The Silent Woman (8 page)

His distraught companion detected a pattern.

‘Disaster is triple-tongued,’ he groaned. ‘This is the third time that it has blown its blast in my ears.’

‘You have had ill luck, Edmund, that is all.’

‘I have been punished for meddling with devils.’

‘You do the lady a disservice.’

‘Look back, Nick. You were there on both occasions.’

‘Where?’

‘At the scene of my calamities.’ Hoode counted them off on his fingers. ‘One, my play
The Merry Devils.
Remember what afflictions
that
brought in its wake, and how I suffered vile torments. Two, my other venture into hell,
The Devil’s Ride Through London
. I paid for that rash mockery as well.
Our theatre was all but burnt to the ground. Three, Mistress Jane Diamond. The vintner was not her true husband. She was contracted to Satan himself and set me up to suffer the worst pangs of all. I have been well paid for my folly.’

‘It is not so, Edmund.’

‘Where is your proof?’

‘Let me follow your numbers.’ Nicholas held up his finger. ‘One,
The Merry Devils
was not your play but a work jointly written by you and Ralph Willoughby. He it was who had the kinship with the Devil and who paid for it with his life. You at least survived. Two—’

But Nicholas got no further with his argument. Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling down the stairs with his sword in his hand and his teeth bared. The book holder abandoned one injured party and rushed to the assistance of a more recent one. Firethorn was berserk.

‘What ails you, sir?’ said Nicholas.

‘Betrayal! Perfidy! Wickedness.’

Hoode actually laughed. ‘She turned him down,’ he said.

‘The villains have robbed me!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘They took all the money that we strove to earn tonight.’

‘How?’ asked Nicholas.

‘They got into my chamber while I remained here below. It was only when I checked the contents of my capcase that I discovered the theft.’

‘Hold there, Lawrence,’ said Hoode sceptically. ‘Our takings went into your purse and stayed there until you went upstairs. They could not steal money that was not yet placed in your chamber.’

‘Do you call me a liar!’

Firethorn bludgeoned him into silence with a burst of
vituperation then gave an edited version of events. He could never admit that he had been lured away from his room by the wiles of a pretty face, though Nicholas was already certain that that was what had happened. Hearing of the flight of the putative father and daughter, he pressed for detail.

‘Has anyone else been robbed?’

‘That fellow who paid us for our entertainment.’

‘Master Fat-Guts?’ said Hoode.

‘They emptied his pockets as well.’

‘How do you know?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘I met the man on the landing.’

‘Did he
tell
you that he had been fleeced?’

‘Forget about him, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Our own money is gone. That is our only concern.’

‘I fear not.’

‘Why?’

‘There is deeper villainy here. Call the landlord.’

‘He cannot chase those two rogues.’

‘They may be three in number,’ said Nicholas.

Hauled from his bed, the landlord was alarmed at the news and identified the obese guest as one William Pocock. Nicholas asked to be taken to the man’s bedchamber, and all four of them went tramping up the staircase. The book holder’s fears were realised. When he saw that Pocock’s room was empty, he guessed that the man had gone off to join his two partners. Evidently, all three had worked cleverly together.

Lawrence Firethorn was completely abashed. Cheated by a young woman, he had also been led astray by another ruse, for Pocock’s role in the enterprise had been to detain him long enough in Judith Grace’s bedchamber for his confederates to gain entry to the actor’s own room. Firethorn
was too busy nursing his bruised dignity to spy any poetic justice in it all, but Nicholas saw it at once. Having caused havoc in a bedchamber for Edmund Hoode, the culprit had now experienced shame and panic of the same order. It was not a thought over which the book holder lingered. In the vague hope that Pocock might not yet have left the premises, he ordered the others to search the establishment and went racing off downstairs to the taproom. He grabbed one of the lanterns and hastened out into the yard.

