The Silent Woman (19 page)

‘There are ships enough in Bristol.’

‘I want to stand where you first stood,’ said Dart. ‘I want to make the choice that you made. You had the courage to sail around the world. Let me find courage of my own.’

‘That is not what took me away, George.’

‘Then what was?’

Nicholas confronted the truth without equivocation.

‘Cowardice.’

An estate in the country was the dream and ambition of every merchant. It was not merely a symbol of achievement, it was a place where they could escape from the dirt and bustle of the towns where they did their business and enjoy the more leisured existence of landed gentry. Gideon Livermore was a typical member of the mercantile community of Barnstaple. Rich and successful, he bought himself a substantial property a few miles from Bishops Tawton. He was still within a comfortable ride of the port that had made his fortune, but the twenty acres of parkland which surrounded his home gave him a reassuring bulwark against the cares of trade. Gideon Livermore loved everything about the country and he could never understand why Matthew Whetcombe – his partner in many enterprises – had preferred to spend most of his time in his town house in Crock Street. To a man like Livermore, the most attractive feature of Barnstaple was the road out of it.

The house was a long, low, rambling structure that had been built over a hundred and fifty years earlier by a wealthy landowner. By lavishing enormous amounts of money and care upon it, Gideon Livermore had turned a manor into a mansion. Existing buildings had been refurbished, a new and
resplendent wing had been added and the stable block had been greatly enlarged. Costly furnishings and ostentatious gold plate filled the interior. Livermore shared his home with his five children and ten servants, but there were still rooms to spare for any guests. He was an expansive man in every way and had always leant towards excess.

He raised a goblet of Canary wine in a toast.

‘To a successful endeavour!’

‘I’ll say amen to that.’

The two men sipped then leant back in their chairs. Gideon Livermore was a sleek, self-satisfied man of forty with heavy jowls and a bulging midriff. His face was pleasant in repose but his cheeks were deeply tinged by his fondness for wine and spirits. He wore a doublet of blue and green satin with matching breeches. A lawn ruff held up the clean-shaven double chin. His companion was slightly younger but much leaner and paler. Barnard Sweete wore the more subdued garb and deferential smile of a lawyer. His beard was trimmed to the last detail.

‘Tell me all,’ said Livermore. ‘Have they decided yet?’

‘They have.’

‘With what result?’

‘You are to be elected without delay.’

‘I expected no less,’ said his host airily, ‘but the news is both good and bad. Good, because Gideon Livermore is a most deserving alderman and should have been admitted years ago. Bad, because public duties will take me away more often from here.’ He held out his palms as if weighing the advantages and disadvantages, then came out strongly in favour of the former. ‘I’ll accept this honour graciously. Alderman Livermore has a ring that will echo in the ears of the whole town. I am made, Barnard.’

‘You could look to be mayor one day.’

‘Or receiver or sheriff or even member of parliament. All are chosen from within the circle. There are but twenty-four aldermen and they serve for life.’ He introduced a resentful note. ‘I was kept out long enough.’ He scowled with resentment. ‘It is fitting that the man I replace is Matthew Whetcombe.’

‘Not only on the chamber.’

‘We shall see, we shall see.’ His affability returned and he sipped more wine. ‘Do you have news of her?’

‘There is none to report, Gideon.’

‘You must have some intelligence. Mary is human like the rest of us. The lady must eat, drink and occupy her day somehow. What does she
do
in the barn of a house in Crock Street?’

‘She keeps to her bedchamber.’

‘No visitors?’

‘None save Mr Calmady. Our vicar waits upon her daily.’

‘Her family? Her friends?’

‘She has locked herself away from them.’

‘Still in mourning?’

‘Not for her husband. She has some deeper sorrow.’

Gideon Livermore smiled. ‘There is remedy for that.’

‘In time,’ said the lawyer cautiously. He opened the satchel that lay beside him and extracted a sheet of parchment. ‘You asked to see the funeral charges.’

‘I did, Barnard,’ he said. ‘I wish to see
everything
that touches on Mary Whetcombe. The most tiny item of her household expenditure is of interest to me. How much did it cost to send Matthew to his Maker?’

‘Here is the list, Gideon.’

The merchant took it from him and scrutinised it. With growing annoyance, he read some of the charges aloud.

