The Silent Woman (26 page)

‘I saw her quail when his name was announced.’

‘Yet the woman sent for him to come.’

‘No,’ said the lawyer. ‘We were wrong about that. Susan Deakin was not sent. She went to London of her own accord.’

‘But
why
?’

‘That is what Bracewell has come to find out.’

‘Stop him, man. Tie him up in legal knots.’

‘I’ll do that well enough. But we have another problem which vexes us here. We must keep him away from his father.’

‘That is no great matter. He hates Robert Bracewell.’

‘We must feed that hate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is to our advantage.’

‘Bringing them together might serve us even better,’ said Livermore. ‘Robert is a testy fellow when roused. If father and son come to blows, it will send Nicholas on his way the sooner and all our cares are gone.’

‘You forget something, Gideon.’

‘What?’

‘Matthew Whetcombe’s will.’

‘Forget it!’ Livermore chuckled. ‘Why, man, I damn near invented the thing. You and the others were witnesses. We heard a nuncupative will from a man too ill to speak. You wrote down the terms as I dictated them.’

‘I talk of his earlier will.’

‘You said you destroyed it.’

‘Matthew kept a copy.’

The merchant bristled. ‘Where is it?’

‘Nobody knows,’ said Sweete. ‘But if it is found, it could yet bring us down.’

Gideon Livermore now had an excuse to rail once more at Barnard Sweete. It was the latter’s job to take care of the legalities and to leave no loopholes. A copy of the earlier will could cause as much damage as the unwanted visitor from London. Both needed to be instantly nullified. Purple with rage, Livermore banged the desk and cursed royally. It was only when his temper finally abated that he thought of a question he had forgotten to ask.

‘How is the father involved here?’ he said. ‘What does
he
have to do with a will made by Matthew Whetcombe?’

‘Robert Bracewell was one of the witnesses.’

Lawrence Firethorn was always punctual for an assignation. He arrived at the rear door of the Black Swan at the time set and found the coachman waiting for him. Firethorn still wore the suit of black velvet that he had on earlier, but he had now added a grey velvet cloak fringed with gold braid. Wrapped around him, it gave him a conspiratorial air that helped to heighten his anticipation. Forbidden joys were the sweetest. The betrayal of a husband spiced the occasion. He and Penelope were confederates in sin.

He followed the coachman up the winding backstairs and along a passageway. The man knocked, received a command then opened the door. He held it ajar so that Firethorn could enter then he closed it after the visitor and departed. Penelope was waiting for him. She sat in a high-backed chair beside a table that was laden with wine and fruit. He could see why she had preferred to entertain him there rather than in the more mundane surroundings of the Jolly Sailor. The chamber was large and luxurious with rich hangings on the walls and at the windows. It was divided by a curtain, which she had drawn back at the edge to reveal the four-poster that waited for them. Feather-bedded delight was at hand. They would drink and sup and fall into each other’s arms.

‘Take off your cloak, sir,’ she purred.

‘I will so.’

He removed it with a flourish, tossed it onto a chair then gave her the sort of bow he used at the end of a performance on stage. Her hand came forward and he kissed it with gentle
ardour. The gloves that she had earlier worn had now been discarded. She felt the firmness of his lips and the heat of his breath. She liked the tickle of his beard against her skin.

Ellen was now quivering inwardly with excitement and struggling not to lose control. Fear of discovery had made her precautions thorough. She had placed the candles with judicious precision to throw light away from her. When Firethorn sat opposite her at the table, he could see her through a golden glow that set off her auburn hair while subduing the contours of her face. What she could see was a man in a thousand, an actor whose commanding presence onstage could have an even greater effect in private, a handsome gallant who smiled at her through the gloom. Ellen was safe from discovery but not from herself.

‘Will you take wine, sir?’ she offered.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, picking up the bottle to fill the two goblets. ‘To you, my jewel!’

‘To us!’

‘Amen!’

