A touch of his old belligerence still clung to him.
‘What do you want?’ he growled.
‘I’ve come to see you.’
‘We want no visitors. Who are you?’
‘Nicholas.’
‘Who?’
‘Your son.’
Robert Bracewell glared at him with more intensity then waved his hand. ‘I have no son called Nicholas,’ he said. ‘He sailed with Drake and was lost at sea. Nicholas is dead. Do not mock me, sir. Go your way and leave me alone.’
He stepped back and tried to close the door but his son was too quick for him. Nicholas got a shoulder to the timber and held it open. Their faces were now only inches away. The belligerence turned to an almost childlike curiosity.
‘Nicholas? Is it really you?’
‘We must speak, Father.’
Robert Bracewell became suddenly embarrassed and began to apologise for his humble circumstances. He led Nicholas into the long, dank room which occupied almost the whole of the ground floor of the house. The old woman lurked at the far end. When she saw them coming, she sneaked off into the scullery and shut the door after her. The furniture was better than such a dwelling could have expected and Nicholas recognised several pieces from the old house in Boutport Street. A cane-backed chair kindled special memories. His mother had nursed him in it. Robert Bracewell now dropped into it with the heaviness of a man who did not mean to stir from it for a very long time. Nicholas had already caught the aroma of drink. He now saw that his father’s hands had a permanent shake to them.
‘Sit down, sit down, Nick,’ said his father.
‘Thank you.’ He found an upright chair.
‘Why have you come to Barnstaple?’
‘I was sent for, Father.’
‘Mary Whetcombe?’
‘I called on her yesterday.’
Robert Bracewell nodded and appraised his elder son with mingled pride and fear. They had parted in anger. There was still a sharp enmity hanging between them.
‘Where do you live now?’
‘London.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I work for a theatre company.’
‘Theatre?’ His nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘You belong to one of those troupes of strolling players? Like those we used to see in Barnstaple in the summer?’
‘Westfield’s Men are a licensed company.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It would take too long to explain,’ said Nicholas.
‘Actors? No. That’s no fit way for a man to live.’
‘Nor is this, father.’
The rejoinder slipped out before Nicholas could stop it and it clearly hurt Robert Bracewell. He drew himself up in his chair and his jaw tightened. He waved a trembling hand.
‘This is my home, lad,’ he warned. ‘Do not insult it.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Had you stayed, I might not now be in this state.’
‘You drove me away.’
‘That’s a lie, Nick!’
‘You drove Peter away as well.’
‘Your brother was different.’
‘We were ashamed of you.’
‘Stop!’
Robert Bracewell slapped the flat of both hands down on the arms of the chair. Anger brought him to life. His back straightened and his head was held erect. The resemblance to his son was suddenly quite strong and it disturbed Nicholas to be reminded of it. The old man’s yell made the door to the scullery open for the woman to peer in before withdrawing again with a hurt expression. His father was shaking with quiet fury now and that would not further Nicholas’s purpose. He tried to placate the old man with a softer tone.
‘We need your help,’ he said.
‘We?’
‘Mary Whetcombe and I.’
A note of disbelief. ‘You came back for her?’
‘A messenger summoned me from London.’
‘Mary would never even look at you now.’
‘Yes, she would.’
‘After the way you let her down …’
‘We talked for a long while at her house.’
‘She despises you!’
Robert Bracewell had always been forthright and it was a habit that made him few real friends. Nicholas and his brother had an abrasive upbringing. Their father loved them after his own fashion, but he was blunt about what he considered to be their faults. Nicholas wondered how his mother had put up with her husband for so long. Robert Bracewell had not spared his wife. She had suffered the worst of his cruel candour. She had also endured his other vices until their combined weight had crushed the life out of her. Nicholas thought about her lying in the churchyard and resolved to get through the business of his visit before riding away from his father for ever.
‘What brought you, Nick?’
‘Matthew Whetcombe’s will.’
‘That is no concern of yours.’
‘I have made it so.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the messenger who came to London was murdered before the message was delivered to me. They tried to stop me from getting to Barnstaple. I was attacked by the same man.’ Nicholas paused. ‘He now lies dead in Bristol.’
‘You killed him?’ The old man was shocked.
‘Defending myself.’
‘Who was the rogue?’
‘His name was Lamparde.’
‘Adam Lamparde?’
‘You know the man?’
‘I did at one time,’ recalled his father. ‘Lamparde was a sailor. A Tiverton man by birth. A good seaman, too, who could have looked to have his own vessel one day. But he was too fond of a brawl. A man was killed in a tavern one night. Lamparde disappeared. They say he made for London.’
‘Which ship did he sail in?’
‘The Endeavour. She was only twenty tons, but she flew between Barnstaple and Brittany like a bird on the wing.’
‘Who owned the vessel?’
‘Two or three. Gideon Livermore among them.’
‘His name guided me here.’
The old man snarled. ‘Livermore is offal!’
‘He stands to inherit the bulk of Whetcombe’s estate.’
‘Let him. What care I?’
‘You were a witness to the man’s will.’
‘Yes,’ said the other with a sigh of regret. ‘I could speak to Matthew in those days, visit his house, discuss all manner of business, mix with his friends.’
‘You saw that will, Father.’
‘I would not have signed it else.’
‘What did it say?’
‘That is a private matter.’
‘You may save Mary, if you can tell us. She is cut out by the new will. Gideon Livermore seizes all. I do not believe that that was Matthew Whetcombe’s true wish.’
‘He was a deep man, Matthew. A very deep man.’
‘What was in the first will?’
‘Ask the lawyer!’
‘You read it, Father!’ shouted Nicholas. ‘For God’s sake, tell us what was in it! Did he leave the ship to Gideon Livermore? Did he leave the house in Crock Street? Did he all but disinherit his wife and child? Tell us.’
Robert Bracewell pulled himself forward in the chair as if to strike his son, but the blow never came. Nicholas was instead hit by a peal of derisive laughter that made his own fists bunch in anger.
‘So that’s your game, my lad,’ said his father with weary cynicism. ‘That’s why you came back here. For her. You wanted Mary Parr then and you want her even more now that she is Mary Whetcombe and a wealthy widow. That’s what my son has turned into, is it? A privateer! Drake has taught you well. Hoist your flag and set sail. Seize the richest prize on the seas. No wonder you want her. Mary Whetcombe is a treasure trove.’ The laughter darkened. ‘But she’ll never want you. She’d sooner look at a rogue like Livermore!’
Nicholas was so incensed that it was an effort to hold himself back from attacking his father and beating him to the ground. The speech had opened up old wounds with the ease of a sharp knife ripping through the soft underbelly of a fish. Nicholas closed his eyes and waited for the pounding in his temples to cease.