Chaloner stiffened. ‘We?’
‘Edmund Hoode and I.’
‘Can you not conduct the interview alone, Nicholas? She has been almost a recluse since her brother’s death. One person will be distressing enough for Emilia to accommodate. Two will throw her into a state of profound dismay.’
‘Master Hoode must be there,’ argued Nicholas. ‘If he is to make your play fit for the stage, he must know every detail that appertains to it. Have no fears on his part. He is the gentlest soul and will pose no threat to the lady.’
Chaloner sighed. ‘Very well. I will bring Emilia to London and the four of us will meet secretly.’
‘Why not in Greenwich? That is the obvious place.’
‘I’d welcome the excuse to get her away from there.’
‘Then find it on some other pretext,’ said Nicholas. ‘Edmund Hoode will not only wish to meet the sister of Thomas Brinklow. He will want to see the house where the man lived and the place where he was murdered. It will all help to make The Roaring Boy a richer and more accurate play in the end. That, surely, is our common goal.’
‘Let me talk with Emilia. This may require persuasion.’ He got to his feet. ‘May I tell her, then, that the play will be performed if she agrees to help?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘You may also tell her that we will offer five pounds for the privilege. Westfield’s Men always pay the price of a good play.’
‘We want to money, Nicholas. Only justice.’
‘The author might wish for payment.’
‘He has been well paid already.’ He crossed to the door and paused. ‘I will send word to you at the Queen’s Head. Until then…’
‘Not so fast. I have one last question.’
‘What is it?’
‘The world believes that Thomas Brinklow was cruelly butchered by two men hired by his wife and her lover. How can we persuade everyone to think otherwise?’
‘The play tells you. That is why it is called The Roaring Boy. Freshwell was one of the killers and he was a notorious swaggerer. When he goes to the scaffold at the end of Act Five, he makes a speech denouncing the true villain.’
‘It did not happen quite that way,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘It was Freshwell’s testimony which confirmed the guilt of those who suborned him. He made full confession.’
‘Did anyone see that confession?’ said Chaloner. ‘It was extracted under torture and a man will say anything to escape further agony. I am certain that Freshwell did not drag the names of Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne into the reckoning. He did not even know them. For what reason should he bear false witness? Freshwell was liar, rogue and black-hearted murderer but he must certainly be absolved of perjury.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I was there, Nicholas. At his execution.’
‘Did Freshwell not make a final speech, repenting of his wickedness and asking for God’s mercy?’
‘No. He roared so loud, they had to gag his mouth.’
Nicholas was unconvinced. ‘Men often behave so at their execution. It is a last act of defiance. They roar to show that scorn for the majesty of the law. There is yet another reason why they rave so at the last. Those wild cries are often a means to disguise their terror.’
‘That was not so in Freshwell’s case,’ explained the other. ‘Had he been allowed to speak, I believe that he would have named the man who hired him to do his filthy work. If Freshwell had but an ounce of conscience, he would also have pleaded for Cecily and Walter Dunne to be released.’
‘Why did he not do so instead of roaring in anger?’
‘The executioner’s assistant explained that.’
‘His assistant?’
‘He pinioned Freshwell in his cell before bringing him to the scaffold, so he got as close to him as anyone. The hangman himself would not even speak to me but his assistant took my bribe willingly enough. He told me why the roaring boy went to his death so noisily.’
‘And?’
‘Freshwell was no longer able to denounce anybody.’
‘Why not?’
‘They had cut out his tongue.’
A new resolution coursed through Nicholas Bracewell.
‘We will stage this play,’ he promised.
***
Heavy rain turned the streets and lanes of London into miry runnels of mud. People dived for cover under the eaves of houses or huddled in doorways or filled church porches with impromptu congregations. Cats and dogs scurried wildly to the nearest shelter. Horses churned up the slime and spattered the walls with indiscriminate force. Unrelenting water explored every leaking roof, splintered door, cracked paving slab and broken window in the city. The vast, noisome, accumulated filth of the capital became a voracious quagmire, which tried to swallow up each leg, paw or hoof foolish enough to tread on it. In the space of a few minutes, a hitherto mild night was transformed into sodden torment.
Sir John Tarker missed the worst of the downpour but that did not still his high temper. While the city itself was feeling the first drops of damnation, he spurred his horse out through Ludgate and galloped along Fleet Street until it became the wide and well-paved Strand. Here were some of the most palatial dwellings in the kingdom, fit only for those from the higher reaches of the nobility or the clergy, built along the line of the River Thames and linking the city with the architectural wonder of Westminster. The Strand was one long strip of wealth and privilege.
As the rain began to pelt down in earnest, Sir John Tarker turned his horse in through the gates of Avenell Court and clattered to a halt on the slippery cobbles. Dismounting with practised ease, he yelled for an ostler and cursed his delay in coming. When the man finally did emerge from the stables, he earned himself a stern rebuke and a vicious blow to the head. Even in clement weather, the guest was not someone to be kept waiting. He spat his contempt at the heavens before hurrying into the building.
Avenell Court was a large, looming, battlemented house of Kentish ragstone with a dry ditch by way of a moat and an army of tall chimneys patrolling its steep roof. The hint of a castle was replicated in its interior as well. Corridors were long, cold and lined with suits of armour. Swords and shields decorated the walls of all the rooms on the ground floor. The main hall had a display of weaponry-from many nations-which could rival that at the Tower of London. Banners, pennants and coats-of-arms further enriched an exhibition which had been put together with considerable care and at immense cost. There was even a life-size statue of a warhorse in gleaming bronze.
In such a setting, it was difficult not to hear the sound of battle but the figure who reclined in the high-backed chair beside the huge fireplace managed the feat without undue effort. Instead of the din of armed conflict, he was listening to the sombre strains of a pavan as played with exquisite touch by Orlando Reeve. Head down, eyes closed in concentration, shoulders hunched, the corpulent musician was perched on a stool, his bulk almost hiding the instrument that stood before him on the dais at the end of the hall. Podgy hands seemed to flutter over the keyboard to draw the most affecting tone from the virginals. Orlando Reeve had composed the dance himself in the Italian style and given it a slow and bewitching dignity.
When he finished the piece, he inhaled deeply before expelling the air through his nostrils. He opened a hopeful eye to search for the approval of his audience. The man in the chair mimed applause with his hands, then flicked a palm upwards to call for something more lively. Orlando Reeve obliged at once with a sprightly galliard that soon had his lone spectator tapping a foot in accompaniment as the little instrument all but filled the hall with its tinkling harmony. The musician was so engrossed in the dance that he did not observe the guest who was conducted in by a servant.
Divested of his wet cloak and hat, Sir John Tarker strode across the marble floor with a haughty familiarity. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a full chest that tapered down to a narrow waist. The swarthy face was framed by long black hair and a neatly barbered beard. Dressed as a courtier, he had the arrogant swagger of a soldier and the natural impatience of a man of action. He accorded Orlando Reeve no more than a derisive snort as he approached his host. Sir John Tarker had not come to listen to music.