‘But you must have your suspicions, man.’
‘I do.’
‘Then, for God’s sake, let’s hear them. If you are to deprive me of the greatest love I have ever felt, then give me something in return. I want reasons, Nicholas. I want explanations.’ He banged the table beside him and made the ivory chessmen jump in the air. ‘And most of all, I want solace.’
‘That’s the one thing I cannot offer you, alas.’
‘Then what can you give?’ howled the other.
‘Calm down, my lord,’ soothed Firethorn.
‘I’ve no wish to calm down.’
‘There’s no point in upsetting yourself like this.’
‘Then what else would you have me do?’ challenged the other. ‘Dance a jig around the room? By Jesu! Can you not see how much I’ve lost by this expedition? I invest time and money and every sinew of my being to prove my love and for what? I am made to feel like a country yokel at Bartholomew Fair, robbed of everything he owns and jeered at by his tormentors.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll have this out with Bror Langberg immediately.’ He marched to the door. ‘I’ll not be his dupe a moment longer.’
Nicholas blocked his way. ‘I suggest that you stay here.’
‘Out of my way, man!’
‘For you own sake, my lord, I must stop you.’
‘And I must do the same,’ said Firethorn, standing beside him.
Their patron spluttered. ‘What kind of conspiracy is this?’ he yelled. ‘Do you dare to keep me against my will?’
‘We have to, my lord.’
‘In the name of all that’s holy — why?’
‘Because we cannot let you put yourself in such jeopardy,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you challenge Master Langberg while you are choleric, there will be only one outcome.’
‘And what, pray, is that?’
‘You’ll not leave this castle alive.’ Lord Westfield recoiled with horror. ‘And you would not be his first victim, my lord. Bror Langberg already has blood on his hands.’
Firethorn started. ‘What do you mean, Nick?’
‘He contrived the murder of Rolfe Harling.’
‘There is not long to go now, Sigbrit,’ said Hansi Askgaard. ‘In two days’ time, you will be the new Lady Westfield.’
‘Yes,’ said her sister dully.
‘Try to sound happier about it.’
‘I wish that I could, Hansi, but I feel so unworthy.’
‘Unworthy?’ echoed the other. ‘That is ridiculous. No bride was ever more worthy of her husband. You will be the perfect wife for him.’
‘Will I?’
Sigbrit was seated at a little table in her apartment. On it was a gilt framed mirror and she studied her face in it for a moment, running a finger along the scar on her chin. Hansi stood behind her.
‘It will fade in time,’ she said.
‘I see it more clearly than ever,’ sighed her sister. ‘When I met Lord Westfield in the hall that evening, Uncle Bror taught me to keep my head to one side so that it did not show. What will my husband say when he learns the truth?’
‘He will be too much in love with you to notice.’
‘He is bound to notice. Yesterday, he sent me this letter,’ she said, picking it up from the table. ‘My English is not good enough for me to understand every word but I can see that it is in praise of my beauty. He will be so disappointed.’
‘Let me see,’ said Hansi, taking the letter and reading through it. ‘There you are,’ she added, putting it down again, ‘he is ensnared by your charms, Sigbrit. Lord Westfield sees only what he wishes to see and that is his gorgeous Danish princess. Love is blind.’
Sigbrit rallied slightly. She got up from the table and walked to the window, looking down at the place that had been her home for so long and realising that she would at last have to leave it. She was overcome by a sudden onset of nostalgia.
‘I wish that I did not have to leave Denmark,’ she said.
‘You will return. Lord Westfield has promised that. We will visit you next spring then you and your husband can come back here in the summer. You will love England, Sigbrit. I’ve been there.’
‘What is it like?’
‘London is the most exciting city in the world. It is so big and full of life. It makes Elsinore look like a village. I envy you so much,’ she said, embracing her sister. ‘And I have the comfort of knowing that this marriage will not only make my sister happy, it will be good for our country as well. Denmark will gain from it.’
‘That’s what Uncle Bror told me.’
‘Then pay heed to what he says. Left to yourself, you would simply mourn your first husband and spend your days in lonely isolation. In England, you will have a new life. It will be such an adventure for you, Sigbrit. And the person you have to thank for it all is Uncle Bror.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sigbrit, smiling. ‘He has been my salvation.’
Nicholas Bracewell needed proof. It was one thing to expose an act of duplicity and rescue Lord Westfield from marrying the wrong person, but it would be far more difficult to establish the purpose that lay behind the deception. In doing that, he believed, he would also solve the murder of Rolfe Harling. Looking back, Nicholas saw that Bror Langberg had been altogether too helpful. He had discussed the crime at length with the book holder then taken him to Harling’s room and allowed him to search it. The only reason he had done that, Nicholas now realised, was that he knew there would be nothing to find. Anything that might suggest a motive for his death had already been removed. If anywhere, it would be hidden in Langberg’s apartment.
A decoy was required and Lawrence Firethorn was the ideal choice. Instructed by Nicholas, he called on Langberg and took him off to the ballroom, claiming that certain practical problems had come to light during the afternoon’s rehearsal and asking for advice. As soon as the two men vanished around a corner, Nicholas came out of his hiding place behind a large, ornate, oak cupboard that stood in the corridor. He entered the apartment quickly and closed the door behind him. He had no doubt where anything of value was kept.
Pulling out his dagger, he went across to the chest he had seen on his earlier visit. Reinforced with strips of iron, it had two large padlocks to keep out intruders. By deft use of the point of his dagger, Nicholas managed to prise open one of the locks but the other would not budge. He resorted to violence. Kicking hard with his heel several times, he loosened the clasp attached to the padlock then he inserted his weapon at the weakest point and used it as a lever. By applying steady pressure, he made the lock twist, squeak in protest then fall to the ground as the clasp was finally forced out of the wood.
The chest was open. He stood a candle on the shelf above it so that he could see more clearly. Lifting the lid, he was confronted by a mass of papers, some bags of money and an ornamental sword. On top of the papers was a small leather satchel that he recognised as having belonged to Rolfe Harling. He took it out. Inside was a mass of letters and documents. Nicholas went through them with painstaking thoroughness. Some were in Danish, even more in German, but the ones that interested him were in English.
When he saw the name of Bror Langberg at the bottom of the first missive, he read it eagerly but its contents disappointed him. The letter simply expressed thanks that Harling had taken the trouble to visit Denmark in order to discuss a possible marriage and told him that preparations would soon be in hand at Kronborg. The writer’s command of English was good but his grammar was rather strange at times. Nicholas found that surprising. Having spoken to Langberg a number of times, he knew what a mastery of the language the man possessed.
When he read the second letter, the same pattern was repeated. Beyond the grammatical errors, there was nothing that could arouse the slightest suspicion. The truth then dawned with the force of a blow. Nicholas was not looking at one letter but at two. The trick that Langberg had used with his nieces was repeated in epistolary form. One thing was shown, quite another intended. From his pocket, Nicholas took out the tiny strip of paper that had been found in the chess set. It was the secret code. With its help, he saw that he was reading something entirely different. He also understood why the code had been concealed inside the black king. It represented James VI of Scotland, a name that recurred three times in the letter when it was translated.