Rehearsal was over for the morning. The actors drifted back to their inn for dinner while Nicholas remained behind to discuss with Hoode a few refinements that could be made to the play. Firethorn stayed long enough to approve the suggestions before setting off alone. Leaving the Guildhall, he stepped out into bright sunshine. For the first time since they had come into Kent, he felt inspired. He filled his lungs with the keen air. Firethorn was convinced that their visit to Dover would redeem their tour. It would make up for the mishaps in Maidstone and the tragedy in Faversham, not to mention the hazards they encountered on the road. All that was past. In Dover, at least, they would be seen at their best and win new admirers of their art.
His mind was still dwelling on future triumph when he was accosted by a young man, wearing the neat attire of a servant. The stranger was polite and well spoken.
‘Master Firethorn?’ he asked.
‘Yes?’
‘I was told that I might find you at the Guildhall, sir.’
‘What business do you have with me?’
‘I am enjoined to deliver this,’ said the young man, handing him a letter.
Firethorn glanced at the missive. ‘Our patron’s hand.’
‘It was Lord Westfield who sent me. I’m to await a reply.’
‘Then you shall have one,’ said Firethorn, breaking the seal to read the contents of the letter. ‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed. ‘This news lifts my heart. He is already arrived in Dover and requests me to join him for dinner.’
‘Lord Westfield stays at the Arms of England.’
‘How close is that?’
‘No distance to speak of, sir,’ replied the messenger. ‘Let me escort you there before returning to the Lion to tell your fellows where you are.’
‘An excellent notion, my young friend. Lead on.’
Thrilled to hear of the arrival of their patron, Firethorn followed his guide with alacrity. Within minutes, they came in sight of the Arms of England, a comfortable hostelry that was somewhat smaller than the Lion but with the better reputation for its food. The thought of a free meal helped to whet Firethorn’s appetite.
‘When did Lord Westfield reach Dover?’ he wondered.
‘Less than an hour ago.’
‘Does he travel alone?’
‘No, sir. He has brought some friends with him.’
‘I hope that he brings good news from London as well.’
‘This way, sir,’ said the young man, taking him to the rear of the inn. ‘Your patron has a private room upstairs.’
Firethorn went into the inn and climbed the steps behind him. When they came to the first door, the messenger tapped on it three times before standing back to usher the visitor forward. Composing his features into an ingratiating smile, Firethorn opened the door and went in to greet his patron. But there was no sign of Lord Westfield. The man who stood by the window had a grizzled beard and a dark glint in his eye.
‘Where is Lord Westfield?’ demanded Firethorn.
‘Do not trouble yourself about him,’ said the man.
‘But I was summoned to meet him here.’
‘Then it looks as if he has let you down, Master Firethorn.’
Suspecting a trap, Firethorn reached for his dagger but the man concealed behind the door moved too fast for him. He cudgelled the actor to the floor then struck him repeatedly until Firethorn lost consciousness. The bearded man locked the door.
‘Tie him up,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll move him later.’
Chapter Fourteen
The disappearance of Lawrence Firethorn did not at first become apparent. It was only when Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode returned to the Lion that the first tiny hint of danger came. The rest of the company was in the taproom, enjoying a hearty meal before the afternoon rehearsal, delighted with the way that Dover had responded to their work and oblivious to the fact that their actor-manager had been lured away. Barnaby Gill had been helped out of his wheelbarrow and into a chair so that he could eat his food in comfort. Nicholas and Hoode joined him at his table.
‘Where is Lawrence?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I thought he was with you,’ replied Gill.
‘No, he came on ahead of us.’
‘Well, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him.’
‘Perhaps he went up to his room for something,’ suggested Hoode.
Gill smiled sardonically. ‘When Lawrence goes into a bedchamber, it is usually for one reason only. He’ll no doubt join us when he’s had his sport with the wench.’
‘Even Lawrence wouldn’t begin a dalliance now, surely.’
Nicholas rose from his seat. ‘I’ll see if he’s upstairs.’
‘Remember to knock first,’ warned Gill, ‘or you’ll see much more of him than you wish. My guess is that it will be that rosy-cheeked creature from the kitchens.’
Ignoring the jibe, Nicholas left the room and ascended the staircase to the landing. His search was brief but thorough. Firethorn was not in his bedchamber, nor was he in any of the other rooms. Nicholas conducted a search of the entire building and even poked his head into the stables, but it was all to no avail. Firethorn was not there. When the book holder questioned them, ostlers and servants all said the same thing. The actor-manager had not been seen at the Lion since breakfast. Hiding his concern, Nicholas strolled casually back into the taproom to rejoin the others.
Hoode looked up inquisitively. ‘Well, where is he hiding?’
‘Lawrence is not here,’ said Nicholas.
‘He must be.’
‘I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘Only an assignation would make him miss his dinner,’ observed Gill drily.
‘I’m going to search for him in the streets.’
‘Let me come with you, Nick,’ offered Hoode, clearly worried.
‘No,’ said Nicholas, easing him back into his seat. ‘If we both leave, everyone else will realise that something is amiss. There’s no need to spread unnecessary alarm. Our fellows have had enough to contend with, as it is. I’ll walk back towards the Guildhall. It may just be that he stopped to talk to someone on the way.’
‘Then we’d have seen them as we passed.’
‘Not if she lifted her skirt for Lawrence in an alley,’ said Gill.
‘This is serious, Barnaby,’ scolded Hoode. ‘Enough of these silly jests.’
‘Wait here until I come back,’ advised Nicholas. ‘And try to carry on as if nothing untoward has happened. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘What if someone asks after Lawrence?’
‘Invent some excuse to explain his absence.’
‘Excuse?’
‘Nobody in this room has a more fertile imagination than you, Edmund,’ said Nicholas, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll think of something.’
He slipped out quietly through the rear door. Nicholas walked back in the direction of the Guildhall, looking down every street, alley and lane on the way. He found it difficult to believe that Firethorn had come to any harm in broad daylight. Raised in a blacksmith’s forge, the actor was a powerful man whose bustling energy would make any attackers think twice before taking him on. As many had discovered in the past, his skill with sword or dagger made him a doughty adversary. Nicholas tried hard to convince himself that there was a simple explanation for the disappearance of Firethorn, but the further he went, the less persuaded he became that all was well. Hoping that the missing man might somehow have doubled back to the Guildhall, he hurried on to the building and went inside. His search was fruitless. Firethorn was nowhere to be seen.
Nicholas was determined to relieve his anxiety by positive action. He set out on the route that Firethorn should have taken, going back over his own footsteps and stopping to ask people whom he passed along the way if they could remember seeing the distinctive individual whom he described to them. Nobody could help him. Even the most sharp-eyed shopkeepers had not been able to pick out Firethorn in the crowds that drifted constantly past them. Nicholas widened his search, walking down each and every street that branched off the main thoroughfare, peering into shops, inns and ordinaries without success. It was when he turned down towards the harbour that he was brought to a halt. Walking towards him, in the company of a much older woman, was the last person he expected to see emerging from the huddle of people along the sea front.