It all served to increase the sense of guilt that Nicholas felt about the fire itself. Though he could not have foreseen the freak gust of wind that turned the glowing coals into a lethal inferno, it had been his idea to place the lighted brazier onstage in the final scene, and none of the praise that was afterwards heaped upon him for his bravery could hide the fact that he was somehow obscurely responsible for the disaster. Since he had inadvertently brought about the loss of the company’s venue, he vowed that he would restore it to them when the renovations were complete. That would entail more delicate restoration, the careful rebuilding of a relationship with the irascible landlord, and such work could not be rushed. In the short term, therefore, everything must be done to appease Alexander Marwood and all trace of his despised tenants removed from the premises.
When Nicholas and Hugh Wegges finished, they loaded their baskets on to a waiting cart to make a stealthy exit, but their secret visit to the inn did not go unnoticed.
‘Master Bracewell!’
‘Good day, sir,’ said Nicholas, throwing the words over his shoulder and eager to leave. ‘We must hurry.’
‘But I have news for you.’
The amiable voice made him turn and he saw a welcome face approaching. It belonged to Leonard, a huge, waddling barrel of a man with a beard still flecked with the foam of his last draught of ale. They were good friends, who had been drawn together while imprisoned in the Counter, and it was Nicholas who had secured Leonard’s employment at the Queen’s Head. The erstwhile brewer’s drayman had much to thank him for and did so on a regular basis with touching sincerity.
‘I did not know you were here,’ said Leonard.
‘It is but a brief visit,’ explained Nicholas, ‘and we would keep all knowledge of it from a certain landlord.’
‘He shall hear nothing from me.’
‘Thank you, Leonard.’
‘I have shielded your good name once already today.’
‘How so?’
‘By speaking to the youth.’
‘What youth?’
‘The one enquiring after Master Nicholas Bracewell. He came into the taproom this very hour, worn out by travel and by the weight of the message he bore.’
‘Message?’
‘It was for you, sir, and needed instant delivery.’
‘What did you tell this youth?’
‘Well,’ said Leonard, putting his hands on his broad hips to relate his tale, ‘my first task was to drag him away from Master Marwood, for when the young man spoke of you, my employer began to curse you and your company with such an uncivil tongue that you might have ravished his wife and run off with his daughter, Rose.’ Leonard chortled then he grew serious. ‘I took the youth aside and assured him of your worth, then — seeing his honesty — I gave him the address of your lodging in Bankside. I hope I did right, master.’
‘You did, Leonard. You say there was a message?’
‘I judged it to be important because it had come on such a long journey. It was his way of speaking, you see.’
‘Way of speaking?’
‘The youth. His voice was just like yours.’
Leonard tried to mimic his friend’s West Country accent, but his unskilled tongue mangled the consonants and tripped over the vowels. He shrugged an apology but he had made his point. Someone from North Devon had come in search of his friend. Nicholas sensed trouble. He thanked Leonard for his news, told Hugh Wegges to drive the cart and its cargo out to Shoreditch then took his leave of them both. He went out into Gracechurch Street and headed towards the river, dodging his way along the crowded thoroughfare and wondering what bad tidings were now pursuing him from the home that he had decisively turned his back on so many years ago.
Anne Hendrik was alarmed when her servant brought the youth in to her. The boy was bent almost double as he clutched at his midriff and yet he would not hear of any relief for his distress. His one concern was to deliver a message to her lodger. When Anne suggested that she might take charge of the missive until Nicholas returned, the youth explained that he had no letter to hand over. His was a verbal message, but he went off into such a fit of coughing that Anne doubted if he would be in a condition to utter it. She and her servant guided the visitor up to Nicholas’s chamber and made him rest on the bed. The servant was then dispatched to fetch a surgeon to the Bankside house. Anne was a compassionate woman who hated to see anyone in such pain, but when she tried to nurse the stricken messenger, she was once more waved away. Desperately ill as he clearly was, the youth still refused to be touched and begged to be left alone until Nicholas Bracewell came home.
Bankside was notorious for its haunts of pleasure and vice, but Anne Hendrik represented one of the pockets of respectability in the area. The English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she had inherited his house, his thriving little business in the adjacent premises and his positive attitude towards life. Instead of mourning his demise, therefore, she took over the management of the business and worked hard to improve its fortunes. She also took in a lodger — largely to provide a modicum of male company — but the relationship between them had developed well beyond the accepted one. In Nicholas Bracewell, she found an upright, caring and sensitive man, and he saw in her a handsome, intelligent and remarkable woman. They were kindred spirits and occasional lovers.
Nicholas had been enormously helpful to her and his solid presence had been a convenient refuge from the unwanted attentions of other admirers. Anne had never felt more in need of him than now. A sick youth was babbling his name as if he were some kind of saviour. She wanted Nicholas there to take control of the situation, to give succour to the ailing visitor and to calm the unsettling thoughts that were beginning to flit through her own mind. Even in their most intimate moments, Nicholas never talked about his life in his native Devon. It was a closed book to Anne. This youth had staggered in to open the pages of that book and she was not at all sure that she would enjoy reading them.
There was a dull thud from upstairs that made her jump then start towards the stairs. At the same time, however, the latch was lifted and Nicholas Bracewell came hurrying in. Anne had an impulse to fling herself gratefully into his arms but she was somehow held back. The expression of mingled anxiety and remorse was one she had never seen on his countenance before. He was both lover and stranger now.
‘Did anyone call here for me?’ he said.
‘A young man. He is still here and failing fast.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In your chamber. I have sent for the surgeon.’
‘What has the youth said?’
‘He will speak to none but you, Nick.’
She stood aside as he dashed up the staircase then she hurried after him, but they were far too late. When they went into the bedchamber, the youthful caller lay twisted on the floor at an unnatural angle, the face pallid and contorted with agony. Nicholas felt for signs of life but there were none. He caught a whiff of something from the lips and bent low to inhale the sour odour more carefully.
‘Poison!’ he whispered.
‘May God have mercy on his soul!’
He stood to comfort her. ‘Come away, Anne.’
‘Leave me be.’
‘You should not dwell on such a sight.’
‘It is my house, Nick.’
‘This is villainous work.’
‘But the issue of it lies dead under my roof.’
‘There is nothing you may do here. Turn away.’
‘No!’
Wanting his embrace, she yet held up her palms to keep him away. Intuition overcame need. Anne Hendrik knew at that precise moment in time that a trusting relationship that had flowered over some years had changed irrevocably. He was no longer the man she thought she knew. Nicholas Bracewell inhabited another world and part of it lay sprawled out on the floor of the bedchamber like some dreadful accusation. He saw her consternation but could find no words of apology or explanation. Instead, he bent down again to make a closer examination of the corpse.