‘I love you for this, Nick,’ said Firethorn warmly.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Beatrice Capaldi! She has Italian blood, I warrant. Hot Italian blood that courses through her veins.’
‘Do not build on vain fantasies.’
‘Oh, I could kiss you for this, you lovely bawcock!’
‘Forbear, Lawrence,’ said the eavesdropping Barnaby Gill with a grimace. ‘My lips are already spoken for, good sir!’
Nicholas left the two of them arguing in the taproom and stole quickly away. While his employer was desperate to trace one object of desire, the book holder went in search for another. His unknown woman was no Beatrice Capaldi, no lady of quality with a hard beauty that could enchant and ensnare. She was a common whore in the stews of Clerkenwell and she had given one of her clients a signature that he had taken to his grave. Nicholas saw those rivulets once more and was doubly grateful that the sight had been kept from the already distraught Marion Carrick.
Armed with the miniature of the victim, he went back into the lanes that he had already tramped on the previous nights. All the establishments drew him gladly in but his welcome evaporated when it was seen that he was no customer in search of a punk. He was reviled, he was threatened, he was forcibly ejected but he bore it all with equanimity, moving on to the next brothel to continue his investigation. None of the trulls recognised the portrait but a few of the more high-class courtesans claimed to have known him. When and where they had last seen him, however, they could not recall because their brains were too addled by drink and their apprehensions too dulled by the nature of their calling. Before Nicholas could coax out more detail, he was usually expelled by a brutish landlord or a watchful madame.
Another long, taxing and frustrating night finally took him into the Pickt-hatch. Bess Bidgood wobbled her charms at him and he put coin into her hand to buy himself drink and time. Nicholas was in a small, low, smoke-filled room with a dozen or more other men who lolled at tables as they were blandished by the resident whores. As soon as the newcomer sat down on a bench, two young women came to perch either side of him with grinning familiarity. He bought them a drink, pretended to respond to their attentions and worked slowly to win their confidence. One of them planted a kiss on his cheek and told him the Pickt-hatch was the most celebrated house of resort in the district.
‘I come upon recommendation,’ said Nick.
‘Who sent you, sir?’ asked one girl.
‘Did he mention Peg?’ said the other. ‘’Tis me.’
‘My brother sent me here.’
Peg giggled. ‘With two like you, we could both be well satisfied. You are a pretty piece of flesh, sir.’
‘Let me show you my brother.’
‘He is here?’
‘I have his likeness.’
Nicholas produced the miniature and held it up to the candle. The two women squinted at it before making ribald comments. One of them had never seen the face before and the other only had the dimmest recollection of the man but they were both keen to help. Before Nicholas could stop her, Peg snatched the portrait and lurched across to one of the tables to show it to her colleagues. There were more coarse remarks and a few vague memories but none could put a name to the face or locate it at the Pickt-hatch on the night in question. One girl — a sinuous creature in red — stared at the miniature for a long time before shaking her head and tossing it back to Nicholas. Denying all knowledge of one client, Frances was soon luring another up to her room.
Peg tried to entice Nicholas up to her own bed but he feigned a stupor and staggered out to continue his quest elsewhere. Retracing the steps of Sebastian Carrick was proving to be a demoralising exercise and he knew that he could never divulge any of his nocturnal activities to the trusting sister. Marion had sent him a mission whose true nature would distress her beyond measure if she ever found out what it really was. For her sake, he must press on. For her sake — and that of her brother — he had to persevere in his grisly work in the hope that it would finally deliver up a vile murderer.
He was about to knock on the door of the neighbouring premises when he heard a stealthy tread behind him. Nicholas turned just in time. A sturdy figure came out of the dark with an arm raised to strike. His victim moved his head sharply but the club caught him a glancing blow on the temple that made his senses reel. Nicholas tottered a few steps then fell into a pool of liquid offal with a splash. He had enough presence of mind left to cover his head from further attack but it never came. Voices were raised nearby and all that he had to suffer was a vicious kick in the ribs before his assailant took to his heels. Nicholas rolled over in pain and shook his head to try to clear it. A lantern was held over him and four curious eyes surveyed the damage.
‘Master Bracewell, is it not?’ said a voice.
‘Indeed, it is,’ confirmed another.
‘Bless my soul!’
‘We came upon you just in time, sir.’
Nicholas had no breath left to thank the two watchmen but he recognised them both and was eternally thankful for their arrival. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather had prevented another murder in Clerkenwell. As the old men helped him up from the ground, Nicholas felt an odd sense of elation. Someone had tried to kill him but the man had given himself away in doing so. The night had finally yielded its reward. Nicholas Bracewell was getting close.
In an Eastcheap tavern, Cornelius Gant was also learning about London after dark. It was his first visit to the capital and he was still trying to come to terms with the sheer size of the city. By comparison with the towns in his native Cumberland, it was overpowering in its vastness. Every stage of his journey had provided a new source of fascination. He had seen huntsmen in Hyde Park, dead bodies dangling from the gibbet at Tyburn, cows grazing contentedly in St Giles with the mansions of the mighty spearing the sky in the distance alongside the broad Thames, the rambling inns of Holborn and the massive city wall that rose to a height of eighteen feet and wrapped its brawny arms protectively around the capital. As Gant and Nimbus entered through Newgate, they found fresh wonders to transfix them at every turn. Houses, shops, taverns and ordinaries jostled for position beside imposing civic buildings. Street markets turned major thoroughfares into swirling maelstroms. Noise was deafening, smells were pungent. Churches abounded in every ward but all were dwarfed by the majestic bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral. The Tower was a spectacle in itself.
After spending the day absorbing it all, Cornelius Gant was passing the night at The Feathers. While Nimbus rested in his stable, his master joined the company in the taproom to sample the ale and sound out his chances. With money to spend, he soon bought himself voluble drinking companions.
‘And what of entertainment, sirs?’ asked Gant.
‘London has all that a man could wish,’ said one of his newfound friends. ‘We’ve taverns to refresh him, executions to amuse him, stews to supply him with good sport.’
‘What may this man see for further diversion?’
‘Whipping, branding and vile treatment in the pillory.’
‘I have heard tell of bear-baiting.’
‘Southwark will bait you a bear or a bull,’ said the other with an oily grin. ‘And you may wager on the outcome if your purse is deep enough. There are also houses where dog will eat dog or where cocks will fight to the death.’