The place was deserted. Apart from the whistle of a slight breeze and the occasional movement of horses in the stables, there was no noise. To make a swift departure, Samuel Grace and his daughter – and Nicholas doubted very much if that was their true relationship – must have had their mounts saddled and ready. Pocock would likewise have an animal in waiting that could be ridden instantly away. Nicholas therefore headed for the stables, using the lantern to throw its meagre light a few paces ahead of him. He reached the door of the first stable block, lifted the wooden bar that held it in place, drew it open and went in. Hooves shifted in straw and there was a stray whinny from the far end of the stables. All the horses were tethered to their mangers. Wooden pails of water stood beside them.

Nicholas checked each beast but none was saddled. If Pocock had a horse in readiness, it must be on the other side of the yard. The book holder turned to walk back down the rows of horses when he had a mild shock. The door, which he had left open, had now been shut, and the faint square of light that he would have aimed for had disappeared. If the wind had been responsible, the door would have creaked on its hinges and banged. Some human agency was involved.
The animals confirmed it because they became restive and inquisitive. One neigh set off a few more, a bucket was kicked over and the rustling of straw was constant. The lantern was an inadequate guide but it made Nicholas an obvious target, so he quickly doused the flame and put the object aside. He slipped a hand around to the back of his belt to remove his dagger from its scabbard.

Danger was an old enemy and Nicholas was not afraid of it. Anyone who walked home through the fetid streets and lanes of Bankside every evening developed a sixth sense for an impending threat. Who was in the stable and why was his presence so menacing? It was surely not Pocock, whose sole interest must be in immediate flight. Slovenly and overweight, the man was ill-equipped to take on the powerful Nicholas in any kind of fight. And what motive could he possibly have? The book holder carried no money. He was up against a more practised adversary, one who could close a squeaking wooden door without making a murmur, one who could lie patiently in wait for his quarry to come within range. Was he armed with sword, dagger or club? Or could he rely on the strength of his muscles to subdue Nicholas?

Amid the breathing of the animals and the motion of their feet, Nicholas strained his ears to listen for sounds of the man’s whereabouts. The clink of harness made him swing around but it had been made by the toss of a horse’s head against a dangling bridle. A startled neigh made him face in the opposite direction but he could make nothing out in the thick gloom. It was the rat that betrayed him. It came out of the straw with such rustling urgency that Nicholas found himself jabbing his dagger in that direction. Something hard and numbing crashed down on his hand to knock the
weapon from his grasp then the man was upon him from behind, tightening a knotted cord around his neck and trying to put his knee into the small of Nicholas’s back to get leverage. The cord had sharp teeth and seemed to be eating right through his throat. It was being held by a man who had used this instrument of death before.

Nicholas responded at once, using both elbows to pump backwards into the man’s ribs then slipping one of his hands under the rope when there was a fleeting relief in tension. He began to twist and turn so violently that the man had to adjust his footing all the time and there was a slight loss of venom in the rope’s bite, but Nicholas could still not dislodge him and his own strength was waning. His cheeks reddened, his eyes bulged, his veins stood out, his mouth went dry and the pounding in his head became more insistent. He felt as if a dozen sword points were simultaneously pushing their way through his neck in order to meet in the middle.

Summoning up all of his energy, he dipped down low then launched himself backwards, knocking the man into the side of a loose box with such force that his grip on the cord was lost. Nicholas tore it from his neck, threw it away and tried to meet his attacker face-to-face, but the flank of a horse came round at him to buffet him away. The man had had enough. Seeing the chance of escape, he scrambled to his feet and got in a glancing punch to Nicholas’s face before he scuttled off down the stables and out through the door. It banged madly this time and Nicholas lurched towards it, but the strangulation had squeezed much of the power from his limbs and he could offer no swift pursuit. The attacker was, in any case, already in the saddle and spurring his horse away from the inn. By the time Nicholas staggered out into
the yard to rub at the stinging red weal on his neck and stare around with blurred eyes, his adversary was hundreds of yards away.

