The Silent Woman (29 page)

So much had happened since he had come back to Barnstaple that he could not absorb it all. Nicholas Bracewell
tried to pick out the salient facts. Mary Whetcombe was in serious danger of losing her inheritance through a conspiracy. Gideon Livermore was dispossessing her in order to bring her within his reach. As a rich widow, she would never deign to look at a man like him, but she might change her mind if marriage restored to her all that she had lost. Mary was an essential part of the property, and Livermore would not part with her. She had been forced to marry one man she hated. Why not another?

If she took Gideon Livermore, however, she would be sharing her life with a murderer. Lamparde had killed Susan Deakin and attempted to send Nicholas after her but the orders had come from Livermore. He stood to gain most and had just as much blood on his hands as Lamparde himself. Barnard Sweete was an accomplice. Against two men of such guile, a distraught widow would have little chance. They had even enlisted the aid of the vicar on their side to render Mary Whetcombe completely powerless.

Another consideration scalded its way into Nicholas’s brain. Mary was the mother of his child. The feeling that Nicholas had when he first saw Lucy had been strengthened. In spite of her mother’s denial, he sensed that the girl was his, and his father had confirmed it. The forlorn creature who was locked away with her dolls in a silent universe was Nicholas’s daughter. She deserved special protection.

Robert Bracewell’s regular visits to the house were now explained, but questions were raised about Matthew Whetcombe. Did he know that the child was his? Had his revulsion been based on the girl’s afflictions or on her true parentage? Nicholas’s father had called the merchant a deep man. In what sense? Would such a proud merchant accept
a cuckoo in the nest? Was he aware of Mary’s pregnancy when he married her? The house in Crock Street was full of phantoms.

Nicholas had gone to such lengths to exorcise the demons from his mind that he could not be certain about dates and times. The specifics of Lucy’s birth did not matter. His own instinct was more reliable, especially as it now had his father’s endorsement. What hurt him most was that Mary had lied to him about the girl. Their daughter was conceived in love even if she had grown up with very little of it around her. Nicholas was sorrowful as he thought about the thin little body and the pinched face, but he also felt a strange joy. He knew the truth at last.

He passed the signpost to Marwood again and his thoughts turned once more to the company. With all its problems and pressures, life with Westfield’s Men was far preferable to this. He had a recognised position there and was able to impose some order. Barnstaple was chaos. Nicholas no longer had a place in the community and his feelings about it were ambivalent. Mary had hardly given him an ecstatic welcome and his own father had treated him like an intruder. Instead of being in control, he was being swept along by events.

Nicholas had to affirm his purpose. Action was needed. His immediate priority was to find the first will. Gideon Livermore was the architect of the villainy but his guilt would still have to be proved. Possession of that first will would be a major piece of evidence against him. If it was not in the house, where else could it possibly be?

He was still asking the question as he rode through a patch of woodland. The horse cantered along and its rider let it
find its own way along the trail. It proved fatal. The forelegs of the animal suddenly made contact with the stout cord that had been stretched across its path between two trees. Down went the horse in a writhing heap and Nicholas was thrown clear. He knew at once that it was an ambush. After rolling over on the damp ground, he looked for cover and dived swiftly behind the nearest tree. He was just in time. There was a loud twanging noise and something thudded into the trunk only inches away from his face.

He drew his sword to defend himself and leapt to his feet, but his unseen attacker was already spurring his own horse away. Nicholas examined the short steel arrow which was embedded in the tree. It was the bolt from a crossbow.

They had found a new Lamparde.

Barnard Sweete was livid. As he paced the room, his coolness and poise were cracking audibly around the edges.

‘You should have consulted me first, Gideon!’

‘And given you the chance to stop me?’

‘I warned you not to lay hands upon him.’

‘Who are you to give orders?’ said Livermore.

‘They are not orders!’ protested the lawyer. ‘I simply want to stay alive. You cannot attack a man like Nicholas Bracewell. It is one thing to kill off a mere servant hundreds of miles from here but we do not want a corpse like this on our doorstep.’

‘It is not on our doorstep,’ assured the other with a complacent grin. ‘My man will have buried it in the wood by now. Nobody will ever find Nicholas Bracewell or know why he came to Barnstaple.’

