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‘Several days,’ said Strood. ‘You’ll doubtless have moved on from the town by then. I’m sorry that we were not able to spend more time together.’ He shifted his feet uneasily. ‘And I’m sorry that you did not find me in a happier station.’

‘I was delighted to see you, John, whatever your station in life.’

‘The Mermaid is an unworthy ship for someone of my abilities.’

‘Then find a better one.’

‘That is not as simple as you might imagine.’

‘Why not?’

‘One day, perhaps, I’ll tell you.’ He embraced Nicholas. ‘Adieu!’

‘Good fortune attend you, John!’

Strood gave a mirthless laugh and hurried away. Nicholas was pleased that they had been able to exchange a farewell but saddened by the fact that they were unlikely to meet again. His friend deserved to sail on a much finer vessel than the Mermaid yet there was an air of resignation about Strood that suggested he would never do so. Nicholas waited until his old shipmate had vanished into the crowd before he set off in the other direction. His thoughts were solely on Lawrence Firethorn now.

The blind beggar was sitting in the precise spot that George Dart had indicated. White-haired and dressed in rags, the old man was curled up in a doorway to keep out of the sun. A small bowl stood on the cobbles in front of him but it was empty. Nicholas tossed a coin into the bowl and a scrawny hand shot out to retrieve it.

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ said the beggar.

‘How do you know that I’m a man and not a maid?’

‘By the sound of your feet. You’ve the tread of a tall man with a long stride.’

Nicholas crouched down beside him. ‘How good is your memory?’

‘As good as yours, I think. Try me, sir.’

‘A friend of mine spoke to you yesterday, shortly after noon.’

‘A young man. I remember him well.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he dropped a coin in my bowl. Few people do that.’

‘He also talked to you,’ said Nicholas. ‘He told you who he was and where he worked. When he confided a problem to you, you claimed that you could help.’

‘I did,’ agreed the beggar, ‘but he went away before I could tell him what I knew. He was with another man, older and more irritable, who seemed to be in a small cart.’

‘It was a wheelbarrow.’

The beggar cackled. ‘Does he have no better means of moving about?’

‘His leg is broken and in a splint.’

‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘then he has my sympathy. He has a burden to carry, like me, and must try to overcome it as best he can.’ He reached out a hand to feel Nicholas’s arm. ‘Who am I talking to?’

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Also employed by Westfield’s Men, I think.’

‘The same.’

‘Then you, too, are looking for a certain Master Firethorn.’

‘We are desperate to find him,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anything of help that you can tell me will earn my gratitude.’

‘I need more than gratitude.’ Another coin was dropped into the bowl. The beggar grabbed it at once. ‘Is this all that I can expect?’

‘That depends on the intelligence you give me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Since you were unable to see anything, you must have heard it instead.’

‘Oh, yes. My ears can pick up the slightest sound. I hear snatches of a thousand conversations every day yet I can always tell them apart. Age has robbed me of much but left me with my wits.’

‘Tell me about Master Firethorn.’

‘He was coming from the same direction as you when he was stopped by someone. A younger man, judging by his voice.’

‘Where was this?’

‘No more than a few yards from where I sit now.’

‘Did this other person give a name?’

‘No, sir,’ said the beggar, scratching at the fleas beneath his armpits, ‘but he recognised Master Firethorn and gave him a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘I heard the seal being broken.’

‘What else did you hear?’ asked Nicholas, listening intently.

‘The name of the man who sent the letter. It was Lord Westfield.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘My ears never deceive me. The messenger told Master Firethorn that he was to go to an inn where Lord Westfield was staying. They went off together.’

Nicholas was mystified. ‘But our patron has not yet arrived in Dover. How could he send for Master Firethorn when he is not even here?’

‘I’ve told you all I know.’ The beggar grinned. ‘Except for one thing.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The name of the inn.’

The scrawny hand was extended and Nicholas knew that he would have to buy the information. How reliable it was, he could only hazard a guess but the beggar had clearly heard enough to convince him that he was telling the truth. He put three more coins into the man’s open palm. It closed instantly.

‘Where did this messenger take him?’

‘To meet Lord Westfield.’

‘At which inn?’

‘The Arms of England.’

Lawrence Firethorn had lost all track of time. Roused from his sleep, he was untied from the post and hustled out of the warehouse by the two men who had stood guard over him earlier. He was then taken along a quay, helped down some stone steps and pushed into a rowing boat. The point of a dagger was held to his ribs. Firethorn could do nothing but lie in the stern of the boat as it was rowed away. He was bruised and bewildered. He had cramp in his arms and legs. The boat seemed to take a long time to reach its destination and he feared that he was being taken out to sea to be drowned. Then the oars were shipped and he felt the thud of contact with a larger vessel. Ropes were lowered and tied around his chest and under his armpits. Unable to resist, he was hauled upward.

When they lowered him down, he knew that he was in the hold of a ship. It creaked and rolled as it was buffeted playfully by the waves. Firethorn felt sick. His captors came aboard to take charge of him, lugging him along a floor then securing him to some iron rings set in the side of the hold. Where were they taking him? Why did they handle him so roughly? What time was it? Who were they? Hours of excruciating discomfort limped slowly past before one of his captors bent over him.

‘I’m to offer you food.’ It was the voice of the man who had killed Giddy Mussett. ‘If it was left to me, I’d sooner throw you overboard but we’ve been told to keep you alive. Do you want to eat?’

Firethorn’s stomach was too unsettled even to consider the offer but he nodded his head nevertheless. Any chance to have his gag removed had to be taken. He could at least ask some of the questions that had been tormenting him.

‘Say nothing,’ warned the man. ‘Cry for help and it will not be heard. We’re too far from the shore for that. Do you understand?’

Firethorn nodded again and adopted a submissive pose. His gag was untied.

‘I’ve some cheese for you,’ said the other, inserting it hard into his mouth. ‘I hope that it chokes you to death.’

Firethorn spat it into his face and roared his defiance. ‘I’ll kill you one day!’

Something struck him viciously on the side of the head. The blows continued until he sank into oblivion. When he recovered consciousness again, Firethorn learnt that one side of his face was covered in blood and that he was lashed even more tightly to the iron ring. His gag was firmly back in place. There would be no more meals for him.

The landlord of the Arms of England was a swarthy man of middle years with a face that glowed with geniality. A former sailor, he had tired of life at sea and found an occupation that suited his talents and inclinations. Nicholas Bracewell weighed him up at a glance.

‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ asked the landlord.

‘I’m looking for a friend.’

‘Then search about you. Do you see him here?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He came in yesterday, not long after midday.’

The landlord chuckled. ‘Then you’ll hardly find him here now. We’ve lots of customers who like to drink themselves into stupidity but we always turn them out at the end of the day unless they have hired a room.’