When the mist cleared sufficiently from his mind for him to be able to think properly, Nicholas realised why the attempt on his life had been made. Simply because she bore a message to him, the life had been mercilessly crushed out of a harmless girl. Now that he was heading for home, Nicholas had become a potential murder victim. Someone was going to great lengths to stop him from reaching Barnstaple and he was lucky to be able to continue the journey. He would now do so with greater vigilance and increased determination because one thing was certain. The man who gained the advantage over him in the stables was undoubtedly proficient in his trade. He would strike again.

The three confederates met up again at an abandoned hovel near Stokenchurch. By the light of a candle, they counted out their booty and divided it into four equal parts. The older man handed one share to the girl and another to the erstwhile William Pocock. As their leader, he claimed the other half of the money and stuffed it into a capcase that was already bulging. They compared notes over the night’s escapades and chuckled for a long time at the embarrassment they had inflicted on Westfield’s Men.

‘Firethorn was the biggest gull of them all,’ said the older man. He put a sly arm around the girl’s slim waist. ‘To think he could bed my wife with a wave of his arms and couple of ranting speeches. He got his just deserts. No, you are all mine, are you not, Judith Grace?’

‘Yes, Father,’ she said with a sensual giggle.

‘Kiss me.’

The other man nibbled on a stolen leg of ham while the two of them enjoyed a long embrace with guzzling kisses. The young woman eventually threw a compliment across at their corpulent associate.

‘Ned served us well,’ she said.

‘So you did, Ned,’ agreed her husband.

‘Shall we work that ruse again?’ asked Ned.

‘No,’ said the older man. ‘We must find new ways to pluck the chicken each time or its feathers will stick. And we must give mine host of the Fighting Cocks a long rest before we use his inn as our lure again. We’ll ride to the other side of Oxford before we choose our next cony. That will mean a change of apparel for Ellen and me.’

‘I am Ellen again, am I?’ complained his wife. ‘I so enjoyed being Mistress Judith Grace. Virginity becomes me.’

‘And I was happy as William Pocock,’ said Ned.

The older man was emphatic. ‘New places, new garb, new names. It is the one sure way to elude capture. If they search for a Samuel Grace, his beautiful daughter and a fat gentlemen with his breeches on fire for her, they will not look at two old Oxford scholars and their servant.’

They ate, drank, discussed their plans further then lay out their bedding for the last few hours before dawn. As the three of them settled down, the old man came to a decision that made him cackle afresh.

‘We’ll hit them again.’

‘Who?’ asked Ned.

‘Westfield’s Men.’

‘Think of the danger,’ warned Ellen.

‘They would tear us apart if they knew,’ said Ned.

‘That is the attraction,’ explained their leader. ‘It is a battle of wits here. Lawrence Firethorn is the prince of his profession and I of mine. We are well matched. He can play fifty parts at a moment’s notice but he could not dissemble as well as I can.’

‘Do you think he knows who you are?’ said Ellen.

‘He will, my sweet.’

She was proud of her husband. ‘The landlord will tell him when he sees the truth. There is only one man who could lay such a bold plot for a whole company of players – and that is the famous Israel Gunby.’

‘The infamous and wanted Israel Gunby,’ said Ned.

‘The
great
Israel Gunby,’ she added.

Ellen snuggled up to her husband and they lay entwined. Though they shared a mean hovel in the Chilterns instead of a comfortable bed at the Fighting Cocks, she did not mind. This was where she wanted to be. They were rich, happy and free. The open road was their kingdom and they could feed off travellers whenever and wherever they liked. Westfield’s Men had been given a generous amount of money by them and then robbed of far more. It lent a sense of style to the whole enterprise. She kissed her husband again then clung to his lean body like a squirrel holding on to the bark of the tree. Israel Gunby was the most notorious highwaymen of them all, and she loved him for it. Life with him was continuous excitement. Only one question now remained.

When would they need to kill their accomplice?

