The Vagabond Clown (27 page)

‘Tell me about Master Firethorn.’

‘He was coming from the same direction as you when he was stopped by someone. A younger man, judging by his voice.’

‘Where was this?’

‘No more than a few yards from where I sit now.’

‘Did this other person give a name?’

‘No, sir,’ said the beggar, scratching at the fleas beneath his armpits, ‘but he recognised Master Firethorn and gave him a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘I heard the seal being broken.’

‘What else did you hear?’ asked Nicholas, listening intently.

‘The name of the man who sent the letter. It was Lord Westfield.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘My ears never deceive me. The messenger told Master Firethorn that he was to go to an inn where Lord Westfield was staying. They went off together.’

Nicholas was mystified. ‘But our patron has not yet arrived in Dover. How could he send for Master Firethorn when he is not even here?’

‘I’ve told you all I know.’ The beggar grinned. ‘Except for one thing.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The name of the inn.’

The scrawny hand was extended and Nicholas knew that he would have to buy the information. How reliable it was, he could only hazard a guess but the beggar had clearly heard enough to convince him that he was telling the truth. He put three more coins into the man’s open palm. It closed instantly.

‘Where did this messenger take him?’

‘To meet Lord Westfield.’

‘At which inn?’

‘The Arms of England.’

Lawrence Firethorn had lost all track of time. Roused from his sleep, he was untied from the post and hustled out of the warehouse by the two men who had stood guard over him earlier. He was then taken along a quay, helped down some stone steps and pushed into a rowing boat. The point of a dagger was held to his ribs. Firethorn could do nothing but lie in the stern of the boat as it was rowed away. He was bruised and bewildered. He had cramp in his arms and legs. The boat seemed to take a long time to reach its destination and he feared that he was being taken out to sea to be drowned. Then the oars were shipped and he felt the thud of contact with a larger vessel. Ropes were lowered and tied around his chest and under his armpits. Unable to resist, he was hauled upward.

When they lowered him down, he knew that he was in the hold of a ship. It creaked and rolled as it was buffeted playfully by the waves. Firethorn felt sick. His captors came aboard to take charge of him, lugging him along a floor
then securing him to some iron rings set in the side of the hold. Where were they taking him? Why did they handle him so roughly? What time was it? Who
were
they? Hours of excruciating discomfort limped slowly past before one of his captors bent over him.

‘I’m to offer you food.’ It was the voice of the man who had killed Giddy Mussett. ‘If it was left to me, I’d sooner throw you overboard but we’ve been told to keep you alive. Do you want to eat?’

Firethorn’s stomach was too unsettled even to consider the offer but he nodded his head nevertheless. Any chance to have his gag removed had to be taken. He could at least ask some of the questions that had been tormenting him.

‘Say nothing,’ warned the man. ‘Cry for help and it will not be heard. We’re too far from the shore for that. Do you understand?’

Firethorn nodded again and adopted a submissive pose. His gag was untied.

‘I’ve some cheese for you,’ said the other, inserting it hard into his mouth. ‘I hope that it chokes you to death.’

Firethorn spat it into his face and roared his defiance. ‘I’ll kill you one day!’

Something struck him viciously on the side of the head. The blows continued until he sank into oblivion. When he recovered consciousness again, Firethorn learnt that one side of his face was covered in blood and that he was lashed even more tightly to the iron ring. His gag was firmly back in place. There would be no more meals for him.

The landlord of the Arms of England was a swarthy man of middle years with a face that glowed with geniality. A former sailor, he had tired of life at sea and found an occupation that suited his talents and inclinations. Nicholas Bracewell weighed him up at a glance.

‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ asked the landlord.

‘I’m looking for a friend.’

‘Then search about you. Do you see him here?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He came in yesterday, not long after midday.’

The landlord chuckled. ‘Then you’ll hardly find him here now. We’ve lots of customers who like to drink themselves into stupidity but we always turn them out at the end of the day unless they have hired a room.’

‘First, tell me if my friend came in here. He’s a man you’d remember.’

‘Why is that?’

Nicholas gave him a description of Firethorn and explained that he probably came into the inn with a younger man. The landlord had no difficulty in identifying them.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I do recall your friend, sir, and he was with a young man.’

‘How long did they stay?’

‘I’ve no recollection of that.’

‘None at all?’

‘The room had been hired until morning but they left well before that.’

‘Room?’ repeated Nicholas. ‘My friend was taken to a room?’

‘One of our finest.’

‘Who paid for it?’

‘The fellow did not give a name,’ said the landlord. ‘I took him on trust. He was a seafaring man like myself and that was enough for me.’

