Cornelius Gant was not the only angel on the premises.
‘Good morning, Master Bracewell.’
‘Mistress Carrick! What brings you here at this hour?’
‘I thought to catch you before your rehearsal.’
‘Then must your reason be important.’
‘It is.’ Marion Carrick handed him the scroll. ‘My father said that I was to put it into your hand without delay. It contains a report about one Master Fellowes.’
‘That makes it almost as welcome as you, mistress.’
Nicholas had never seen her looking so lovely or so like her brother. With the sun slanting down to give her a halo, she really did have an angelic air. Her smile had a sweet innocence which he did not want to remove but there was no helping it. Taking her aside and sitting her down on a bench, he explained that her brother’s killer had himself been killed in a Clerkenwell street. Her ignorance of the area obscured its true character from her and he was able to give a version of the story which obscured the fact that Sebastian’s visit to a prostitute had set the whole tragedy in motion. Marion Carrick was so grateful to hear the news that she burst into tears and had to be comforted.
As he soothed her with gentle patting, he looked down into the beautiful moist face and reflected how different she was from the two other women who had become entangled with Westfield’s Men. Frances from the Pickt-hatch and Beatrice Capaldi from Blackfriars were sisters under the skin. One was paid for nightly promiscuity while the other was more highly selective in her clients but both were courtesans with a streak of madness in them. And neither would baulk at murder. Frances stabbed herself through the heart but Beatrice Capaldi inserted the blade through the breast of her victims. Lawrence Firethorn was being slowly bled to death and his company might perish with him.
Nicholas sighed and helped Marion Carrick up from the bench. In contrast to the other women, she was a decent and wholesome presence but she did not belong in the world of the theatre. Now that her brother’s death had been properly avenged, she could return to her own life. Nicholas was sorry to see her go and she lingered at the parting to give him a soft kiss before hurrying off with the servant who escorted her out into the street. There was no flapping of wings but he felt as if an angel had departed from his life.
The missive remained and he unrolled it at once. Andrew Carrick had been diligent in his research. His letter was an absolute mine of information gleaned from Harry Fellowes and bearing upon the operation of the Ordnance Office. Facts and figures were set down in tabulated profusion. Nicholas knew that his plan could now be put into effect. The search for the man with the axe was over. He could now tackle the conspirators who were trying to chop down Westfield’s Men.
Before that, another rehearsal beckoned.
‘Gentlemen!’ he yelled. ‘About it straight!’
The studious inertia of Cambridge oppressed her more each day and she grew increasingly restless. She bulked large in a small house even when she was stationary but Margery Firethorn was positively overwhelming when she was on the move in such a confined space. Mother and child found her ubiquity rather unsettling. Jonathan Jarrold felt it was like sharing a cage with a hungry she-tiger. While giving her the daily dose of gratitude, he assured his sister-in-law that they could now cope without her. His son, Richard, had come through the real trial and was making visible progress. The bookseller and his wife had every reason to believe that they had finally produced a baby who had come to stay.
Margery agreed to his suggestion. Reasons to leave now greatly outnumbered reasons to stay. She would depart on Friday and break the journey to London at some intermediate hostelry where she could spend the night.
‘That way,’ she told her sister, ‘I may arrive home in good time on Saturday.’
‘Lawrence will be overjoyed to see you, Margery.’
‘I will take my husband unawares.’
‘That was ever your way.’
‘Goodbye, sister.’
‘Give our love to the whole family.’
‘Mine remains with yours.’
‘Lawrence will have missed your warming presence.’
Margery was rueful. ‘That is my fear!’
‘I love her! I need her! I want her! I must have her, Nick!’
‘She sets a high price on her favours, sir.’
‘Beatrice puts my devotion to the test.’
‘Westfield’s Men will suffer.’
‘I will be away but one afternoon.’
‘The company needs you tomorrow as never before.’
‘Do not vex me so!’
Lawrence Firethorn was being ripped apart by competing claims on his loyalty. Lord Westfield had overridden his choice of Cupid’s Folly as the play to be performed at the Queen’s Head on the following afternoon and the determined patron had substituted Love’s Sacrifice. It was an attempt to bring the actor-manager to heel but, as the first playbill was put up to advertise the event, a second letter arrived from Beatrice Capaldi to give details of the slow voyage along the Thames and to hint at the ultimate reward for her doting lover. Firethorn agonised between the demands of professional duty and private dalliance. Anger finally sent him running to the arms of Beatrice Capaldi.
‘Lord Westfield insults me!’ he snarled.
‘No man admires you more,’ said Nicholas.
‘I’ll not take it!’
‘Our patron chose you as his manager.’
‘Then why does he treat me as a hired man who must play as cast?’ Firethorn worked himself up into a fury. ‘I’ll not be bullied, I’ll not be forced, I’ll not dance to the tune of Lord Westfield or any other man in London! Let him put up his playbills for Love’s Sacrifice. It will not be staged.’
‘It will, sir.’
‘Without me?’
‘With or without you, Master Firethorn.’
Nicholas Bracewell allowed an interval of silence so that his irate companion could calm down slightly. Having come out through Bishopsgate, they were now walking together in the direction of Shoreditch. Rehearsal and performance had gone well because Lawrence Firethorn had acted with Beatrice Capaldi’s second missive next to his heart. It would have been unwise to tackle him at the Queen’s Head where his raised voice abolished walls and made privacy quite impossible. Nicholas therefore waited until the two of them were well clear of the city walls before he touched once more on the delicate topic. Firethorn was leading his horse by the reins. The three of them passed Bedlam.
‘Consider one more time,’ pleaded Nicholas.
‘It is too late.’
‘Renounce this lady, sir.’
‘I am too far gone in to turn back now, Nick,’ said the other with sudden passion. ‘This is no mere conquest that I pursue here. Beatrice is my own true love. I worship her with every fibre of my being. I would do anything to show her that I am in earnest. I fret, I sigh, I long for her. Did I but know where she dwells, I would lie before her threshold all night and sleep in contented adoration.’
Nicholas steeled himself to disillusion his master.
‘Mistress Capaldi lives beside the river,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I tracked her to Blackfriars one night.’
‘Why?’ hissed Firethorn. ‘What reason had you to spy on her? You followed my love without telling me? What kind of treachery is this?’
‘It was on your account that I went.’
‘Behind my back!’
‘I had no other means of helping you.’
‘Helping me! You have lost my friendship for ever!’