Nicholas had to affirm his purpose. Action was needed. His immediate priority was to find the first will. Gideon Livermore was the architect of the villainy but his guilt would still have to be proved. Possession of that first will would be a major piece of evidence against him. If it was not in the house, where else could it possibly be?
He was still asking the question as he rode through a patch of woodland. The horse cantered along and its rider let it find its own way along the trail. It proved fatal. The forelegs of the animal suddenly made contact with the stout cord that had been stretched across its path between two trees. Down went the horse in a writhing heap and Nicholas was thrown clear. He knew at once that it was an ambush. After rolling over on the damp ground, he looked for cover and dived swiftly behind the nearest tree. He was just in time. There was a loud twanging noise and something thudded into the trunk only inches away from his face.
He drew his sword to defend himself and leapt to his feet, but his unseen attacker was already spurring his own horse away. Nicholas examined the short steel arrow which was embedded in the tree. It was the bolt from a crossbow.
They had found a new Lamparde.
Barnard Sweete was livid. As he paced the room, his coolness and poise were cracking audibly around the edges.
‘You should have consulted me first, Gideon!’
‘And given you the chance to stop me?’
‘I warned you not to lay hands upon him.’
‘Who are you to give orders?’ said Livermore.
‘They are not orders!’ protested the lawyer. ‘I simply want to stay alive. You cannot attack a man like Nicholas Bracewell. It is one thing to kill off a mere servant hundreds of miles from here but we do not want a corpse like this on our doorstep.’
‘It is not on our doorstep,’ assured the other with a complacent grin. ‘My man will have buried it in the wood by now. Nobody will ever find Nicholas Bracewell or know why he came to Barnstaple.’
‘Questions will be asked.’
‘By whom? Mary? His father?’ He shrugged. ‘We tell them that he has fled the town. He walked out on both of them before now and he has done so again. They will never know the truth. Trust me, Barnard. My way is best.’
‘It incriminates us.’
‘Lamparde has already done that.’
‘Far away in London — not here!’
Gideon Livermore chuckled. ‘You are too squeamish, man. Be grateful to me for having rid us of the problem. I was only taking your advice, after all.’
‘My advice?’
‘You said that I could not have him killed off like a poacher who has been found on my land. But that’s exactly what I have done. I own this town and Nicholas Bracewell has trespassed on it. I merely enforced the law.’
Barnard Sweete came to rest in front of the table. He sat against it and his foot tapped anxiously as he feared repercussions. If Livermore disposed of his enemies so ruthlessly, what would happen to the lawyer if the two of them ever fell out?
‘I still do not like it, Gideon,’ he said.
‘You will learn to live with it.’
‘Think of the risk that you were taking.’
‘I am a merchant,’ said Livermore. ‘Risk is the essence of my business. Every time I send a ship across the sea, I risk its loss. Every time I strike a bargain, I risk a high cost. But these are calculated risks and they have always paid off in the past. Put trust in my merchant’s instinct now. This is the most profitable deal I have ever made.’
Barnard Sweete calmed down. Horrified when told about the ambush in the wood, he was now coming to see its positive advantages. Nicholas Bracewell was a threat to the whole enterprise and had to be removed. This way was dramatic and worrying, but it did eliminate the one last obstacle. When he looked down at his hands, they were white and spotless. He might feel the blood on them but there was no visible sign of it.
Gideon Livermore wanted progress. Having disposed — as he thought — of a major problem, he was impatient to take possession of his prize. He had been down to the wharf to see the Mary again that morning and had watched her for an hour as she lay at anchor in the middle of the River Taw. She dwarfed all the craft around her. Livermore would soon occupy that position in Barnstaple. In every sense, his tonnage would be the heaviest in north Devon and all would make way for him for fear of being caught in his wash.
He was still preening himself when a knock on the door brought an anxious clerk into the room. When he told them who had arrived at the chambers, both men blanched. Barnard Sweete recovered first. He told his clerk to send in the visitor after two minutes. Alone once more with Gideon Livermore, he treated him to a burst of vituperation. The merchant had boasted of the death of Nicholas Bracewell yet that same man was now calling on the lawyer. Another of the merchant’s schemes had miscarried.
After a bitter exchange with his colleague, Sweete showed him into an adjoining room and left the door slightly ajar so that the latter could overhear everything. The lawyer took a deep breath to compose himself before sitting behind his desk. Nicholas Bracewell was conducted in. Brief introductions were made then the clerk withdrew again.
‘Pray take a seat, sir,’ invited the lawyer.
‘I will not be staying,’ said Nicholas. ‘Why did you wish to see me?’
‘On a matter of mutual concern.’ He attempted a smile. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet another member of the Bracewell family. I acted for your brother, Peter, and I know your father well.’
‘I have not long returned from him.’
Nicholas was standing defiantly in front of the table. His jerkin was scuffed and there were traces of mud on his face but he was plainly unhurt. Equally plainly, he was in no mood for polite conversation. The lawyer plunged straight into business.
‘I believe that you may have been misled, sir.’
‘In what way?’
‘Last evening,’ said Sweete, ‘you were seen leaving the Whetcombe house in Crock Street, though my informant was not quite sure how you gained entry.’
‘You need a more vigilant informant. But warn him that he will get more than a crack on the head if I chance to meet up with him again.’
The lawyer swallowed hard. ‘Evidently, you spoke with Mistress Whetcombe,’ he said. ‘She may have raised the question of her husband’s will. It may appear uncharitable to her on the surface but there is much comfort for her between the lines.’ After pausing for a response that did not come, he went on. ‘I am also in a position to offer certain emendations.’
‘You are empowered to change the will?’
‘By no means, sir,’ said Sweete fussily. ‘It has been signed and witnessed, so its terms must hold. But a number of concessions can still be made.’
‘How?’
‘By deed of gift.’
‘You have lost me, Mr Sweete.’
‘I am not quite sure how much you know of the will.’
‘Enough to distrust you.’
The lawyer stiffened. ‘Do you question my integrity?’
‘I do not believe there is any to question.’
‘Really, sir!’
‘You mention deeds of gift.’
‘We are a respected firm of lawyers, Master Bracewell. I will not have you coming here to insult me like this. Do you not understand? I am trying to help you here.’
‘How do I benefit from the will?’
‘We may put your mind at rest.’
‘About what?’
‘Matthew Whetcombe’s widow.’
‘Nobody could do that,’ murmured Nicholas. ‘Speak your mind, Mr Sweete. I am needed elsewhere.’
The lawyer felt intimidated by the solid presence and the uncompromising manner. He stood up to give himself more authority, but Nicholas was still an imposing visitor.
Sweete became glib. ‘The main beneficiary of the will is Gideon Livermore, a name that is not unknown to you, I suspect. He is a generous man and wishes to modify the apparent harshness of the will by ceding certain items to the widow by deed of gift. This will be a personal matter between them and separate from the execution of the will itself. The gifts are lavish.’