The Silent Woman (17 page)

‘Barnaby still thinks that this play is his!’

‘It is going well,’ said Nicholas, keeping one eye on the prompt copy. ‘Master Gill is in good form.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘He is an old horse who gallops round and round the stage in circles while I do tricks on his back like a performing monkey.’ He nudged the book holder. ‘Pick your part, that is the secret of acting. Barnaby does all the work, I get all the plaudits.’

Nicholas eased him aside to give a signal to a group of actors who were now due onstage. George Dart – playing his fifth part of the evening – was one of them, and he went about his work with bewildered resignation. The reduced size of the company placed many extra burdens on the book holder but it was the little assistant stagekeeper who
suffered most. As well as erecting the stage, putting up the curtains and placing all the costumes and properties in the tiring-house, George Dart acted as one of the gatherers who took the admission money before racing backstage again to change the scenery during the performance, to play each of his five parts with identical lack of talent and to discharge his more familiar role as the whipping boy of Westfield’s Men. Here was one malcontent with no time to be happy.

The Guildhall rejoiced. The mayor joined in the guffaws at Barnaby Gill while his wife fell quietly in love with Lawrence Firethorn. Those in the chairs applauded, those on the benches stamped their feet and those standing at the back did both simultaneously while yelling their approval. Some of the wit went over the heads of the audience but there was still more than enough to turn the event into a rollicking entertainment. Even the miller enjoyed it in the early stages. As the play neared its end, however, he seemed to lose interest very abruptly and dropped off to sleep. His head fell first on his wife’s shoulder and then, when she shook him off, onto the neck of the man in front of him. While everyone else was convulsed with laughter, the fleshy young man was snoring.

His immediate neighbour ignored him at first. Though he was there for a more sinister reason, he nevertheless enjoyed the play. He was especially impressed with the performance of Barnaby Gill and could not take his eyes off the actor. During the final scene, the hall was in darkness and the stage lit by candles and by the glow from the tarred rope, which burned in its bowls to give off a noisome smell. The snoring miller fell gently against the man with the
raven-black beard, who instantly prodded him away. The jolt did not wake him nor did the thunderous appreciation that followed the end of the play. Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill competed for the position at the centre of the stage, each convinced that he was the crowning success of the evening.

The assassin watched Gill closely as the actor gave a deep bow and blew kisses to his public, but the man’s attention was soon torn away. Snoring louder than ever, the miller fell against his neighbour yet again but his hand was not asleep. With practised stealth, it closed on the man’s purse and felt the weight of its prize before pulling it gently away. The pickpocket was too slow. A grip of steel grabbed his wrist. His eyelids lifted in horror.

Lawrence Firethorn drained the applause to the last drop then took his company into the tiring-house to shower congratulations on them. The evening had been an unqualified triumph and all their setbacks had been submerged by five acts of frenzied comedy. Westfield’s Men had performed well and put an appreciable amount of money into their depleted coffers. They could now change out of their costumes and repair to the White Hart for a well-earned supper. Since the Guildhall would be locked, everything could be left there overnight until the performance on the morrow.

Barnaby Gill’s vanity needed even more stroking.

‘Did you recognise my performance, Lawrence?’

Firethorn groaned. ‘It was gruesomely familiar.’

‘I based it on a model.’

‘It was certainly based on no human being.’

‘Alexander Marwood.’

‘Do not soil your tongue with that poisonous name.’

‘I was a discontented innkeeper to the life.’

‘Leave the theatre and embrace your true profession.’

Edmund Hoode interposed himself between them and the banter soon died away. Firethorn was happy now that he had once more made Gill malcontent.

The spectators filed out of the hall with buzzing memories of the evening’s entertainment. Some recalled the jokes, others the comic songs and one even tried to mimic the steps of Doctor Blackthought’s manic jig. Nicholas Bracewell gave them a few minutes then ventured out. Only one person remained in the audience, slumped in his chair and quite impervious to the general departure. The book holder moved across to wake him before the actors saw the man. Sleep was adverse criticism. Firethorn and Gill would round on anyone who dared to slumber during one of their performances.

‘Awake, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are all done.’

The man did not move. Ruddy features were now white.

‘The play is over, sir. You must leave.’

Nicholas looked closer and half-recognised him.

‘Wake up, sir. You may not sleep here.’

