‘There is no other way,’ he said in conclusion. ‘Early tomorrow, I will set off for Barnstaple.’
A derisive snort. ‘Barnstaple?’
‘Barnstaple.’
Nicholas sat back and waited for the tempest to break. Few men dared to oppose the will of the actor-manager and fewer still survived with their self-esteem intact. When Firethorn was truly roused, his voice could blow with the force of a gale and his invective was scalding rain. As he looked into his employer’s eyes, Nicholas saw the hurricane begin with sudden fury and then evaporate harmlessly to be replaced by a merry twinkle. Instead of unleashing the whirlwind of his passion, Lawrence Firethorn actually smiled. The smile broadened into a grin, the grin enlisted the support of a chortle, the chortle soon developed into a full-throated laugh and then uncontrollable mirth sent his body into a series of convulsions. He had to sit down beside his friend to regain his breath.
‘Barnstaple?’ he asked again.
‘There is some jest here?’
‘No, Nick,’ said Firethorn, arm around his shoulders. ‘It is not the laughter of mockery but the happiness of relief. Barnstaple, indeed! Heaven provides better than we ourselves. You shall go. Your needs will be answered.’
‘Then why this celebration?’
‘Because you will serve us on the way.’
‘How?’
‘We will alter our itinerary,’ explained the other. ‘We had thought to go south and make Maidstone our first port of call. Then on to Canterbury and other towns in Kent, but they can wait. Canterbury has pilgrims enough.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper to put his proposition. ‘Westfield’s Men will bend a lot towards your purpose if you bend a little towards ours. Is this not a fair bargain?’
‘Tell me more that I may judge aright.’
‘Our patron’s brother lives in Bath.’
‘That is well in the direction of Barnstaple.’
‘Hear me out, Nick. This will be our route.’ He used a finger to draw a map in the air. ‘We make straight for Oxford and play before town and gown. From there we travel down to Marlborough, where they have always given us a cheerful welcome in their Guildhall. Then on to Bristol, where a bigger audience and a longer stay beckon.’
‘And Bath?’
‘A pretty enough little town but we will perform at the home of Sir Roger Hordley, younger brother of our patron. We need you to pilot us through Oxford, Marlborough and Bristol, but we can set up in the hall of Hordley Manor ourselves.’ He nudged his companion. ‘Have you caught my meaning?’
‘I make for Barnstaple by slower means.’
‘You combine our necessity with your mission.’
Nicholas pondered. ‘It puts days on my intent.’
‘We make a sacrifice, so must you.’
‘Bristol is a city that I love.’
‘Take us there and we will wish you God speed as we send you off to Barnstaple. Discharge your duties at home then you may catch up with Westfield’s Men at your leisure.’ Firethorn pulled him close. ‘Both of us are satisfied in this. Tell me now, does not this offer please you?’
‘It tempts me greatly.’
‘Then you will accept the commission?’
Nicholas gave an affirmative nod and Firethorn replied with a hug of gratitude. The actor-manager furnished him with all the necessary details then walked him back out to his horse. The sight of the roan jolted them and brought the murder victim back to the forefront of their minds. A young woman had gone to extraordinary lengths to bring a message all the way from Barnstaple to London, and her fortitude had cost her a high price. Her murder was already having severe repercussions on the life of Nicholas Bracewell. As he recalled the image of her tormented body on the floor of his bedchamber, his determination to track down the killer was reinforced. The Devil had indeed ridden through London that day to seize his prey. A girl who had never been inside a tavern before would never do so again.
Like a true actor, Lawrence Firethorn drew the shroud of a quotation across the anonymous corpse.
‘My foulest poison can never compete
With Marwood’s ale in Gracechurch Street.’
Chapter Three
A harrowing afternoon shaded into a long evening then turned imperceptibly into a restive night. Anne Hendrik was sorely perplexed. The home that she prized so much, and within whose walls she felt so secure, had been invaded. A dying girl, who refused to divulge her message, had splintered the ordered calm of her life in Bankside and the assumptions on which it was based. Anne had been taught just how much she loved Nicholas Bracewell but just how little she knew of him. What she had always admired as restraint and discretion she now saw as secretiveness. He had been hiding something from her all this while and it had now emerged into the light of day like a long-buried mole to threaten the whole future of their friendship. Pleasant memories have no need of suppression. Only murkier secrets have to be concealed.
Anne paced anxiously up and down, at once longing for his return and praying that he would not come back. Her heart wanted Nicholas to sweep into the house and smother all her hostile thoughts beneath a pillow of explanation, but her head knew that he could never do that. His behaviour had been an open admission of guilt. What dread secret had he tried to outrun when he left his home in Barnstaple? What fearful consignment was the girl carrying to him? Who had sent the grim message and why was it transported in such a strange manner? She speculated on the possibilities and found none that brought comfort. As the night wore on, her nerves became even more frayed, and she was thoroughly jangled by the time she heard him arrive back and stable the horse. Anne quickly took a seat and tried to muster her composure. When Nicholas let himself into the house, he moved with a wary fatigue. Clearly, he did not expect his usual hospitable welcome.
‘You are late,’ she said crisply.
‘There was much to do, Anne.’
‘It draws toward midnight.’
‘You should have retired to your bed.’
‘I feared that you might join me there.’
She blurted it out before she could stop herself and the force of the rebuff made him flinch. A mutual code of conduct was immediately ruptured. Whenever Nicholas and Anne had serious disagreements — and they arose often between two strong-willed personalities — they always resolved them as soon as possible in each other’s arms. That source of reconciliation had been summarily closed off to him.
‘We leave for Oxford in the morning.’
She stiffened. ‘I had thought you would ride post haste to Barnstaple,’ she said sharply. ‘Someone has sent for you. Do not let me detain you here.’
‘Anne-’
‘More important business calls you away.’
‘Do but hear me-’
‘I listened to that girl instead. Her silence was all too eloquent. It spoke of another Nicholas Bracewell, of a man with whom I have never been acquainted, of a hunted creature who has been using my house as a hiding place.’
‘That is not so!’ he insisted.
‘Then why have you lied to me?’
‘I have always told you the truth.’
‘No, Nick,’ she said, rising to confront him, ‘you have told me only enough to content me and held back the rest. The face that you wear in London is only a mask and I took it for the real man. It is a cruel deception. Who are you!’
‘I am yours, my love.’
He reached out for her but her eyes flashed so angrily that he retracted his arms at once. Her rejection of him was doubly painful. Westfield’s Men were due to leave London the next day on a lengthy tour. On the eve of previous departures, Nicholas invariably took a fond farewell in the comfort of her bed but this custom was also being breached.