‘A word in your ear, Nicholas,’ he whispered to the book holder. ‘Give that young scamp fair warning from me. I’m the clown in this company. If Davy tries to steal a laugh from me on stage again, I’ll cut him into pieces and feed him to the ducks.’
As the kitchen slowly cleared, Nicholas was left alone at the end of the table with Firethorn. The actor was able to confide his worries about the death of Robert Partridge. He recounted in detail the conversation with Sir Michael and Doctor Winche.
‘I felt that the doctor was lying, Nick.’
‘Why should he do that?’
‘I’ve no idea but he wouldn’t even discuss the notion that the man had been poisoned.’ Firethorn bristled. ‘He had the nerve to suggest that I was responsible for the man’s heart attack. Duke Cosimo overexcited the fellow, that was his claim.’
‘A strange diagnosis for a doctor to make.’
‘Yet he cured me when I lost my voice so he’s a competent physician.’
‘I’m sure that he is,’ said Nicholas, ‘or he would not enjoy Sir Michael’s confidence. But we must remember that it was not his medicine that brought back your voice. It was a potion from this Mother Pigbone.’
‘He called her a local wise woman.’
‘How many doctors rely on such an unusual source?’
‘None that I know of, Nick.’
‘I’d like to meet this Mother Pigbone at some point,’ said Nicholas. ‘She must be an extraordinary woman if she can win the trust of someone like Doctor Winche. As to his diagnosis, he may have been simply trying to ward off panic.’
‘In what way?’
‘Sudden death like that is always disturbing. To announce that the victim had been poisoned would have spread even more alarm and distressed the widow beyond bearing. Perhaps that’s why the doctor concealed any hint that the death might be by unnatural means. Besides,’ added Nicholas, ‘he only examined the man in the hall when he had a small audience around him. How could he make a proper diagnosis there?’
‘It was impossible,’ said Firethorn, finishing his drink. ‘The doctor was anxious to make a fuller examination of the corpse. It’s been removed to the mortuary.’
‘Here at Silvermere?’
‘I believe so. It’s at the rear of the family chapel.’
Nicholas ran a meditative finger around the rim of his tankard. ‘Do you think that we should pay our respects to Master Partridge?’ he said at length.
‘Why?’
‘He might tell us something that Doctor Winche is keeping from us.’
‘But he’s stretched out on a slab.’
‘I’ve looked on death more times than I care to remember,’ said Nicholas a pained expression, ‘and it has many guises. When I sailed with Drake around the world, we lost a large number of men. Some were drowned, some killed by hideous accidents on board, a few perished at the end of a rope. Others died of fever, scurvy, fatigue, sweating sickness, eating strange fish or even drinking their own infected urine when fresh water ran out. You can tell by a man’s face if he died happily or not.’
‘Say no more,’ decided Firethorn, reaching for a candle. ‘Let’s introduce ourselves to this lawyer. I can ask him if he enjoyed my performance.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘Don’t expect an answer.’
They left the kitchen and made their way along a passageway. Having been given a tour of the house on his first visit, Nicholas knew how to find the chapel. It was in the east wing of the property, close to the private apartments of Sir Michael and his wife. The mortuary was at the rear of the chapel, a small, stone-flagged chamber that was reached by a flight of steps. Nicholas and Firethorn went slowly down the steps and opened the door. A candle burnt inside the mortuary, casting a pale glow over the corpse on the marble slab. Herbs had been scattered to sweeten the atmosphere but the smell of death and damp was still paramount. Holding his own candle, Firethorn took it across to the body of Robert Partridge and held it close to his head. Nicholas peeled back the shroud to reveal the tortured features of the deceased. He studied the face carefully before pulling the shroud back further in order to look at the torso and arms. Stripped naked, the corpse was still in an attitude of torment.
‘Is this what I did to him?’ whispered Firethorn.
‘Not without help from someone else,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think he was poisoned.’
‘That was Sir Michael’s feeling.’
‘He may be a sounder physician than Doctor Winche.’
‘Or simply a more honest one.’
Nicholas pulled the shroud back over the face of the cadaver and they turned to leave. Both of them started when they saw a tall figure standing in the doorway. In the wavering light of the two candles, they saw the expression of cold anger on the face of Romball Taylard. They had not heard him arrive and had no idea how long he had been there. The steward’s voice was heavy with disapproval.
‘This is private property,’ he said.
Firethorn gave a shrug. ‘We got lost.’
Mother Pigbone sang quietly to herself as she put another log on the fire and adjusted the iron pot that hung above the flames. It was early morning but she had been up since dawn to feed Beelzebub before getting her own breakfast. The black boar was not merely an agreeable companion for her. It gave her warning of the approach of strangers. When she heard a series of loud grunts from the sty, she knew that somebody was coming. Wiping her hands on her grubby apron, she went outside to see who it was. The rider was following the twisting path through the woods before he emerged into the clearing. He came to a halt in front of her hovel and looked down at her.
‘Mother Pigbone?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I offer you greetings and thanks,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, touching his hat politely. ‘I belong to a company of players who are performing at Silvermere. When one of our number was struck down, you supplied a potion to recover him.’
‘I believe that I did,’ she said cautiously, peering at his bruised features. ‘Have you come for medicine on your own account, sir? I can see that you need it.’
‘It’s information that I seek.’
‘Would you not like some ointment to take away the pain?’
Nicholas dismounted. ‘No, thank you, Mother Pigbone. I’m more interested in the concoction you gave to my friend.’
‘Did it work?’
‘Extremely well.’
‘Then you’ve no complaint.’
‘None whatsoever,’ he said pleasantly. ‘In fact, Master Firethorn, the patient whose voice you brought back, asked me to pass on his congratulations. He’s indebted to your skills.’
‘So is half the county,’ she replied complacently.
‘May I ask what was in the potion you gave him?’
Mother Pigbone cackled. ‘Ask all you want, sir,’ she invited, ‘but you’ll get no answer from me. My remedies are all secret. If I gave them away, people would use them to medicine themselves and I’d lose my custom.’
‘How much custom does Doctor Winche bring you?’
‘That’s between me and him.’
‘Does he come here regularly?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘He obviously trusts you, Mother Pigbone.’
‘More than I trust you, sir,’ she said, folding her arms with suspicion. ‘What brought you here at this time of the morning?’
‘I was curious to meet you.’
‘Well, now that you’ve satisfied your curiosity, you may ride on.’
‘In a moment,’ he said, meeting her stare. A loud grunting noise took his gaze to the little garden. ‘You obviously keep pigs.’
‘Just one, sir. Beelzebub.’
‘A fearsome name.’
‘He’s a fearsome animal. Beelzebub is my guard dog. When I have unwelcome visitors, I let him loose on them. Nobody stops to argue when they see an angry boar coming at them.’
‘A black boar, by any chance?’
‘Beelzebub is as black as can be, sir. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s an odd coincidence,’ he said, thinking of The Witch of Colchester. ‘A character in one of our plays keeps a black boar. But I didn’t come here to discuss our repertoire with you. I wanted your advice.’