‘Then you must retire, Barnaby,’ said the other, ‘for your performances are daggers in the back of any audience.’
Barnaby Gill sulked on horseback for another mile.
They were approaching a tiny hamlet when they saw him. He was propped up against a tree by the side of the road. Even from a distance, they could see his tattered rags and wretched condition. The twisted figure was one of the vast and ever-increasing number of vagrants who wandered the countryside in search of charity. Rogues and vagabonds were a recurring nuisance to Marlborough and the town beadle was paid twopence for each one that he whipped. This old man had crawled to one of the outlying hamlets to escape yet another beating and to throw himself on the mercy of passing travellers. When they got nearer, they saw the matted hair and clogged filth of a creature who spent his nights in the fields with other wild animals. One eye was closed, the other sparkled hopefully as they approached. A begging bowl came out from beneath his shredded coat. They caught his stench from twenty yards away.
Edmund Hoode put a compassionate hand into his purse.
‘Poor fellow!’ he said. ‘Let’s give him comfort.’
‘No,’ counselled Gill. ‘Give to him and you will have to give to every beggar we pass. There is not enough money in the whole kingdom to relieve all these scabs.’
‘Show some pity, Barnaby.’
‘Ignore the fellow and ride past.’
‘Leave him to me,’ said Firethorn.
He raised a hand and the company came to a halt. They looked down at the old man with frank disgust. He was in a most deplorable state and did not even have strength or sense to drag himself into the shade. There was a further cause for revulsion. The beggar seemed to have only one leg.
The bowl was shaken up at them.
‘Alms, good people!’ cried a quavering voice. ‘Alms!’
‘Why?’ said Firethorn coldly.
‘For the love of God!’
‘Beggars are no more than highway robbers.’
‘I seek charity, sir.’
‘For what reason?’
‘To live.’
‘Men who wish to live must work.’
‘I am too old and too weak, sir.’
‘Are you so?’
‘I lost a leg in the service of my country.’
‘You were a soldier, then?’ mocked Firethorn.
‘A sailor, sir. I was young and lusty once. But a man without a leg grows old so quickly. Give me a penny, sir, to buy some bread. Give me twopence and you’ll have my blessing hereafter. Please, good people! Help me!’
Edmund Hoode was about to throw a coin into the bowl but it was kicked from the man’s hand by Lawrence Firethorn. Dismounting at once, the actor-manager drew his sword and held it at the man’s neck. The whole company gasped at what they saw as an act of wanton cruelty.
‘This is no beggar!’ said Firethorn angrily. ‘This is the same vile rascal who fleeced us in High Wycombe. The same mangy old shepherd who played with us on the road from Oxford. The same slanderous villain who wrote letters to blacken my reputation.’ He flashed his rapier through the air and the beggar retreated into a bundle of fear. ‘Here is no honest wretch, gentleman. A sailor, does he say! This dunghill has never served his country in his life. He does not fool Lawrence Firethorn. He will not hide his leg from me and swear he lost it in a battle on the waves. I will not be beguiled again!’ He grabbed the man by his hair to hoist him up. ‘Behold, sirs! This is Israel Gunby!’
There was a groan of horror. As the beggar was lifted from the ground, his deformity became all too apparent. The hideous stump made the company turn away. The man was not Israel Gunby in a new role designed to taunt them. He was a decaying remnant of the young sailor he had once been.
Lawrence Firethorn was overwhelmed with guilt. He put the man gently to the ground and set him against the tree once more. Grabbing the bowl, he dropped some coins into it before taking it around the entire company. Instead of being killed by the actor-manager, the beggar now had enough money to feed himself for a fortnight. He croaked his thanks. Westfield’s Men rode away in a cloud of shame and remorse.
It took him an hour to find the inn. Nicholas Bracewell had reasoned correctly. Convinced that the man would have taken lodging for the night in Marlborough, he went around every hostelry in the town. The portrait that Anne Hendrik had sent him was shown to a dozen or more innkeepers before he found one who vaguely recognised it.
‘It could be him,’ said the man uncertainly.
‘When did he arrive?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Yesterday morning before noon.’
‘Did he stay the night?’
‘He paid for a bed, sir. But when the chamberlain went up this morning, it had not been slept in. Nor was the man’s horse in our stables. He must have stolen away.’
Nicholas pondered. The man who was trailing him must have intended to bide his time and stay the night before he attacked again. During the performance at the Guildhall, he had killed Israel Gunby’s accomplice and been forced to quit the town at speed. Nicholas had no doubt which direction the man had taken. He was somewhere on the road ahead. His task was to stop the book holder from reaching Barnstaple and he would stick to it with tenacity.
‘Nan may help you, sir,’ said the landlord.
‘Nan?’
‘One of my serving wenches. She was taken with the man, which is no great thing, sir, for Nan has a soft spot for any upright gentleman.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I’ve warned her that it will be the ruin of her one day but the girl will not listen and she is popular with travellers.’
‘May I speak with her?’
‘I’ll call her presently.’
The landlord went out of the taproom and reappeared a few minutes later with the girl. She wore the plain garb and apron of her calling but had teased down the shoulders of her dress to expose her neck and cleavage. When a man sent for her, she always came with a ready smile, and it broadened when she saw the tall, sturdy figure of Nicholas Bracewell. He showed her the drawing and she identified it at once. She was certain that the man had lodged there on the previous day and spoke with some asperity about him. The only false detail in the sketch was the earring. He had not worn it when he stayed there.
‘Did he give a name?’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the landlord, ‘but I have forgot it. We have so many travellers through here each day that I cannot remember more than a handful of their names. But if it is important, I can ask my wife.’
‘Please do.’
‘Her memory is sounder than mine.’
‘She would earn my deepest gratitude.’
Nicholas asked for permission to see the bedchamber where the man had stayed. While the landlord went off to find his wife, the girl conducted Nicholas up two flights of creaking stairs to a low passageway. She moved along it with the easy familiarity of someone who could — and had done so on many occasions — find her way along it in the dark. She came to a door and unlocked it.
‘Here it is, sir,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
‘It is just as he left it.’
‘Has the linen been changed?’
‘There was no need. It was not slept in.’
Nicholas looked around the room. Nothing had been left behind, but there was the possibility that the visitor had lain down to rest. He may not have slept in the bed, but his head may have rested on its flat pillow. Anne Hendrik’s letter had contained a verbal description of the man to support the rough portrait. Leonard had talked about the man’s ‘smell’, though he could be no more specific than that. Nicholas bent over the bed and sniffed. He inhaled the faintest whisper of a fragrance.
‘He did smell sweet,’ said the girl. ‘That’s what I liked about him. Most travellers have foul breath and stink of sweat but not this one. It was a pretty smell and I would like some for myself. What was it, sir?’
Nicholas inhaled again. ‘Oil of bergamot.’
In his two encounters with the man, he had not had time to notice any fragrance. The musty atmosphere in the stable at the Fighting Cocks would subdue any sweeter odour and the scuffle at the Dog and Bear was over in seconds. What Nicholas had missed, both Leonard and the serving wench had remarked. He thanked the girl and slipped her a few pence. She stole a giggling kiss as further reward then took him back downstairs. The landlord had still not returned and Nicholas stepped out into the yard while he was waiting. Fresh air hit him like a slap across the face and forced realisation upon him.