‘Topcliffe!’
‘You approve?’
Sir Godfrey Avenell smirked. ‘The perfect choice.’
***
Even the most delicious food could not have tempted Edmund Hoode to eat. The name which the keeper had dropped into his ear was like a slow poison, working its way into his brain to paralyze his body and deprive it of all appetite. As the night wore on, he sat hunched up on the floor in the position he had occupied for several hours, wondering what he had done to bring such affliction down upon himself, vowing that he would never again write a play of any kind and wishing that he had been more regular in his devotions. Prayer was his last resort but he was so out of practise in communing with the Almighty that he could find neither the right words nor the appropriate tone. The Marshalsea was truly punishing his spiritual just as much as his theatrical misdemeanours. He felt humbled.
Richard Topcliffe! The name was an act of torture in itself. What appalling crime had Hoode committed that required the intervention of such a vile man? Topcliffe was the most feared and odious government official in England. Taken into the service of Lord Burghley, he made his grisly reputation by the systematic and merciless torture of Roman Catholics, breaking the bones of his victims for gratuitous pleasure and squeezing confessions out of them along with large amounts of their blood. Innocence was no bulwark against Topcliffe. An hour at the mercy of his gruesome instruments could have even the most blameless of people pleading guilty to the blackest of crimes.
This was the man who had sent for Edmund Hoode. The fact that the playwright had been invited to Topcliffe’s house made the prospect even worse. The interrogator so dedicated himself to the finer points of his work that he had a torture chamber built in his own home. Those rare few who resisted the rack and thumb-screws in the Tower were introduced to deeper realms of suffering in the privacy of his abode. Topcliffe was a one-man Inquisition.
Hoode was not a brave man. The wonderful speeches he had written for his martial heroes on the stage were mere empty words now. He could not hold out against any form of torment let alone that applied by a master of the art. The whirligig of time brought hideous changes. On Saturday, he had been the harmless co-author of The Roaring Boy, proud of its qualities as a play and committed to its nobler purpose. His infatuation with Emilia Brinklow had given the whole venture a sense of elation. That abruptly vanished. On Sunday, he was locked in a stinking cell at the Marshalsea before being handed over to a cruel monster who preyed on religious dissidents. What justice was there in this?
The one faint ray of hope came from Westfield’s Men. They would be working assiduously on his behalf. Their efforts had not yet secured his release but they would continue the struggle. The prisoner was not forgotten. His friends loved him. One of them, in particular, would not rest until he had saved Hoode from his dire predicament. What worried him was that Nicholas Bracewell might not be in time.
‘Help me, Nick!’ he murmured. ‘Help me! Soon!’
***
Nicholas Bracewell took charge of the situation at Greenwich in order to expedite matters. The local constable was a willing and good-hearted man but quite unequal to the task which had been thrust upon him. Minions of the law were not known for their efficiency even in London. Their provincial counterparts were even less equipped to deal with any crime of a serious nature. The plodding incompetence of the constable at least proved something to Nicholas. Even with the help of his two assistants, roused from their beds to join in the latest investigation, the man could never have solved the murder of Thomas Brinklow. Their success must have been engineered by someone else. This trio of law officers would need a week even to begin their pursuit of the killers, let alone to make an arrest.
The book holder lapsed into his customary role. He cued in the constable to take a statement from the manservant who found the body on the doorstep, then he prompted the former to ask the relevant questions. Nicholas himself gave a succinct and straightforward statement, omitting all mention of the deductions he had already made. The murder of Simon Chaloner involved complexities that were far beyond the capacity of the three men to understand. A surgeon was summoned to examine the dead man and to pronounce an interim verdict on the nature of his death, then Simon Chaloner was removed to the crypt of the nearby church. There, at least, he would be accorded the respect due to the deceased.
After a lengthy and wholly unproductive search of the immediate area, the law officers suspended their enquiry and went home with their lanterns. There would be much further questioning in the morning when sworn statements would need to be given to the local magistrate but there was nothing more to be done that night. Nicholas saw the men off the premises and wondered how they had ever been selected to represent law and order in Greenwich. Their inadequacy brought one blessing. It enabled him to shield Emilia Brinklow from any form of questioning. Instead of taking a statement from the person who knew Simon Chaloner best, and who might therefore give them the most accurate and useful information, they accepted Nicholas’s explanation that she had taken to her bed in a state of shock and must on no account be disturbed.
The situation compelled him to stay in Greenwich. He would first acquaint Emilia with his decision, then collect his horse and ride to the nearest inn. As he walked back to the house in the moonlight, however, he became aware that he was being watched. It was the same feeling that he had when he and Emilia were in the ruined laboratory. Sudden movement had frightened the person away on that occasion and so he adopted a different approach. When he heard the rustle of bushes off to his right, he did not lunge off in their direction. He simply strolled past and went around the house, pretending to walk towards the stables but ducking into the first doorway that became available.
Stealthy footsteps came after him. Nicholas slipped his dagger into his hand and waited until a figure loomed up out of the darkness. He pounced quickly, pushing the man against a wall and holding the dagger to his throat.
‘Do not harm me, sir!’ cried a voice.
‘Who are you?’
‘Valentine the gardener.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I sleep here, sir.’
‘In the open?’
‘On warm nights like tonight.’
‘Why were you creeping up on me?’ demanded Nicholas.
‘To speak with you, sir,’ said Valentine. ‘Search me, if you wish. I am not armed. I want to help.’
Nicholas ran a hand over the man’s body to feel for weapons but found none. Taking his dagger from the other’s throat, he pulled the gardener out into the moonlight to take a closer look at his face. The repulsive visage was split by its disgusting grin. Nicholas remembered the man and held the point of the dagger on him again.
‘You have eavesdropped on me before,’ he accused.
‘It was not deliberate, sir.’
‘Whose spy are you?’
‘Nobody’s, I swear it. I could not help hearing.’
‘How much did they pay you to betray your mistress?’
‘Heaven forfend!’ said Valentine, bursting into tears and clutching at his sleeve. ‘I would not hurt her for the world. She and her brother have been kind to me. A man with a face like mine does not find work easily. Master Brinklow was my friend. I worshipped him and his dear sister. Please believe me, sir.’
The plea was evidently sincere. Nicholas sheathed his dagger and took pity on the man. He gave the latter a moment to recover before he continued.
‘You wished to speak with me?’ he said.
‘If I may, sir.’
‘But you do not even know who I am.’
‘You are a friend of this family and that is enough for me. I saw the way you took control this night. I watched you deal with those foolish constables. You are Master Bracewell and I want to help you all I can.’