‘Item, twenty yards of black material for the mourning clothes, thirty-one pounds; item, the funeral at the Parish Church of St Peter, eighteen pounds; item, an elm chest to hold the body, two pounds and three shillings; item, one tombstone, two pounds, eight shillings; item, for engraving the tombstone, one pound, four shillings; item, for payment of the gravedigger, two shillings.’ He threw his visitor a glance. ‘The list is endless, Barnard. It carries on all the way down to the funeral dinner in the hall at Crock Street. That cost twenty-seven pounds, making a total in all – I can hardly credit this – of one hundred and nineteen pounds.’ He waved the paper in the air. ‘Matthew Whetcombe had an expensive hole in the ground. I paid for the best when my own dear wife passed away, but her funeral did not amount to anything like this figure.’

‘Matthew Whetcombe was a power in Barnstaple.’

‘So was Alice Livermore,’ said the merchant proudly. ‘A wife of mine commands the highest respect.’

‘No question but that she does.’

‘A hundred and nineteen pounds!’

‘I am to pay it out of the estate.’

‘Do so, Barnard. Obey her wishes.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘A hundred and nineteen pounds! It is a lot to pay for the funeral of a husband whom you hate.’

He studied the list again, lost in contemplation of its details and implications. Barnard Sweete tasted his wine and waited quietly. His host would not brook interruption. The lawyer had found that out before. The merchant class of Barnstaple was small, compact and closely interrelated by marriage. It was also riven by feuds and petty jealousies. Sweete made a handsome living by serving the mercantile community, but doing so compelled him to keep abreast of
all developments – commercial or domestic – in the town. People trusted him. Known for his discretion, he was given access to intimate details of his client’s affairs and his retentive mind discarded none of them. Knowledge was money, and Barnard Sweete knew things that could deliver huge rewards.

Gideon Livermore at last put the list aside.

‘I must have her!’ he said covetously.

‘All things proceed in that direction.’

‘There must be no let or hindrance.’

‘You have the law on your side.’

‘And a cunning lawyer to interpret it.’ He gave a curt nod of gratitude. ‘I am a generous man, Barnard.’

‘I have always found it so.’

Livermore added a rider. ‘When I am pleased,’ he said.

‘You will have no cause for complaint.’

‘Good.’ He flicked a bloodshot eye once more at the paper. ‘One hundred and nineteen pounds! Matthew Whetcombe had all that spent on his funeral, yet it still could not buy him some honest tears from his wife. And what of the girl? Lucy Whetcombe could not even let out a cry of pain at her father’s passing. Fate is cruel. Matthew created all that wealth yet he could only produce one child, and she is such a poor monument to his manhood. The girl can neither hear nor speak. With her father in his grave, Lucy Whetcombe cannot even call out for her share of his inheritance.’

‘A strong voice is needed at such times,’ said the lawyer pointedly. ‘Silence can bring ruin.’

‘I rely on it.’

Gideon Livermore stood up and took his goblet across to the table to refill it from the glass decanter he had bought on a visit to Venice. He stared into the liquid for a second then drank it off in one draught. Barnard Sweete was certain that
he would now be offered more wine, and he emptied his own goblet in readiness. But the invitation never came. There was a knock on the door and a young man entered with some urgency. He stopped when he saw the lawyer but Gideon Livermore beckoned him on. The two of them stood aside and the newcomer whispered rapidly to his employer.

Sensing trouble, the lawyer rose to his feet and watched his host in trepidation. The merchant’s rage needed no time to build. His geniality became a malign fury, and he reached out to grab the decanter before hurling it violently against the wall and sending shards of glass flying to every corner of the room. His clerk withdrew and closed the door behind him. Gideon Livermore turned to glower at his guest.

‘He is coming to Barnstaple,’ he rumbled.

‘Who?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Heaven forfend!’ exclaimed the lawyer.

‘He is on his way here.’

‘But that cannot be.’

‘My information is always sound. I pay enough for it.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell! Did the message then reach him?’

‘The messenger did. Before she died.’

‘How much does he know?’

‘Enough to bring him to Barnstaple.’ He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘He must be stopped. We do not want a Bracewell meddling in our affairs, especially this member of the family. Bracewells are stubborn.’ Perspiration now glistened on his upper lip. ‘They have long memories.’

