‘His own version perished in the fire with the rest.’
‘A tragedy.’
‘Vindictiveness.’
A look of sudden helplessness came into her eyes.
‘Why did you wish to speak to me alone?’ he asked.
‘Because I feel I can trust you.’
‘Nobody is more trustworthy than Edmund Hoode.’
She shook her head. ‘He can be trusted to refashion the play but you are the only one who can be relied upon to see it staged. Simon is an excellent judge of character and he singles you out.’ A smile danced around her lips. ‘We are not ignorant provincials in Greenwich, sir. When Thomas was alive, we often came to London to see a play. I love the theatre and my brother indulged my taste. Westfield’s Men were always my favourite company.’
‘I’ll tell that to Master Firethorn.’
‘Beg him to present The Roaring Boy.’
‘He will implore you to give us that privilege.’
‘Whatever setbacks, whatever dangers…’
‘It will be staged. I give you my word on it.’
She touched his arm. ‘I knew that I could trust you.’
Voices approached and she stepped back involuntarily. Simon Chaloner came up with Edmund Hoode and the latter reacted with horror to the destruction of the laboratory. Thomas Brinklow had not just been killed. His life’s work had been obliterated. Emilia soon took her leave of them, giving Hoode a smile of gratitude that would keep him happy for days but reserving a more meaningful glance for Nicholas.
Chaloner now took them into the house to view the actual scene of the crime. It was near the foot of the main staircase, a shadowy area even by day. Thomas Brinklow had returned at night to be ambushed in his own home.
‘How did the villains get in here?’ said Nicholas.
‘They must have picked the lock,’ replied Chaloner.
‘Or had a confederate inside the building.’
‘Emilia will not hear of such an idea.’
‘What is your opinion?’
He looked around to make sure that Emilia was not within earshot. ‘This house was well-protected with locks and bolts. Thomas saw to that. They were either given a key or let in.’
‘Did no one hear the commotion?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Agnes, the maidservant. She was awakened by cries and raised the alarm. Not soon enough, alas. Before anyone got downstairs, the killers had made good their escape.’
‘After first setting fire to the laboratory?’
‘No,’ said Chaloner. ‘That happened much later in the night. They must have returned to wreak further havoc.’
‘Was the fire not part of Freshwell’s confession?’
‘He admitted the murder. That was enough to hang him.’
Nicholas walked up and down the hallway and tried all the doors to see which was the most likely mode of entry and exit for the two villains.
‘Was Thomas Brinklow a big man?’
‘Big and strong, Nicholas. Something of your build.’
‘He would have fought his attackers?’
‘No question of that.’
It made surprise a vital element in the ambush and that confirmed Nicholas’s feeling that the killers had concealed themselves beneath the staircase. As Thomas Brinklow tried to mount the steps, they must have leapt out and hacked him down from behind. Edmund Hoode stared ghoulishly at the spot where the mathematician fell but Nicholas was concerned to analyse the murder in great detail. He also made a mental note of the setting of the crime for use in the performance of the play itself. Only when he had explored every possibility in the location did he announce that it was time to go.
The visit to Greenwich had been a revelation and his few minutes alone with Emilia Brinklow were invaluable. He and Hoode would have much to debate on their return journey. As he looked around the sumptuous house with its costly furnishings and its air of formal luxury, one question kept nagging away at him. He turned to Simon Chaloner.
‘When did he realise that his marriage was a mistake?’
‘Too late, I fear. Far, far too late.’
‘How did he meet his wife?’
‘At Greenwich Palace. They were introduced by a mutual friend, who often stayed there.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Sir Godfrey Avenell.’
‘The Master of the Armoury?’
‘No less.’
‘How did Thomas Brinklow come to know such a man?’
‘He had many friends in high places,’ said Chaloner. ‘His circle of acquaintances was very wide. He dined with Sir Godfrey at the Palace one day when Cecily was also a guest. She warmed to Thomas and showed a keen interest in his work. That is rare among women.’
‘How soon did they marry?’
‘Less than a year after that first meeting. Sir Godfrey was delighted to have played Cupid. At their wedding, he showered them with the most generous gifts. He had a real investment in that marriage.’
‘It gave him a miserable dividend.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘He was mortified. Sir Godfrey Avenell must wish that he never brought them together.’
***
Greenwich Palace was a magnificent structure built around three quadrangles. Faced in red brick and ornamented with pillars, it lay on the bank of the Thames like a giant alligator basking in the sun. A long pier gave access to the river at all states of the tide. The main entrance was through a massive gatehouse which led to the central court. Successive members of the Tudor dynasty had lavished money and affection unstintingly upon their favoured residence and Queen Elizabeth was no exception. Having herself been born in the riverside palace, she always had a special fondness for it and liked nothing more than to spend her summers there, holding court, entertaining foreign dignitaries or watching plays, masques and musical concerts.
She particularly enjoyed the regular tournaments that were held at Greenwich Palace, glittering occasions that would find her seated amid her retinue in the permanent gallery above the tiltyard. Tournaments were immensely popular but exclusively reserved for the elite. Only the rich could afford to take part in an event which imposed enormous costs upon them. Only the very rich could finance such a contest. The Queen’s own father, Henry VIII, once spent?4000 on the Westminster tournament, almost double the cost of his huge warship, The Great Elizabeth. The Tudor monarchy took jousting very seriously.
A lone figure sat in the permanent gallery and surveyed the busy tiltyard. Sir Godfrey Avenell had much to divert him. Greenwich was an ideal place for would-be knights to practice their horsemanship and to hone their technique with the lance. The tilt itself was a permanent wooden fence some one hundred and fifty yards long, gaily painted and defining the nature of combat. It prevented any collision when jousting knights thundered towards each other on horseback on either side of the fixture. It also obliged them to attack an opponent from an angle. Several pairs of knights were in action, some fighting on foot but most taking their turn in the saddle.
Sir Godfrey Avenell watched it all with an imperious air. Dressed in his finery, he cast an expert eye over the proceedings. He had been a keen jouster in his day and still took part in the occasional practice but he left competition in the prestigious Court tournaments to younger and stronger riders. One such man, Sir John Tarker, rode into the tiltyard below and Avenell’s interest quickened. He had good reason for such bias towards the newcomer. The splendid armour worn by Tarker was commissioned and paid for by his friend. Sir Godfrey Avenell was scrutinising his own money.
The Office of the Armoury was based at the Tower of London. As its Master, he operated largely from that base but made frequent visits to Greenwich because the finest armour was made in its workshops. The Green Gallery and the Great Chamber at the palace housed a display of supreme examples of the armourer’s art and Avenell never saw them without wishing that he could take some of the pieces away for his own collection. There was something about their design and craftsmanship that he found truly inspiring.