Strood gave a dismissive shrug. ‘One or two pieces, perhaps,’ he said. ‘The rest of it is fit for little else but the fire. But why do we stand here when we might be talking about old times over a tankard of ale? Shall we step across to the tavern?’
‘Another time, John.’
‘Oh, I thought you’d come looking for me.’
‘I will do,’ said Nicholas, ‘I promise you that. But I’m searching for someone else at the moment so you’ll have to excuse me.’ After exchanging a farewell handshake, he stepped off the ship. Something jogged his memory. ‘Boulogne, you say?’
‘We often sail there, Nick.’
‘I thought that Calais was the more usual destination.’
‘It is,’ said Strood, ‘though some ships call at Nieuport, near Ostend, and a few sail to Dieppe. We’ve been to both in our time.’
‘What was the name of the ship that sailed to Calais on the afternoon tide?’
‘That’s something I can’t tell you.’
‘Were you not down here at the harbour?’
‘Yes, Nick,’ said Strood. ‘I was helping to load the cargo. That’s why I know there was no ship to Calais. Two arrived from there but no vessel went out to sea this afternoon.’ He squinted at his friend. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason, John.’
‘Do you intend to go on a voyage yourself?’
Nicholas laughed. ‘Heaven forbid!’ he said. ‘No, my sea-going days are over.’
Owen Elias stayed so long in the tavern, and spoke to so many people, that the landlord told him either to buy a drink or to leave the premises forthwith.
‘I’m searching for a friend,’ explained Elias.
‘Then do so with a tankard of ale in your hand.’
‘Perhaps you remember him.’
‘I only remember customers who pay their way in here,’ said the landlord, a big, bovine character with an unforgiving eye. ‘Now, then, what will you buy?’
‘He was about my height,’ said Elias. ‘Strong of build, handsome of face and wearing a bright green doublet. Ah, yes, and with a black beard that he trims every day out of vanity. In all, a striking man of my own age. Did you see such a person?’
The landlord stroked his chin. ‘I believe that I did, sir.’
‘When?’
‘Earlier on. A well-trimmed black beard, you say? He may still be here.’
‘Where?’
‘Follow me and I’ll show you.’
Elias was too excited to realise that he was being tricked. As soon as they got to the rear of the building, the landlord opened a door and pushed the Welshman through it into a little yard. Before Elias could get back into the tavern, he heard the door being bolted. He controlled the urge to enter by means of the front door so that he could confront the landlord because nothing would be served by a quarrel. Firethorn was clearly not in the tavern and nobody inside it had either seen or heard of him. Elias walked around the side of the tavern in time to meet Nicholas Bracewell.
‘I thought I’d lost you, Owen. What did you learn?’
‘That you should never trust an innkeeper in a seaport.’
‘What happened?’
‘I overstayed my welcome, Nick. And you?’
‘Wherever Lawrence is,’ said Nicholas with a sigh, ‘it’s not here in the harbour.’
‘Then where can he be?’
‘Who knows? He could be miles away.’
Elias was distressed. ‘You think that he could have set sail?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s one fear we can put aside. I spoke to John Strood, an old shipmate of mine. Since the time when Lawrence disappeared, no vessel has left the harbour. He must still be ashore.’
‘Where do we look for him next?’
‘Nowhere, Owen.’
‘We abandon the search?’ said Elias, shocked at the notion. ‘We must never do that until we find Lawrence.’
Nicholas pondered. ‘I think that we are going the wrong way about it,’ he said at length. ‘Instead of looking for him, we should be trying to find the people who are, in all probability, behind his disappearance.’
‘Conway’s Men!’
‘The evidence certainly points at Tobias Fitzgeoffrey.’
‘My sword will point at him when I catch up with the villain.’
‘He and his company stay at Walmer, not far from here.’
‘Is that where they’ve taken Lawrence?’
‘We’re not even sure that he was taken anywhere,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘though I can find no other explanation that fits the situation. It’s hard to believe that he would wander off by himself. That means he has either been kidnapped or killed.’ He came to a decision. ‘It’s time to accost Master Fitzgeoffrey. We’ve much to talk about with him.’
‘Let’s straight to the Lion to saddle up. You can take Lawrence’s horse.’
‘Away, then!’
They walked swiftly in the direction of the inn. Elias was fired by a spirit of revenge but Nicholas was considering a more cautious approach. Impatient for action, the Welshman had a hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘What shall we do, Nick?’ he asked.
‘Try to get him on his own.’
‘Do we beat the rogue until we get the truth out of him?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘We question him about an unpaid bill in Maidstone.’
Still tied to his chair, Lawrence Firethorn tried to work out where he was. He listened with great care. The room in which he was guarded by the two men sounded small. As he leant back slightly, Firethorn’s shoulders brushed the wall. His captors seemed to be a yard or so away. When one of them left the room, he took only a few short steps to reach the door. As it opened, Firethorn heard the noise of revelry from below. He decided that he was in the upstairs room of an inn and, since the cries of gulls never ceased outside the window, he knew that he was not far from the harbour. Who had kidnapped him and what did they intend to do with him? How had the messenger got hold of a letter in Lord Westfield’s hand? What would the rest of the company do when they discovered that Firethorn was missing? Why had the man who boasted of killing Giddy Mussett not thrust a dagger into his back as well?
Firethorn was still grappling with the questions when the door opened and footsteps came in. Something was put down on a table then a voice he had not heard before spoke. It was lighter and younger than that of the assassin.
‘This ale will help to pass the time.’
‘I’m sick already of waiting,’ grumbled his companion.
‘When do we move him?’
‘When it’s dark enough.’
‘There are hours to go yet.’
‘I know,’ said the man who had threatened Firethorn earlier. ‘If it was left to me, he’d be lying in a ditch somewhere. Why the delay? I want to enjoy his death.’
Leaving the others to continue their search, Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias went off in the direction of Walmer. It was a cool, clear, dry evening and their horses maintained a steady canter along the track. During the ride, Nicholas sifted through all the information that he had gathered about Conway’s Men and their actor-manager. In view of his daily commitments to his company, Tobias Fitzgeoffrey could not have been directly involved in the two murders or in the ambush on the road to Faversham but he, in league with his patron, could easily have hired agents to work on their behalf. Their envy of Westfield’s Men was long-standing and their urge to secure a base in London was ever-present. If they were responsible for the earlier crimes, then the disappearance of Lawrence Firethorn could also be attributed to them. It was the latest in a series of attempts to bring a rival company to its knees. By the time that Walmer Castle came into sight on the horizon, Nicholas had convinced himself that they were closing in on the culprits.
The village was little more than a straggle of houses that looked out across the sea. There was a church, a couple of inns and a blacksmith’s forge but what really gave Walmer its significance was the castle, built in the shape of a Tudor Rose and presenting a stern test to any invaders who had the temerity to land on the nearby beach. Smaller and more compact than Dover Castle, it had an air of permanence about it, even though it had only been constructed during the later years of King Henry VIII’s reign, when his abrupt break with the Roman Catholic Church provoked papal outrage as well as the wrath of France and Spain. Had the Spanish Armada succeeded in putting foreign troops on English soil, the castles along the southern coast would have been vital strongholds.