‘Questions will be asked.’

‘By whom? Mary? His father?’ He shrugged. ‘We tell them that he has fled the town. He walked out on both of them before now and he has done so again. They will never know the truth. Trust me, Barnard. My way is best.’

‘It incriminates us.’

‘Lamparde has already done that.’

‘Far away in London – not here!’

Gideon Livermore chuckled. ‘You are too squeamish, man. Be grateful to me for having rid us of the problem. I was only taking your advice, after all.’

‘
My
advice?’

‘You said that I could not have him killed off like a poacher who has been found on my land. But that’s exactly what I have done. I own this town and Nicholas Bracewell has trespassed on it. I merely enforced the law.’

Barnard Sweete came to rest in front of the table. He sat against it and his foot tapped anxiously as he feared repercussions. If Livermore disposed of his enemies so ruthlessly, what would happen to the lawyer if the two of them ever fell out?

‘I still do not like it, Gideon,’ he said.

‘You will learn to live with it.’

‘Think of the risk that you were taking.’

‘I am a merchant,’ said Livermore. ‘Risk is the essence of my business. Every time I send a ship across the sea, I risk its loss. Every time I strike a bargain, I risk a high cost. But these are calculated risks and they have always paid off in the past. Put trust in my merchant’s instinct now. This is the most profitable deal I have ever made.’

Barnard Sweete calmed down. Horrified when told about the ambush in the wood, he was now coming to see
its positive advantages. Nicholas Bracewell was a threat to the whole enterprise and had to be removed. This way was dramatic and worrying, but it did eliminate the one last obstacle. When he looked down at his hands, they were white and spotless. He might feel the blood on them but there was no visible sign of it.

Gideon Livermore wanted progress. Having disposed – as he thought – of a major problem, he was impatient to take possession of his prize. He had been down to the wharf to see the
Mary
again that morning and had watched her for an hour as she lay at anchor in the middle of the River Taw. She dwarfed all the craft around her. Livermore would soon occupy that position in Barnstaple. In every sense, his tonnage would be the heaviest in north Devon and all would make way for him for fear of being caught in his wash.

He was still preening himself when a knock on the door brought an anxious clerk into the room. When he told them who had arrived at the chambers, both men blanched. Barnard Sweete recovered first. He told his clerk to send in the visitor after two minutes. Alone once more with Gideon Livermore, he treated him to a burst of vituperation. The merchant had boasted of the death of Nicholas Bracewell yet that same man was now calling on the lawyer. Another of the merchant’s schemes had miscarried.

After a bitter exchange with his colleague, Sweete showed him into an adjoining room and left the door slightly ajar so that the latter could overhear everything. The lawyer took a deep breath to compose himself before sitting behind his desk. Nicholas Bracewell was conducted in. Brief introductions were made then the clerk withdrew again.

‘Pray take a seat, sir,’ invited the lawyer.

‘I will not be staying,’ said Nicholas. ‘Why did you wish to see me?’

‘On a matter of mutual concern.’ He attempted a smile. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet another member of the Bracewell family. I acted for your brother, Peter, and I know your father well.’

‘I have not long returned from him.’

Nicholas was standing defiantly in front of the table. His jerkin was scuffed and there were traces of mud on his face but he was plainly unhurt. Equally plainly, he was in no mood for polite conversation. The lawyer plunged straight into business.

‘I believe that you may have been misled, sir.’

‘In what way?’

‘Last evening,’ said Sweete, ‘you were seen leaving the Whetcombe house in Crock Street, though my informant was not quite sure how you gained entry.’

‘You need a more vigilant informant. But warn him that he will get more than a crack on the head if I chance to meet up with him again.’

The lawyer swallowed hard. ‘Evidently, you spoke with Mistress Whetcombe,’ he said. ‘She may have raised the question of her husband’s will. It may appear uncharitable to her on the surface but there is much comfort for her between the lines.’ After pausing for a response that did not come, he went on. ‘I am also in a position to offer certain emendations.’

‘You are empowered to
change
the will?’

‘By no means, sir,’ said Sweete fussily. ‘It has been signed and witnessed, so its terms must hold. But a number of concessions can still be made.’