‘Can he be prevented?’ said Sweete.

‘He must be.’

‘How?’

‘By the same means.’

‘Lamparde?’

‘He will know what to do.’

‘Then why has he not already done it?’ said the lawyer nervously. ‘Why has Lamparde not honoured his contract? This alters the case completely. If Nicholas Bracewell were to come to as far as—’

‘He will not!’

‘But if he did …’

‘He will
not
!’ thundered the merchant. ‘Lamparde will not let us down. He values his own life, so he will not cross Gideon Livermore.’ His explosion of rage had reassured him. ‘Nicholas Bracewell will not get anywhere near us. We do wrong to have such foolish fears. We are safe and beyond his reach. Let us forget about him and his family.’

‘Yet he is still on his way, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘He travels with a theatre company.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Close to death.’

Nicholas Bracewell rode with them to the edge of the town and waved them off. He still had business in Marlborough and could soon overtake them on the roan. It was a spirited animal and a full day in the stable had made it restless for exercise. Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe off on the road to Chippenham. Westfield’s Men were still buoyed up by the success of their performance that afternoon, and they could look to repeat it in Bristol. Firethorn himself was torn between elation and disquiet. Though his company had twice distinguished themselves before
an audience, he was worried by the interference of Israel Gunby. The incident at the Fighting Cocks in High Wycombe still rankled, all the more so because he had found no balm for that particular wound. He had spent three nights away from his wife now and found nobody to take her place in his bed.
Black Antonio
rarely failed to excite some female interest, and he had hoped to snatch a fond farewell in his chamber with some local maiden while the waggon was being loaded but it was not to be. The mayor had been thrilled with the second performance and would not stir from Firethorn’s side until he had explained why at least a dozen times. Guilt rustled beneath his mayoral chain. He spent so much time apologising to Firethorn for even thinking that he would wish to ravish another man’s wife that the other men’s wives who had come to throw themselves upon the actor could not get anywhere near him. Israel Gunby had come between Lawrence Firethorn and the spoils of war. Retribution was needed.

‘Why does he stay?’ asked Barnaby Gill.

‘Your visage offends his eye,’ said Firethorn.

‘What does Marlborough hold for Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘Go back and ask him.’

‘No,’ said Gill, ‘I will give thanks for this small mercy and put distance between the two of us. I said that he would bring more misery down upon us and he did.’

‘Yes,’ teased Firethorn, ‘he persuaded me to stage
The Happy Malcontent
and we had two hours of
your
strutting and fretting.’

‘I was supreme.’

‘It escaped my notice.’

‘But not that of the spectators.’ Gill preened himself as they rode along. ‘They loved me. I could feel the ardour. My talents left them breathless. I was inspired.’

‘Feed off your vanity, if you will. Caress your own sweet self. But do not accuse Nick.’

‘He killed that man in the audience.’

‘How? With a prompt book in his hands?’

‘Consider but this, Lawrence. Three days on the road have brought three disasters. Robbery, plague, murder. That is our book holder’s record. Robbery, plague, murder. Zounds! What
more
do you need?’

‘Women!’

‘When Nicholas is with us, misfortune strikes,’ said Gill. ‘He is like some Devil’s mark upon us. Let him stay in Marlborough as long as he may. We need no more stabbing among the spectators.’

‘Then you must retire, Barnaby,’ said the other, ‘for your performances are daggers in the back of any audience.’

Barnaby Gill sulked on horseback for another mile.

They were approaching a tiny hamlet when they saw him. He was propped up against a tree by the side of the road. Even from a distance, they could see his tattered rags and wretched condition. The twisted figure was one of the vast and
ever-increasing
number of vagrants who wandered the countryside in search of charity. Rogues and vagabonds were a recurring nuisance to Marlborough and the town beadle was paid twopence for each one that he whipped. This old man had crawled to one of the outlying hamlets to escape yet another beating and to throw himself on the mercy of passing travellers. When they got nearer, they saw the matted hair and clogged filth of a creature who spent his nights in the fields with other wild animals. One eye was closed, the other sparkled hopefully as they approached. A begging bowl came out from beneath his shredded coat. They caught his stench from twenty yards away.