When he raised the alarm, everyone was shocked to learn that one of the actors had been bludgeoned and stabbed only a short distance from where they stood. The goodwill engendered by the performance evaporated at once. While the audience was stunned, Westfield’s Men were in despair. At the very moment when they were celebrating the first success of their Continental tour, one of their number was brutally killed. All of a sudden, the English possession of Flushing seemed alarmingly foreign. They were adrift in an alien land.
Nicholas was deeply shaken. Smallwood was both a friend and an invaluable member of the company. To lose him at all was a bitter blow, but to have it happen in this way was shattering. Without understanding why, Nicholas felt an obscure sense of guilt, as if it had been his duty to protect the actor. The guilt merged with his surging anger and prompted a vow to bring the killer to justice at whatever cost. Unfortunately, the vow was easier to make than to keep. Obstacles lay in his path. It was Balthasar Davey who pointed them out to him.
‘You attempt the impossible, I fear,’ he said.
‘But I am involved in this to the hilt.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Adrian Smallwood was my fellow.’
‘If he had been a complete stranger, he would not have deserved the hideous fate which he met. I am as anxious as you to see the murderer caught and hanged, but finding him is a task for the proper authorities.’
‘I may have information that they do not, Master Davey.’
‘Then it is your duty to pass it on.’
‘I have already given a statement about how I found the body,’ said Nicholas. ‘My sole concern now is to track down the man who left it there.’
‘What chance have you of catching him?’
‘We shall see.’
‘None, sir,’ said the other politely. ‘An assassin who can work so cunningly will not be reckless enough to remain in Flushing while you and others conduct a search for him. He will be several miles away by now.’
‘Then I will pursue him!’
‘How?’
There was a calm practicality about Balthasar Davey that made him formidable in argument. The Governor’s secretary was keen to help in any way that he could, but he felt bound to oppose the course of action Nicholas wished to take. It was some hours after the play had ended. An official investigation into the murder had been set in motion and the corpse had been taken off by cart to the morgue in the English church. While the rest of Westfield’s Men were drowning their sorrows in the inn, Balthasar Davey and Nicholas were in a private room at the rear of the premises. The secretary was acquainting the book-holder with the reality of his situation.
‘Take my advice,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘Leave the town tomorrow and put this whole matter behind you.’
‘We cannot desert our fellow. That would be cruel.’
‘It is a cruelty which masks a greater kindness.’
‘Kindness!’ Nicholas blinked in disbelief. ‘Abandoning a friend at a moment like this? You call that kindness?’
‘I do. It would be a kindness to you because it would spare you untold pain and vexation. And it would be a kindness to your fellows to take them away from this unseemly business as soon as you may. I have heard actors are superstitious by nature. Keep them here to brood on the murder and that superstition will turn into morbid fear. Your company will suffer greatly.’
‘There may be a grain of truth in that,’ conceded Nicholas. ‘But we will still not forsake Adrian.’
‘Do you have any other choice?’ asked Davey. ‘You can hardly take his body with you. Pray for his soul and ride away from the scene of his murder. Tomorrow.’
‘We will at least stay for the funeral.’
‘That may not be for some days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Casualties of war,’ said the other. ‘We suffer heavy losses here. Wounded or dying men come in everyday. Many others are already waiting for burial and their turn must come before Adrian Smallwood.’
‘But he was a victim of murder.’
‘That gives him no prior claims.’
‘It should,’ protested Nicholas. ‘What sort of an uncaring place is this? Have you no human decency here?’
‘We have as much as the war allows us.’
Nicholas boiled with resentment but it was not directed at Balthasar Davey. The Governor’s secretary was not obstructing his wishes deliberately. He was very distressed at the murder, especially as it had occurred at the inn which he had chosen for the company. But living in the shadow of a long and expensive war had forced him to accept unpalatable facts. Emotion gave way to expediency. One man’s death-however gruesome-had to be set against countless others on the battlefield. In the long catalogue of slaughter, the name of Adrian Smallwood was of no particular significance.
Nicholas was still agonising over the decision.
‘I cannot bring myself to leave him here,’ he said.
‘You must.’
‘He deserves to lie in his own parish churchyard, not in some nameless grave hundreds of miles away from his home.’
‘He will not lack for English companions.’
‘What of his friends, his family?’
‘Write to them with these dread tidings,’ said Davey. ‘I will see that the letters are speedily dispatched. We are all too accustomed to sending bad news back to England.’ He saw the doubt in the other’s face. ‘Sir Robert has asked me to give you his assurance that every effort will be made to find the villain who committed this heinous crime. And I give you my promise that your unlucky friend will have a Christian burial here in Flushing.’
Nicholas studied the secretary for a moment. Balthasar Davey was an elegant young man with an intelligent face which had been schooled to hide his true feelings. He had been gracious with Anne Hendrik and unfailingly helpful to Westfield’s Men, yet there was something about him which troubled Nicholas. The secretary was holding something back. It was time to find out what it was.
‘Why did you lodge us here?’ asked Nicholas.
‘It seemed the best choice. They serve imported ale here. I thought that a thirsty troupe of players would prefer to drink English ale out of pewter tankards rather than quaff Dutch beer out of ceramic mugs.’
‘You misunderstand me. I wondered why you took such trouble on our behalf when you must have far more important things to do. Why did you not leave us to fend for ourselves?’
‘That would have been ungentlemanly.’
‘How did you even know that we were coming?’
‘We are well-informed about any notable visitors.’
‘We are a humble theatre company, passing through the town. Yet someone pays for our lodging and three of our sharers are invited to the Governor’s table.’
‘Sir Robert is fond of the theatre.’
‘Did he order you to look after us?’
‘Acting on a request from someone else.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Lord Westfield,’ said Davey easily. ‘Who else?’
‘I was hoping that you might tell me that.’
There was a long pause. Nicholas searched his face but it remained impassive. One thing was clear. Balthasar Davey was not responding to any request from Lord Westfield. Their patron’s wishes carried no weight in Flushing. Inside his jerkin, Nicholas still had the pouch which had been entrusted to him. He suspected that his companion might have some idea what it contained.
‘You will enjoy your time in Bohemia,’ said Davey, trying to inject a note of optimism. ‘I am sure that Westfield’s Men will be a resounding success at the Imperial Court.’