They clinked their goblets and sipped at the wine. He peered through the gap in the curtains and let out a soft laugh that was as eloquent as his finest soliloquy. Lawrence Firethorn was no slow and ponderous wooer. A glass of wine was all that he needed to smooth his path to the headier intoxication of the bed. Ellen was in a quandary. Schooled simply to divert the actor, she was being pulled towards him. The envy she had felt while watching Richard Honeydew now surfaced again and her daring eased her on to play the kind of love scene that no boy could even imagine. She would never have such an opportunity again. Twenty minutes in the arms of Lawrence Firethorn was a whole career on the stage.

‘Wait for me, sir,’ she said, rising to her feet.

He was distressed. ‘You are leaving me?’

‘Only for a few seconds. Be patient.’

Firethorn understood and raised his goblet to her in acknowledgement. She was going to undress behind the curtain and prepare herself for him. His beauteous Penelope blew him a kiss then withdrew into the other part of the room, tugging the curtain after her to close off the gap. He could hear her picking at the fastenings of her attire.

Ellen was removing her lawn ruff when apprehension came to smother her lust. She was taking too great a risk. If she took him to bed, she surrendered the initiative and removed her disguise. A fiery lover might disturb her wig. Even in the dark, he would recognise her. And if he did not, there was always the danger that her husband would return and catch them there. The loss of a moment of fleeting madness in the arms of Lawrence Firethorn was preferable to the end of her partnership with Israel Gunby. Sanity returned and she put the original plan into action. Gathering up her bag, she stole toward the other door. She would be out of the inn before he even knew that she was gone.

But Lawrence Firethorn had waited long enough. With an impatient hand, he drew back the curtain with a loud swish and stood before her. Ellen spun round in terror. His laugh of triumph filled the room. He drew his sword and advanced.

Israel Gunby walked quickly to the Jolly Sailor, parted with a few coins to learn the whereabouts of Firethorn’s chamber then went straight upstairs. There was nobody about in the dark passageway. Standing outside Firethorn’s door, he pulled out a small knife but was given no time to pick the lock with
it. An ancient chamberlain came trudging downstairs from the upper storey. The light from his candle illumined the bald head and the wisps of white hair. His beard was salted with white and he wore a patch over one eye. The man’s whole body had sagged in. Gunby caught the smell of cheese and backed away slightly.

The chamberlain had a Gloucestershire burr.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

‘I am coachman to the Lord Mayor,’ said Gunby with pride. ‘Master Firethorn comes to supper with my master and I am to drive him there. But the gentleman has left a box in his chamber and sent me to fetch it for him.’

‘Did he not give you a key?’

‘It does not seem to fit.’

‘Then let me try this one, sir.’

The chamberlain shuffled to the door and lifted the rings of keys that hung from his belt. After trying a couple in the lock, he found one that fitted.

‘Go on in, sir,’ he invited, opening the door. ‘Call to me when you leave and I will lock it against thieves once more. We cannot be too careful.’

‘Indeed not.’

Israel Gunby went into the room and shut the door behind him. He went straight to the bed and bent down to put a hand beneath it. The heavy capcase came out and he began to undo the straps. Seconds later a heavy purse sat in his palm and he weighed its value with satisfaction. Pushing the capcase away again, he turned to leave but the door was now open again and the doddery chamberlain seemed to have grown in size. A rapier was held menacingly in his hand.

Lawrence Firethorn tore off the wig and flung it on the floor. He had given one private performance that had not been commissioned. Israel Gunby stood there petrified. He had himself escorted Firethorn to a chamber in the Black Swan. How could the actor be in two places at once?

‘Sit down and wait, sir,’ ordered Firethorn. ‘Owen Elias will soon be here with your wife. When you steal money from a man, you only injure his purse. But when you mock his profession, you hurt his pride and that will not be borne.’

Israel Gunby smiled in respect and then began to laugh. A man who had made a career out of duping others had himself been turned into a dupe. He relished the irony.

‘You will not laugh on the gallows,’ said Firethorn, ‘but Westfield’s Men will have cause for mirth. We will not only get back the money you stole from us, we will collect a handsome reward for the capture of Israel Gunby.’

‘You deserve it, sir,’ said the other. ‘You deserve it.’

