‘When did Matthew Whetcombe die?’
‘A month or two back, sir. Maybe more.’
‘What was the cause of his death?’
‘Plague, pox and sweating sickness.’ He spat into the wind. ‘At least, it would have been if I’d had my choice of his going. I’d have bound the villain in chains and used him as my anchor, so I would, excepting that I’ve too much respect for Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple to have him hanging from it.’
‘You did not like the man, I see,’ said Nicholas with cool understatement. ‘What dealings did you have with him?’
‘None, sir, and that’s the rub!’
‘You sought employment?’
‘I deserved it!’ ranted the sailor. ‘There’s no more experienced a seaman along the Devon coast than me. When he was looking for a new master of the Mary, he should have looked no further than me, but he scorned my claim, sir. He said I was too old! Old! Ha! I’m young enough to drop a turd on his coffin the next time I go past!’
The narrative broke down into a welter of expletives and Nicholas had time to assimilate the facts he had so far managed to glean. Matthew Whetcombe had been immensely wealthy but that wealth was based not so much on legitimate trade as on privateering. Nobody appreciated the hypocrisy that underlay that word more than Nicholas Bracewell because he had sailed under one of the most celebrated privateers in England. Letters of marque had given Francis Drake, and many others like him, a licence to indulge in piracy. In the five years since the Spanish Armada, privateering had been particularly rewarding and Matthew Whetcombe had been one of its beneficiaries.
In 1590 the Mary had sailed over the bar with a full crew and a fine array of cannon. After a raid on a foreign vessel off the coast of Guinea, she returned to harbour with a prize that kept the whole town in a state of excitement for a week. Four chests of gold were unloaded from its hold along with a basket of jewellery. The total value of the haul was almost fifteen thousand pounds, a fortune which elevated Matthew Whetcombe above the wealth of any of his contemporaries. Though he boasted that the money had been made in trade, it was the fruit of naked piracy. Letters of marque were no more than a legalised skull and crossbones.
To stop the captain’s wild fulminations, Nicholas moved him to an allied subject. He gritted his teeth before asking the question but he had to learn the truth sooner or later.
‘Have you heard tell of one Robert Bracewell?’
‘I might have done some years ago.’
‘Is he then dead as well?’ said Nicholas in surprise.
‘Oh, no, sir. Fallen on hard times, I think.’ He removed his cap to scratch his head with cracked fingernails. ‘My mind is not what it used to be but I do recall the name. Let me think now. It will come.’ Eventually it did and he replaced his cap to mark the event. ‘Robert Bracewell, eh? Was not he one of the merchants who exported kersey and baize to France?’
‘That was him.’
‘I have him now. His ship would bring back flax and hempen cloths from Rouen and St Malo.’ The sailor nodded. ‘’Tis the same man but not with the same trade. He works only in a small way on the quayside.’
‘He had two sons,’ prompted Nicholas.
‘That was part of his tragedy, sir. The younger fell out with him and went off to live in Exeter. He is a merchant there himself, I do believe, and is well clear of his father.’
‘And the other son?’
‘He broke his father’s old heart.’ The captain had more grasp on the tale now. ‘This other lad went off to Plymouth to sail with Drake. He never returned. Gallant Sir Francis is a great seaman, no doubt of that, but he lost far too many men on his voyage. I’d keep a keener eye on my crew. If I’d taken the Mary around the world, I’d not have lost a single man. I should have been master of that ship.’
He chuntered on but Nicholas was not listening. He was still absorbing what he had just heard. Robert Bracewell had lied yet again. To explain the disappearance and continued absence of his son, he invented a death at sea for him in some distant part of the globe. It was his father’s way of coping with the problem. He simply killed his elder son off.
The Gabriel made good speed along the coast and Nicholas was no idle passenger. When sail needed to be trimmed, he worked alongside the crew. When navigational skills were called for, he weighed in with friendly advice. The captain found him a tidy seaman and even let him take the wheel for a time. It was a costly treat. Though Nicholas enjoyed his moment at the helm, he had to listen to yet another barrage of moans from the captain. Sailors were like fishermen. The ship which got away from them was like the monster salmon which just escaped their clutches. This man could never have commanded a ship as large or as difficult to sail as the Mary but he would nurse his grievance for the rest of his days. The captain of Le Gabryelle de Barnstaple was lashed to the mast of his dreams.
Contrary winds obliged them to tack as they sailed past Ilfracombe but they found a kinder passage once they had come round the promontory and struck due south. Barnstaple Bay finally crept up on the horizon and Nicholas experienced the sudden joy of the sailor, catching a first glimpse of home after a long and tedious voyage. When he thought of what awaited him in the town, joy became apprehension. For one last time, he trespassed on the captain’s prejudice.
‘Did Matthew Whetcombe leave a family?’ he said.
‘Indeed, sir,’ replied the other. ‘A pretty wife and a slip of a daughter.’
‘Only one child?’
‘You may well ask, sir. I’ve six myself and few of the merchants in Barnstaple have less than three or four. But not Matthew Whetcombe.’ He gave a rasping chuckle. ‘The curse I put on him must have worked. The rogue could only bring one girl into the world and she was so half-made that he would never be seen with her in the street.’
‘Half-made?’
‘Deaf and dumb, sir.’
‘Poor child!’
‘Poor child, rich mother.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The wife, sir. He named his ship after her.’
‘I gathered that,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘Mary. Her name is Mary Whetcombe. He was blessed in his wife.’
‘Blessings now fall on her,’ said the captain. ‘She will have ship and houses and fortune and all. This is a rare woman. I’ll wager that Mary Whetcombe is the richest widow in Devon. She’ll have more suitors around her than flies around a cow’s arse in summertime.’ He gave Nicholas a confiding nudge. ‘Are you looking to get married, sir?’
He timed his visit perfectly. Barnard Sweete was shown into the hall of the house in Crock Street fifteen minutes after Arthur Calmady. The vicar had unloaded his daily shipment of condolence and read to her from the Bible. Mary Whetcombe was in a receptive mood. She made no protest when the lawyer was shown in by the maidservant.
‘I apologise for coming so early,’ he said. ‘I did not wish to intrude upon you and the vicar.’
‘We were almost done,’ said the vicar solemnly. ‘I will leave you alone with Mistress Whetcombe.’
‘Stay!’ said Sweete.
‘You will wish to discuss business.’
‘Your presence will advance it.’
‘Then I obey.’
The vicar sat back in his chair with the readiness of a man who was not in any case going to stir from it. He had already been warned that he would have to remain but Mary Whetcombe was too numbed to realise this. Eye signals which passed between her two visitors went unnoticed by her. With the Church and the law shutting her in, she felt trapped.