The Silent Woman Read online

  Nicholas Bracewell craved retribution. Since he could expect none from official quarters, he would have to find a means to deal it out himself. The girl had been poisoned, but she still had a small amount of money about her person and her clothing was of value. Theft had not been the motive. The murderer had even left her horse untouched, so he was not one of the cunning priggers of prancers who roamed the capital to steal horses wherever opportunity appeared. It was with the animal that Nicholas would start his search. He was convinced that the girl had been struck down in order to stop her passing on some news of vital import to him. Reluctant even to consider the idea of returning home, he yet knew that the only way to find out who she was and what tidings she bore was to go back once more to Devon. If that mystery were unravelled, he would have a clearer idea of why the young messenger was murdered and by whose fell hand.

  Anne Hendrik had been on edge since the unheralded visitor first tottered across her threshold, and nothing that had occurred since had relieved her disquiet or eased the growing tension between her and Nicholas. Indeed, she was so upset that she pointedly ignored her lodger and asked the surgeon to escort her and her servant back to her house. When the man went off with the two women, Nicholas gave the coroner a fuller account of the circumstances and of his own involvement in the case. He made application for custody of the victim’s horse so that he could take it back to its rightful owner in Devon and explain what had befallen its rider. The girl would have anxious parents or a concerned employer with the right to know of her misfortune.

  After close questioning of his witness, the coroner judged him to be a man of good reputation and sound character. Nicholas gave stern undertakings and signed a document that bound him to his stated purpose on the penalty of arrest. He then took charge of the horse and mounted it at once to ride straight back to the Queen’s Head. When he trotted into the yard, he questioned all the ostlers to see if any of them remembered having seen the roan before. They handled too many horses in the course of a day to be sure, but one of them vaguely recalled stabling the animal along with another around noon. A young man had dismounted from the roan. His companion had been much bigger, older and in the attire of a merchant.

  Nicholas took this ambiguous description off to the cellar to see if Leonard could correct or add to it. The affable giant was in the process of lifting a barrel of ale onto his shoulder when his friend came down the stone steps, and he put it back down again in order to give a proper greeting. Leonard was only too eager to help but he could contribute no significant new details about the victim’s companion. What he was certain about was the fact that the older man had more or less forced the boy – as he still thought him – to finish his pint of ale.

  ‘And the tankard was emptied?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I stood over him while he supped the last drops. Not that it gave him any pleasure.’ Leonard scratched his beard. ‘Lord knows why. It was our best ale yet he drank it down as slow as if it were hot pitch.’

  ‘In some sorts, it was.’

  ‘Why, master?’

  ‘I believe that tankard was poisoned.’

  Nicholas explained and the massive visage before him first lit up with surprise – ‘A girl? Drinking in a tavern in the guise of a man?’ – then crumpled with sorrow and bewilderment. Aware of how important even the tiniest shred of evidence was, Leonard now began to cudgel his brain unmercifully but it could yield little more than had already been disclosed. Girl and travelling companion had been alone together, he could vouch for that. A third person might have tampered with the ale but the balance of probability pointed to the older man as the culprit. No other visitor to the Queen’s Head that day had been struck down by poison, so the fault could not be laid at Alexander Marwood’s door.

  ‘Who served them with their ale?’

  ‘One of the wenches.’

  ‘Find her out and bring her to me directly.’

  ‘Could you not go into the taproom yourself, master?’

  ‘I could,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I do not want to make the landlord any more choleric. Bridges must be mended before Master Marwood and I can speak cordially again. The less he sees of Westfield’s Men at the moment, the better. I would be most grateful if you could do my errand.’

  ‘I’ll about it straight.’

  ‘Thank you, Leonard.’