He was still laughing when the others arrived.

Nicholas Bracewell knew that he was being followed. The man had trailed him from the moment he left Crock Street. He was lurking in the churchyard when Nicholas came out. It was not a threatening presence like that of Lamparde but it still irked him. The sky was darkening now and the churchyard was dappled with shadow. Nicholas pretended to make another visit to his mother’s grave and knelt in silent prayer. The man crept up behind a yew tree and watched. When Nicholas rose, he slipped his dagger from its scabbard and turned the blade inwards so that the handle showed. He walked past the tree where the man was concealed and went around the angle of a vault. The man waited a few seconds
and followed but his was a short journey. As he peered around the edge of the vault, he could not see anyone leaving the churchyard. He moved a pace forward and Nicholas struck hard, bringing the handle of the dagger down on the back of the man’s head, knocking him senseless.

When Nicholas reached the gate, he felt another pair of eyes on him and fingered his dagger once more but it was not needed this time. The figure who stepped out from behind the wall was small and friendly. Lucy Whetcombe looked at him with a hesitant excitement then offered her hand. She trusted him. The affinity that he had felt earlier was stronger than ever now. They seemed to know each other. As if understanding his need, she led Nicholas Bracewell back the way that she had come.

Mary Whetcombe sat in the fore-chamber of her house and wept bitterly. It was the room where she had spent most of her marriage. While her husband slept in the Great Chamber next door, she had sought a measure of freedom from him but it was only illusory. His spirit followed her everywhere and there had been many times when he had forced her to join him in the marital bed. Mary had never stayed the night. That was one concession she had refused to make. Matthew Whetcombe had died and released her from all that, but he was now imposing another form of imprisonment from beyond the grave. The terms of his will were punitive. To retain any of the things she valued, she would have to consider the horror of marriage to another rich merchant. Gideon Livermore would be another version of Matthew Whetcombe.

She was completely distraught. At the moment when she
was contemplating a hideous future, a name had come out of her past to intensify her distress. After all those long and remorseful years, Nicholas Bracewell had come back. When she had needed him, he had gone away from the town. Why had he returned now and what did he hope to do? Mary could not bear him to see her in this state. She had been young and happy when they were last together. That world had gone.

The tap on the door made her sit up on the bed.

‘Go away,’ she called. ‘I must not be disturbed.’

There was a louder knock and she dabbed at her eyes.

‘Leave me alone. I will see no one!’

But the caller was insistent. The tapping got louder and longer and continued until she went across to unlock the door and fling it open with anger. Lucy’s whitened knuckles were raised to strike again but Mary did not even see her daughter. It was the tall man who waited quietly behind the girl who seized all her attention. She let out a gasp.

‘Nicholas!’

‘I must speak with you, Mary.’

‘Why are you here? How did you get into the house?’

‘Lucy showed me a way in.’

The girl looked up hopefully at her mother who noticed her at last. Since Nicholas had been turned away from the front door, she had brought him in through her secret entrance in the granary. Mary was torn between astonishment and alarm. Nicholas was still trying to think calmly. The sheer joy of seeing her again was marred by her patent suffering. Only the girl seemed to be happy that all three of them were together. With a tremor of delight, Lucy held both their hands for a second then ran off quickly downstairs and left them alone together.

‘May I come in?’ asked Nicholas softly.

‘You should not be here.’

‘We must talk, Mary.’

She backed into the room and he went after her, closing the door behind him. When he glanced around the room, his eye fell on the bed and he flinched slightly. Their last meeting had also been in a bedchamber though it lacked the elegant furnishings of this one. When Mary sat down, he brought a chair to place opposite her. They stared at each other in hurt silence for some time. Faded memories of what had drawn them together were still there, but they were overlaid with things that would keep them forever apart. Nicholas saw that the gulf that had opened could not be bridged. All that he could hope to do was to call softly across it.

‘You sent for me,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘But the messenger came to London.’

‘Messenger?’

‘Susan Deakin.’

‘Dear God!’ she said, bringing her hands to her mouth. ‘Is that where Susan went? All the way to London?’