The book holder shook him with some vigour but the man was well beyond waking. His head lolled sideways and he flopped down onto the floor. When Nicholas knelt down beside him, he saw who the man was. A change of garb and cap had turned the erstwhile William Pocock into a Wiltshire miller. The man had been stabbed so expertly through the heart that death had been instantaneous. Blood had welled up beneath his doublet and left a huge red stain on the material, but none of the spectators had
seen it in the half-dark of the Guildhall. In the midst of their hilarity, one of their number had been callously murdered.

Nicholas Bracewell not only recognised Israel Gunby’s accomplice. The killer’s handiwork bore a signature as well. Nicholas had seen it already on the arm of Owen Elias. He paid the tribute of a small prayer for the soul of the dead man then he felt a shiver of alarm.

The assassin had struck again.

B
arnstaple was the largest town in north Devon. Proud of its history and secure in soul, it had been a borough and market centre since Saxon times. Its corporation ruled primarily in the interests of its merchant members, whose main wealth came from coastal and foreign trade. There was silting in the River Taw but the town that sat on it remained the leading port in the area. The neighbouring Bideford was located on the deeper and straighter River Torridge, while Appledore enjoyed deep-water anchorage near the confluence of the two rivers, yet neither of these – in spite of their greater natural advantages – could compete with Barnstaple.

The house in Crock Street was one of the biggest in the town, but it reflected the prosperity and status of its owner in a most unassuming way. Built on a corner, its frontage was comparatively narrow but its total depth ran to almost a hundred and forty feet. Its ground floor consisted of two blocks of building separated by a courtyard, the front block
containing a shop, a parlour and a small buttery while the back block comprised the kitchen, larder, main buttery and a small brewhouse. Behind the kitchen block was a Great Court, on either side of which was the warehouse. Stables with hayloft above completed the ground floor.

Nowithstanding its size, it did not in any way dominate but instead fitted quietly into its place and allowed other properties to nestle right up to it and draw from its strength. It rose to a height of four storeys. On the first floor was the hall or main living room of the dwelling, with a small counting-house leading off it. The principal bedrooms were on the second floor, directly above the hall. The fore-chamber overlooked the street by means of handsome mullioned windows, which gave a curiously distorted view of nearby West Gate and the adjacent Chapel of St Nicholas. From the upper storey, the shape and development of the greater part of the town could be seen. Over the top of West Gate, it was also possible to glimpse the ships sailing past on the River Taw and to understand the very essence of Barnstaple.

The woman who sat alone in the fore-chamber showed no inclination to explore the various views that her house offered. Her eyes could only look inward. She sat motionless in a chair with an open Bible lying unread in her lap. Mary Whetcombe wore the dark and seemly apparel of a grieving widow, but the death of her husband, recent as it was, had not scarred her pale beauty. If anything, it had been enhanced by tragedy. The small, heart-shaped face that was framed by the well-groomed dark hair was given a forlorn charm it had never possessed before. Even in her mourning dress, her shapely body retained its appeal. Mary Whetcombe carried thirty years and more with surprising lightness. She was a slim, elegant woman of middle
height who had sustained many blows from fate, but they left almost no marks upon her. Suffering was somehow contained within where its pain was more acute but its damage less visible.

There was a knock on the door and she came out of her reverie with a start. A flicker of hope stirred but it vanished immediately when the door opened and a maidservant conducted a tall, thin, balding man into the chamber. Arthur Calmady wore the black garb of his office and the pious look of a man with a mission in life. As the maidservant withdrew and closed the door behind her, the visitor gave a respectful bow then moved across to the mistress of the house.

‘Good morning,’ he said softly.

‘Good morning,’ she seemed to reply.

‘Have you been studying the text I recommended?’ he said, noting the Bible. ‘I hope it has brought comfort and consolation to you, Mary.’ He waited until she could manage a small nod of affirmation. ‘Bereavement is a time when we come fit our minds to the loss of a loved one but we must do it in no spirit of despair. Matthew’s death was God’s will. It was not a meaningless accident, Mary, but part of a divine plan. Draw succour from that thought.’

‘I will try,’ she murmured.

Arthur Calmady was the vicar of the Parish Church of St Peter. Only an occasional visitor to the house when Matthew Whetcombe was alive, he had called on a daily basis since the merchant’s untimely death, and he liked to think that his brand of unctuous concern was having a beneficial effect on the widow. He was a sharp-featured man with a mole in the hollow of one cheek. His intelligence was admired and his conscientiousness praised, but the more wayward Christians in the parish could have done without his strictures from the pulpit. They wanted
a caring shepherd to tend his flock and not to round it up like a holy sheepdog. Unmarried and celibate all his life, he had the other-worldly air of a hermit, but this was offset by the beady eyes and the moist lips. Arthur Calmady discharged all his duties with commendable zeal but he did take especial pleasure from visiting bereaved women in the privacy of a bedchamber.