  It was five minutes before he came back and the serving wench he brought with him was not at all willing to come. Fearing that she was being lured into the cellar for some nefarious purpose, she chided and protested at every step. The sight of Nicholas reassured her slightly and her smudged button of a face even smiled when he slipped a few coins into her hand. She brushed back her lank hair so that she could study him properly. Nicholas asked her about the two travellers who came in at noon and she was able to give a reasonable description of both but she had heard nothing that passed between them and saw nobody else joining them at their table. What she did notice was how ill at ease the younger patron had been in the tavern.

  ‘You’d have thought it his first visit to a taproom.’

  ‘First and last,’ muttered Nicholas to himself.

  With nothing more to be gleaned at the inn, he thanked them for their help and collected his horse. He was soon making his way along the ever-populous Gracechurch Street until it became Bishopsgate Street. When he came to the gate itself and rode out beneath the heads of the traitors who had been set on spikes there, he was able to coax a steady canter out of the roan, and the journey to Shoreditch was over fairly quickly. Reaching his employer’s house, he tethered his mount and ducked under the eaves. Lawrence Firethorn answered the door himself and whisked his book holder straight into the parlour.

  ‘You come most promptly upon your hour!’

  ‘It is needful.’

  ‘We must have urgent conference, Nick.’

  ‘That is why I am here.’

  ‘Sit down, man, sit down,’ said Firethorn, ushering him to a chair and pushing him into it. ‘Take your ease while you yet may for there is little hope of rest ahead of us.’

  ‘I must speak with you on that subject.’

  ‘Only when you have first listened.’

  Firethorn punched his guest playfully on the shoulder and stood back to appraise him with a fond smile. A theatrical career was a precarious one at the best of times and few sustained it with any consistency over a long period of time. Lawrence Firethorn was one of those exceptions, a durable talent that never seemed to fade, an actor of infinite variety and bravado. Admirers spoke of his superb voice, gesture and movement while others were swept away by his commanding presence. Supreme when he was on stage, he knew full well how much he owed to the controlling figure of his book holder behind the arras. With Nicholas Bracewell at his back, he could lead his company to triumph after triumph.

  ‘Ah, Nick!’ he sighed. ‘What would I do without you!’

  ‘I fear that you may have to find out.’

  ‘Our theatre may burn down, our landlord may oust us and London may drive us on to the open road but I am not in the least troubled. As long as I have you, I have hope.’

  ‘With regard to the tour—’

  ‘It is all arranged,’ interrupted Firethorn, moving around the room. ‘Barnaby and I have laboured long and hard today to stitch it all together like tidy seamsters. Our esteemed patron, Lord Westfield, has shown his usual concern and offered money and guidance to send us on our way.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘The money, alas, will never appear because our dear patron is more adept at borrowing than loaning, but the advice came in abundance. It has determined our itinerary and given us promise of certain welcome along the way.’ He snatched up a sheet of parchment from the table and handed it to Nicholas. ‘This is our company. Small it may be in number but it is large enough in talent to present a wide repertoire of plays. See that each man is informed of our purpose. We will set forth tomorrow.’

  ‘You will do so without me, I fear, Master Firethorn.’


  His host gulped. ‘What is that you say?’

  ‘I beg leave to be excused.’

  ‘Excused!’ repeated Firethorn. ‘Excused! Nick Bracewell being excused from Westfield’s Men! It is like excusing London Bridge from spanning the Thames. God’s death, man, you are our very foundation! Excuse you and we plummet straight down into a swamp of oblivion.’

  ‘The choice is forced upon me,’ explained Nicholas.

  ‘There is no choice. You are ours.’

  ‘My decision will hold.’

  ‘I override it. You leave with us on the morrow.’

  ‘It may not be.’

  Firethorn extended his arms. ‘We rely on you, dear heart!’

  ‘I will rejoin the company as soon as I may. You have my word on that. Thus it stands with me …’

  He recounted his story as succinctly as he could and Firethorn’s manner changed at once. Obsessed as he was with himself and with his company, the actor-manager could yet feel pangs of sympathy. The murder of a defenceless girl had laid a deep responsibility on Nicholas Bracewell and nothing would prevent him from discharging it. He was being forced to return to a home he left and a family he had renounced.

