‘I demand the right to be dressed properly on stage,’ said Gill, rising to his feet. ‘How can I dance when I have breeches that trip me up like that? Find me something that fits me or I’ll not play at all tomorrow.’
Firethorn grinned wickedly. ‘We’ll offer up a prayer of thanks.’
But the barb was lost on Gill, who had already flounced out. Firethorn drained his cup and thought about leaving. Adam Crowmere sauntered across to him.
‘We found nothing, Lawrence,’ he said with regret. ‘I’ve searched every room here and there’s no sign of your wardrobe. It could be miles away by now.’
‘Nick was wrong for once, then.’
‘I fear so.’ He nudged Firethorn. ‘Shall we see you again tonight, Lawrence?’
‘No, Adam. I’m done with it.’
‘But you might win back all that you lost. That’s what I did last night.’
‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, mournfully. ‘I watched you doing it.’
‘My luck will doubtless change tonight. Why not find out?’
‘There’s no pleasure in watching someone take my money from me. I might as well have tossed it in the Thames as risk it on the turn of a card.’
‘But you enjoyed the game,’ Crowmere reminded him. ‘I could see it in your face. It set your pulse racing. Master Lavery will be leaving soon,’ he added. ‘Come now or you lose your opportunity to get your revenge on me. I, too, will be away.’
Firethorn was concerned. ‘You, Adam? But you are the best landlord that the Queen’s Head has ever had. We want you to stay forever.’
There was vocal agreement from the others at the table. Crowmere gave a bow.
‘My thanks to you all,’ he said, ‘but I, alas, do not own the inn. Alexander does, and the letter I received today made that clear.’
‘Why?’ asked Firethorn, anxiously. ‘What does he say?’
‘His brother died in his sleep, it seems. Alexander will stay in Dunstable until the funeral then return to London post-haste.’ He gazed around the table with a benign smile. ‘You’ll soon have your old landlord back in the saddle again.’
Chapter Eleven
Another day had done nothing to calm Dorothea Tate’s frayed nerves. She was still very apprehensive and constantly troubled by pangs of guilt. Though Anne Hendrik did her best to keep the girl occupied, she could not divert her for long. As the evening wore on, and the first candles were lighted in the house, Dorothea remained restless and unhappy. The two women were sitting in the parlour. Anne was sewing a dress.
‘Where is Nicholas?’ asked Dorothea, getting to her feet.
‘He will be back again soon.’
‘I pray that nothing untoward has happened to him.’
‘Nick can take care of himself,’ said Anne, looking up from her sewing. ‘Have no fears on his account, Dorothea.’
‘But the men who run Bridewell are so dangerous. They’ll stop at nothing.’
‘All the more reason to bring them to justice.’
‘What can one man do against them and the keepers at the workhouse?’
‘We shall see.’
‘I’m frightened for his safety, Anne.’
‘That’s only natural.’
‘I’ve lost one dear friend already,’ said Dorothea. ‘I’d hate to lose another.’
‘I’m glad that you see Nick as a friend. When he first brought you back here, you had grave doubts about him. You were afraid that he was trying to lead you astray.’ Anne smiled fondly. ‘Nick would never do that.’
‘I know. He’s such a kind man. But I worry about him — and so do you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, Anne,’ she said. ‘I’ve been watching you all evening. You pretend to be calm and collected but every time you hear a horse in the street you look up at the door. I think you are as worried as I am.’
‘I would like him back home, I admit that.’
‘You see? You call it his home, not his lodging.’
‘Nick is rather more than a lodger to me,’ said Anne, discreetly. ‘He’s a close friend. That’s why he knew I’d take you in and look after you.’ She finished her sewing and held up the dress. ‘Here we are. Wear this tomorrow. It’s an old dress of mine that I was going to throw out, but I’ve mended it instead.’
Dorothea took the dress from her. ‘Thank you, Anne.’
‘Try it on.’
‘I can see that it fits,’ said the girl, holding it against herself. ‘I’ve never worn anything as nice as this. You are so generous.’
‘There was a time when I was slim enough to wear it,’ said Anne, wistfully, ‘but no more, alas. I’d much rather you have it.’ She saw the remorse in Dorothea’s face. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Yes,’ replied the girl. ‘I wonder what I have done to deserve this.’
‘You need help. It would be cruel to turn you away.’
‘Yet that’s what everyone else did. Hywel and I begged on the streets for days and most people walked past without even noticing us. Some of those who did spat on us or called us vile names. London is a cruel city.’
‘Some people can be very selfish,’ agreed Anne, sadly.
‘If only Hywel could have lived to enjoy all this,’ said Dorothea, looking around the room. ‘To wear clean clothes and eat good food and have a roof over his head. It’s not fair that I should have it while he lies dead in the morgue.’
‘Do not see it that way, Dorothea.’
‘But I must. I still feel so guilty about what happened to him.’
‘Without reason.’
‘He came to my rescue,’ said Dorothea with feeling. ‘When Master Beechcroft was scolding me, Hywel attacked him and beat him to the ground. That’s why they killed him. It was because of me. And I fear that they’ll do the same to Nicholas. Stop him from going to Bridewell,’ she implored, coming across to Anne. ‘Please, stop him. I don’t want his blood on my conscience as well.’
Doctor John Mordrake removed the cork from the tiny bottle and sniffed it. He was a big man whose face and body had suffered the ravages of time. His long, lank, silver-grey hair merged with a straggly beard. He wore a capacious black gown, black buckled shoes and a large gold chain that hung down to his chest. Astrologer, alchemist, wizard, seer and royal physician, he exuded a strange power. Nicholas Bracewell had befriended him years before and turned to him on more than one occasion. This time, he had brought Mordrake to examine Edmund Hoode.
Seated on the bed in his nightshirt, the patient watched with some trepidation. He feared that Doctor Zander might make an evening call at the house and catch him seeking another medical opinion. Seeing his concern, Nicholas gave him an encouraging smile. He wanted the playwright to be treated by a doctor who was not so closely connected to Michael Grammaticus. Some people thought Mordrake a mountebank, others decried him as a necromancer, but Nicholas had every faith in him. He turned to watch as the old man dipped his finger into the bottle, then tasted the medicine on the tip of his tongue. With a grunt of satisfaction, Mordrake put the bottle aside. He reached for one of the candles and held the flame close to Hoode’s face, moving it around so that he could conduct a detailed scrutiny.
‘Put out you tongue, sir,’ he ordered.
‘Yes, Doctor Mordrake,’ said Hoode, obeying.
The old man peered at it. ‘You feel no pain?’ Hoode shook his head. Mordrake felt both sides of the patient’s neck. ‘No swelling of the glands?’
‘Only at first, when the fever was upon me.’
‘What have you been eating?’
‘Lots of fruit,’ said Hoode, indicating the bowl. ‘Doctor Zander advised it.’
Mordrake selected an apple, took a large bite from it, then removed the piece from his mouth. He sniffed it and the rest of the apple before putting both on the table.
‘I’ll need to see your water, Master Hoode.’
‘The chamber pot is under the bed. It’s not been emptied.’
‘Good,’ said Mordrake, lowering himself with some difficulty to his knees and extracting the chamber pot. ‘I’ll take a specimen, if I may.’
From a pocket somewhere in his gown, he pulled out a stone bottle and uncorked it before filling it with urine. Once again, his nose made the diagnosis. Corking the bottle, he slipped it back into his pocket and eased the chamber pot beneath the bed. Nicholas stepped forward to help him up.