‘But he’s not there now?’

‘Neither of them are, sir.’

‘There were two of them staying here?’

‘Yes, sir. Though the other man was no sailor. I could tell that. When this friend of yours came in, he was taken straight up to their room. It’s above my head so I know that they went in there.’

‘Is it occupied now?’ asked Nicholas.

‘No. Why? Did you wish to hire it?’

‘I simply wish to look into it.’

‘But it’s empty, sir.’

‘That makes no difference.’

The landlord was cautious. ‘I like to oblige my customers but I don’t make a habit of showing them into my rooms. I’d need a good reason to do that.’

‘I’ve an excellent reason,’ said Nicholas with urgency. ‘My friend was tricked into coming here. I’ve reason to believe that the men you talked about were lying in wait for him. He was kidnapped.’

‘Here? Under my roof?’

‘That’s my suspicion. I’ll pay, if you let me confirm it.’

‘There’s no need for that, sir,’ said the landlord, moving across to the stairs. ‘I’ll take you up there myself. We’ve lively customers here at times but I never let them get out
of hand. And I’d certainly not let them have a room if I thought that they were intending to commit a crime here.’

‘We don’t know that they were,’ said Nicholas, following him up the steps. ‘But it strikes me as a strong possibility.’

The landlord opened the door then stood back to let Nicholas go in. It was a small room with a central beam so low that he had to duck beneath it. The bed took up almost a third of the available space. The place looked clean and cosy but Nicholas could discern no sign of recent occupation. If Firethorn had been held there, he had left no mark of his visit behind. Nicholas went around the room with scrupulous care, even getting on his knees to peer under the bed.

‘You’ll find nothing under there, sir. The room has been cleaned.’

‘Had the bed been slept in?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then nobody stayed the night.’

‘We think that they sneaked away in the dark.’

‘Why should they do that?’ wondered Nicholas, getting to his feet. ‘May I open the shutters to let in more light?’

‘I’ll do it for you, sir.’

The landlord stepped into the room and lifted the latch. When he opened the shutters, a gust of wind blew in from the sea and achieved what Nicholas could never have done. It dislodged a tiny object that had been missed by the maidservant who had cleaned the room earlier. It was a white feather. Disturbed by the wind, it leapt high into the air and floated for several seconds until Nicholas snatched
at it. He held it between a finger and thumb to examine it.

‘Have you seen it before, sir?’ asked the landlord.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Where?’

‘It was in my friend’s hat,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was here.’

Remorse set in as soon as they reached the Lion. Ashamed of the way they had acquitted themselves, the actors supped their ale and indulged in bitter recrimination. They felt that they had betrayed their talent at the Guildhall and it left them without any urge to perform again in Dover. Owen Elias raised a lone voice against the general melancholy, arguing that the best way to exonerate themselves was to give a performance at the castle that was truly worthy of them. He was shouted down by the others, who were beginning to resent the way that the Welshman had succeeded so brilliantly on stage when they had so miserably failed. Elias could not even rally support from Edmund Hoode. When he saw Nicholas enter, he hoped that he would at last have someone on his side.

‘You agree with me, Nick, I’m sure,’ he said, intercepting him to take him aside. ‘We must play at the castle.’

‘Not without Lawrence.’

‘We managed without him this afternoon.’

‘And paid a heavy penalty,’ said Nicholas. ‘You took the laurels, Owen, but the rest of us buckled. Had we given such a performance at the Queen’s Head, we’d have been mightily abused by some of our spectators.’

‘The mayor and his wife approved. They told me so.’

‘Leave them to their own likes and dislikes. I’ve news of Lawrence.’

Elias was attentive. ‘Good news or bad?’

‘Something of each,’ said Nicholas. ‘I know where he was taken and am sure that he was still alive by nightfall. If they meant to kill him, they’d have done so long before then. Those are the good tidings.’

‘And the bad ones.’

‘I’ve still no idea where he is now.’

Nicholas told him the story in full, praising the part played in it by George Dart, the least likely member of the company to provide crucial information. When he heard about the letter that was handed to Firethorn, the Welshman shook his head.

‘It could not have been genuine, Nick. Our patron only arrived this afternoon.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Word awaited us when we got back here.’

‘Where does Lord Westfield stay?’

‘At the castle.’

‘Why did Lawrence not realise that?’ asked Nicholas, stroking his beard. ‘When he was summoned to that inn, he must have known Lord Westfield would not be there.’

‘I disagree, Nick. Our patron is as fond of his drink as any of us. After a long ride from London, where else would he go but to a reputable inn like the Arms of England? What drew Lawrence there was that letter.’