L
awrence Firethorn’s wrath did not abate during the night. He awoke at cock-crow, caught sight of his defiled capcase and lusted for blood. George Dart was the first to feel the impact of his employer’s ire. Hauled from his bed and beaten soundly, Dart was ordered to get the rest of the company up before doing a dozen other chores, which would deprive him of all hope of breakfast. As fresh targets came down into the taproom at the Fighting Cocks, the
actor-manager
aimed abuse and accusation at them. Barnaby Gill was roundly mocked, Edmund Hoode was berated, Owen Elias was threatened, Richard Honeydew was criticised for his performance as Cariola on the previous night, John Tallis was treated to a withering analysis of his character defects and other members of the company came off far worse. In his general animosity, Firethorn even had stern words for Nicholas Bracewell. It was disconcerting.

Westfield’s Men were even more disturbed when they
heard about the loss of their money. The success of their first night on the road had been illusory. They now saw only rank failure and it was less than reassuring to be told that they had been the latest prey of a daring criminal. Everyone had heard of the man who outwitted them.

‘Israel Gunby!’

‘The master thief of the highway.’

‘The most pernicious villain alive.’

‘He would rob you of the clothes you stand up in.’

‘’Tis a wonder we were not murdered in our beds.’

‘Israel Gunby is a monster.’

‘A sorcerer.’

‘A fiend of hell.’

‘They say that Gunby once stole fifty sheep from a Warwickshire farmer then sold them back to the poor fool at market for three times the price.’

‘Another time, he robbed a small party of travellers in a wood near Saffron Walden and rode off with their belongings. Not knowing that the rogue had placed an accomplice among them, they fell to boasting how clever they had been in giving the highwaymen the dross in their purses while holding back their real valuables, which they kept hidden about their persons. When Gunby robbed them again but two miles down the road, he was able to take everything he missed the first time.’

‘I heard that he took their horses and boots as well.’

‘Israel Gunby would steal
anything
!’

‘The hair off your head.’

‘Off your arse.’

‘And your balls.’

‘He’d rob Christ of his cross on the road to Calvary.’

‘Add one more tale,’ said Gill wickedly. ‘Of how Israel Gunby dangled his whore in front of a great actor until his pizzle was giving off steam. She invited this idiot to share her bed for the night and while he was gone, she and Gunby broke into his chamber and took everything they could lay their thieving hands on. The great actor then—’

‘No more!’ decreed the great actor with stentorian force. ‘I do not wish to hear the name of Israel Gunby ever again – unless it be linked with the date of his execution. I would ride halfway across England to see that foul rogue hanged by the neck. Until then, gentlemen, until then, Israel me no Israels and – if you value your lives – Gunby me no Gunbies.’

Lawrence Firethorn enforced his edict by glaring in turn at each man then he gave the signal to leave. He was keen to get away from the scene of his disgrace as soon as he could. With their leader at the head of the column, they set off from the Fighting Cocks on the road to Oxford, hoping that it might offer a fairer return for their labours. The exhilaration of the previous day had been replaced by a nagging pessimism. It was almost as if they had packed Alexander Marwood into the waggon with the rest of the luggage.

Nicholas Bracewell was glad to leave the inn but not before he had questioned the landlord and his ostlers. None of them could shed any light on the mystery attacker in the stables. After Westfield’s Men arrived, no other traveller sought a bed for the night at the same hostelry. This meant that the man was either already there when they reached the Fighting Cocks or he had come along later and bided his time in the darkness until his chance came. Nicholas settled for the latter explanation. The would-be killer could not have been certain that they would choose that particular inn
as their resting place. It was much more likely that he had trailed them from London, watched through a window and waited for the moment to pounce. Nicholas soon came round to the view that he was jumped on by the same man who had poisoned the girl. That gave him two scores to settle. He was riding the same horse that had carried the girl to her death, and he was determined it would not lose another passenger until it reached home in Barnstaple. Nicholas was therefore extremely wary as they moved along, scanning the horizon on all sides of them and exercising caution whenever the road took them beneath overhanging trees.

