‘Well?’
‘Dorothea has vanished.’
Elias was rocked. ‘She was kidnapped?’
‘No, Owen. She ran away.’
‘But why? The girl was safe with Anne. Why put herself in peril again?’
‘Only she can tell us that,’ said Nicholas. ‘According to Jan, they searched Bankside for hours but saw no sign of her. The lad is clearly upset that she’s gone.’
‘So am I, Nick. What are we to do?’
‘Try to find her ourselves. Keep your eyes open, and not only for Dorothea.’
‘Who else?’
‘That man I warned you about is here somewhere,’ Nicholas told him. ‘Leonard saw him earlier on. He may well be lurking to waylay one of us. Take care, Owen.’
Elias patted his dagger. ‘I will.’
After giving the two men a signal, Nicholas went out of the taproom with Frank Quilter and James Ingram, leaving Elias to order another tankard of ale and join in the merriment. The actor was soon singing a bawdy song to amuse the others. In the convivial atmosphere, he was completely at ease and could have stayed all evening, but he had other priorities. Downing his ale, he soon bade farewell to his friends and rolled out of the inn.
It was a fine, warm evening as he walked along Gracechurch Street in the direction of the river. By the time he turned right into Canning Street, he knew that he was being followed and even caught a fleeting glimpse of the man. Elias sauntered on at the same unhurried pace, listening for the sound of the footsteps behind him, and noting that his stalker was slowly gaining on him. Crossing the road, he turned left down one of the alleyways that led to Thames Street. Once out of sight, he darted towards a lane on his right and dived swiftly down it.
Gregory, meanwhile, increased his own speed. Spying his chance to catch his victim alone, he quickened his step until he came to the alleyway. But there was nobody in sight. Elias seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Had he let himself into one of the gardens that backed on to the alleyway? Or had he slipped down one of the lanes off it? Gregory tried each garden door as he passed but they were all bolted. When he came to the lane on the right, he sensed that Elias must have gone that way, trying to outrun him. Pulling out his dagger, he broke into a trot.
He did not get very far. As he hurried along the lane, he was suddenly grabbed from behind by Elias, who had been concealed in a doorway, waiting to strike. Before he knew what was happening, Gregory was slammed hard against a stone wall. His dagger was knocked from his grasp and Elias kicked it away. Seizing him by the throat, the Welshman pressed him to the wall and held him there by sheer power.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘Nobody,’ said the other, still dazed. ‘I was simply walking to Thames Street.’
‘Then you came the wrong way.’ Elias unsheathed his own dagger to hold the point under the man’s chin. ‘Now, let’s have the truth or I’ll cut that lying tongue out.’
‘I mean you no harm, sir.’
‘Well, I mean you some harm. You followed me.’
‘No, that’s not true.’
‘Then why did you have a weapon in your hand, you cur?’
‘Dangers can always lurk in an alleyway.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Nobody, sir.’
‘Who sent you?’ repeated Elias, jabbing the point of his dagger into the man’s neck. ‘Was it Joseph Beechcroft or Ralph Olgrave? Yes,’ he said, seeing the look of alarm in the other’s eyes. ‘You know them both, I think. One of those rogues sent you to find us at the Queen’s Head.’ He jabbed the dagger again and drew blood. ‘Which one of those monsters from Bridewell was it?’
Gregory was shivering. ‘Master Olgrave, sir,’ he bleated.
‘What were your orders?’
‘To follow you, that’s all.’
‘Oh, to follow me, was it?’ said Elias with sarcasm. ‘What did you intend to do when you caught up with me? Make a present of your dagger?’ He tightened his grip on the man’s neck. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Gregory Sumner,’ spluttered the other.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Leave off, sir, or you’ll strangle me!’
‘Answer my question or I’ll squeeze every ounce of breath out of you.’
‘I dwell in the workhouse,’ admitted the other. ‘I’m a keeper in Bridewell.’
‘Then you’ll know what happened to my good friend, Hywel Rees,’ said Elias, releasing his hold. ‘You’re to come with me, Gregory Sumner. I can see that you must be a religious man,’ he taunted. ‘I’ve a lawyer nearby who’ll happily hear your confession.’
Still in pain, Gregory Sumner rubbed his neck ruefully but he was only biding his time. As Elias stepped back to look at him properly, the man came to life and tried to retrieve his discarded dagger. It was a foolish move. The Welshman was ready for him. Holding him by the scruff of his neck, Elias swung him round with vicious force and threw him against the wall, drawing fresh blood and knocking all the resistance out of him. Sheathing his own dagger, Elias tucked the other weapon into his belt then bent down to remove the shoes of the fallen man. Without ceremony, he tore off Sumner’s hose and used it to tie the prisoner’s hands behind his back.
‘Come, sir,’ said Elias, lifting the man up and putting him over his shoulder. ‘I want you to meet a friend of mine. But I warn you now,’ he added with a growl. ‘Do not dare to bleed over me on the way.’
Edmund Hoode felt so much better in himself that he was able to read A Way to Content All Women once more. Indeed, by the afternoon, he had even made a tentative stab at writing a new scene for it. Doctor John Mordrake was responsible for his recovery. Having identified the poison that had been keeping the patient drowsy and confused for so long, Mordrake concocted his own remedy and administered it in person. As a result, Hoode’s brain was functioning again. His body was still tired, but his mind was racing and eager to make up for lost time.
One of the clearest indications of his improvement was the return of his subdued lust for the landlady’s daughter. When Adele came into his room that evening, Hoode hoped that she had come to change the sheets on his bed and allow him to watch her nubile body as it bent and swayed before him. In fact, the girl was only delivering a message. As she spoke, Hoode stared with idle pleasure at the expressive dimples in her cheeks and at the delicate arches of her eyebrows.
‘There’s someone below who would speak with you, Master Hoode,’ she said.
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Yes, sir. It was Tom Rooke.’
‘Tom Rooke?’ he echoed. ‘But that’s the name of a character from a play of mine called The Faithful Shepherd. Are you sure that is what he is called, Adele?’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘But this fellow is no shepherd. I can vouch for that.’
‘What sort of man is he?’
‘Not one that my mother would let into the house, sir. He’s a scurvy beggar. But he insists that he’s a friend of yours, and will not leave until he has seen you.’
Hoode was mystified. Outside of his play, he knew nobody by the name of Rooke and was not acquainted with any beggars. Curiosity took him down the stairs. When he reached the front door, he opened it to find himself looking at a bedraggled creature with a filthy cap, a patch over one eye and his arm in a sling. Either side of him was an officer but Hoode ignored them. His only interest was in the crooked figure who had sent up the name of Tom Rooke. He was certain that he had never seen the man before.
‘Do you know me, sir?’ croaked the beggar.
‘No,’ said Hoode, turning his head away in disgust, ‘and I’ve no wish to know someone who stinks as much as you. Away with you, man!’
The beggar raised himself to his full height and lifted the eye patch up. Slipping his arm out of the sling, he put both hands on his hips and used his real voice.
‘Will you deny me now?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell.
Hoode was amazed. ‘Nick!’ he gasped. ‘Is that you?’