The Silent Woman (30 page)

Lucy found the little replica of her father and tucked it out of sight beneath the material. He no longer had any place in her game. Mary saw her opportunity. Kneeling beside the child, she picked up the doll that had Susan’s plain features dropped onto it by a paintbrush. Lucy tried at first to stop her and clutched at the image of her friend, but Mary was firm. Gently detaching her daughter’s hand, she placed the doll beneath the cloth. Lucy gazed up at her and understanding slowly filled her eyes with tears. Her beloved friend would never come back. Mary took the girl in her arms and they wept a long requiem for Susan Deakin. They were still entwined when Nicholas Bracewell was shown in by the maidservant.

Mary got up and the girl rallied slightly. Nicholas soon realised the cause of their distress. He hugged the girl and let her tears soak into his shoulder, then he comforted Mary. For those few minutes, he felt as if he were part of a little family, and it reinforced his conviction that Lucy was his daughter. But he said nothing on the subject. That discussion needed to take place in a very different atmosphere. The rescue of Mary Whetcombe from the designs of Gideon Livermore was the main objective now, and that could only be achieved with a legal document.

‘Did you see your father?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Mary. I fear that it was a mistake.’

‘Was he not able to help?’

‘Able, perhaps. But very unwilling.’

‘Why?’

Even as she asked the question, Mary could supply the
answer. The past was too great an encumbrance for father and son. There was so much accumulated bitterness between them that it was impossible for them to communicate with each other. Mary herself was hopelessly bound up in those distant events, and they had left her with her own share of acrimony.

‘So you learnt nothing from your father?’ she said.

‘No,’ he confessed, ‘but the visit yielded further proof of Livermore’s villainy.’

‘In what way?’

‘He set an ambush for me.’

Mary gasped in alarm. ‘You were attacked?’

‘Without success. Some hireling with a crossbow.’

‘Nick!’

She put an involuntary hand on his arm and her love was rekindled for an instant. The moment soon passed. He was risking his life to help her and she was eternally grateful, but that did not obliterate the memory of the pain he had once inflicted on her. Nicholas was trying to extricate her from a situation for which he was to some degree indirectly responsible. Mary withdrew her hand but listened attentively as he gave her details of the ambush in the wood.

‘I have frightened them, Mary,’ he said. ‘If Livermore had nothing to hide, he would not need to attack me. They will be even more unsettled now.’

‘Why?’

‘I told the lawyer that I know where to find the will.’

‘And do you?’

‘Not yet, but it is vital that they believe me. The more I can draw them into the open, the more chance I have of catching them out.’

‘Be careful, Nick. They are dangerous men.’

‘Dangerous and corrupt. That is why I must stop them.’

‘Not if it costs you your life.’

Her involuntary hand again brushed his arm. Lucy was looking up at him with a hopeful affection. Nicholas could not let the two of them down now. He turned to Mary.

‘Where did Matthew deal with his business affairs?’

‘In the counting-house.’

‘May I see it?’

‘They have already searched the room.’

‘A fresh pair of eyes may see something that was missed.’

‘Barnard Sweete was most thorough.’

‘I have to start somewhere – and immediately.’

Mary was pessimistic. ‘Follow me.’

She took him to the counting-house and showed him the table at which her husband worked. Satchels of documents and trading agreements lay everywhere and more were stuffed away into chests and drawers. It would take an age to sort through them all, and Nicholas did not have unlimited time. He had deliberately offered a lure to Barnard Sweete by telling him that he knew the whereabouts of the first will. That threat would force Livermore’s hand. Nicholas had to be ready for him but his position would be immensely strengthened if he really did locate the document.

When Mary left him, he sifted quickly through the papers on the table then opened one of the drawers to take out a sheaf of correspondence. Though he was searching for a will, he paused for a moment to take a look into the life of the man who had taken his appointed place at the altar. Matthew Whetcombe was not just a thriving merchant. He commanded enormous respect. The letters were from local
and county dignitaries, all thanking him for benefactions and all praising his character for its goodness. Here was a very different portrait of his rival, and Nicholas was chastened.

