She was not free from regret. Dorothea was sad that she had to flee from people who had befriended her at a time when everyone else turned away. Anne Hendrik and Nicholas Bracewell would doubtless be anxious on her behalf, and she was sorry about that, but she consoled herself with the thought that she was doing the right thing. Why should she expect others to exact justice for her when she could do so herself? She simply had to confront her detractors. That was the only way she would get true satisfaction.
She felt another pang of regret when the genial face of Owen Elias came into her mind. Delighted to hear another Welsh voice in the capital, it was he who had first come to their aid when Hywel’s performance as a counterfeit crank had been exposed. Her disappearance would disappoint and hurt Elias. He was bound to feel betrayed yet that could not be helped. Had she turned to him — or to Nicholas Bracewell — she knew that neither of them would have condoned what she was now planning to do. On the contrary, they would have done everything they could to keep her well away from Bridewell.
At long last, the gate was opened and a man emerged, leading a horse. Dorothea was on her feet at once, pulling the stone from her pocket in readiness. As soon as he mounted, however, and she could see him in profile, she knew that it was neither of the men for whom she lay in ambush. She returned to her place in the doorway and settled down once more. Her moment, she was certain, would eventually come.
Nicholas Bracewell’s disguise was effective. Even at such close range, Beechcroft did not recognise him. When the beggar flinched and spoke in a cracked voice, he was taken for what he appeared to be. The keeper raised his cudgel to strike.
‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.
‘Tom Rooke, sir,’ croaked Nicholas.
‘When were you admitted to Bridewell?’
‘Today, sir.’
‘How did you get in here?’
‘I lost my way.’
‘He’s lying,’ snarled Beechcroft. ‘The room is always kept locked. He must have sneaked in earlier when I was in here myself.’ Sheathing his dagger, he stood back and snapped his fingers. ‘Beat him hard for his impudence.’
‘I’ll do so with pleasure,’ said the keeper.
Nicholas was forced to act. If he took the punishment, he knew that he would be beaten senseless then locked up more securely. Defence was vital. As the man wielded his cudgel for the first time, therefore, Nicholas dodged the blow, grabbed the tapestry and tore it from its pole so that he could wind it around the keeper. The two men then grappled fiercely. Beechcroft was astounded. The cowering beggar had suddenly turned into a vigorous man, who was patently getting the upper hand in the brawl. Beechcroft pulled out his dagger again and tried to stab Nicholas, but the latter simply twisted the keeper around so that he felt the point of the weapon in his shoulder.
Letting out a yell of agony, the keeper stumbled back, enabling Nicholas to wrest the cudgel from his grasp. Beechcroft continued to jab away without success. Nicholas pushed the keeper roughly to the floor and used the cudgel to knock Beechcroft’s dagger from his hand. When the latter made a dash for the door, Nicholas grabbed him by the arm, spun him round then shoved him with force against the wood. Panting with fear, eyes bulging from their sockets, Beechcroft had the uncomfortable feeling that he could identify his attacker.
‘I think I know you, sir, do I not?’ he said.
‘My name is not Tom Rooke,’ said Nicholas in his normal voice. ‘That much I’ll freely confess.’
Beechcroft goggled at him. ‘Nicholas Bracewell!’
‘The same.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to talk about the murder of Hywel Rees, and what that partner of yours did to a defenceless creature named Dorothea Tate.’
‘I had no part in that! I swear it!’
‘The girl told me that two men were involved. One of them held her down.’
‘That was Gregory Sumner, a keeper here. He assisted Ralph, not me.’
‘Yet you were the one who beat Dorothea,’ said Nicholas, holding the cudgel over him. ‘You pummelled the girl until her friend came to her rescue.’
‘I did not mean to hurt her,’ claimed Beechcroft, starting to tremble.
‘Then I’ll not mean to hurt you, when I beat the truth out of you.’
Beechcroft cringed against the door. ‘No!’ he begged. ‘Do not strike me!’
‘Then tell me what you did to Hywel Rees.’
Nicholas made the mistake of taking an eye off the wounded keeper. The tapestry in which he had been caught up had saved him from serious injury, muffling the impact of the dagger thrust. Blood had been drawn but it was only a minor flesh wound. Throwing off the tapestry, the man soon struggled to his feet. He dived at Nicholas from behind and got an arm around his neck, pulling him backward across the room. Beechcroft needed no second invitation to escape. He was through the door in a flash and locked it behind him. Nicholas, meanwhile, had to contend with a strong arm across his throat, squeezing the breath out of him. He pumped away with his elbows to wind his adversary then stamped hard on his toe to produce a howl of rage. The man released his hold. Spinning round, Nicholas cracked him on the head with the cudgel and sent him to his knees. A second blow knocked the man unconscious.
There was no sense in remaining in the room. Beechcroft would soon be back with armed men and Nicholas would be trapped. He collected the fallen dagger and stuck it in his belt. Apart from saving himself, Nicholas also wanted to take the two ledgers with him as additional proof of the mismanagement of Bridewell. Left in the room, they could always be hidden or even destroyed. Wrapping the books in the tapestry, therefore, he took them to the window and swung them up behind the gable. He then clambered after them and made his way along the roof, wedging his cargo behind one of the chimney pots, out of reach of any but the most intrepid climbers.
From down below, he heard the sound of the door being unlocked and of many feet rushing into the room. Beechcroft’s roar of anger was clearly audible.
‘Where the devil has he gone now?’
The banquet in the hall had reached the stage where couples were starting to peel off and adjourn to nearby rooms. Music still played, wine still flowed but only half of the guests remained at the table. While his partner went off to count the evening’s takings, Ralph Olgrave decided to sample the charms of Nan Welbeck, a sprightly young woman with long fair hair, who still had something of a bloom on her. He beckoned her over, took a first kiss then eased her onto his lap. Caressing her with one hand, he held his cup of wine in the other and took a long sip before handing it to her. Nan Welbeck drained it, laughed merrily then gave Olgrave a long, luscious, searching kiss on the lips.
It was not a moment when he wanted to be interrupted. Seeing his partner come bursting into the room, Olgrave was very annoyed and tried to wave him away, but Beechcroft was determined. He had an air of desperation about him.
‘I need to speak to you in private, Ralph,’ he said.
‘Not now, please.’
‘I must insist.’
‘And I must insist that you leave Nan and me alone,’ said Olgrave, glaring at him. ‘There’s nothing so important that it cannot wait until later.’
‘Yes, there is.’
‘Find yourself a woman and leave us be.’
‘You must come now,’ warned Beechcroft, grabbing him by the arm. ‘We have an unwelcome guest, Ralph. I’ve seen him with my own eyes.’
‘Oh, and who is that?’