Dressed in the unfamiliar garb of a country gentleman, the moneylender was there to watch the play with Cyril Paramore, also in a disguise that hid his identity. When they took their seats in the gallery, they were unsettled to hear the name of Sir Eliard Slaney from so many sides. The rumours were true. Mockery was at hand. Their gaze was fixed so completely on the stage below that they did not notice the handsome woman who sat two rows in front of them. Avice Radley was there to enjoy her favourite play. It would be the last time that she would ever see it and she was going to savour every moment. When the moneylender’s name drifted into her ears, she did not take it seriously. Edmund Hoode had left his play untouched. Forced to make a critical choice, he had obeyed her instructions. She saw it as symbolic of a happy life together.
As the yard filled and the time of performance neared, a ripple of anticipatory delight went around the galleries. Avice Radley could not understand it but Sir Eliard and his companion feared that they did. They began to wish they were not there but they were trapped in the middle of a row and were compelled to remain. It was not long before the entertainment started. A fanfare rang out to silence the throng, a flag was raised above the inn and Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue. His lilting Welsh voice reached every part of the yard with ease.
‘Good friends, for none but friends are gathered here,
Ours is a tale of villainy and fear,
Of foul corruption, usury and deceit.
We give to you a liar, rogue and cheat,
Who lends out money to bring men to shame
And ruin. Sir Eliard Slimy is his name …’
Nicholas Bracewell heard the first appreciative roar of laughter from the audience as he and Anne Hendrik approached the house. Sir Eliard Slaney had been unmasked. Nicholas went first to the quiet lane at the rear of the property to make sure that Lightfoot was in position below the designated window. Leaning idly against a wall with a rope over his shoulder, the tumbler gave him a signal to indicate that his task would not be difficult. Nicholas rejoined Anne at the front door. He, too, was in disguise, wearing the hat and sober garments of one of her Dutch employees and composing his features into an expression of timidity worthy of Preben van Loew. When a maidservant answered her knock, Anne first asked to see Sir Eliard in order to establish that he was not on the premises. Unable to speak to the master of the house, she then requested a meeting with Lady Slaney. The visitors were invited inside.
Hearing of their arrival, Lady Slaney came bustling out of the parlour in a green velvet gown. She was torn between surprise and embarrassment.
‘I did not expect to see you here again,’ she said.
‘I felt that I had to give you an explanation, Lady Slaney,’ said Anne. She indicated Nicholas. ‘This is Jan, who works for me. I needed his protection on the journey here.’
‘You could have used his protection on your last visit, I fancy. My husband all but threw you from the house. I still do not understand why.’
‘That is why I am here.’
‘Sir Eliard tells me that I must find another milliner.’
‘May we discuss this in private, Lady Slaney?’ asked Anne.
‘Yes, yes. Come in.’
Anne turned to Nicholas. ‘Wait here, Jan. I’ll not be long.’
Lady Slaney led the way into the parlour and shut the door. Nicholas moved swiftly, knowing that Anne would not be able to distract her former client indefinitely. Making sure that he was unseen, he crossed to the stairs and went swiftly up them. Anne’s plan of the house had been accurate. He found the counting house at once and tried the door. It was locked. From inside he could hear banging noises that alarmed him. If they continued, they would certainly rouse one of the servants. But the banging suddenly stopped and was replaced by the sound of a key in the lock. There was a delay of almost a minute as it was jiggled to and fro. Nicholas began to fear that the blacksmith’s skill had let them down. If he could not get into the counting house, their hopes foundered. The illiterate tumbler would certainly not be able to find on his own the evidence that they required. To Nicholas’s relief, the lock then clicked back. When the door opened, Lightfoot was grinning in triumph.
‘Come in, sir,’ he whispered.
‘What was that noise?’ asked Nicholas, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. ‘I heard banging.’
‘The shutters were securely bolted. I had to force my way in.’
‘Did anyone below see you?’
‘No, sir,’ said Lightfoot. ‘I brought a rope to help me climb up then dropped it out of sight when I was in. I can get down again without it.’
‘Then do so at once. When I find what I want, I’ll drop it down to you.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
Lightfoot went back to the open shutters, peered down into the lane then stood back as two people walked past. When their footsteps died away, he checked that the lane was empty then lowered himself out of the window before dropping to the ground below. Nicholas, meanwhile, was searching quickly through the documents and ledgers on the table. As he leafed through some pages, his eye fell on the name of Lord Westfield and he glanced with misgiving at a list of the patron’s outstanding debts. The extent of Lord Westfield’s profligacy made his stomach lurch. But it was the biggest of the ledgers that really aroused his interest. It contained details of every penny that Sir Eliard Slaney made or spent in that year, neatly arranged in parallel columns. Nicholas flicked through the volume. As soon as he saw a record of substantial payments made to Bevis Millburne, Cyril Paramore and Adam Haygarth, he felt a surge of pleasure. Patently, they were bribes. The ledger would provide the incontrovertible evidence that they needed.
He crossed to the window, saw Lightfoot waiting below, then dropped the ledger into the arms. A wave of the hand sent the tumbler scurrying off down the lane to the place where they had arranged to meet up again. Nicholas closed the shutters quietly, crossed to the door and removed the key from the lock so that he could use it from outside. But there was an unforeseen hazard. When he opened the door to leave, he was confronted by a tall, slim figure who barred his way. It was the man who had tried to kill him in Turnmill Street. He was brandishing another dagger. Nicholas backed into the counting house. Looking for the chance to strike, the man went after him.
‘We’ve met before,’ he sneered.
‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You crawled out of the slime in Turnmill Street.’
‘What are you doing in Sir Eliard’s house?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘You won’t leave it alive, my friend. I can promise you that.’
Nicholas looked into the cold, hard, unforgiving eyes of the assassin.
‘You’ve killed before, I fancy,’ he said.
‘It’s my trade.’
‘Stabbing a drunken man in an alley? Squeezing the life out of a defenceless girl like Moll Comfrey? Can you take pride from such work?’
‘I do what I’m paid to do.’
‘How many other people has Sir Eliard asked you to kill?’
‘Enough.’
‘And was Vincent Webbe the first?’