‘It was a forgery.’

‘He did not think so at the time, Nick.’

‘That’s what puzzled me. Lawrence knows our patron’s hand.’

‘He should do,’ said Elias. ‘We’ve had enough letters from Lord Westfield in the past. If he enjoys a performance, he always has the courtesy to tell us so.’

‘Yet Lawrence was still deceived.’

‘What does that tell you?’

‘Something that I’m loath even to think,’ said Nicholas, piecing the evidence together in his mind. ‘And yet I must. It has been there under our noses all this time, Owen. Who knew about our life at the Queen’s Head? Who asked about the towns that we would visit on tour? Who came to see us perform? And who,’ he added, ‘was the one man capable of forging our patron’s hand with any skill?’

Elias was shocked. ‘Only one name answers all that.’

‘Then it must be him.’

‘But he’s a friend of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Is he?’ said Nicholas. ‘I begin to wonder. It was he who encouraged our suspicion of Conway’s Men in order to throw us off the scent. And he who got close enough to know our innermost thoughts. Let’s go and find him, Owen,’ he decided. ‘It’s high time that we learnt if Sebastian Frant is the friend that we thought him.’

It took them some time to find the house. All that they knew was that Sebastian Frant lived close to Dover, along the Folkestone road, and they set off in that direction. The first people they encountered on the way were unable to help them. Though they had lived in the area for many years, and could recite the names of every village and hamlet for miles around, they had never heard of anyone called Frant. It was almost as if the former scrivener was in hiding. Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias rode on until they eventually found someone who gave them some guidance. The man was a local farmer, tending his cattle.

‘Frant?’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘That name means nothing to me, sirs.’

‘He’s a tall man,’ said Nicholas, ‘with fifty years or more on his back. A slim, well-dressed fellow whom some would account handsome.’

‘Do not forget his daughter,’ added Elias with a grin. ‘Thomasina is an angel in human form. A fresh, fair virgin of eighteen or nineteen years at most.’

‘Ah,’ said the farmer. ‘I think I know who you mean.’

‘Once seen, Thomasina is not easily forgotten.’

‘Do they live far away?’ asked Nicholas.

The farmer nodded. ‘Little over a mile, sir, but the house is difficult to find. I’ve seen the pair of them from time to time but never exchanged more than a friendly wave. I did not know their names. They like their privacy.’

Taking careful note of the directions, the two men set off again. They soon reached the wood that the farmer had mentioned and picked their way along a track that twisted and turned for hundreds of yards until it brought them out into open country. The house was not at first visible. Shaded by trees, it was set in a hollow in the middle distance. It was only when they got much closer that they had their first glimpse of it. Elias was astounded.

‘Is
that
where Sebastian lives?’ he exclaimed.

‘It’s much bigger than I imagined, Owen.’

‘We are in the wrong profession. If this is what a scrivener can afford, I’ll quit the stage tomorrow and take up a pen.’

‘Sebastian did not buy this place with what he earned from us,’ said Nicholas. ‘I know what fees he charged because I handed the money over to him. No matter how diligent his pen, he’d not have amassed enough to afford such a house.’

‘He must have had private wealth, Nick.’

‘Then why did he need to work as a scrivener?’

‘Let’s ask him.’

They cantered down towards the house, a large, low, rambling structure with a thatched roof that gleamed in the sunshine and walls that had been painted white. It was set in several acres of land, some of it cultivated but most kept for horses to graze. To the side of the house were a stable block and a run of outbuildings, all of which appeared to be in good repair. Sebastian Frant clearly maintained his home well. Tethering their horses at the front of the house, they went up to a door that was made of solid oak and fortified with iron spikes. In response to a knock, a servant opened the door. He was a sturdy young man with darting eyes.

‘Is your master at home?’ asked Nicholas.

‘No, sir.’

‘Can you tell us where he is?’

‘No, sir,’ said the man bluntly.

‘In that case, we’ll wait until he returns.’

‘My orders are to let nobody in the house.’

‘Is Thomasina here, by any chance?’ asked Elias. A flicker of the servant’s eyes betrayed him. ‘Ah, in that case, we’ll speak with her instead.’

‘She may not wish to see you.’

‘Tell her that we insist,’ said Nicholas. ‘We come from Westfield’s Men.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘Thomasina and her father watched us perform this afternoon. I want to give her the chance to congratulate me properly.’

‘Wait here,’ grunted the man, about to shut the door in their faces.

‘Let them in, Daniel,’ said a voice behind him. The
servant stood back to reveal Thomasina Frant. She looked at them in surprise. ‘What brings you here?’