‘How?’

‘By deed of gift.’

‘You have lost me, Mr Sweete.’

‘I am not quite sure how much you know of the will.’

‘Enough to distrust you.’

The lawyer stiffened. ‘Do you question my integrity?’

‘I do not believe there is any to question.’

‘Really, sir!’

‘You mention deeds of gift.’

‘We are a respected firm of lawyers, Master Bracewell. I will not have you coming here to insult me like this. Do you not understand? I am trying to
help
you here.’

‘How do
I
benefit from the will?’

‘We may put your mind at rest.’

‘About what?’

‘Matthew Whetcombe’s widow.’

‘Nobody could do that,’ murmured Nicholas. ‘Speak your mind, Mr Sweete. I am needed elsewhere.’

The lawyer felt intimidated by the solid presence and the uncompromising manner. He stood up to give himself more authority, but Nicholas was still an imposing visitor.

Sweete became glib. ‘The main beneficiary of the will is Gideon Livermore, a name that is not unknown to you, I suspect. He is a generous man and wishes to modify the apparent harshness of the will by ceding certain items to the widow by deed of gift. This will be a personal matter between them and separate from the execution of the will itself. The gifts are lavish.’

‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mary Whetcombe will accept all of her husband’s properties, all of his capital and the ship that bears her name.’

‘Leave off this folly, sir.’

‘Then leave off yours. These are no deeds of gift. They are trifles to soften the blow. They are a device to entrap a helpless woman. Gideon Livermore will give nothing away that he does not expect to reclaim when he forces himself on this lady in marriage.’

Barnard Sweete resorted to a string of protests but Nicholas quelled them with a raised hand. Seeing the strategy that was being used, he cut straight through it.

‘There was an earlier will,’ he said.

‘Now invalid.’

‘With the estate more honestly distributed.’

‘Its terms were that of the later document.’

‘Then why draw it up?’

‘Because it contained some minor alterations.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘the crossing out of Mary Whetcombe’s name and the insertion of that of Gideon Livermore. Because of a minor alteration, a grieving widow faces complete ruin.’

‘Only if she remains stubborn.’

‘The first will left everything to her.’

‘I dispute that and so will the other witnesses. Your father among them.’ He saw Nicholas wince and pressed home his advantage. ‘I note that Robert Bracewell was unable to help. Your visit to his cottage was a waste of time. Even if he had been ready to lie on behalf of Mary Whetcombe, it would have been no use. What is the word of a drunken and disgraced old man against that of three respectable figures in the community? You have no case, sir.’

‘But I do. It is supported by the first will.’

‘Show me the document.’

‘I do not have it as yet,’ said Nicholas, deciding to bluff. ‘But I know where to find it.’

Barnard Sweete whitened. When Nicholas headed for the door, the lawyer rushed to intercept him. He gabbled his offer once again and insisted that the deeds of gift would take all the sting out of the nuncupative will.

‘Gideon Livermore is a most generous man,’ he insisted.

‘I know,’ said Nicholas, taking out the crossbow bolt from inside his jerkin and thrusting it into the lawyer’s hand. ‘He sent me this. By deed of gift.’

Lucy Whetcombe did not need to keep her dolls hidden away in Susan Deakin’s room any more. Her mother encouraged her to bring them out and play with them. The girl sat on the floor of the fore-chamber and unwrapped the binding in which they were kept. Her mother watched her with wan affection. Mary Whetcombe had been stunned when Nicholas Bracewell had come into the house unannounced, and she was still dazed by it all, but his visit had one important result. It unlocked her feelings for Lucy. Since her husband’s death, she had been unable to give the girl the love and reassurance that she so desperately needed.

The news of Susan Deakin’s murder was a devastating blow and Mary did not know how to cope with it. Matthew Whetcombe had died peacefully in his bed with his family close to him, but the servant had been struck down miles away from home while she was doing no more than summoning help for a beleaguered widow. Mary looked down at her daughter and sighed. The girl’s handicap kept her in a childlike state. Susan had not been much older, but she was infinitely more worldly and mature. She had been
the real mother to Lucy. It was a role that Mary now had to take on again herself.