Firethorn rolled his eyes. ‘At least, he spared my life.’
‘An old affection lingered.’
‘There’s no affection in being abducted and beaten, Nick.’
‘His aim was to stop us reaching here,’ continued Nicholas. ‘If we got as far as Dover Castle, it was inevitable that our host would learn of the death of our clown and, before that, of the assassination of Fortunatus Hope.’
Lord Westfield rose to his feet. ‘I can explain why,’ he said, seizing his cue. ‘My good friend, William Brooke, Lord Cobham, is a man of consequence who knows the very nerves of state. Had the name of Master Hope been whispered in his ear, he would have realised at once that an English spy had been murdered for political reasons. It would have led him to do what he has now done and that was to order a search of the dead man’s papers that were kept at a secret address.’
‘A secret address?’ repeated Gill.
‘Here in Dover,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lord Cobham knew where it was because Master Hope reported to him from time to time. Sebastian Frant did not. When he believed they were confederates, he sent letters to Master Hope that would expose Sebastian as a spy if they fell into the wrong hands.’
‘Now I understand why he did all he could to prevent us playing here at the castle,’ said Firethorn. ‘Stop the tour and he saved his life.’
‘But the truth about Master Hope was bound to emerge in time,’ said Hoode.
‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘That’s why Sebastian had someone searching the town for that secret address. He wanted to destroy those letters before they destroyed him.’
‘But how could they, Nick?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The letters would have been written in code that nobody but Sebastian and Fortunatus Hope could decipher. Sebastian would have been safe.’
‘Would he?’ asked Nicholas. ‘You’ve seen that neat hand of his. No matter how clever the code, there would be no doubt who actually wrote those letters. Sebastian Frant was betrayed by his own profession. His hand was wedded to an elegance that no other scrivener could have achieved. It would have been his undoing.’
‘You were his undoing, Nick,’ said Firethorn gratefully. ‘When I was tied up in that stinking hold, the last voice I expected to hear was yours. I was sore afraid, I confess it. When Sebastian held that dagger to my throat, I thought my end was nigh.’
‘He could not bring himself to do it.’
‘I think that I understand why. It was one thing to have a vagabond clown like Giddy Mussett stabbed to death but I posed a different challenge. When it came to it,’ said Firethorn, giving his vanity free rein, ‘Sebastian was restrained by the memory of all those wonderful performances I gave at the Queen’s Head. He could not bear the notion of robbing London of its finest actor. Without me, Westfield’s Men would wither away.’
‘But that’s not what happened, Lawrence,’ said Gill contentiously. ‘We staged A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady at the Guildhall and won many plaudits. Owen Elias was as masterful in the role as you.’
‘It’s true,’ said Hoode. ‘Owen was another Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘With more compassion than you could ever muster.’
‘And a touch more humour, I fancy.’
‘Can this be so, Nick?’ asked Firethorn, angered by the remarks.
‘Owen was our salvation,’ said Nicholas with a quiet smile. ‘Most of the company gave a poor account of themselves that afternoon but Owen could not be faulted. I’ve never seen him conquer an audience so completely. He had them at his mercy. We were horrified when you disappeared but we certainly did not wither away in your absence. In some ways,’ he recalled, ‘it brought out the best in us.’
‘Hell and damnation!’ roared Firethorn, waving an arm. ‘I expect to be missed.’