‘That still leaves the company that plays at the Queen’s Head.’
‘No, Ralph,’ said Beechcroft. ‘I think we are following a false trail.’
‘Only because you did not speak to the gatekeeper, as I just did.’
‘The gatekeeper?’
‘Yes,’ replied Olgrave. ‘I reasoned that, if anyone wanted to know more about us, and the way that we run Bridewell, they’d come knocking at the door. And that’s exactly what a certain Welshman did.’
‘Owen Elias?’
‘He did not give his name, it seems, but claimed to be the cousin of Hywel Rees. When told that the fellow had been discharged, he produced the name of Dorothea Tate.’
Beechcroft was alarmed. ‘They are closing in on us!’
‘The gatekeeper gave nothing away.’
‘He did not need to, Ralph. They know that that troublesome Welshman was killed and hurled into the river, and they have the girl to help them.’
‘Her voice will not convince any court in the land.’
‘It might, if they provide the evidence to back it up.’
‘How can they do that?’ asked Olgrave with a mocking laugh. ‘Take us to the torture chamber and wring confessions out of us, as if we were scheming Papists? For without that, they have nothing.’
‘They have enough to unsettle my stomach, I know that.’
‘The cure is at hand. We simply remove Nicholas Bracewell and the girl.’
‘What of this other man, Owen Elias?’
‘He’s Welsh,’ said Olgrave with a sneer. ‘I’ll send him to join his countryman.’
Nicholas Bracewell was kept waiting at the lawyer’s office until Cleaton had finished talking to a client. The book holder spent the time examining the sketch of Bridewell that Anne Hendrik had drawn under the guidance of someone who had actually been inside the institution. How accurate Dorothea Tate’s memory had been, Nicholas did not know, but the sketch gave him an idea of the basic design of the building with its three courtyards and its wharf beside the Thames. The girl had marked the position of the room where she had slept, and of the hall where the feast had taken place. A small cross told Nicholas where Ralph Olgrave’s private chamber was located.
Henry Cleaton appeared from his office and shepherded an elderly woman to the front door. After greeting Nicholas, he invited him into the cluttered room and both of them sat down.
‘I still have qualms about this,’ admitted the lawyer.
‘All that you are doing is to give advice, as you would to any client.’
‘I’d never urge them to break the law, Nicholas.’
‘I believe that I’m working strictly within it.’
‘A magistrate might take a contrary view.’
‘Then I’ll make sure I do not come up before one,’ said Nicholas with a grin. ‘What do you have for me, Master Cleaton?’
‘Only this.’ The lawyer handed him a writ. ‘It’s the paper that will commit you to Bridewell, but mark this welclass="underline" I can simply get you inside the place. You’ll have to get out again yourself.’
‘I accept that.’ Nicholas studied the wording of the writ. ‘Is this a forgery?’
‘I’d never stoop to such a thing. What you hold there is quite authentic. I had it of a friend of mine who sits on the Bench. You’ll see that there is a gap where a name is to be inserted,’ said Cleaton. ‘Had I filled that in, I would have been guilty of forgery and I drew back from that.’
‘In any case, you would not know what name to use for I’ll have to invent a new one. If I’m committed to the workhouse as Nicholas Bracewell, I’m likely to suffer the same fate as Hywel Rees. They must not know who I am.’
‘You go there as a counterfeit.’
‘Only to reveal a much greater counterfeit,’ said Nicholas. ‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave pretend to be honest men, engaged in a worthy enterprise, but they are guilty of the most dreadful crimes. I mean to rip away their disguises.’
‘I fear for your safety, Nicholas. They are evil men.’
‘Then that evil must be exposed to the world, and I can only do that by getting cheek by jowl with them. Master Olgrave gave me the notion. If I would know how Bridewell is run, he told me, I’ve only to get myself imprisoned there.’
‘That puts you at their mercy.’
‘Only if they discover who I am,’ said Nicholas. ‘By the time that they do that, it will be too late. Now, Master Cleaton, teach me the way of it. What is the correct procedure when a vagrant is convicted in a court?’
With some reluctance, the lawyer told him what he wanted to hear, describing the process from the moment a vagrant was arrested until he or she was committed to Bridewell. Though he warned Nicholas of the dangers, the latter was not deterred in the slightest. He was adamant that, whatever the risks involved, someone had to answer for the murder of Hywel Rees and the rape of Dorothea Tate. When the instruction was over, Cleaton took him to the front door.
‘Are you a lucky man by nature?’ he said.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because luck is what you’ll need once you are inside Bridewell.’
Nicholas pondered. As he looked back, he could see nothing but a continuous stream of bad luck, culminating in the poor performance at the Queen’s Head that afternoon. Like those who had been enticed to the card table, he was involved in a game of chance. The difference was that he stood to lose far more than his money.
‘I am due some good luck, Master Cleaton,’ he said.
‘Then I hope that you get it, my friend.’
Nicholas took his leave and mounted the horse that he had left tethered outside. He had intended to pay a visit to Edmund Hoode and the most direct way was to ride along Cheapside. But the conversation with Jonathan Jarrold suddenly came into his mind and sparked his curiosity. Since he had the horse at his disposal, he could go by a much longer route without too great a loss of time. Accordingly, he kicked the animal into a trot and headed in the direction of Cornhill, wondering if he might be able to single out the lodging to which Michael Grammaticus somehow never invited visitors.
Cornhill was the highest hill in the city, the site of an ancient grain market that gave it its name, and a place where the pillory and stocks were rarely uninhabited. The early evening had not thinned out the bustle. As Nicholas trotted along the thoroughfare, he had to pick his way past carriages, carts, mounted riders and the hordes on foot. Moving his head to and fro, he scrutinised the properties on both sides of the road and was impressed by their size and state of upkeep. If the playwright lodged in Cornhill, then he had no need to be embarrassed about his address.
Nicholas rode on until he reached a large house that soared above the buildings all around it with an almost aggressive ease. He decided that it must be the home of a rich merchant or a leading politician. Its owner would not have been popular with those who lived in the cottage immediately opposite because their light was obscured. Indeed, although it was still early evening, candles burnt in the windows of the cottage. As he glanced up at a window on the second floor, Nicholas realised that his journey had not been in vain. Quill pen in hand, a figure was crouched over a table. Though he could only see the man in a fleeting profile, Nicholas recognised him as Michael Grammaticus.
A short distance beyond the cottage, he reined in his horse and looked back over his shoulder, wondering whether or not he should call on the playwright. Certain that the man would be working on the new scenes for A Way to Content All Women, he decided that it would be unwise to interrupt him, and he suspected that Grammaticus would be discomfited by an unheralded visit. Nicholas swung his horse around. He was about to ride back down the hill when he saw another familiar figure. The man was cantering towards him on a bay mare. Before he reached Nicholas, he brought the animal to a halt and dismounted in front of the cottage where Grammaticus was working. Almost immediately, a servant emerged to take charge of the horse and lead it to the stables at the rear. The man, meanwhile, entered the cottage with a proprietary strut.