‘Why, yes. A number of times. He was Lord Conway’s nephew.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Ling, scratching his chin. ‘He was an amiable fellow, that I do remember, and a generous one as well. Once, when we played in Hythe, he bought us all a meal to celebrate the performance.’
‘A wealthy man, then?’
‘More free with money than his uncle, I know that.’
‘Why did the two of them quarrel?’
‘You said there was only one more question,’ complained the other.
‘Here,’ said Nicholas, putting some coins on the table. ‘How many answers will that purchase?’
‘As many as you ask,’ said Ling, scooping up the money gratefully. ‘But, first, let me pose a question. Why are you here?’
‘I’m trying to track down the man who killed Giddy Mussett.’
‘It was not Master Hope, I can assure you of that.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘He, too, was stabbed in the back.’
Ling gaped at him. ‘He’s dead?’
‘Felled, I believe, by the same hand that killed Giddy.’
‘They were both such friendly souls.’
‘When did you last see Master Hope?’
‘It must have been some months ago,’ said Ling, noisily draining his tankard. ‘We were touring in Essex, walking at the cart’s arse from town to town. Lord Conway came to see us play in Colchester and Master Hope was part of his circle. Something happened to drive the two men apart but I know not what it was. All I can remember is that our patron was seething with rage.’
‘How close is he to Master Fitzgeoffrey?’
‘They are two yoke-devils.’
‘That is what I imagined,’ said Nicholas, about to rise. ‘Well, thank you, my friend. You have given me food for thought.’
Ling grabbed his arm. ‘Do not leave now,’ he pleaded. ‘We’ve so much to talk about. Book holders like us should stick together.’ He grinned obsequiously. ‘Dare I ask if you have room in your company for another hired man?’
‘Alas, no. We had to shed some of our fellows before we even set out.’
‘It was ever thus. Touring is a means of torture.’
‘We’ve had our share of that,’ admitted Nicholas. He removed Ling’s hand and got up from the table. ‘Pray excuse me. They’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘You’ve barely touched your ale.’
‘Drink it for me. I think you’ve earned it.’
‘But I haven’t told you about Master Fitzgeoffrey yet.’
‘Told me what?’
‘It’s only just popped into my mind,’ said Ling, pulling the other tankard across to him. ‘He heard that Giddy had come to see me here in Canterbury. He was not pleased about that. Then he told me something that I thought strange at the time.’
‘And what was that?’
‘He said that I’d never see Giddy Mussett again.’
Finding the man at the Crown had been a stroke of good fortune but Nicholas felt that he deserved one after all the reverses he had suffered. Martin Ling was a pathetic character, working for a man he loathed until he could no longer bear his insults, then abandoning the company for an uncertain future. Even if there had been a vacant place among Westfield’s Men, Nicholas would not have advised anyone to offer it to Ling. Iron had entered the man’s soul and drink had corrupted his judgement. He was an example of a man who had been broken on the wheel of his profession. Nevertheless, he had been able to give Nicholas some valuable information. When he left the Crown, he had plenty to reflect upon during the walk back.
Even allowing for Ling’s prejudices, Tobias Fitzgeoffrey sounded like a nasty and objectionable man but that was not conclusive proof that he was capable of murder. His presence at the Queen’s Head on the fateful afternoon of the affray was something that Nicholas thought highly significant. Why else would the man be there if not to relish the confusion into which a rival company was thrown? Fitzgeoffrey would hardly have been in the audience by chance. To get to London, he had left his company languishing in Kent, unable to perform without him. When money was in such short supply for Conway’s Men, why had their manager passed up the opportunity of a performance in favour of a visit to the capital? More surprisingly, why, on his return, was a man who was reputed to be stingy with money, suddenly overtaken by a spirit of generosity?
Nicholas decided that the crucial relationship was the one between Fitzgeoffrey and his patron. Until he could meet one or both of them, he could not reach a firm verdict but evidence was slowly piling up against them. In causing the affray, Nicholas reasoned, they hoped to bring to an end the occupation of Gracechurch Street by Westfield’s Men. When the company travelled to Kent, their new clown was first ambushed, then killed, as a means of bringing the tour to an end. But the troupe was too resilient to be quashed. Since it dared to soldier on, another attack was made on it during the journey to Canterbury. Firethorn’s prediction was true. They wanted more blood. The enemies of Westfield’s Men would not stop until they had halted the company in its tracks.
Absorbed in his thoughts, Nicholas strode through the streets alone without any fear for his own safety. It was only when he reached the door of the Three Tuns that he chose to look over his shoulder. A man dived quickly into the shadows. It was a sobering reminder. Nicholas had been followed.
Chapter Thirteen
Before they could set out next morning, repairs had to be made to the wagon that was damaged by the avalanche. A new wheel was bought to replace the one that Nicholas had mended sufficiently well to get them to Canterbury, and lengths of stout timber were used to strengthen the makeshift struts beneath the wagon. The local wheelwright employed to help was full of praise for the way that the rim had been put back on the other wheel and his comments fed Lawrence Firethorn’s vanity. The actor boasted aloud about his skills as a blacksmith. It was Barnaby Gill, reclining in his wheelbarrow, who pricked the bubble of his conceit.
‘You should have stayed in the trade, Lawrence,’ he said waspishly.
Firethorn blenched. ‘And deprive the stage of my genius?’
‘I think that your skills are more suited to the forge.’
‘At least, I have skills of some sort, Barnaby. Unlike you.’
‘You would have made an excellent blacksmith.’
‘Had you been my anvil, I’d have enjoyed the work.’
‘Barnaby is your anvil,’ said Edmund Hoode wearily. ‘You strike sparks off him whenever you meet.’
‘I’ve yet to see any spark in his acting,’ said Firethorn.
‘That is because you are too busy looking at yourself,’ countered Gill. ‘An audience is nothing more than a set of mirrors in which you preen yourself.’
‘You are the Narcissus in this troupe, Barnaby.’
‘I strive to look my best, that is all.’
‘And you do look your best in that wheelbarrow,’ teased Firethorn. ‘I’d be more than happy to tip you onto my garden to enrich the soil.’
‘Even with a broken leg, I can outrun you on stage.’
‘But you only go in circles.’
The rest of the company had gathered in the yard for departure but they were too accustomed to the banter between Firethorn and Gill to pay much attention to their latest squabble. When the baggage had been loaded, they climbed into their respective wagons. Owen Elias led his horse out of the stables and went over to the first wagon.
‘Are we ready to leave, Nick?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, checking the harness. ‘We must head for the Dover Road.’
‘I hope that we can have one journey without an ambush.’
‘I’m sure that we shall, Owen.’
‘What makes you so certain?’
‘Wait and see.’
Nicholas clambered up into his seat and took the reins. When Gill and his wheelbarrow had been lifted into the second wagon, it was time to go. They rolled out of the inn yard and into the busy streets of Canterbury. Firethorn rode ahead, as usual, and Elias brought up the rear with Hoode and his donkey for company. The procession made its way towards Ridingate. There was a distinct mood of apprehension. In view of the earlier attacks, Westfield’s Men were understandably nervous. Sensible precautions had been taken. Even the apprentices had been given daggers and taught how to defend themselves. Trained in the art of stage fights, the actors all knew how to handle weapons but there was a world of difference between rehearsed combat and fight for their lives with an enemy who could select the time, place and means of an attack. The moment they left the comparative safety of the city, they began to feel uneasy. Richard Honeydew gave an involuntary shiver. He climbed onto the seat beside Nicholas.