It was an hour before he accepted that he was safe in the bosom of the company. The man would not strike at him there. Nicholas was still a long way from Devon and there would be ample opportunities for a surprise attack on him during the journey. Lawrence Firethorn and the others were still inwardly cursing Israel Gunby and his two associates, but at least they had been visible rogues. The man who tried to strangle Nicholas had been a phantom, a creature of the night who was a natural predator. Nicholas knew his strength and could guess at his height from the feel of his body. A beard had brushed his head in the struggle. Beyond that, he had no information whatsoever about the man except that he brought a remorseless commitment to his work. He was not a person to abandon a task he had been set. The only way that Nicholas Bracewell could save his own life was by taking that of his assassin first.

‘Not arsenic, I think, for that bears no taste in acid form. And we have evidence that the deceased found the ale very bitter to the tongue.’ His sigh had a distant admiration in it.
‘The means of death was very cunning. The girl had never drunk ale before and would not recognise its taste. She must have thought it was always as sharp as that.’

‘So what was put into her ale?’

‘I could not say unless they held a post mortem and even then we might not be certain. There are so many poisons that will serve the purpose and she was given a lethal dose of one, no doubting that. She must have been strong and healthy to hold out against it for so long.’

Anne Hendrik was still brooding on the death of her visitor and its sad consequences. That morning, in search of elucidation, she called on the surgeon who had been summoned to her house when the girl’s condition had given alarm. He was a small, fussy, self-important man in his fifties with a grey beard that curled up like a miniature wave and bushy eyebrows of similar hue. He treated Anne with the polite pomposity of someone in possession of an arcane knowledge that can never be shared with those of lesser intelligence.

She tried to probe the mystery of his calling.

‘Can you tell me nothing else about her?’ she said.

‘I examined her for barely two minutes.’

‘Nicholas thought he smelt sulphur on her lips.’

‘Master Bracewell is no physician,’ he retorted with a supercilious smile. ‘Do not rely on
his
nostrils to give us a diagnosis here.’

‘He mentioned hemlock and juice of aconite …’

Sarcasm emerged. ‘Then you should apply to
him
for counsel and not to me. Clearly, he can teach us all in these matters. I had not thought some minion of the theatre would one day instruct me in my profession.’

‘He simply offered an opinion.’

‘Do not foist his ignorance upon me.’

‘Nicholas has seen victims of poison before.’

‘I see them every week of my life, Mistress Hendrik,’ said the outraged surgeon. ‘Husbands poisoned by wives and wives by husbands. Brothers killing each other off with ratsbane to collect an inheritance. Enemies trying to win an argument with monkshood or belladonna. I have watched arsenic do its silent mischief a hundred times, and I could name you a dozen other potions that scald a stomach and rot the life out of a human being.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘And will you tell me that Master Nicholas Bracewell is a worthier man than I to discuss these matters?’

‘Of course not, of course not …’

Anne had to spend two minutes calming him down and a further three apologising before she could get anything like guidance out of him. Surgeons were jealous of the high regard in which doctors and physicians were held, and it made them acutely conscious of occupying a more lowly station in the world of medicine. This member of the fraternity was especially prone to stand on his dignity. Only when his ruffled feathers had been smoothed did he consent to offer his informed opinion.

‘I look for three things in a corpse,’ he said briskly.

‘What are they, sir?’

‘Colour, position, odour. They are my spies.’ He plucked at his beard. ‘Her complexion told me much and her grotesque position indicated the agony of her death. The odour was faint but I could detect the aroma of poison.’

‘What did it contain?’ she pressed.

‘Who knows, mistress? Some deadly concoction of water
hemlock, sweet flag, cinquefoil and monkshood, perhaps. I could not be sure. White mercury, even.’ He flicked a hand as he made a concession. ‘And there might – I put it no higher than that – there might have been the tiniest whiff of sulphur. Red and yellow sulphur, mixed together with the right ingredients, could leave that tortured look upon her face.’

‘How would it have been administered?’

