‘I didn’t kill him!’ said Maggs. ‘It was Freshwell.’
‘The pair of you did it,’ said Firethorn.
‘I merely held the man. Freshwell struck him down.’
‘Who paid you?’
‘I do not know his name.’
‘Who was he?’ said Elias, grabbing the man by the throat to lift him upright and thrust him against the wall. ‘We do not have time to argue, Maggs. His name!’
‘Sir John Tarker,’ mumbled the other.
‘Louder!’
‘Sir John Tarker!’
‘Who else?’ demanded Firethorn.
‘Nobody,’ said Maggs. ‘He paid Freshwell and me to kill Brinklow and get his papers. But we were disturbed and had to run away. When we went back later, someone had burned part of the place down. All his papers were destroyed.’
‘What papers?’ said Firethorn.
‘How should I know? We just followed orders.’ Maggs became bitter. ‘Sir John turned nasty. He betrayed us. Because we only did one half of what he asked, he handed us over to the law. I escaped but old Freshwell danced a jig on fresh air.’
‘You may well join him,’ said Elias.
‘Hanging can be no worse than the Isle of Dogs.’
‘These papers,’ said Firethorn, feeling they had made a valuable discovery. ‘Where were they kept? Were they to do with Master Brinklow’s work, by any chance?’
‘I’ve told you all I can,’ whimpered Maggs. ‘And I speak the truth. If you don’t believe me, there’s a letter in my breeches there from Sir John Tarker himself. I’ll carry it to my grave. Pass the breeches to me and I will show it you.’
The two friends exchanged a glance and decided to comply with the request. A letter was crucial evidence. Elias kept his quarry pinned to the wall while Firethorn retrieved the tattered breeches from the floor. The latter handed them to Maggs. It was a fatal mistake. With a speed and suddenness which took them both by surprise, Maggs hurled the breeches into Firethorn’s face and aimed a kick at Elias’s groin which had him doubling up in pain. Before either of them could stop him, the little man ran stark naked through the door.
He did not get far. Alerted by the woman, someone was waiting outside for him. One thrust with the long spike was all that it took. Maggs was impaled to the door through which he tried to flee, bleeding like a stuck pig and squirming the last few seconds of his life away. One murderer had finally paid for his crime.
Chapter Eight
Anxious to make an early start to the day, Nicholas Bracewell foresook breakfast and headed for the stables. Emilia Brinklow had not yet risen so he left word with one of the manservants that he would soon return. He did not anticipate that his errand would take long. The ride to the cottage was a relatively short one and the sound of a coranto told him that Orlando Reeve was at home. The musician was already at his keyboard to put the finishing touches to his latest work. Nicholas was about to introduce a few discordant notes into the composition.
A deferential old man answered the door to him.
‘I wish to see Master Reeve,’ said Nicholas.
‘Is he expecting you, sir?’
‘He is not but my business will permit no delay.’
‘It must, I fear. My master is at his work and I am forbidden to interrupt him for any reason.’
‘You may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘I am not.’
He brushed past the man and went into the room from which the sound of the virginals came. Orlando Reeve was seated before the instrument like an acolyte before an altar. He looked up in shock at the sudden intrusion. It bordered on sacrilege.
‘Who are you, sir!’ he demanded. ‘Stand off!’
‘Not until we have exchanged a few words, Master Reeve.’
‘Show the fellow out, William!’
‘I will try,’ muttered the old servant, eyeing the visitor’s powerful physique with misgiving. ‘Follow me, if you please, sir.’
‘Leave us,’ ordered Nicholas. ‘I am acquainted with an old friend of your master-one Peter Digby.’
Orlando Reeve tensed at the sound of the name. After a moment’s consideration, he dismissed his servant with a peremptory wave and stood up to confront his visitor. The room occupied virtually the whole of the ground floor of the house. It was well-furnished and spotlessly clean but its main items of interest were the three keyboard instruments. They were superbly crafted and clearly of great value. The musician had built the room around himself to create the most propitious conditions in which to work and practise.
Reeve lifted his chin and adopted a patronising tone.
‘State your business, sir. I have not much time.’
‘You found enough to visit the Queen’s Head recently.’
‘I may spend my leisure as I wish.’
‘Peter Digby says you would never wish to see a play. Yet you sat through two in as many weeks. Why was that?’
‘I do not have to answer to you,’ retorted Reeve with a lordly sneer. ‘Who are you that you should force your way into my home to interrogate me?’
‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell and I am here on behalf of Westfield’s Men. Peter Digby is a close friend of mine.’
‘And of mine, sir.’
‘Throwing him out into the street is a strange way to repay his friendship,’ said Nicholas. ‘For that is what you have helped to do. Because of you, one of our number lies at this moment in prison and the rest of us are denied a stage on which to play. We are fellow-artistes, sir. Why do you rob us of our occupation?’
‘I did nothing of the kind,’ blustered Reeve.
‘Who sent you to the Queen’s Head?’
‘I went of my own accord.’
‘Even though you hate the theatre and avoid it like the plague? You came to urge an old acquaintance in order to draw intelligence from Peter Digby.’ He took a menacing step closer. ‘I will not leave until I hear the truth.’
‘You do not frighten me,’ said Reeve, wobbling with fear and purpling around the cheeks. ‘If you do not quit my house presently, I’ll summon the constable and bring on action for assault.’
‘He’ll come too late to save you from certain damage.’
‘Spare me!’ cried the other, backing away as Nicholas moved towards him again. ‘I have done you no harm. Do none to me!’ He held out his hands. ‘These are my fortune. If my hands are hurt, my livelihood dies. Do not touch my hands.’
‘I will not touch you, Master Reeve,’ said Nicholas as he raised a bunched fist high above the virginals. ‘Your instruments will bear the suffering instead.’
‘Stop!’
‘It is only a box of wood and strings.’
‘You destroy the most precious thing in my life!’
‘Then we pay you back in kind. You helped to take our theatre away from us. I’ll separate you from your music.’
He raised his fist even higher but Orlando Reeve flung himself in front of the instrument, his face now puce all over and his eyes bulging dangerously. He gabbled his plea for mercy but Nicholas brushed it aside. The book holder had come for information even if he had to smash everything in the cottage to get at it. Reeve finally capitulated.
‘I’ll tell you all,’ he said, panting and perspiring. ‘But you wrong me. I did not seek in any way the loss of your right to act at the Queen’s Head. Until this moment, I knew nothing of it. I simply obeyed a summons.’
‘From whom?’
Reeve took a deep breath. ‘Sir John Tarker. He saw the playbills for The Roaring Boy and sent me to enquire further into its substance. That’s all I did and all I would do, sir. I have no quarrel with Westfield’s Men.’
‘We have one with you.’
‘Sir John forced me to go.’
‘On both occasions?’
‘The second only. The play was Mirth and Madness.’
‘What of your first visit?’
‘That was prompted by…another source.’
‘I want his name.’
‘He will never forgive me if I part with it. The man has been my patron for many years. I would not betray him.’
‘Choose between them,’ said Nicholas, holding his fist over the instrument again. ‘His name or your virginals.’