‘Matthew Whetcombe was a power in Barnstaple.’
‘So was Alice Livermore,’ said the merchant proudly. ‘A wife of mine commands the highest respect.’
‘No question but that she does.’
‘A hundred and nineteen pounds!’
‘I am to pay it out of the estate.’
‘Do so, Barnard. Obey her wishes.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘A hundred and nineteen pounds! It is a lot to pay for the funeral of a husband whom you hate.’
He studied the list again, lost in contemplation of its details and implications. Barnard Sweete tasted his wine and waited quietly. His host would not brook interruption. The lawyer had found that out before. The merchant class of Barnstaple was small, compact and closely interrelated by marriage. It was also riven by feuds and petty jealousies. Sweete made a handsome living by serving the mercantile community, but doing so compelled him to keep abreast of all developments — commercial or domestic — in the town. People trusted him. Known for his discretion, he was given access to intimate details of his client’s affairs and his retentive mind discarded none of them. Knowledge was money, and Barnard Sweete knew things that could deliver huge rewards.
Gideon Livermore at last put the list aside.
‘I must have her!’ he said covetously.
‘All things proceed in that direction.’
‘There must be no let or hindrance.’
‘You have the law on your side.’
‘And a cunning lawyer to interpret it.’ He gave a curt nod of gratitude. ‘I am a generous man, Barnard.’
‘I have always found it so.’
Livermore added a rider. ‘When I am pleased,’ he said.
‘You will have no cause for complaint.’
‘Good.’ He flicked a bloodshot eye once more at the paper. ‘One hundred and nineteen pounds! Matthew Whetcombe had all that spent on his funeral, yet it still could not buy him some honest tears from his wife. And what of the girl? Lucy Whetcombe could not even let out a cry of pain at her father’s passing. Fate is cruel. Matthew created all that wealth yet he could only produce one child, and she is such a poor monument to his manhood. The girl can neither hear nor speak. With her father in his grave, Lucy Whetcombe cannot even call out for her share of his inheritance.’
‘A strong voice is needed at such times,’ said the lawyer pointedly. ‘Silence can bring ruin.’
‘I rely on it.’
Gideon Livermore stood up and took his goblet across to the table to refill it from the glass decanter he had bought on a visit to Venice. He stared into the liquid for a second then drank it off in one draught. Barnard Sweete was certain that he would now be offered more wine, and he emptied his own goblet in readiness. But the invitation never came. There was a knock on the door and a young man entered with some urgency. He stopped when he saw the lawyer but Gideon Livermore beckoned him on. The two of them stood aside and the newcomer whispered rapidly to his employer.
Sensing trouble, the lawyer rose to his feet and watched his host in trepidation. The merchant’s rage needed no time to build. His geniality became a malign fury, and he reached out to grab the decanter before hurling it violently against the wall and sending shards of glass flying to every corner of the room. His clerk withdrew and closed the door behind him. Gideon Livermore turned to glower at his guest.
‘He is coming to Barnstaple,’ he rumbled.
‘Who?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘Heaven forfend!’ exclaimed the lawyer.
‘He is on his way here.’
‘But that cannot be.’
‘My information is always sound. I pay enough for it.’
‘Nicholas Bracewell! Did the message then reach him?’
‘The messenger did. Before she died.’
‘How much does he know?’
‘Enough to bring him to Barnstaple.’ He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘He must be stopped. We do not want a Bracewell meddling in our affairs, especially this member of the family. Bracewells are stubborn.’ Perspiration now glistened on his upper lip. ‘They have long memories.’
‘Can he be prevented?’ said Sweete.
‘He must be.’
‘How?’
‘By the same means.’
‘Lamparde?’
‘He will know what to do.’
‘Then why has he not already done it?’ said the lawyer nervously. ‘Why has Lamparde not honoured his contract? This alters the case completely. If Nicholas Bracewell were to come to as far as-’
‘He will not!’
‘But if he did …’
‘He will not!’ thundered the merchant. ‘Lamparde will not let us down. He values his own life, so he will not cross Gideon Livermore.’ His explosion of rage had reassured him. ‘Nicholas Bracewell will not get anywhere near us. We do wrong to have such foolish fears. We are safe and beyond his reach. Let us forget about him and his family.’
‘Yet he is still on his way, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘He travels with a theatre company.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Close to death.’
Nicholas Bracewell rode with them to the edge of the town and waved them off. He still had business in Marlborough and could soon overtake them on the roan. It was a spirited animal and a full day in the stable had made it restless for exercise. Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe off on the road to Chippenham. Westfield’s Men were still buoyed up by the success of their performance that afternoon, and they could look to repeat it in Bristol. Firethorn himself was torn between elation and disquiet. Though his company had twice distinguished themselves before an audience, he was worried by the interference of Israel Gunby. The incident at the Fighting Cocks in High Wycombe still rankled, all the more so because he had found no balm for that particular wound. He had spent three nights away from his wife now and found nobody to take her place in his bed. Black Antonio rarely failed to excite some female interest, and he had hoped to snatch a fond farewell in his chamber with some local maiden while the waggon was being loaded but it was not to be. The mayor had been thrilled with the second performance and would not stir from Firethorn’s side until he had explained why at least a dozen times. Guilt rustled beneath his mayoral chain. He spent so much time apologising to Firethorn for even thinking that he would wish to ravish another man’s wife that the other men’s wives who had come to throw themselves upon the actor could not get anywhere near him. Israel Gunby had come between Lawrence Firethorn and the spoils of war. Retribution was needed.
‘Why does he stay?’ asked Barnaby Gill.
‘Your visage offends his eye,’ said Firethorn.
‘What does Marlborough hold for Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘Go back and ask him.’
‘No,’ said Gill, ‘I will give thanks for this small mercy and put distance between the two of us. I said that he would bring more misery down upon us and he did.’
‘Yes,’ teased Firethorn, ‘he persuaded me to stage The Happy Malcontent and we had two hours of your strutting and fretting.’
‘I was supreme.’
‘It escaped my notice.’
‘But not that of the spectators.’ Gill preened himself as they rode along. ‘They loved me. I could feel the ardour. My talents left them breathless. I was inspired.’
‘Feed off your vanity, if you will. Caress your own sweet self. But do not accuse Nick.’
‘He killed that man in the audience.’
‘How? With a prompt book in his hands?’
‘Consider but this, Lawrence. Three days on the road have brought three disasters. Robbery, plague, murder. That is our book holder’s record. Robbery, plague, murder. Zounds! What more do you need?’
‘Women!’
‘When Nicholas is with us, misfortune strikes,’ said Gill. ‘He is like some Devil’s mark upon us. Let him stay in Marlborough as long as he may. We need no more stabbing among the spectators.’