not far from the Weaver’s Hall. Did you know that they are the oldest livery company in London? They received their first charter in 1155 and have a distinguished history.’

‘It’s a pity that Master Beechcroft did not uphold their high standards.’

‘Ah,’ said Cleaton, pulling out a scrap of parchment. ‘Here it is, Nicholas.’ He handed it over. ‘Be wary of the fellow. If he can talk his way into such an advantageous position in Bridewell, he’ll have a smooth tongue and a quick brain.’

‘All that I mean to do at this point is to sound him out.’

‘You’ll do that better without Owen Elias beside you. He tends to be bellicose.’

‘Celtic blood runs hot in his veins,’ said Nicholas with an affectionate smile. ‘Owen always prefers action over talk. The time will come when I need his strong arm and short temper.’

‘Let me know how you get on.’

‘I will, Master Cleaton. And thank you for all that you’ve done.’

‘You’ll need a lawyer again before you’ve finished, I daresay.’

‘I’ll know where to come.’

‘Meantime, I’ll make some more enquiries about Bridewell and see what I can find. I sniff a pungent scent here,’ said Cleaton, beaming. ‘My tail begins to wag.’

‘I’m glad to hear that you are sanguine.’

‘My optimism is tempered with hard fact. Hounds do not always catch the fox.’

‘Oh, we’ll catch this one,’ said Nicholas with quiet determination. ‘And his accomplice.’

Joseph Beechcroft was preening himself in a mirror when the servant brought him news of his visitor. Hearing that Nicholas Bracewell had come in the hope of discussing some aspect of Bridewell, the weaver agreed to see him. They met in the parlour, introduced themselves then weighed each other up. Nicholas was not invited to sit.

‘What business brings you here?’ asked Beechcroft. ‘I was just about to set off for Bridewell. If you’ve an interest in the place, you should have sought me there.’

‘I tried to do so,’ lied Nicholas, ‘but could not get past the gatekeeper.’

‘We discourage random visitors.’

‘I do not come by accident, Master Beechcroft. I have a purpose.’

‘Tell me what it is.’

For a man who had started as a humble weaver, Beechcroft had a lordly air. He wore a gaudy doublet of
blue and red with gold thread looped across the breast. In his buff jerkin and plain hose, Nicholas presented a sharp contrast.