‘Shall I read to you, Mary?’ he offered.

‘No, thank you.’

‘It may help to soothe your mind.’

‘I am content.’

‘May I sit with you for a while?’

‘If you wish.’

‘May I share your sorrow?’

Calmady lowered himself into the chair beside her and took one of her hands between his. Mary made no protest. As the vicar began to chant a prayer, she was not even aware of his presence in the room. Her thoughts were miles away from Barnstaple. Ten minutes passed before he released her hand and rose to go. Calmady covered his departure with a glib apology for disturbing her and crossed to the door. Holding it open, he turned back to her.

‘Is there any news, Mary?’

‘None.’

‘How long has it been now?’

‘Too long.’

‘We must watch and pray,’ he advised. ‘It is the only way to combat fear and anxiety. Prayers cure all ills.’ He became more businesslike. ‘When there is news, let me know at once. Send a servant to the vicarage. It is important.’

‘I will.’

‘Goodbye, Mary.’

Arthur Calmady withdrew like a wraith and closed the door soundlessly behind him. To a man of such exaggerated religiosity, the whole world was the house of God and he moved about it with the measured tread of a true believer. His stately figure descended the newel stair as if walking down the altar steps. When the maidservant let him out through the front door, the street was the nave of a cathedral. As soon as he had left, the child came out of her hiding place behind the court cupboard and ran upstairs to the fore-chamber. She entered without knocking and went across to stand in front of her mother. Lucy Whetcombe was a slight but wiry girl who could have been anything between ten and fifteen. Her body sided with the earlier age but the tight little face veered towards the later. What she had inherited of her mother’s beauty was sullied by anxiety and dismay. The dark, sobre dress accentuated the fairer tone of her hair and the pale complexion.

She forced a smile and nodded enquiringly.

‘No, Lucy,’ said her mother, shaking her head.

The girl’s eyes repeated the question more earnestly but it got the same sad response. As Mary Whetcombe talked, she opened her mouth expressively so that her daughter could read her lips, and she supplemented her speech with graphic gestures of her hands.

‘We have no news of her,’ she said. ‘We do not know where she went or why. But she did not run away from you. She loves you, Lucy. We all love you. Susan will come back to you. They will find her. She belongs here with us.’

When the girl had deciphered the message, she tried to answer it with words of her own, but all she could produce were dull and senseless sounds. In sheer frustration, she beat her fists on her thighs and began to cry in silence. Mary
Whetcombe reached out to enfold her child in her arms and to hug her tightly. Her own tears now flowed.

‘We have each other,’ she said. ‘We have each other.’

But the girl did not even hear her.

Israel Gunby had spent so long living on his wits that he could adapt to each change of circumstance with the speed of light. Instead of wasting time on remorse over the death of an accomplice, he sought to turn it to good account.

‘Ned was not long for this life,’ he said blithely. ‘That stranger saved me the trouble of sending his fat carcass on his way.’

‘He was killed
next
to me,’ complained Ellen, still shaken by the experience. ‘It was all I could do not to scream out in horror.’

‘That would have been the ruin of us, my love.’

‘I held back for that reason.’

‘The law would have come down on us,’ warned Gunby. ‘All would be lost in the cry of a woman. And for what? Ned Robinson! Our plump pickpocket.’ A short laugh. ‘They may catch us one day, Ellen, and hang the pair of us side by side, but I will not go to the gallows because of a fool like Ned Robinson. He deserved what he got.’

‘It was terrifying, Israel!’

‘You did well, my love.’

‘I was frightened.’

Israel Gunby pulled her to him and stroked his wife’s hair. They were lying in a bed at the Fox and Elm, a small inn some miles to the south-west of Marlborough. Events at the Guildhall on the previous night necessitated a rapid departure from the town. While Ned Robinson and Ellen had been working in harness at the play, Gunby had been sitting a mere hundred yards away in the taproom of the Rising Sun. By
talking to the innkeeper, and guiding the conversation with a steady hand, he had learnt how many guests were staying at the establishment, how heavy their capcases had been and in which direction they would be travelling next morning. While one crime was being committed, Israel Gunby liked to set up several more. Careful planning was the basis of his career. When plans went awry – as they did in the Guildhall – he would move swiftly to make his escape and cover his tracks.

