Nicholas did not need to look again at Anne Hendrik’s sketch of the man. It was fixed clearly in his mind. He had learnt something else about his adversary now. He was a Devonian. Only a local man would have known that Nicholas Bracewell’s apprenticeship as a merchant entailed a three-month stay in Bristol. Wise Street and Meek Row would be meaningless names to most of the inhabitants of the city. Someone who had worked in and around the port would know them, however, and the man had banked on that knowledge. The killer might even be from Barnstaple. It would explain why he had been selected to intercept the messenger to London.
He was close to the harbour now and his steps slowed involuntarily. From this point on, the utmost vigilance was needed. Having drawn him out of the inn, the man might well have laid an ambush. Nicholas jerked the poniard down inside his sleeve so that its handle could be flicked into his palm in a split second. He kept to the middle of each thoroughfare so that he could not be jumped on from any doorway or recess.
Wise Street eventually stood before him. Some of the warehouses were already opening and several people were arriving for work. Meek Row was at the far end. There was a building at the junction of the two, and Nicholas saw at once why it had been chosen. It was a small warehouse, but part of it had been gutted by fire and it had no roof. Doors and windows were boarded up but there were gaps between the timbers where a man could easily squeeze through. It was the ideal place to hold a hostage. Nobody would search for him amid the debris of a burnt-out property, and the location gave the man holding him three possible exits. He could come out into Wise Street, into Meek Row or into the courtyard at the rear of the building then vanish into a veritable maze.
Nicholas walked around the warehouse twice before he ventured in. One of the timbers had been torn away from the door at the rear and this was his entrance. He came into the main body of the warehouse and scrunched his way over the charred remains of its stock. When he was in open space in the middle of the area, a voice rang out.
‘Stay there!’
Nicholas halted. He had been right. The voice had a distant echo of Barnstaple. He was up against a fellow Devonian. He tried to work out where the man was hiding.
‘Throw down your weapons!’ ordered Lamparde.
‘When I see Master Gill.’
‘Throw down your weapons or I’ll kill him now.’
‘Prove to me that he is still alive.’
There was a long pause and Nicholas began to fear that the man had carried out his threat. A dragging sound then fixed his gaze on the door to the other part of the warehouse. Still bound and gagged, Barnaby Gill was being hauled unceremoniously through the debris. He looked across at Nicholas Bracewell with eyes that were bulging with fear and panic. Gill was alive but harrowed by his ordeal.
‘Throw down your weapons!’ repeated the man.
‘How do I know you won’t kill both of us?’
‘This idiot is of no interest to me,’ said Lamparde as he kicked the prone figure. ‘And I keep a bargain.’
Nicholas Bracewell took the full measure of the man who had stalked him so relentlessly. After two murders and two attempts on his own life, he was finally face-to-face with him. Anne Hendrik’s drawing had a flimsy accuracy but it caught nothing of the man’s menace. The missing earring was now back in place and the beard was positively glistening.
The man drew a sword and held it to Gill’s chest.
‘You have one more chance to throw down your weapons.’
Gill writhed around on the ground but the sword was still aimed at his heart. He stared up at the man with whom he had entrusted his most intimate secret. Betrayal at such a moment and in such a place was totally unbearable.
Nicholas tossed his rapier and dagger to the ground.
‘Step towards us!’ ordered the man then stopped him again when he was well clear of his weapons. ‘Take off your jerkin!’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Take it off so that I may see you have no concealed weapons.’ His sword touched Gill’s chest again. ‘Now!’
Nicholas obeyed. He was now only ten yards away from them but twice that distance from his sword and dagger. There was no hope of reaching his rapier in time to tackle the man on equal terms. He took off the jerkin with great care, first removing his left arm then letting the garment drop down his back before peeling it down his other arm. Nicholas now held it over the wrist of his right hand to cover the poniard. Spreading his arms wide, he exposed his shirt and belt.
‘Turn round!’ said Lamparde. ‘Turn slowly!’
Keeping his arms out, Nicholas rotated his body and took a firmer grip on the handle of the poniard. It was soon needed. With his prey now apparently at his mercy, Lamparde lunged forward to cut him down with his rapier, but Nicholas was ready for him. Swinging on his heel, he flung the jerkin around the end of the blade and deflected its viciousness. At the same time, he brought the poniard flashing up to slash at his assailant’s doublet and open up the sleeve. Blood gushed out and Lamparde let out a cry of indignation. He pulled his sword free and lunged again but the swinging jerkin was this time thrown into his face. His own dagger once again drew blood, cutting across his sword hand and forcing him to drop the weapon.
Nicholas flung himself upon the man and knocked him to the ground, but Lamparde was a powerful man in any brawl. He grabbed the wrist which held the poniard and applied such brute strength that he turned the point of the weapon towards Nicholas’s face. As they rolled and grappled on the ground, the book holder saw the poniard moving inexorably closer and aimed at his eye. To release the dagger from his grasp would be to yield his weapon but it had been turned against him with such force that he was finding it hard to resist. Pretending to fight against the downward pressure, he suddenly gave in to it and twisted his head sharply to the left, allowing the poniard to sink harmlessly into the ground and throwing his assailant off balance.
A well-placed knee and a roll of the shoulder sent Lamparde off him and Nicholas leapt to his feet with the dagger turned on him. Lamparde dived for his rapier but a heavy foot got first to the blade. The man was not finished yet. Scooping up a handful of blackened debris, he threw it in his adversary’s face and gained a precious moment to get up and flee towards the doorway. Nicholas wiped the dust from his eyes then gathered up the rapier. When he got to Barnaby Gill, he used the latter to slice through the cord that held his hands then left him the weapon to cut through the rest of his bonds. He himself went through the door into the other part of the warehouse.
Fire damage had been less extensive here and many of the old beams still stood. Down one wall was a series of bays where the goods had been stacked. Boxes and huge piles of old sacks offered further hiding places. Nicholas was back on equal terms again. The man would certainly have a dagger and his prowess with the weapon had already been shown. As Nicholas crept along the wall of the warehouse, he knew that the first thrust would be decisive. One mistake would be fatal.
Lamparde was motionless. Incensed by his wounds, he was determined to kill Nicholas for sheer pleasure now. He tried hard to control his laboured breathing. All he had to do was to wait behind the thick wooden beam and his target would present itself. Through a chink in the timber, he could see Nicholas approaching. The advantage had swung his way again. To poison a girl had given him no real satisfaction and to stab a pickpocket during a play was a reflex act of revenge. This would be different. He would slowly cut the life out of Nicholas Bracewell.
Moving carefully in a crouched position, Nicholas looked down and saw the spots of blood on the ground. The man was somewhere in front of him. He got closer and closer to the beam that concealed his enemy but did not sense the danger at first. It was only when he was almost level with the hiding place that something made him pause. He sniffed the air. Leonard had spoken about a smell and the serving wench in Marlborough has noticed it as well. Nicholas identified it again. Oil of bergamot. A sickly sweet fragrance for a man who set such great store by his appearance that he courted the looking glass every day. The aroma was quite unmistakable and it saved Nicholas’s life.