The Guildhall rejoiced. The mayor joined in the guffaws at Barnaby Gill while his wife fell quietly in love with Lawrence Firethorn. Those in the chairs applauded, those on the benches stamped their feet and those standing at the back did both simultaneously while yelling their approval. Some of the wit went over the heads of the audience but there was still more than enough to turn the event into a rollicking entertainment. Even the miller enjoyed it in the early stages. As the play neared its end, however, he seemed to lose interest very abruptly and dropped off to sleep. His head fell first on his wife’s shoulder and then, when she shook him off, onto the neck of the man in front of him. While everyone else was convulsed with laughter, the fleshy young man was snoring.
His immediate neighbour ignored him at first. Though he was there for a more sinister reason, he nevertheless enjoyed the play. He was especially impressed with the performance of Barnaby Gill and could not take his eyes off the actor. During the final scene, the hall was in darkness and the stage lit by candles and by the glow from the tarred rope, which burned in its bowls to give off a noisome smell. The snoring miller fell gently against the man with the raven-black beard, who instantly prodded him away. The jolt did not wake him nor did the thunderous appreciation that followed the end of the play. Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill competed for the position at the centre of the stage, each convinced that he was the crowning success of the evening.
The assassin watched Gill closely as the actor gave a deep bow and blew kisses to his public, but the man’s attention was soon torn away. Snoring louder than ever, the miller fell against his neighbour yet again but his hand was not asleep. With practised stealth, it closed on the man’s purse and felt the weight of its prize before pulling it gently away. The pickpocket was too slow. A grip of steel grabbed his wrist. His eyelids lifted in horror.
Lawrence Firethorn drained the applause to the last drop then took his company into the tiring-house to shower congratulations on them. The evening had been an unqualified triumph and all their setbacks had been submerged by five acts of frenzied comedy. Westfield’s Men had performed well and put an appreciable amount of money into their depleted coffers. They could now change out of their costumes and repair to the White Hart for a well-earned supper. Since the Guildhall would be locked, everything could be left there overnight until the performance on the morrow.
Barnaby Gill’s vanity needed even more stroking.
‘Did you recognise my performance, Lawrence?’
Firethorn groaned. ‘It was gruesomely familiar.’
‘I based it on a model.’
‘It was certainly based on no human being.’
‘Alexander Marwood.’
‘Do not soil your tongue with that poisonous name.’
‘I was a discontented innkeeper to the life.’
‘Leave the theatre and embrace your true profession.’
Edmund Hoode interposed himself between them and the banter soon died away. Firethorn was happy now that he had once more made Gill malcontent.
The spectators filed out of the hall with buzzing memories of the evening’s entertainment. Some recalled the jokes, others the comic songs and one even tried to mimic the steps of Doctor Blackthought’s manic jig. Nicholas Bracewell gave them a few minutes then ventured out. Only one person remained in the audience, slumped in his chair and quite impervious to the general departure. The book holder moved across to wake him before the actors saw the man. Sleep was adverse criticism. Firethorn and Gill would round on anyone who dared to slumber during one of their performances.
‘Awake, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are all done.’
The man did not move. Ruddy features were now white.
‘The play is over, sir. You must leave.’
Nicholas looked closer and half-recognised him.
‘Wake up, sir. You may not sleep here.’
The book holder shook him with some vigour but the man was well beyond waking. His head lolled sideways and he flopped down onto the floor. When Nicholas knelt down beside him, he saw who the man was. A change of garb and cap had turned the erstwhile William Pocock into a Wiltshire miller. The man had been stabbed so expertly through the heart that death had been instantaneous. Blood had welled up beneath his doublet and left a huge red stain on the material, but none of the spectators had seen it in the half-dark of the Guildhall. In the midst of their hilarity, one of their number had been callously murdered.
Nicholas Bracewell not only recognised Israel Gunby’s accomplice. The killer’s handiwork bore a signature as well. Nicholas had seen it already on the arm of Owen Elias. He paid the tribute of a small prayer for the soul of the dead man then he felt a shiver of alarm.
The assassin had struck again.
Chapter Eight
Barnstaple was the largest town in north Devon. Proud of its history and secure in soul, it had been a borough and market centre since Saxon times. Its corporation ruled primarily in the interests of its merchant members, whose main wealth came from coastal and foreign trade. There was silting in the River Taw but the town that sat on it remained the leading port in the area. The neighbouring Bideford was located on the deeper and straighter River Torridge, while Appledore enjoyed deep-water anchorage near the confluence of the two rivers, yet neither of these — in spite of their greater natural advantages — could compete with Barnstaple.
The house in Crock Street was one of the biggest in the town, but it reflected the prosperity and status of its owner in a most unassuming way. Built on a corner, its frontage was comparatively narrow but its total depth ran to almost a hundred and forty feet. Its ground floor consisted of two blocks of building separated by a courtyard, the front block containing a shop, a parlour and a small buttery while the back block comprised the kitchen, larder, main buttery and a small brewhouse. Behind the kitchen block was a Great Court, on either side of which was the warehouse. Stables with hayloft above completed the ground floor.
Nowithstanding its size, it did not in any way dominate but instead fitted quietly into its place and allowed other properties to nestle right up to it and draw from its strength. It rose to a height of four storeys. On the first floor was the hall or main living room of the dwelling, with a small counting-house leading off it. The principal bedrooms were on the second floor, directly above the hall. The fore-chamber overlooked the street by means of handsome mullioned windows, which gave a curiously distorted view of nearby West Gate and the adjacent Chapel of St Nicholas. From the upper storey, the shape and development of the greater part of the town could be seen. Over the top of West Gate, it was also possible to glimpse the ships sailing past on the River Taw and to understand the very essence of Barnstaple.
The woman who sat alone in the fore-chamber showed no inclination to explore the various views that her house offered. Her eyes could only look inward. She sat motionless in a chair with an open Bible lying unread in her lap. Mary Whetcombe wore the dark and seemly apparel of a grieving widow, but the death of her husband, recent as it was, had not scarred her pale beauty. If anything, it had been enhanced by tragedy. The small, heart-shaped face that was framed by the well-groomed dark hair was given a forlorn charm it had never possessed before. Even in her mourning dress, her shapely body retained its appeal. Mary Whetcombe carried thirty years and more with surprising lightness. She was a slim, elegant woman of middle height who had sustained many blows from fate, but they left almost no marks upon her. Suffering was somehow contained within where its pain was more acute but its damage less visible.