There was ample compensation in this instance.

‘How much did Ned take before he was caught?’

‘Seven pounds and more.’

‘Those fat fingers were dexterous.’

‘They were,’ said Ellen. ‘He took the first few purses as we pushed through the crowd going in. One man carried five angels. Ned slipped them to me for safekeeping.’

‘What did he take during the play?’

‘The purses of the two men in front of him and the one who sat on my other side. Ned leant across me as if fast asleep, and the money was his in a flash.’ Ellen clicked her tongue. ‘If he had settled for that, he would still now be alive to share the spoils. But he took one purse too many.’

‘And the killer?’

‘A well-favoured gentleman with a black beard.’

‘But not from these parts, I dare wager,’ said Gunby with a chuckle. ‘These Wiltshire people are too trusting. They would not suspect a foist if you climbed inside their purse and threw their money out coin by coin.’

‘He turned my blood to ice.’

‘Ned Robinson?’

‘The murderer.’

‘Forget him, Ellen,’ urged her husband. ‘He got away in
the crowd and will be in another county by now. Ned was unlucky but we gain profit from his misfortune.’

She brightened. ‘You are right, Israel. We are still free and together. That is all that matters in the end. Yet it was such a shame about Ned.’

‘Why?’

‘It spoilt the play. I enjoyed it so much until then.’

‘The Happy Malcontent
was it called?’

‘A merry piece. The whole town laughed so.’

‘Westfield’s Men served us in this business. They brought in the purses and Ned Robinson stole them. People who are full of mirth are easy prey.’

‘Lawrence Firethorn is the greatest actor alive,’ she said with frank admiration. ‘Were I not married to
you
, I would be happy to share his bed. And half the women in Marlborough would say the same as me.’

‘I think not, my love.’

‘How so?’

‘Because I have snatched delight from his arms yet again.’ He began to cackle. ‘Lawrence Firethorn will make no conquest in this town, Ellen. I give you my word on that.’

‘I’ll not stand for this, sir! You abuse my hospitality!’

‘Hear me out.’

‘I would rather
see
you out and say good riddance.’

‘But we have a performance to give this afternoon.’

‘Yes, Master Firethorn! You wish to usurp my role and do my office between the sheets.’

‘That is not true, sir.’

‘Then why did you send a letter to my wife?’

‘I did not!’

‘Why do you woo her with warm words?’

‘I have never even met your good lady.’

‘Why do you inflame her passion?’

‘Nothing is further from my desires.’

‘Take your lascivious wishes out of Marlborough!’

‘You are misinformed here.’

‘Hawk your pizzle to another town!’

The mayor worked himself up into such a rage that his beetroot cheeks were fit to burst. His eyes smouldered, his body twitched and his little hands clutched at his gold chain like a drowning man clinging for the rope that might save him. Lawrence Firethorn wanted to laugh at such absurd antics but the status of his visitor and the accompanying presence of a town constable enforced more control on him. The mayor and his wife had sat in the front row during the performance of
The Happy Malcontent
but the actor-manager had spared her no more than a cursory glance. The Guildhall had been packed with far more comely sights than that afforded by a pink-faced middle-aged woman with a breathy giggle. She was too starved a subject for Firethorn’s lust.

They were in a private room at the White Hart. When the mayor came storming in to see him that morning, Firethorn had assumed that he bore the communal congratulations of the town. Instead of hearing his performance praised, the actor was being accused of trying to seduce the mayor’s wife.

‘Fornicator!’ yelled the mayor.

‘Lower your voice, sir.’

‘Liar and adulterer!’

‘I deny the charges!’

‘Traitor!’

‘Call your wife and she will proclaim my innocence.’

‘Aghhhhh!’

The mayor let out a cry of anguish and twisted his chain so tightly around his neck that he was in danger of asphyxiating himself. Women were vile creatures and love was a two-edged sword.
The Happy Malcontent
brought tears in the wake of its laughter. The mayor’s wife had been completely carried away by the force of the play and the sensual power of Lawrence Firethorn’s performance. Roused to a pitch she had not achieved for many years, she fell on her husband with such fervour in the privacy of their four-poster that he had time to do no more than tear off his breeches and pull down his hose. Consummation was instant and what pleased him more than anything else was that this uncommon event had occurred while he was still wearing his chain of office. Mayoralty and manhood had coalesced in a night of madness. But it was all a wicked delusion. His wife’s ardour had been excited by Lawrence Firethorn and it was he who was the true object of her newfound appetite.