He glanced around the mourning family, relieved that none of them had been forced to see their beloved Sebastian in his final incarnation. Their memories of a handsome and dashing young man would be untarnished. No parents were present. The mother had long since died and the father was detained elsewhere. Not even the influence of Lord Westfield had been able to release Andrew Carrick from the Tower of London in order to attend the funeral of his only son. The lawyer was keeping a silent vigil in his cell. This meant that the principal mourner was Marion Carrick, younger sister of the deceased, supported by an uncle, an aunt, a few cousins and an old maidservant.
Edmund Hoode had come along with Nicholas to represent the company. They were pleasantly surprised when Owen Elias attached himself to the fringe of mourners. He had come to pay his respects to a man with whom he had many differences in life. It was a worthy gesture. When the coffin vanished beneath a thin layer of earth, the funeral party began to disperse in subdued bewilderment. Nicholas Bracewell was moving away with Edmund Hoode when there was a tug at his sleeve. He turned to view the pallid loveliness of Marion Carrick who was dressed in seemly black.
‘I must thank you, Master Bracewell,’ she said.
‘We are sorry to intrude upon your grief.’
‘Sebastian’s friends are welcome, sir, and he counted you as one of his best friends. My father wrote to tell me of your consideration in this grim affair. We are indebted to you. It will not be forgotten.’
‘Your brother was an excellent fellow,’ said Nicholas. ‘He will be fondly remembered by Westfield’s Men.’
‘Indeed, he will,’ added Edmund Hoode.
‘Thank you, sirs.’
Marion Carrick was a neat young woman of middle height with a restrained beauty that was not chased away by evident sorrow. She had none of her brother’s extravagance and yet her charm was almost equal. Anguish lifted for a second to allow a flash of anger to show.
‘This was a most heinous crime,’ she snapped.
‘It shall be answered,’ said Nicholas.
‘May we count on your help, Master Bracewell?’
‘I will not rest until the matter is settled.’
‘This wounds me to the quick. I loved Sebastian with all my heart. I could kill the murderer with my own hands.’
‘He will be brought to justice, Mistress Carrick.’
‘I trust you to fulfil that promise, sir.’
‘It is a most solemn oath.’
Even before he attended the funeral, Nicholas Bracewell was pledged to hunt down the man who had wielded the fatal axe. That pledge now took on new force and urgency. The plea from Marion Carrick had given it a spiritual dimension. He stood beside the grave as a dear friend and colleague. When he walked away, he was a man with a mission.
Chapter Six
Cornelius Gant and his ever-obedient Nimbus were seasoned professionals who knew how to adjust their act to the needs of their spectators. The Falcon Inn at Uxbridge was a small and rather decrepit establishment which stood on the edge of the village and which was patronised by the lower sort. When Gant rode up on his horse, he saw that the company was too poor to offer much remuneration, too coarse to want subtlety and too drunk to cope with entertainment of any length. It was time for ‘The Saga of the Six Buckets’.
‘Place them here, friend,’ said Gant, indicating the spot with a finger. ‘Set them in a line, two paces apart.’
One of the drawers had come out to help him, putting the three full buckets of water in position first before adding the three empty wooden pails. Beer-sodden locals trailed out into the yard with noisy curiosity. The glowering landlord watched through a window. A couple of mangy dogs crept up. It was an uninspiring group but it was nevertheless an audience and the performers responded accordingly.
Gant began by doffing his hat while he made a bow then got his first laugh as Nimbus sent him flying by swinging a flank against his owner’s exposed rump. The horse did a form of curtsey by way of apology and the spectators roared with appreciation. Gant and the animal went through some more byplay until the guffawing rustics were thoroughly warmed up. The next bow was in unison with the curtsey.
‘Gentlemen,’ announced Gant, ‘we present a little drama entitled “The Saga of The Six Buckets”. You see them before you and I now give each of them a number.’ He started with the full pails and kicked each one as he walked past. ‘One — two — three — four — five — six. Remember those numbers, I beseech you. Nimbus will remind you what they are.’
The horse did so with well-rehearsed aplomb, giving the first bucket one kick, the second bucket two and so on up to the sixth bucket which received six taps with the hoof. To prove that it was no accident, Nimbus then went through the buckets in reverse order to check off their numbers. The applause was mixed with cheers and whistles. Cornelius Gant used raised palms to quell the beery tumult.
‘You have seen nothing yet, good sirs,’ he warned with a roguish wink. ‘We will now show you a feat of conjuration. Standing in front of you are three full buckets — one, two and three; with three empty buckets — four, five and six.’
‘What’s the trick?’ called out one of the locals.
‘To make water move by magic,’ said Gant. ‘Without stirring from this spot I will empty the full buckets and I will fill the empty ones. Can such a thing be done?’
‘Never!’ came the first cry.
‘Impossible!’ yelled another.
‘Only witchcraft could do that!’ howled a third.
‘No witchcraft,’ promised Gant. ‘Only the Eighth Wonder of the World — Nimbus. Mark, gentlemen. “The Saga of The Six Buckets” is about to begin.’
He was standing some ten feet away from the pails and remained motionless throughout the act. Nimbus waited for his cue, his eyes never leaving his master. Gant reminded the audience of the number that each bucket bore then he snapped his first command.
‘One!’
Nimbus sunk its nose into the first bucket and began to slurp away. The water level sank visibly. When a half had been drunk, Gant altered the command.
‘Three!’
The same treatment was accorded to the third bucket. Gant then sent his horse back to the first, on to the second and on to the third once more. It slaked an almighty thirst at a quite alarming speed and the audience was enraptured. Awe soon turned to vulgar amusement.
‘Four!’
Nimbus pulled its nose out of the water and straddled the bucket next in line before urinating straight into it with remarkable precision. It produced wild hilarity.
‘Five!’
The animal seemed to have an endless supply that it could turn on and off like a tap. Steam rose from the fifth bucket and the hilarity shaded into hysteria.
‘It is an old trick,’ said Gant, ‘but I’ll venture to stale it once more.’ They hooted at the pun. ‘Six!’
Nimbus obliged once more then gave a ladylike curtsey. Three full buckets of water now stood empty and three empty buckets were now brimming. Gant held out his hat to collect the coins that were thrown then he snatched it away as Nimbus pretended to relieve himself into the haul. There was free ale for the visitor that evening and free hay for his horse. Both slept soundly in the same stable.
As they left at dawn next morning, Cornelius Gant cursed the poor quality of the company and the even poorer quality of the ale. They deserved better. The journey to London was in the nature of a social ascent for them. They came from the most humble and degrading circumstances. By working so long and so hard together, they had fought their way out of their misery to create a promise of better things. Gant had come to despise his origins and did not care to be reminded of them in the way that he had been at the Falcon Inn. He owned a remarkable horse who could ensure their fame and fortune if handled properly. Nimbus would not have to debase his talents again in the way that the rustics had compelled and Gant gave him an apologetic slap to reinforce the point.