He chided himself for prying and stopped at once. He was about to put away the correspondence when he noticed a letter from Gideon Livermore. Brief and explicit, it thanked Matthew Whetcombe for a dinner that he had given at Crock Street. Nicholas was not interested in the contents of the missive. He was intrigued by the hand of the man who wrote it. Inside his jerkin was the letter that he had found on Lamparde in the derelict warehouse. It had shown its value already, for it had convinced the authorities in Bristol that Lamparde was indeed a hired assassin and that Nicholas had killed him in self-defence. The letter had double value. The writing was identical with that in the other missive. The pen that was thanking a friend for a dinner could also set murder in motion. Here was firm evidence of Livermore’s guilt.

Putting both letters away, Nicholas sat back and looked around the counting-house. It was the centre of Matthew Whetcombe’s commercial empire. It positively exuded power and significance. If Nicholas had remained a merchant, he would have owned such a place with such a feel to it. This was the world on which he had turned his back, and it caused him a pang of regret. There was safety here and meaning. At the same time, however, there was a narrowing of the mind and the spirit. Nicholas did not want his life to be measured in piles of trading agreements and letters of commendation. To own such a house and to share it with a wife like Mary was a seductive notion, but he decided that he was better off as a mere lodger with Anne Hendrik.

As his eye roved the walls, it fell on a painting that hung in
a gilt frame. Every time Matthew Whetcombe looked up from his work, he would have seen and drawn strength from it. The artist had skill. His brush had even caught the shifting colours of the River Taw. A seaman himself, Nicholas admired craft of all sizes, but the sight of the
Mary
, ploughing her way through the water with full sail, was quite inspiring. The merchant’s pride was understandable but his priorities shocked Nicholas. The painting of the ship was hung in a far more prominent position than the portrait of the woman after whom it was named.

He continued his search with renewed vigour. An hour or more slipped by before an anxious Mary returned.

‘They are still watching the house,’ she said. ‘I think that they are biding their time until you come out.’

‘They will not attack me in the street,’ he said. ‘I will be safe once I get back to the Dolphin.’

‘You would be safer still if you stayed here.’

‘Here?’

‘Lucy and I would feel safer as well.’

Nicholas was grateful for the offer. He was quietly thrilled at the idea of spending a night under the same roof as a woman who might have been his wife and a girl who might be his child. He was also glad to be able to offer the two of them a more immediate safeguard. Nicholas crossed to the window and looked down at the two men who kept the house under surveillance. She stood beside him.

‘The enemies are not only outside the house, Mary.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have one inside as well.’

‘Mr Calmady?’

‘He is Livermore’s creature, certainly, but there is another foe to beware. One of your servants.’

‘That is not possible!’ she protested.

‘Then how did they know that Susan Deakin had taken a horse and ridden to London? Someone has been spying on you. He or she is being paid to tell Livermore and Sweete exactly what is going on inside this house.’

‘One of our own servants?’ Mary was shaken.

‘Who chose them?’

‘My husband.’

‘Then their first loyalty was to him.’

‘But I treated them well and earned their respect.’

‘Respect is not enough,’ said Nicholas. ‘If someone fears that he will lose his place here, he may be only too ready to betray you to a new master.’

‘Who could it be?’ said Mary, looking around in alarm. ‘I have trusted them all. Who could it be?’

‘We will find out in time. My guess is that Livermore may have planted someone here a long time ago to keep him abreast of everything that happened. He was able to watch your husband die and choose his moment to move in.’ He drew her away from the window. ‘Say nothing at this stage and do not show any suspicion. We will use spy against master.’

‘How?’

‘You will see.’

Mary nodded. ‘I will have a bed made up for you.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate the invitation.’

‘It is only to ensure your safety.’

‘I did not think it was for any other reason.’

She gave him a pale smile then went quickly out.