  ‘There is no other way,’ he said in conclusion. ‘Early tomorrow, I will set off for Barnstaple.’

  A derisive snort. ‘Barnstaple?’

  ‘Barnstaple.’

  Nicholas sat back and waited for the tempest to break. Few men dared to oppose the will of the actor-manager and fewer still survived with their self-esteem intact. When Firethorn was truly roused, his voice could blow with the force of a gale and his invective was scalding rain. As he looked into his employer’s eyes, Nicholas saw the hurricane begin with sudden fury and then evaporate harmlessly to be replaced by a merry twinkle. Instead of unleashing the whirlwind of his passion, Lawrence Firethorn actually smiled. The smile broadened into a grin, the grin enlisted the support of a chortle, the chortle soon developed into a full-throated laugh and then uncontrollable mirth sent his body into a series of convulsions. He had to sit down beside his friend to regain his breath.

  ‘Barnstaple?’ he asked again.

  ‘There is some jest here?’

  ‘No, Nick,’ said Firethorn, arm around his shoulders. ‘It is not the laughter of mockery but the happiness of relief. Barnstaple, indeed! Heaven provides better than we ourselves. You shall go. Your needs will be answered.’

  ‘Then why this celebration?’

  ‘Because you will serve us on the way.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We will alter our itinerary,’ explained the other. ‘We had thought to go south and make Maidstone our first port of call. Then on to Canterbury and other towns in Kent, but they can wait. Canterbury has pilgrims enough.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper to put his proposition. ‘Westfield’s Men will bend a lot towards your purpose if you bend a little towards ours. Is this not a fair bargain?’

  ‘Tell me more that I may judge aright.’

  ‘Our patron’s brother lives in Bath.’

  ‘That is well in the direction of Barnstaple.’

  ‘Hear me out, Nick. This will be our route.’ He used a finger to draw a map in the air. ‘We make straight for Oxford and play before town and gown. From there we travel down to Marlborough, where they have always given us a cheerful welcome in their Guildhall. Then on to Bristol, where a bigger audience and a longer stay beckon.’

  ‘And Bath?’

  ‘A pretty enough little town but we will perform at the home of Sir Roger Hordley, younger brother of our patron. We need you to pilot us through Oxford, Marlborough and Bristol, but we can set up in the hall of Hordley Manor ourselves.’ He nudged his companion. ‘Have you caught my meaning?’

  ‘I make for Barnstaple by slower means.’

  ‘You combine our necessity with your mission.’

  Nicholas pondered. ‘It puts days on my intent.’

  ‘We make a sacrifice, so must you.’

  ‘Bristol is a city that I love.’

  ‘Take us there and we will wish you God speed as we send you off to Barnstaple. Discharge your duties at home then you may catch up with Westfield’s Men at your leisure.’ Firethorn pulled him close. ‘Both of us are satisfied in this. Tell me now, does not this offer please you?’

  ‘It tempts me greatly.’

  ‘Then you will accept the commission?’

  Nicholas gave an affirmative nod and Firethorn replied with a hug of gratitude. The actor-manager furnished him with all the necessary details then walked him back out to his horse. The sight of the roan jolted them and brought the murder victim back to the forefront of their minds. A young woman had gone to extraordinary lengths to bring a message all the way from Barnstaple to London, and her fortitude had cost her a high price. Her murder was already having severe repercussions on the life of Nicholas Bracewell. As he recalled the image of her tormented body on the floor of his bedchamber, his determination to track down the killer was reinforced. The Devil had indeed ridden through London that day to seize his prey. A girl who had never been inside a tavern before would never do so again.

  Like a true actor, Lawrence Firethorn drew the shroud of a quotation across the anonymous corpse.

  ‘My foulest poison can never compete

  With Marwood’s ale in Gracechurch Street.’