‘We need to speak with you,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then you had better come in.’

Her manner was pleasant, if not welcoming. She led them into the parlour, a spacious room with low beams, a huge fireplace and some expensive furniture. Nicholas took particular note of an ornate oak chest and a high backed chair that had been exquisitely carved. He was also aware of the fact that the servant was lurking protectively outside the door. Thomasina invited them to sit down but remained standing.

‘Father is not here,’ she explained, looking from one to the other. ‘He’s visiting friends and may be away for some days.’

‘Let’s talk about a friend of yours first,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘When I met you at the harbour the other day, you said that you’d been bidding farewell to someone who was sailing to Calais.’

‘And so I was.’

‘No ship left Dover that afternoon.’

‘Then the vessel must have been delayed.’

‘I begin to wonder if it existed,’ said Nicholas, ‘along with your friend.’

‘Do you doubt my word?’ she said with indignation. ‘Have you ridden all this way to accuse me of telling lies? I’ll call Margaret, if you wish. She’ll vouch for me.’

‘I’m sure that she will. Margaret is well-trained, like that other servant who is standing out in the passageway as a guard dog. They’ll only say what they’ve been told to say. I’d rather hear the truth from you.’

‘You’ve already done so.’

‘We took you for an honest girl, Thomasina,’ said Elias.

‘This is intolerable,’ she retorted with a rare flash of anger. ‘What I do when I’m in Dover is my business. I’ll not be interrogated like this. Daniel will show you out.’

Nicholas was determined. ‘Not until we’ve discussed a few other things.’

‘Other things?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Such as our visit to Arden’s house in Faversham. Or the performance of
The Foolish Friar
that upset you so much.’

‘I was not upset at all,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘I liked the play.’

‘What did you think of me as a friar?’ asked Elias, fishing for a compliment.

‘Very little, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I suspect that Thomasina thought even less of Barnaby Gill in a habit. She and her father were appalled.’

‘Why?’

‘Let her tell us.’

She was perfectly calm. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘I believe that there is.’

‘You can believe what you wish, Master Bracewell. It’s of no concern to me. What does trouble me is that you and Master Elias are guests in our house yet all that you can do is to try to browbeat me. I took you for gentlemen. I can see that I was mistaken.’

‘We thought you were a friend,’ said Nicholas, ‘but we were also mistaken.’

‘How can you say that? Father has the fondest memories of Westfield’s Men. Did we not come to watch you play out of friendship? We saw
Cupid’s Folly
in Maidstone and, this very afternoon, we admired Master Elias in
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
.’

Elias beamed. ‘Thank you.’

‘My interest is in
The Foolish Friar
,’ said Nicholas. ‘And in that visit we made to a certain house in Faversham. Now I know why that particular place made you cry.’

‘The story moved me,’ she said. ‘That is all.’

‘Which story?’

‘That which touched on the murder of Thomas Arden.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, watching her closely. ‘I fancy that it was another murder that produced those tears. Thomas Arden was more than a former mayor of the town. After the Dissolution of the Monasteries, he was involved in the distribution of Catholic property that had been confiscated. Abbey Street no longer has a Catholic abbey, does it? You regard that as a heinous crime.’

Thomasina was dismissive. ‘That all happened before I was even born.’

‘But not before your father was born. He’d have brought you up in his religion.’

‘Discuss the matter with him when he returns.’

‘Oh, we’ve much more than that to discuss with him,’ said Nicholas. ‘But let’s come back to
The Foolish Friar
. It was bold of you to attend a play that you knew would mock the Old Religion. That’s why you were so perturbed. Your father hid his feelings because he has had more practise in
doing so. Your displeasure showed in your face. You hated a play that held Roman Catholicism up to ridicule.’

‘I found it rather barren beside
Cupid’s Folly
,’ she confessed.

‘Barren and insulting.’

There was a long pause. ‘I’d like you both to leave.’

‘Will you not come to the defence of your faith?’

‘It’s a purely private matter.’

‘Not when it leads to the murder of two people and the kidnap of a third.’

She was genuinely shocked. ‘Murder? Kidnap?’

‘The kidnap may have become another murder by now,’ explained Nicholas. ‘When I said that Lawrence Firethorn was indisposed this afternoon, I was concealing the truth. He was abducted in Dover and we’ve not seen him since.’

‘But who could want to abduct him?’ she said with alarm.

‘I think that you might be able to tell us that.’

‘On my honour, I could not!’

‘Are you certain?’

‘I admire him greatly, as you know.’

‘Except when he played in
The Foolish Friar
.’

