‘Take it down, Preben,’ she ordered. ‘Let us spare others the distress of having to read such hateful words.’
‘It is best to ignore it altogether.’
‘Remove it so that we may hand it over to a constable. It’s a malicious libel and the law protects you from such things.’
‘They still keep coming,’ he said dolefully.
‘Commissioners have been ordered to take the utmost pains to discover the author and publisher of these attacks. When they are caught, they will face a heavy punishment. Take it down,’ she repeated. ‘Nobody else can be insulted by it then.’
‘As you wish.’
‘And when you have done that, forget that you ever saw it.’
The Dutchman smiled. ‘I’ve already done so.’
Standing on tiptoe, he reached up to remove the verses from the wall. But they had a protector. No sooner did his hands touch the paper than a large stone was hurled from across the street. It struck his head with such force that his black skullcap was knocked off. Stunned by the blow, Preben van Loew fell to the ground with blood oozing from his head wound. Anne let out a gasp of alarm and bent down to help him. She did not see the figure that ran off quickly down a lane opposite. The libel on the wall of the Dutch Churchyard was no idle jest. Someone was ready to enforce the warning against strangers.
Chapter Two
They were all there. The entire cast of The Italian Tragedy had turned up at the Queen’s Head, along with the stagekeepers and the tireman, to help in the mammoth task of clearing away the wreckage. In a sense, they were also dismantling their own home so the work was additionally painful. Rank disappeared. From the actor-manager down to the humblest hired man in the company, everyone did his share. The only actor who refused to dirty his hands, or to risk staining his exquisite attire by struggling among the filthy ruins, was Barnaby Gill, a brilliant clown on stage but a morose and egotistical man when he stepped off it. Since it was beneath his dignity to take part in physical labour, he simply watched sourly from the other side of the yard and deplored the fact that he would be unable to display his histrionic skills there again for a very long time.
There was a crowning irony. Fire had robbed them of their playhouse yet they had to engage the self-same thief to dispose of the booty. Beams, floorboards and furniture beyond recall were tossed on to a bonfire in the middle of the yard. Bricks, plaster and broken tiles were wheeled away in wooden barrows. Bed linen had been burnt to extinction. Pewter tankards and utensils had melted in the heat of the furnace. Some things could be saved for re-use but most had perished during the night. There were consolations. The fire had not consumed the Queen’s Head in its entirety and, because there had been no wind, sparks had not been carried to any of the adjacent properties.
It was Nicholas Bracewell who discovered the body. As he scooped up another armful of shattered tiles, he saw a foot protruding from the debris. It was bare and discoloured. Since the fire had only claimed one victim, the foot simply had to belong to Will Dunmow. He was buried beneath some badly-charred roof timbers.
‘I’ve found him,’ said Nicholas, throwing the tiles aside. ‘Give me a hand, Owen.’
‘Gladly,’ offered Owen Elias, scampering across to him. ‘Are you sure that it’s him?’
‘Who else can it be?’ Taking a firm grasp, they moved the first heavy oak beam between them. ‘The fire started in his bedchamber and that would have been directly above this spot.’
‘Poor Will! He had no chance.’
‘The landlord blames you for leaving a lighted candle there.’
Elias was roused. ‘Then he needs to be told the truth,’ he said indignantly. ‘I made a point of snuffing out the candle before we left. You can ask James. He’ll bear witness.’
‘I take your word for it, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but that raises a question. If a candle did not cause the fire, then what did?’
‘Who knows?’
Taking hold of the next beam, they heaved it aside to expose the upper half of the corpse. It was a grisly sight. Scorched and distorted, Will Dunmow’s handsome face was a grotesque mask. His hair had burnt down to the skull, his eyebrows had been singed and both nose and jaw had been broken by the impact of the falling timber. Every shred of clothing had been burnt off his body, leaving his flesh black and mutilated. Nicholas felt a surge of compassion.
‘His own mother would not be able to recognise him,’ he said. ‘I thank heaven that she did not see him in this condition.’ He turned to Elias who was staring in horror at the corpse. The Welshman was visibly shaken. ‘What ails you, Owen?’
‘It was true, Nick — hideously true.’
‘True?’
‘What I said to James as we lay him on his bed last night. I said that Will would sleep until doomsday.’ Elias bit his lip. ‘I did not realise that doomsday would come so soon for him.’
‘How could you?’
‘I feel so guilty.’
‘You were not to blame.’
‘It was almost as if I prophesied his death.’
‘That’s a foolish thought. This was none of your doing.’ He became aware of the small crowd that had gathered to look at the body with morbid curiosity. Nicholas waved them away. ‘Back to your work, lads. Will Dunmow was kind to us. Do not stare so as if he were a species of monstrosity. Grant him some dignity.’ The others began to drift away. ‘I can manage here, Owen,’ he went on. ‘Fetch something to cover him from prying eyes.’
‘Yes, Nick.’
The Welshman went off and left Nicholas to remove the rest of the debris that covered the dead man. He did so with great care, averting his eyes from the crushed legs that came into view. Pity welled up in him once more. In the course of his life, Nicholas had seen death in many guises but none so shocking and repulsive as the one that now confronted him. Will Dunmow had not merely been killed. He had been deformed and degraded. By the time the book holder had liberated the body completely, Elias returned with a large white sheet that he had taken from the room where they kept their wardrobe. It was laid over the corpse with reverence then the two of them lifted Will Dunmow up and carried him to a cart that stood nearby. They lowered him gently into it.
‘There’ll have to be an inquest,’ said Nicholas.
‘I’ll see the body delivered to the coroner.’
‘Thank you, Owen.’
‘Then I’ll do what I can to track down the house where Will was staying while he was in London. He told me that it was in Silver Street,’ explained Elias, ‘and belonged to a friend. I’ll find him if I have to knock on every door.’
‘Save yourself the trouble. I think this friend will come to us. He must have known that Will was at the play yesterday afternoon. Since his lodger did not return last night, the friend will want to know why. In time, he’ll turn up at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Then he’ll be met with dreadful news.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘And the worst part of it is that we cannot even tell him how the fire started.’
‘I could hazard a guess.’
‘Could you?’
‘I’ve been thinking about what he said,’ remembered Elias. ‘When we carried him to his chamber, he kept calling for a bottle of sack. Will said that he’d like to drink some more and smoke a pipe of tobacco before he went to sleep.’
‘A pipe?’
‘That might be the explanation, Nick.’