He chided himself for prying and stopped at once. He was about to put away the correspondence when he noticed a letter from Gideon Livermore. Brief and explicit, it thanked Matthew Whetcombe for a dinner that he had given at Crock Street. Nicholas was not interested in the contents of the missive. He was intrigued by the hand of the man who wrote it. Inside his jerkin was the letter that he had found on Lamparde in the derelict warehouse. It had shown its value already, for it had convinced the authorities in Bristol that Lamparde was indeed a hired assassin and that Nicholas had killed him in self-defence. The letter had double value. The writing was identical with that in the other missive. The pen that was thanking a friend for a dinner could also set murder in motion. Here was firm evidence of Livermore’s guilt.
Putting both letters away, Nicholas sat back and looked around the counting-house. It was the centre of Matthew Whetcombe’s commercial empire. It positively exuded power and significance. If Nicholas had remained a merchant, he would have owned such a place with such a feel to it. This was the world on which he had turned his back, and it caused him a pang of regret. There was safety here and meaning. At the same time, however, there was a narrowing of the mind and the spirit. Nicholas did not want his life to be measured in piles of trading agreements and letters of commendation. To own such a house and to share it with a wife like Mary was a seductive notion, but he decided that he was better off as a mere lodger with Anne Hendrik.
As his eye roved the walls, it fell on a painting that hung in a gilt frame. Every time Matthew Whetcombe looked up from his work, he would have seen and drawn strength from it. The artist had skill. His brush had even caught the shifting colours of the River Taw. A seaman himself, Nicholas admired craft of all sizes, but the sight of the Mary, ploughing her way through the water with full sail, was quite inspiring. The merchant’s pride was understandable but his priorities shocked Nicholas. The painting of the ship was hung in a far more prominent position than the portrait of the woman after whom it was named.
He continued his search with renewed vigour. An hour or more slipped by before an anxious Mary returned.
‘They are still watching the house,’ she said. ‘I think that they are biding their time until you come out.’
‘They will not attack me in the street,’ he said. ‘I will be safe once I get back to the Dolphin.’
‘You would be safer still if you stayed here.’
‘Here?’
‘Lucy and I would feel safer as well.’
Nicholas was grateful for the offer. He was quietly thrilled at the idea of spending a night under the same roof as a woman who might have been his wife and a girl who might be his child. He was also glad to be able to offer the two of them a more immediate safeguard. Nicholas crossed to the window and looked down at the two men who kept the house under surveillance. She stood beside him.
‘The enemies are not only outside the house, Mary.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have one inside as well.’
‘Mr Calmady?’
‘He is Livermore’s creature, certainly, but there is another foe to beware. One of your servants.’
‘That is not possible!’ she protested.
‘Then how did they know that Susan Deakin had taken a horse and ridden to London? Someone has been spying on you. He or she is being paid to tell Livermore and Sweete exactly what is going on inside this house.’
‘One of our own servants?’ Mary was shaken.
‘Who chose them?’
‘My husband.’
‘Then their first loyalty was to him.’
‘But I treated them well and earned their respect.’
‘Respect is not enough,’ said Nicholas. ‘If someone fears that he will lose his place here, he may be only too ready to betray you to a new master.’
‘Who could it be?’ said Mary, looking around in alarm. ‘I have trusted them all. Who could it be?’
‘We will find out in time. My guess is that Livermore may have planted someone here a long time ago to keep him abreast of everything that happened. He was able to watch your husband die and choose his moment to move in.’ He drew her away from the window. ‘Say nothing at this stage and do not show any suspicion. We will use spy against master.’
‘How?’
‘You will see.’
Mary nodded. ‘I will have a bed made up for you.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate the invitation.’
‘It is only to ensure your safety.’
‘I did not think it was for any other reason.’
She gave him a pale smile then went quickly out.
Lawrence Firethorn came out into the yard of the Jolly Sailor and took his horse from the ostler. After a highly productive stay, Westfield’s Men would now ride on to Bath, where they were due to give two performances at the home of Sir Roger Hordley, younger brother of their patron. They had not just distinguished themselves on stage. With the assistance of Owen Elias, their leader had brought off the signal feat of capturing Israel Gunby, a highwayman whose reputation stretched from Bristol to London. Money stolen from the company at High Wycombe was now restored. A substantial reward for the arrest of Gunby was also in Firethorn’s capcase. What pleased the actor most, however, was not the way that he had outwitted the two confederates but the fact that it had been immortalised in song. ‘The Ballad of Israel Gunby’ was being hawked all around the city. Firethorn could sing it in his sleep.
The company was happy. Bath was a guaranteed welcome. Harder times might lie on the open road ahead, but they looked no farther than the next couple of days. As they mounted their horses or climbed up onto the waggon, they were brimming with contentment. Even George Dart was smiling. At the performance of Hector of Troy on the previous afternoon, the makeshift book holder had survived without any real disasters. Firethorn had actually paid him a compliment. Dart was overjoyed. He was liked.
Last in the saddle were Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. Gill had personal reasons for wanting to quit the city of Bristol, but he had shaken off the effects of the assault by Lamparde, and his old brio had returned on stage. Edmund Hoode was so thoroughly pleased with himself that he made Firethorn stare at him in alarm. The last time the resident playwright had looked that happy was when he was in love.
‘Who is she, Edmund?’ said Firethorn.
‘Clio.’
‘A pretty name for a tavern wench. Which one was she? The drab with the filthy hair or that great, fat creature with the cast in her eye?’
‘Do not try to drag me down to your level, Lawrence.’
‘Ah, I see. You set your sights higher.’
‘On the very pinnacle.’
‘Then this Clio is some juicy whore in red taffeta.’
‘She is the Muse of History,’ said Hoode with dignity. ‘And she has inspired me in my history of Calais.’
‘Your play?’
‘Finished at last!’
‘God bless you, Edmund!’
‘Save your kisses for Clio.’
‘Kisses, embraces, pizzle and all, if she wishes,’ said the delighted Firethorn. ‘This deserves a celebration, man. When may we play the piece?’
‘As soon as you have read and approved it. Then it is but a question of hiring some tidy scrivener to copy out the sides and we may put The Merchant of Calais into rehearsal.’
‘This news gladdens my heart, Edmund.’
‘I never thought to complete it.’
‘Left to yourself, you’d still be playing with the baubles of your mistress in London. Women are wonderful creatures but the finest plays in creation may be crushed to powder between the millstones of their thighs. Think on that, Edmund. Write first and take your pleasure afterwards.’