‘I have learnt that lesson,’ said Hoode with a laugh. ‘I never thought I’d be grateful to a husband who caught me in bed with his wife.’
Firethorn was tactful. ‘No, dear heart. I have cause to thank that fine fellow as well. He gave me both playwright and play.’
‘Nick Bracewell was my guide.’
‘As always, when we need him.’
‘The Merchant of Calais owes much to Nick.’
‘We’ll give him a rare welcome when he returns.’
‘Where is he now, do you think?’
‘Penning a drama of his own, Edmund.’
‘Nick, a playwright? What is the piece called?’
‘The Merchant of Barnstaple.’
After several futile hours in the counting-house, Nicholas Bracewell widened his search to other parts of the building, but the will could not be found. He was still opening cupboards and peering into nooks and crannies when light faded. With the aid of a candle, he continued to look for secret panels and hidden cavities in every room. It was almost midnight when he finally abandoned his search. The rest of the house had already retired and Nicholas made his way wearily to his own bedchamber. Removing his jerkin, he lay on the bed with his hands behind his head. Convinced that the will was in the house somewhere, he racked his brain to work out where Matthew Whetcombe could possibly have put it.
Fatigue almost claimed him and he struggled to his feet to undress properly. It was then that he heard the banging on the front door below. He ignored it at first but it continued unabated. Nicholas heard someone descend the stair and unbolt the door. The next moment, feet came scampering up towards him and a fist banged on his own door. Nicholas opened it to reveal a panting servant in night attire.
‘You have a visitor,’ said the man.
‘At this hour?’
‘He waits below and is in some need.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Your father.’
Nicholas told him to calm the rest of the household then he went quickly downstairs with a candle to guide him. Robert Bracewell waited in the dark hallway, leaning against a wall for support. As the flame illumined the old man’s face, Nicholas saw the blood and the bruises. He reached out to support his father and helped him into the nearest room, closing the door behind them and lowering his visitor into a chair. He held the candle closer to examine the injuries more closely.
‘Who did this to you?’ he said.
‘Who do you think?’
‘Gideon Livermore?’
‘Two of his men came to see me this evening,’ said his father. ‘They asked me what I had said to you earlier today. When I told them it was none of their business, they set about me. This was a gentle warning, they said. If I even spoke to you again, they would deal more harshly with me.’
‘Stay here,’ said Nicholas.
He went to the kitchen to fetch a cloth and water. He then bathed his father’s face, wiping away most of the dried blood and exposing the bruises on temples and jaw. One eye was black and shining. Robert Bracewell’s faded apparel had been torn in the scuffle. Nicholas was touched. His father had shown bravery in defying the threat of his assailants. He had ridden through the night to report the attack and to give his son a weapon with which to strike back.
‘I was a witness to Matthew Whetcombe’s first will,’ he said. ‘It left everything to his wife.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘I’ve not made all this effort in order to tell lies.’
‘Was Livermore named in the will?’
‘Only as a minor beneficiary.’
‘The ship was left to Mary?’
‘Ship, house and the bulk of his estate.’
‘Would you swear to that in court, Father?’
‘If they let me live long enough to do so.’
On impulse, Nicholas hugged him with gratitude, but the old man pushed him away. Exhausted as he was, Robert Bracewell still had enough strength to shake with anger.
‘Keep away!’ he snarled. ‘This is all your doing!’
‘I am only trying to help.’
‘And what has your help brought me? The sight of a son I had hoped was dead and a fearsome beating. I did not want either. Go away and leave me alone.’
‘But I can protect you from Livermore.’
Pride flared. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘Of course, of course. Thank you for coming.’
‘I am not here for your benefit, Nick. I came only to help Mary — and to hit back at Gideon Livermore. No man can tell me what I can and cannot say. They may have driven me out of Barnstaple but I am still the master of my house.’
‘You must stay the night here,’ said Nicholas.
‘Never!’
‘But you are in no condition to travel.’
‘If I can ride all the way here, I can make the return journey just as well.’ He got to his feet. ‘It is an effort for me to stay under this roof. Matthew Whetcombe once drove me out of this house. Its doors are barred against me. I would sooner sleep in the street than lay my head here.’
‘Father — wait!’
‘Stand aside.’
‘One word before you go. That first will …’
‘I have vouched for its contents.’
‘The document itself would be stronger testimony.’
‘Then find it. Matthew surely held on to a copy.’
‘I have searched everywhere in vain.’
‘You have looked in the wrong places.’
‘Which is the right one?’
‘The heart of Matthew Whetcombe.’
‘I do not follow.’
‘He was a merchant,’ said the old man. ‘He thought and felt like a merchant. Put yourself in his position and ask where you would hide a precious document.’ He tried to move to the door. ‘Now, out of my way.’
‘Let me come with you.’
‘No!’
‘But there may be danger.’
‘It is an old acquaintance and I have learnt to face it alone. I would never turn to you. My elder son is no longer alive. He died at sea. You are a poor counterfeit who merely bears his name.’ He walked past Nicholas. ‘I have done my duty to this house and I am free to go.’
‘All that way in the dead of night?’
‘I am needed there.’
‘That is no way for a man to live.’
‘It is my home.’
‘You and that old servant-’
‘Be silent!’
Robert Bracewell’s eyes blazed in the candlelight. Years of hatred and resentment on both sides were suddenly ignited. Father and son faced each other across a chasm of lost kinship and love. There was no hope of reconciliation. They had chosen an appropriate venue for the last time they were ever to see each other. Lying upstairs in the fore-chamber was the woman who had once come between them, and Robert Bracewell could never forgive her for that. But for her, he felt, his son would have married Katherine Hurrell and everything would have worked out much more satisfactorily. Nicholas took a different view of the Hurrell family. They had turned a father whom he respected into a man he loathed.
‘Let me show you out,’ said Nicholas.
‘I know my own way!’
‘We are very grateful to you for coming.’
The old man looked upwards. ‘I did it for others in this house. They deserved help. You do not.’
He opened the door and lurched out into the hallway. Nicholas went after him with the candle, but his father was already lifting the latch on the front door. Without a backward glance, Robert Bracewell let himself out into the street and tottered away. Nicholas had the feeling that something he had said inflicted a more serious wound on the old man than any collected in the attack.
After bolting the front door, Nicholas went up to the counting-house. He was fully awake now and ready to resume the search for the will. His father had given him a clue that had to be followed up at once, and it took Nicholas back to the chair in which Matthew Whetcombe had transacted his business. Nicholas gazed around the room once more and wondered where he would hide something of great value. Robert Bracewell told him to look into the heart of the merchant, but the cold and unyielding Matthew Whetcombe had never seemed to possess one. He did not love the wife and child with whom he shared his life. He did not love his family and friends with anything approaching real passion. Could anybody or anything make its way into the heart of such a man?