Lawrence Firethorn came out into the yard of the Jolly Sailor and took his horse from the ostler. After a highly productive
stay, Westfield’s Men would now ride on to Bath, where they were due to give two performances at the home of Sir Roger Hordley, younger brother of their patron. They had not just distinguished themselves on stage. With the assistance of Owen Elias, their leader had brought off the signal feat of capturing Israel Gunby, a highwayman whose reputation stretched from Bristol to London. Money stolen from the company at High Wycombe was now restored. A substantial reward for the arrest of Gunby was also in Firethorn’s capcase. What pleased the actor most, however, was not the way that he had outwitted the two confederates but the fact that it had been immortalised in song. ‘The Ballad of Israel Gunby’ was being hawked all around the city. Firethorn could sing it in his sleep.

The company was happy. Bath was a guaranteed welcome. Harder times might lie on the open road ahead, but they looked no farther than the next couple of days. As they mounted their horses or climbed up onto the waggon, they were brimming with contentment. Even George Dart was smiling. At the performance of
Hector of Troy
on the previous afternoon, the makeshift book holder had survived without any real disasters. Firethorn had actually paid him a compliment. Dart was overjoyed. He was liked.

Last in the saddle were Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. Gill had personal reasons for wanting to quit the city of Bristol, but he had shaken off the effects of the assault by Lamparde, and his old brio had returned on stage. Edmund Hoode was so thoroughly pleased with himself that he made Firethorn stare at him in alarm. The last time the resident playwright had looked that happy was when he was in love.

‘Who is she, Edmund?’ said Firethorn.

‘Clio.’

‘A pretty name for a tavern wench. Which one was she? The drab with the filthy hair or that great, fat creature with the cast in her eye?’

‘Do not try to drag me down to your level, Lawrence.’

‘Ah, I see. You set your sights higher.’

‘On the very pinnacle.’

‘Then this Clio is some juicy whore in red taffeta.’

‘She is the Muse of History,’ said Hoode with dignity. ‘And she has inspired me in my history of Calais.’

‘Your play?’

‘Finished at last!’

‘God bless you, Edmund!’

‘Save your kisses for Clio.’

‘Kisses, embraces, pizzle and all, if she wishes,’ said the delighted Firethorn. ‘This deserves a celebration, man. When may we play the piece?’

‘As soon as you have read and approved it. Then it is but a question of hiring some tidy scrivener to copy out the sides and we may put
The Merchant of Calais
into rehearsal.’

‘This news gladdens my heart, Edmund.’

‘I never thought to complete it.’

‘Left to yourself, you’d still be playing with the baubles of your mistress in London. Women are wonderful creatures but the finest plays in creation may be crushed to powder between the millstones of their thighs. Think on that, Edmund. Write first and take your pleasure afterwards.’

‘I have learnt that lesson,’ said Hoode with a laugh. ‘I never thought I’d be grateful to a husband who caught me in bed with his wife.’

Firethorn was tactful. ‘No, dear heart. I have cause to
thank that fine fellow as well. He gave me both playwright and play.’

‘Nick Bracewell was my guide.’

‘As always, when we need him.’

‘The Merchant of Calais
owes much to Nick.’

‘We’ll give him a rare welcome when he returns.’

‘Where is he now, do you think?’

‘Penning a drama of his own, Edmund.’

‘Nick, a playwright? What is the piece called?’

‘The Merchant of Barnstaple.’

After several futile hours in the counting-house, Nicholas Bracewell widened his search to other parts of the building, but the will could not be found. He was still opening cupboards and peering into nooks and crannies when light faded. With the aid of a candle, he continued to look for secret panels and hidden cavities in every room. It was almost midnight when he finally abandoned his search. The rest of the house had already retired and Nicholas made his way wearily to his own bedchamber. Removing his jerkin, he lay on the bed with his hands behind his head. Convinced that the will was in the house somewhere, he racked his brain to work out where Matthew Whetcombe could possibly have put it.

Fatigue almost claimed him and he struggled to his feet to undress properly. It was then that he heard the banging on the front door below. He ignored it at first but it continued unabated. Nicholas heard someone descend the stair and unbolt the door. The next moment, feet came scampering up towards him and a fist banged on his own door. Nicholas opened it to reveal a panting servant in night attire.