‘In the form of a powder or a potion.’ He put the tips of his fingers together as he pondered. ‘It must have been a potion,’ he decided. ‘Powder would not have dissolved fast enough in the ale. It would have stayed on the surface too long. My guess is that the guilty man carried the poison in a little earthenware pot that was closely corked. A second was all he would need to empty his vile liquid into the girl’s drink.’ He signalled the end of the conversation by opening the door for her to leave. ‘That is all I may tell you, mistress. I bid you good day.’

‘One last question …’

‘I have other patients to visit and they still live.’

‘Where would such a poison be bought?’

‘Not from any honest apothecary.’

‘It was obtained from
somewhere
in London.’

‘Apply to Master Bracewell,’ he said waspishly. ‘He is the fount of all human wisdom on this subject. Goodbye.’

Anne Hendrik found herself back out in the street with only half an answer, but she had learnt enough to encourage her to continue her line of enquiry. She went straight off to seek an interview with the coroner who had taken statements from them when the unnatural death was reported. It was a typically busy morning for him and she had a long wait before he could spare her a few minutes of his time. When she
identified herself, he opened his ledger to look up the details of the case in question. The coroner was a distinguished figure in his robes of office but a lifelong proximity to death had left its marks upon him. Slow and deliberate, he had a real compassion for the people whose corpses flowed before him as unceasingly as the Thames. Anne Hendrik’s request was both puzzling and surprising.

‘A post mortem?’ he said.

‘To establish the cause of death.’

‘We have already done that.’

‘Can you name the poison that killed her?’

‘No,’ he confessed. ‘Nor can I show you the dagger that murdered this man or the sword that cut down that one. Death scrawls its signature across this city every hour of the day. We cannot have a post mortem each time in order to decipher its handwriting.’

‘If it is a question of money …’

‘I do not have men enough for the task.’

‘This girl died in my house. I am involved.’

‘Then you should have attended her funeral, mistress.’

Anne gaped. ‘Funeral?’

‘The girl was buried earlier this morning.’

‘Where? How? By whose authority?’

‘Master Bracewell gave order for it.’

‘But he did not know the young woman.’

The coroner gave a wan smile. ‘He cared enough to pay for a proper burial. The poor creature was not just tossed into a hole in the ground with nobody to mourn her, like so many unknown persons. Master Bracewell is a true Christian and considerate to a fault. Because he could not be present himself, he arranged for a friend to take his place and pray for her soul.’

‘A friend? Do you know the name?’

‘He did not give it, mistress.’

‘Was it a man or a woman?’

‘A man.’

‘A member of the company who was left behind?’

‘All I remember is the name of an inn.’

‘The Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street?’

‘Yes, that was it. This friend worked there.’

Anne Hendrik had an answer. It was not the one she either expected or wanted but it pointed her in a direction that might yield a fuller reply. An upsurge of emotion warmed her. The body may have been buried but Anne’s love for Nicholas Bracewell had come back emphatically to life. He had shown kindness and concern for the murdered girl. In paying for her funeral – he earned only eight shillings a week from Westfield’s Men – he was making a real financial sacrifice. There was another factor that weighed heavily with Anne. The coroner spoke of Nicholas with the respect he would only accord to a gentleman. The surgeon made slighting remarks about Nicholas and dismissed him out of hand, but the coroner, an older and more perceptive judge of character, took the book holder at his true value. That pleased her.

She asked where the funeral had taken place, thanked the coroner profusely for his help then went off to pay her last respects to the dead girl.

Bright sunshine and beautiful landscapes were completely wasted on Westfield’s Men. Lawrence Firethorn was forcing such a pace upon them and spreading such an atmosphere of gloom that they had no chance to enjoy any of the
pleasures of travel. Actors were contentious individuals at the best of times and they now began to bicker in earnest. Nicholas Bracewell expended much of his energy intervening in quarrels with good-humoured firmness and trying to lift the company out of its Marwoodian mood of triumphant unhappiness. It was a very long and punishing journey to Oxford.