  Chapter Three

  A harrowing afternoon shaded into a long evening then turned imperceptibly into a restive night. Anne Hendrik was sorely perplexed. The home that she prized so much, and within whose walls she felt so secure, had been invaded. A dying girl, who refused to divulge her message, had splintered the ordered calm of her life in Bankside and the assumptions on which it was based. Anne had been taught just how much she loved Nicholas Bracewell but just how little she knew of him. What she had always admired as restraint and discretion she now saw as secretiveness. He had been hiding something from her all this while and it had now emerged into the light of day like a long-buried mole to threaten the whole future of their friendship. Pleasant memories have no need of suppression. Only murkier secrets have to be concealed.

  Anne paced anxiously up and down, at once longing for his return and praying that he would not come back. Her heart wanted Nicholas to sweep into the house and smother all her hostile thoughts beneath a pillow of explanation, but her head knew that he could never do that. His behaviour had been an open admission of guilt. What dread secret had he tried to outrun when he left his home in Barnstaple? What fearful consignment was the girl carrying to him? Who had sent the grim message and why was it transported in such a strange manner? She speculated on the possibilities and found none that brought comfort. As the night wore on, her nerves became even more frayed, and she was thoroughly jangled by the time she heard him arrive back and stable the horse. Anne quickly took a seat and tried to muster her composure. When Nicholas let himself into the house, he moved with a wary fatigue. Clearly, he did not expect his usual hospitable welcome.

  ‘You are late,’ she said crisply.

  ‘There was much to do, Anne.’

  ‘It draws toward midnight.’

  ‘You should have retired to your bed.’

  ‘I feared that you might join me there.’

  She blurted it out before she could stop herself and the force of the rebuff made him flinch. A mutual code of conduct was immediately ruptured. Whenever Nicholas and Anne had serious disagreements – and they arose often between two strong-willed personalities – they always resolved them as soon as possible in each other’s arms. That source of reconciliation had been summarily closed off to him.

  ‘We leave for Oxford in the morning.’

  She stiffened. ‘I had thought you would ride post haste to Barnstaple,’ she said sharply. ‘Someone has sent for you. Do not let me detain you here.’

  ‘Anne—’

  ‘More important business calls you away.’

  ‘Do but hear me—’

  ‘I listened to that girl instead. Her silenc
e was all too eloquent. It spoke of another Nicholas Bracewell, of a man with whom I have never been acquainted, of a hunted creature who has been using my house as a hiding place.’

  ‘That is not so!’ he insisted.

  ‘Then why have you lied to me?’

  ‘I have always told you the truth.’

  ‘No, Nick,’ she said, rising to confront him, ‘you have told me only enough to content me and held back the rest. The face that you wear in London is only a mask and I took it for the real man. It is a cruel deception. Who are you!’

  ‘I am yours, my love.’

  He reached out for her but her eyes flashed so angrily that he retracted his arms at once. Her rejection of him was doubly painful. Westfield’s Men were due to leave London the next day on a lengthy tour. On the eve of previous departures, Nicholas invariably took a fond farewell in the comfort of her bed but this custom was also being breached.

  ‘You do me wrong,’ he said softly.

  ‘Then I repay you in kind, Nick.’

  ‘The situation is not as it may seem.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  An awkward pause. ‘I may not do that.’

  ‘Because you do not care enough about me.’

  ‘I care too much, Anne, and would not wish to hurt.’

  ‘Is that your ruse, sir?’ she said tartly. ‘You beguile me freely until your past begins to overtake you, then you pretend it was all done in order to protect my feelings. I have been misled here. I have been abused. Why?’

  ‘I do not know the bottom of it myself.’

  ‘Go back to the beginning,’ she suggested. ‘Why did you flee from Devon?’

  ‘I have told you before, Anne,’ he argued. ‘I sought adventure. I did what thousands of young men do when they hear the call of the sea. Drake was leaving on his voyage around the world and it was too great a temptation for my questing spirit. I left Plymouth in the Pelican. When we sailed back into the same harbour three years later, our ship had been renamed The Golden Hind.’