‘First, tell me if my friend came in here. He’s a man you’d remember.’
‘Why is that?’
Nicholas gave him a description of Firethorn and explained that he probably came into the inn with a younger man. The landlord had no difficulty in identifying them.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I do recall your friend, sir, and he was with a young man.’
‘How long did they stay?’
‘I’ve no recollection of that.’
‘None at all?’
‘The room had been hired until morning but they left well before that.’
‘Room?’ repeated Nicholas. ‘My friend was taken to a room?’
‘One of our finest.’
‘Who paid for it?’
‘The fellow did not give a name,’ said the landlord. ‘I took him on trust. He was a seafaring man like myself and that was enough for me.’
‘But he’s not there now?’
‘Neither of them are, sir.’
‘There were two of them staying here?’
‘Yes, sir. Though the other man was no sailor. I could tell that. When this friend of yours came in, he was taken straight up to their room. It’s above my head so I know that they went in there.’
‘Is it occupied now?’ asked Nicholas.
‘No. Why? Did you wish to hire it?’
‘I simply wish to look into it.’
‘But it’s empty, sir.’
‘That makes no difference.’
The landlord was cautious. ‘I like to oblige my customers but I don’t make a habit of showing them into my rooms. I’d need a good reason to do that.’
‘I’ve an excellent reason,’ said Nicholas with urgency. ‘My friend was tricked into coming here. I’ve reason to believe that the men you talked about were lying in wait for him. He was kidnapped.’
‘Here? Under my roof?’
‘That’s my suspicion. I’ll pay, if you let me confirm it.’
‘There’s no need for that, sir,’ said the landlord, moving across to the stairs. ‘I’ll take you up there myself. We’ve lively customers here at times but I never let them get out of hand. And I’d certainly not let them have a room if I thought that they were intending to commit a crime here.’
‘We don’t know that they were,’ said Nicholas, following him up the steps. ‘But it strikes me as a strong possibility.’
The landlord opened the door then stood back to let Nicholas go in. It was a small room with a central beam so low that he had to duck beneath it. The bed took up almost a third of the available space. The place looked clean and cosy but Nicholas could discern no sign of recent occupation. If Firethorn had been held there, he had left no mark of his visit behind. Nicholas went around the room with scrupulous care, even getting on his knees to peer under the bed.
‘You’ll find nothing under there, sir. The room has been cleaned.’
‘Had the bed been slept in?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then nobody stayed the night.’
‘We think that they sneaked away in the dark.’
‘Why should they do that?’ wondered Nicholas, getting to his feet. ‘May I open the shutters to let in more light?’
‘I’ll do it for you, sir.’
The landlord stepped into the room and lifted the latch. When he opened the shutters, a gust of wind blew in from the sea and achieved what Nicholas could never have done. It dislodged a tiny object that had been missed by the maidservant who had cleaned the room earlier. It was a white feather. Disturbed by the wind, it leapt high into the air and floated for several seconds until Nicholas snatched at it. He held it between a finger and thumb to examine it.
‘Have you seen it before, sir?’ asked the landlord.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Where?’
‘It was in my friend’s hat,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was here.’
Remorse set in as soon as they reached the Lion. Ashamed of the way they had acquitted themselves, the actors supped their ale and indulged in bitter recrimination. They felt that they had betrayed their talent at the Guildhall and it left them without any urge to perform again in Dover. Owen Elias raised a lone voice against the general melancholy, arguing that the best way to exonerate themselves was to give a performance at the castle that was truly worthy of them. He was shouted down by the others, who were beginning to resent the way that the Welshman had succeeded so brilliantly on stage when they had so miserably failed. Elias could not even rally support from Edmund Hoode. When he saw Nicholas enter, he hoped that he would at last have someone on his side.
‘You agree with me, Nick, I’m sure,’ he said, intercepting him to take him aside. ‘We must play at the castle.’
‘Not without Lawrence.’
‘We managed without him this afternoon.’
‘And paid a heavy penalty,’ said Nicholas. ‘You took the laurels, Owen, but the rest of us buckled. Had we given such a performance at the Queen’s Head, we’d have been mightily abused by some of our spectators.’
‘The mayor and his wife approved. They told me so.’
‘Leave them to their own likes and dislikes. I’ve news of Lawrence.’
Elias was attentive. ‘Good news or bad?’
‘Something of each,’ said Nicholas. ‘I know where he was taken and am sure that he was still alive by nightfall. If they meant to kill him, they’d have done so long before then. Those are the good tidings.’
‘And the bad ones.’
‘I’ve still no idea where he is now.’
Nicholas told him the story in full, praising the part played in it by George Dart, the least likely member of the company to provide crucial information. When he heard about the letter that was handed to Firethorn, the Welshman shook his head.
‘It could not have been genuine, Nick. Our patron only arrived this afternoon.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Word awaited us when we got back here.’
‘Where does Lord Westfield stay?’
‘At the castle.’
‘Why did Lawrence not realise that?’ asked Nicholas, stroking his beard. ‘When he was summoned to that inn, he must have known Lord Westfield would not be there.’
‘I disagree, Nick. Our patron is as fond of his drink as any of us. After a long ride from London, where else would he go but to a reputable inn like the Arms of England? What drew Lawrence there was that letter.’
‘It was a forgery.’
‘He did not think so at the time, Nick.’
‘That’s what puzzled me. Lawrence knows our patron’s hand.’
‘He should do,’ said Elias. ‘We’ve had enough letters from Lord Westfield in the past. If he enjoys a performance, he always has the courtesy to tell us so.’
‘Yet Lawrence was still deceived.’
‘What does that tell you?’
‘Something that I’m loath even to think,’ said Nicholas, piecing the evidence together in his mind. ‘And yet I must. It has been there under our noses all this time, Owen. Who knew about our life at the Queen’s Head? Who asked about the towns that we would visit on tour? Who came to see us perform? And who,’ he added, ‘was the one man capable of forging our patron’s hand with any skill?’
Elias was shocked. ‘Only one name answers all that.’
‘Then it must be him.’
‘But he’s a friend of Westfield’s Men.’
‘Is he?’ said Nicholas. ‘I begin to wonder. It was he who encouraged our suspicion of Conway’s Men in order to throw us off the scent. And he who got close enough to know our innermost thoughts. Let’s go and find him, Owen,’ he decided. ‘It’s high time that we learnt if Sebastian Frant is the friend that we thought him.’
Chapter Sixteen
It took them some time to find the house. All that they knew was that Sebastian Frant lived close to Dover, along the Folkestone road, and they set off in that direction. The first people they encountered on the way were unable to help them. Though they had lived in the area for many years, and could recite the names of every village and hamlet for miles around, they had never heard of anyone called Frant. It was almost as if the former scrivener was in hiding. Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias rode on until they eventually found someone who gave them some guidance. The man was a local farmer, tending his cattle.