‘Dice?’ repeated Lavery in surprise. ‘But I know nothing of dice. I devote myself to a pack of cards, as many of your fellows will testify.’
‘I’m told that dice were also rolled on your table last night, Master Lavery, and that you won game after game. When you faltered,’ Nicholas went on with a meaningful glance at Crowmere, ‘your confederate inherited your good fortune.’
‘Are you accusing me, Nick?’ said the landlord.
‘The two of you worked together from the start.’
‘I’d never even met Master Lavery until he turned up at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Oh,’ said Nicholas, ‘I suspect that you and he are old partners. You bring in the gulls and your friend cleverly fleeces them. By using an accomplice, he makes it appear that he does not win all the time. That would only attract suspicion.’
‘These are vile allegations,’ warned Lavery with vehemence. ‘Especially when you have no proof to back them up.’
‘It lies in one of those bags. Wherever you keep your marked cards and your false dice, there’s proof enough of your villainy. Be glad that I’m the one to find it, Master Lavery,’ said Nicholas. ‘Were some of my fellows here instead, you’d not escape without a sound whipping.’ He turned to Crowmere. ‘Neither of you.’
‘I thought that we were friends, Nick,’ protested the landlord.
‘It was only a counterfeit friendship.’
‘Did I not arrange a feast for Westfield’s Men?’
‘You did,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but you made us pay for it ourselves when you stole the takings for one of our performances. And your friendship was seen in its true light when you made off with half our wardrobe.’
Crowmere turned puce. ‘I deny it!’
‘Then perhaps you can explain this, Adam.’
Nicholas stepped into the room so that the massive frame of Leonard could come into view in the doorway. Across his arms, he was holding a velvet cloak, two velvet gowns and a mayoral robe.
‘There’s much more besides in that chest,’ he announced.
Crowmere flared up. ‘What were you doing in my room, you oaf?’
‘Searching the one place that you somehow forgot to search,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Leonard acted on my instructions. I thought that our wardrobe might still be here somehow, and you were the only person who could possibly have it. Just think, Leonard,’ he said. ‘If you had not found these costumes, you would have carried them downstairs in that chest when the landlord left us. We’d never think of looking for them in his tavern in Rochester.’
‘Let me say now that I had nothing to do with the theft of your wardrobe,’ declared Lavery, righteously. ‘That was Adam’s idea.’
‘Be quiet, Philomen!’ said the landlord.
‘I’ll not be arraigned for your crimes.’
‘You’ve committed enough of your own,’ noted Nicholas. ‘I fancy that the Queen’s Head is only the latest inn where you have tricked money out of honest purses. I hope that you enjoyed your stay here.’
Lavery grinned unashamedly. ‘It was a profitable visit.’
‘Then you’ll have some pleasant memories to take with you to prison.’
Crowmere thought only of himself. His confederate was too puny to fight his way out but the landlord was a strong man. Pretending to concede all the charges against him, he offered his hand to Nicholas in congratulation then brought it up suddenly to push the book holder in the chest. He lunged for the door but Leonard stood in his way. When he tried to shove him aside, Crowmere had the costumes thrust in his face. He was then lifted bodily by Leonard and tossed back into the room with ridiculous ease. Falling to the floor with a thump, he stared up resentfully at the man he used to employ.
‘Why did you do that, you lumbering fool?’ he demanded.
Leonard shrugged. ‘Nick is my friend,’ he said. ‘You pushed him.’
Lawrence Firethorn could not remember a time when he had been so happy. Reconciled with his wife, he was the manager of a theatre company that had its wardrobe restored, its stolen money repaid, its playwright returned from his sick bed and its book holder back in charge. It even had an exciting new play, The Siege of Troy, to present that afternoon. The final rehearsal went so well that the diminutive George Dart only dropped his spear once by mistake, and took four minor roles without ever getting them confused. As they broke for refreshment, Firethorn came bounding over to Nicholas Bracewell.
‘I sense another triumph in the air, Nick,’ he said, confidently.
‘I always thought it a fine play.’
‘Thanks to you, its fine author now gets credit. Otherwise, we would be staging a tragedy by a counterfeit playwright. The real tragedy is that Stephen Wragby was the one to die while Michael Grammaticus lived.’
‘Wish no man to an early grave, Lawrence.’
‘Why not?’ said Firethorn. ‘I’d happily dig the graves of Philomen Lavery and that crafty landlord, then bury their bodies while the two of them were still breathing.’
‘They are not here to vex us any more,’ observed Nicholas.
‘Thanks to you again.’
‘Leonard helped me, remember. He discovered our wardrobe.’
‘Hidden away right under our noses,’ said Firethorn, snorting. ‘Have you ever met a more audacious rogue than Adam Crowmere?’
‘Yes, I have. Two of them, in fact.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave,’ said Nicholas. ‘Both of them, born liars, cheats, thieves, lechers, embezzlers, murderers and much more. It gives me great pleasure to send them to the gallows.’
Firethorn was vengeful. ‘I’d have Crowmere and Lavery dangling beside them,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Yes, and if there was any rope left, I’d make a noose for Michael and that poisonous Doctor Zander.’ He put a companionable arm around Nicholas’s shoulder. ‘You’ve had a busy time of late, Nick, filling the city’s prisons.’
‘Each one of those villains deserves his new residence.’
‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias, overhearing them. ‘Do not forget to include Gregory Sumner. He’s behind bars as well. His confession will drown out all the lies of his egregious masters. We did the city good service by revealing what was happening behind the walls of Bridewell.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘But only because we met a counterfeit crank.’
‘What we met was a true Welshman. No man can counterfeit his nation.’
‘We’ll need to do so this afternoon,’ argued Firethorn. ‘I’ll be a warlike Greek and you’ll be a worthy Trojan. Beware, Owen. I’ll besiege your Welshness.’
‘Never!’ said Elias.
‘I’ll pelt your Celtic heritage.’
‘Over my dead body!’
‘Let’s move this quarrel into the tiring house,’ said Nicholas, easing the two men away. ‘We need to clear the stage. Our audience will be here ere long. Do not let them see you in costume until the play begins or you rob us of surprise.’
‘True, Nick,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘But Owen and I will not quarrel.’
‘No,’ said Elias. ‘We’ll settle this dispute with swords.’
‘Swords or leeks?’ taunted the other.
‘Both, Lawrence!’
Still bickering, the actors went off, leaving Nicholas to make sure that everything was ready for the performance that afternoon. When the stage had been set for the first scene, he checked that the gatherers were at their posts, and that all the properties stood in readiness in the tiring house. Returning to the yard once more, he saw that the first two spectators were already taking their seats in the lower gallery. Anne Hendrik had brought Dorothea Tate to take her first excited look at Westfield’s Men.
An hour later, they were only a tiny part of the large crowd that had descended on the Queen’s Head to watch The Siege of Troy. Surrounded by his entourage, Lord Westfield was in his usual place, quite unaware of the vicissitudes endured by his company. Two people who did have some insight into what the troupe had suffered sat side by side in the upper gallery. Doctor John Mordrake and Margery Firethorn made an unlikely couple but they had been invited along at the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell to see a new play being launched upon the choppy waters of a demanding audience.