‘Do not call in on Master Lavery on the way,’ counselled Nicholas.
‘I’ll not, you have my word on it!’
Firethorn moved away to take off his costume. Still carrying his sword and wearing his armour, Frank Quilter came over to speak to the book holder.
‘When do you want us, Nick?’ he asked, quietly.
‘When everything has been cleared away.’
‘James and I will be in the taproom.’
‘I’ll find you there,’ said Nicholas.
‘Does Lawrence know what we are about?’
‘No, Frank. Nor must he, until it is all over. Impress that upon James.’
Quilter was puzzled. ‘Why the need for secrecy?’
‘You’ll be told anon.’
It took some time for the yard to empty. Hundreds of spectators had hailed the play and some wanted to remain there to discuss it with their companions. Many people headed for the taproom to slake their thirst or to take the opportunity to have a closer look at the actors who had entertained them so royally. Up in the galleries, several of the gallants and their ladies lingered until the rougher sort had dispersed. Still seated at the rear of the upper gallery, two men watched as George Dart and the other assistant stagekeepers came out to take down the trestles. Ralph Olgrave and Gregory had enjoyed the play more than they expected, even though they had been distracted by the sight of Owen Elias in his contrasting roles. When a burly
figure strode out of the tiring house to take control of the dismantling, Olgrave nudged his friend.
‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘He’s a strapping fellow,’ noted Gregory. ‘Look at those shoulders of his.’
‘A broad back gives you a bigger target.’
‘What of the Welshman, Owen Elias?’
‘Kill him first,’ decided Olgrave. ‘And do it as soon as you can.’
Chapter Twelve
The search was in vain. Though she spent a long time scouring the streets around her home, Anne Hendrik could not find any trace of the girl. Even when she widened the search, it was all to no avail. Anne was accompanied by her apprentice, Jan Muller, a sturdy lad whose muscular presence gave her the protection that she needed, and whose urge to find the missing girl was almost as great as Anne’s own. Though he had only met Dorothea Tate briefly, the apprentice had warmed to her at once and he was distressed to hear that she had gone missing.
‘Why should she run away?’ he asked.
‘I do not know, Jan.’
‘I thought that she liked us.’
‘Yes,’ said Anne. ‘I believe that she did. But Dorothea had a troubled mind. She may have gone somewhere to be alone with her thoughts.’
‘If she had troubles,’ he said, ‘she could have turned to me.’
‘That’s kind of you to say so.’
‘I was fond of Dorothea. We all were, even Preben.’
Anne smiled. ‘Then she was indeed popular, for Preben is too shy even to look at most girls. But he noticed this one and saw how unsettled she was.’
‘I hope she was not fleeing from me,’ said Jan, seriously.
‘No, no. You are not to blame in any way.’
‘Where would she go?’
‘I wish that I knew, Jan.’
‘Does she not know how dangerous Bankside is, even in daylight?’
‘That did not stop her from taking to her heels.’
‘Let’s move farther on,’ he suggested. ‘Along the river bank.’
‘No, Jan. We’ve hunted long enough. Dorothea is not here.’
He was upset. ‘You are going to stop looking for her?’
‘We have to,’ said Anne, resignedly. ‘We are wasting our time here. I fear that she’s gone back to the city.’
‘Then we’ll never find her.’
‘No, but Nick might.’ She pondered. ‘Can you ride a horse?’
‘Well enough to stay in the saddle.’
‘Let’s go back to the house, then,’ she urged. ‘And quickly. I’ll write a letter and you can bear it to him at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street. Can you manage that?’
The lad stuck out his chest. ‘If it will bring Dorothea back to us,’ he said, bravely, ‘I’ll manage anything. Let’s make haste.’
Joseph Beechcroft had regained much of his accustomed nonchalance. He was wearing his most garish doublet and his hat sprouted no less than four ostrich feathers. As he and Ralph Olgrave walked together around one of the courtyards in Bridewell, he was very encouraged by what he heard.
‘You saw them both at the Queen’s Head?’ he enquired.
‘We did,’ replied Olgrave. ‘The Welshman is a good actor, I have to concede that. Though he took two roles in the play, they bore no resemblance to each other. One moment he was a treacherous Turk, the next, the Viceroy of Sicily.’
‘What of Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘It was as Gregory told me. The man is the book holder, and reckoned to be a power in the company for all that he’s only a hired man. We saw him when the performance was done, helping the others to pack their stage away.’
‘How did two such people come to know Hywel Rees?’
‘That does not matter, Joseph. They have to be silenced.’
‘Yes,’ said Beechcroft. ‘They know far too much for my peace of mind. The last thing we need at the moment is for anyone to peep into our affairs. We’ve another banquet arranged for tonight and I wish to enjoy it without worrying about Nicholas Bracewell and his friend.’
‘You shall, Joseph. And so shall I.’
Beechcroft smirked. ‘Whom will you choose tonight, Ralph?’
‘I’ve not made up my mind.’
‘Joan Lockyer? She’s always a favourite with our guests.’
‘Then let them take her,’ said Olgrave, holding up a hand. ‘Joan is a comely wench but I’d hate to purchase a French welcome from between those ample thighs of hers. I’ll look for safer company in my bed tonight. Someone younger and freer from disease.’
‘Only a virgin would bring that surety, and we’ve few of those left in Bridewell.’
‘Alas, yes. There’s such a special pleasure in deflowering an innocent, especially if she fights as fiercely as Dorothea Tate. You missed a treat there, Joseph.’
‘So you say.’
‘And what I missed was the chance to close that pretty little mouth of hers for ever,’ said Olgrave, bitterly. ‘That would have saved us all his bother. Well,’ he added, ‘I’ll make amends in due course. She’ll not live much longer.’
‘The two men are the greater danger,’ said Beechcroft.
‘I know that well.’
‘What have you told Gregory?’
‘To wait for his moment and strike.’
‘And who’s to be the first victim, Ralph?’
‘Owen Elias,’ said Olgrave, complacently. ‘That vexatious Welshman. Even as we speak, he may already be dead.’
Owen Elias was in his element. Having adjourned to the taproom, he was celebrating the triumphant performance of The Knights of Malta with a tankard of ale and enjoying the admiration of the spectators who were gathered there. Adam Crowmere had been watching in the yard that afternoon and, at the landlord’s instigation, Elias declaimed his opening speech as the Viceroy of Sicily. It earned him a round of applause. When he saw Nicholas Bracewell come into the taproom, the Welshman knew that his friend wanted a private word with him. Finishing his drink, he sauntered across to the book holder.
‘Will you not have some ale, Nick?’ he asked. ‘You’ve earned it.’
‘I need to keep my head clear.’
‘When will you go there?’
‘Very soon,’ said Nicholas. ‘First, I must pass on some disturbing news. A message from Anne was just handed to me, brought by her apprentice, Jan Muller.’