‘I’m truly horrified to learn that he’s been kidnapped,’ she said earnestly. ‘I’d swear as much on the Holy Bible.’

Nicholas got to his feet. ‘Would that be a Roman Catholic Bible?’

Her manner changed at once. The polite and reserved young woman revealed another side to her character. Crossing to the door, she snapped her fingers and the servant appeared at her side, holding a musket with the air
of someone who had used the weapon before. Thomasina’s eyes were cold and unforgiving.

‘Escort these gentlemen off our property,’ she ordered.

‘Yes,’ he said, glaring at the visitors. ‘Out!’

Nicholas ignored the command. Instead, he walked across to the oak chest and ran his hand over its ornate carving. Then he examined the chair that had been embellished so strikingly by a woodcarver. Nicholas sat down in it and stroked the arms. The servant came over to him and pointed the musket at his chest.

‘Get up!’ he snarled.

‘But it’s such a beautiful chair,’ said Nicholas, leaning back, ‘and of a piece with that magnificent chest. Both were carved by the same man, were they not? I’ll wager that I’ve admired his handiwork before. It was on a lectern I saw in the hold of a ship called the
Mermaid
.’ He looked at Thomasina. ‘Is that what you were doing in the harbour that day? Sending some church furniture abroad? For that’s where this chair and that fine chest came from, I suspect. They’re too elaborate for the taste of Protestants. My guess is that they are the work of a Catholic woodcarver.’

Daniel jabbed him in the chest with the barrel of the musket but Nicholas was ready for him. Knocking the weapon upward with his arm, he kicked out both feet to trip the servant up. As the man fell backward, the musket went off and its ball lodged itself harmlessly in the ceiling, sending down a flurry of plaster. Before Daniel could move, Nicholas wrenched the weapon from his grasp and Elias
leapt from his seat to hold a dagger at the servant’s throat. Nicholas strolled back to Thomasina.

‘It’s all over now,’ he warned. ‘Further denial is pointless.’

‘I know nothing of murder and kidnap,’ she cried.

‘I believe you, Thomasina.’

‘Nor does my father. He’d never stoop to such things.’

‘He may not be the person you think him. Sebastian certainly misled us. And so did you,’ he went on. ‘I thought you a decent, honest, God-fearing person with pride and self-respect. Yet you are too ashamed of it even to declare your faith.’

‘No,’ she rejoined vehemently. ‘I follow the Old Religion with a dedication that you could never even understand. We’ve withstood scorn, ignominy and persecution for many years now and we are still unbowed. Yes, Master Bracewell, I
was
upset when we saw that house in Faversham because it was a symbol of the vicious cruelty visited upon the Roman Catholic Church.’

‘And
The Foolish Friar
?’

‘It was an unjust attack on our beliefs. I hated listening to that raucous laughter at our expense. Father took me there to see what we were up against in the theatre. The friar was held up as an object of derision and loathing. For two long hours I suffered as I watched you sharpening your blades on the only true religion.’

‘Only true religion? Not in England.’

‘Here and anywhere else,’ she said defiantly. ‘We’ll never be conquered.’

‘Then you should not have given yourself away,’ said Nicholas. ‘Was my guess correct?’ he added, glancing at
the chest. ‘Did that begin life in a church?’

‘Yes, and it will be returned to one soon.’

‘Where?’ asked Elias, hauling the servant to his feet.

‘That’s something you’ll never know.’

‘We mean to find out,’ said Nicholas, as realisation dawned. ‘Come, Owen. We must away. I think I know where Sebastian is. He’s waiting to sail to France with a cargo of furniture. We must try to get to him in time.’

Lawrence Firethorn could not understand the kindness that he was receiving. Having been battered to the ground, he was now being cared for by tender hands. Someone was bathing his face to remove the blood from the gash in his scalp. The man said nothing but he was showing true compassion. When the dried blood had been washed away, a strip of linen was tied around the head to cover the wound. Firethorn wished that he was in a position to express his thanks but the ropes, gag and blindfold were severe restraints. He heard voices shouting above and the sound of activity as the anchor was hauled up. When the wind hit the sail, there was a flap of canvas and the
Mermaid
moved forward with loud creaking noises. Firethorn was disturbed.

After a last look at him, Sebastian Frant stifled a sigh of regret and slipped away.

When they reached the harbour in Dover, the
Mermaid
was just beginning to move away from the bay. Elias was dismayed but Nicholas did not give up so easily. With the Welshman at his heels, he spurred his horse in the direction
of Dover Castle. Their names were enough to get them admitted instantly to Lord Westfield’s apartment. Resting on a couch after his journey, their patron gave them a wave of welcome.