The Vagabond Clown (23 page)

‘There’s no remedy.’

‘Yes, there is.’

‘Who will be in charge of my wheelbarrow on stage?’

Nicholas put a hand to his chest. ‘I will,’ he said.

The rehearsal went badly. Unnerved by the loss of their manager and confused by a change to the play’s main character, they stumbled from one scene to another. Elias felt his way uncertainly into his new role, Gill was at his most petulant and George Dart, deputising for Nicholas whenever the latter was on stage, had great difficulty following the play from the copy that he held in his trembling hands. Too quiet and too late, his prompts were often directed at the wrong actor. It took Nicholas almost three hours to establish a semblance of control over
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
. His own role as Bedlam’s companion was the only one played with a measure of confidence. He wheeled the clown around the stage at breakneck speed, drawing loud protests from a dizzy Gill yet managing to produce from everyone else the few laughs of the afternoon.

When the long catalogue of mistakes finally came to an end, Elias was agitated.

‘That was truly a nightmare!’

‘Our minds were on other things,’ said Nicholas.

‘We cannot present a play in that state.’

‘Nor will we, Owen. You have a whole evening to master the part and there’ll be long hours at our disposal in the morning. At the next rehearsal, you’ll see a new play.’

‘It wants a new cast as well,’ said Elias bitterly, ‘for none of us was worthy of it. Least of all,’ he added, raising his voice so that Dart could hear him, ‘an ass of a book holder who held the book upside down and who could not tell the difference between a prompt and a whisper.’

‘I crave your pardon,’ whispered Dart.

‘George gave of his best,’ said Nicholas defensively.

‘But I achieved the worst results.’

‘You should have let him push the wheelbarrow instead,’ decided Elias.

‘No, no!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘Spare me that. It calls for someone with a strong pair of hands. Nicholas at least kept me on the stage. George is so weak and nervous that he’d have tipped me out of the wheelbarrow.’

Dart was distraught. ‘I cannot stop thinking of Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘It is so with the rest of us, George,’ said Nicholas softly.

When they had stored everything away, they were ready to leave the Guildhall. Nicholas sent the four apprentices back to the Lion in the company of Edmund Hoode. Wheeled along by Dart, the peevish Gill went with them. The clown
was as disturbed as any of them by the disappearance of Firethorn and his fears expressed themselves in the form of a heightened irritability. Dart suffered a verbal whipping every inch of the way back. Nicholas and the others, meanwhile, met up with some of those who had spent the afternoon hunting for the missing man. He could see from the gloomy expressions of James Ingram and Frank Quilter that their search had so far yielded nothing.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Where you told us to go, Nick,’ replied Ingram. ‘We’ve looked under every stone between the Guildhall and the Lion.’

‘Yes,’ said Quilter. ‘We’ve tried all the taverns and ordinaries but nobody remembers seeing Lawrence, and he’s hardly a man you would easily forget. The only place we haven’t tried so far is the harbour.’

‘Owen and I will scour that now,’ resolved Nicholas. ‘You and James can start at the other end of King Street.’

Quilter nodded then set off with Ingram. The others turned in the direction of the harbour. It was early evening and the place was still seething with people. Elias noted the tavern at the edge of the harbour.

‘Let me try my luck in there,’ he said, moving off. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

‘Do not get distracted,’ warned Nicholas.

‘At a time like this, even
I
can stay sober.’

While his friend strode towards the tavern, Nicholas weaved his way along the crowded wharf. His eyes were everywhere, searching each new face, appraising each
building and pausing beside anything that might be construed as a hiding place. He was halfway along the harbour when he noticed the ship he had earlier seen at anchor in the bay. Moored behind a larger vessel, the
Mermaid
now stood at the quayside. It looked even more neglected at close quarters, its hull in need of attention and its decks in need of a good swabbing. Nicholas felt sorry that his old shipmate could find no better means of employment. John Strood had been evasive when questioned about the
Mermaid
because he was ashamed of it. After serving under one of the greatest seaman of the day, and sailing around the world with him, Strood was now condemned to routine voyages in a vessel that was as pitiful as the man himself.

Nicholas decided to take a closer look at the ship, walking along the quay from stem to stern then gazing up at the rigging. The
Mermaid
creaked noisily as it rode on the dark green water. Since there was nobody on deck, he went up the gangplank to explore. Even at its best, the ship had never been anything more than serviceable. It was now approaching the end of its days and Nicholas wondered how much longer it would remain seaworthy. He went across to the open hatch and looked down.

‘Is anyone aboard?’ he called, cupping his hands.

There was no reply. Some of the cargo had already been loaded and covered with a sheet of canvas. Nicholas knelt down to study it. Peeping out from one corner of the canvas was a piece of beautifully carved oak. He wondered what it could be. Before he could even begin to speculate,
he heard a harsh voice ring out behind him.

‘You’re trespassing, sir!’ shouted John Strood.

Nicholas rose to his feet and turned. ‘It’s me, John.’

Strood’s manner changed at once. ‘Nick?’ he said in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Inspecting the
Mermaid
, that’s all.’

‘It will hardly bear inspection.’

‘Curiosity brought me aboard.’

‘There’s little enough to see.’

‘You’re carrying cargo on this voyage.’

‘Yes,’ said Strood. ‘We’re sailing for Boulogne in due course.’

‘Was that furniture I saw in the hold?’

‘No, Nick. Merely some timber that we take to France.’

‘Then it’s timber that’s profited from the attentions of a wood-carver.’

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.