‘You are to wait within, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The door is stiff. Let me help you.’
She knocked on the stout oak and gave it a firm shove with her bare shoulder. The door creaked open and she stood aside to let him enter. Candles burned to afford him a glimpse of a small, featureless chamber with little more than a table and a few chairs in it. He was given no chance to take a proper inventory. As he stepped into the room, something hard and purposeful struck him across the base of his skull with chilling force. Knocked senseless, Nicholas Bracewell slumped to the floor. He did not even feel the cruel feet that kicked repeatedly at him.
Chapter Four
As dark shadows rubbed the last of the colour from the lawns and the flowers, Valentine dismissed his two assistants and shambled out of the garden. He was a big, ungainly, middle-aged man, who had worked at the house in Greenwich since he was a boy. Few people liked him and most were repulsed by his appearance. Straggly hair, blotchy skin, two large warts and a wispy beard combined to give his face a sinister look. The broken nose had been caused by a fall from an apple tree in the orchard but the harelip was a defect of birth. In a vain bid to hide the latter handicap, his blackened teeth were forever bared in an ingratiating grin that made him even more unsightly. A conscientious gardener, Valentine wrapped his ugliness in the beauties of nature.
He shuffled to the rear door of the house and rang the bell. The maidservant deliberately kept him waiting and was brusque when she deigned to answer his summons.
‘Yes?’
‘I must speak to the mistress,’ he said.
‘She is not at your beck and call.’
‘Tell her I am here.’
‘Can your business not wait until tomorrow?’
‘No, Agnes.’ He gave her a knowing leer that so clearly affronted her that he snatched off his cap in apology. ‘Let us not fall out, my dear. Call the mistress and I will be very thankful.’
‘Speak to her in the morning.’
‘My question will not wait.’
‘Then tell it me and I’ll convey the message.’
‘I must see her myself,’ said Valentine, replacing his cap and rubbing his huge, gnarled hands up and down his coarse jerkin. ‘She gave order for it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘The mistress was most particular. She has instructions for me.’ The harelip rose higher above the hideous teeth. ‘Will I step inside while you fetch her to me?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Wait here.’
The maidservant shut the door in his face. She was a short, stout, motherly woman in her thirties with a normally pleasant manner. Confronted by the egregious Valentine, she became curt and irritable. The fact that he tried to show some fumbling affection towards her made him even more grotesque. Agnes went first to the parlour and then to the dining room. Finding her mistress in neither place, she went upstairs to the main bedchamber. That, too, was empty.
Only one place was left. Agnes went bustling along the landing and descended by the kitchen stairs. They took her down to a buttery and she sensed that her mistress was in the room beyond. It had been added to the back of the property several years earlier at considerable expense and meticulous care had been taken with its design and construction. Long, high and commodious, it had large windows along three of its walls to admit maximum light.
None of those windows had survived. As Agnes tapped on the door and opened it, she stepped into a veritable wilderness. A room which had once been filled with tasteful furniture and costly equipment was virtually razed to the ground. Little of the walls still stood and only one crossbeam remained in place to suggest that there had once been a ceiling. Open to the elements, the room had been invaded by weeds and become a prey to vermin.
‘You have a visitor, mistress.’
‘What?’
‘The gardener is asking to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘He says that you sent for him.’
Emilia was sitting in the middle of the room on the charred remains of a chair. She looked lonely and cheerless but oddly at home in the bleak surroundings. Agnes moved towards her to take her by the arm.
‘Come back into the house,’ she said kindly.
‘I like to sit out here.’
‘It will be dark soon.’
‘Will it? I had not noticed.’
‘Valentine is eager to speak with you?’
‘Valentine?’ Emilia spoke the name as if she had heard it for the first time, then she came out of her reverie and composed herself. ‘Oh, yes. The gardener. There is no need for me to see him myself. Simply tell him this. I want all the weeds cleared out of here.’
‘Do you want the stone and timber removed as well?’
‘No, Agnes. He is to touch nothing else.’
‘Would it not be better to clear it all away?’
‘Better?’
‘It might help to put the matter from your mind.’
Emilia’s eyes flashed. ‘I do not want it put from my mind, Agnes,’ she snapped. ‘I want my orders obeyed and that swiftly. Do not presume to give me advice about what I may do and may not do in my own house. Nothing is to be touched in here except the weeds. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, mistress.’ A submissive curtsey.
‘Tell the gardener to begin tomorrow. Tell him I want every dock, dandelion and blade of grass pulled out by the roots. Tell him that I want this room completely tidied up.’
Agnes was about to leave when a voice interrupted them.
‘No need,’ said Valentine. ‘I heard everything.’
He stepped out from behind one of the vestigial walls and gave them a servile grin.
***
As Nicholas Bracewell slowly regained consciousness, he became aware of the pain and discomfort. His whole body was aching and he could feel a trickle down his forehead. The back of his head was on fire, though something cold and wet was trying to smother the flames. He stifled a groan. An arm was put around his shoulders to help him up, then a cup was held to his lips. The aqua vitae was bitter but restorative. He revived enough to be able to open his eyes. Blinking in the light of the candle, he saw a figure bending over him.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Simom Chaloner.
‘Drowsy…Where am I?’
‘Alive. More or less.’
‘Still at the tavern?’
‘Yes. But quite safe now.’
Nicholas touched his head. ‘Someone hit me.’
‘Hard, by the look of it.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Let us worry about that in a moment,’ said Chaloner.
He dipped a wet cloth into the bowl of water on the floor and squeezed it out before dabbing at Nicholas’s temple. The latter winced slightly. They were in the room where the attack had taken place, and the boards were splashed with red where Nicholas’s head had lain.
‘It is not a deep gash,’ said Chaloner. ‘Hold this to your head until the bleeding stops. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’ Nicholas lifted an arm and felt its soreness. His palm held the cloth in place. ‘What happened?’
‘You were beaten and kicked.’
‘For what reason?’
‘It was a warning.’
‘Of what?’
‘The danger we face.’
Nicholas had regained his wits now and was anxious to get to his feet but Chaloner counselled him to rest until he had a clearer idea of the extent of his injuries. There was a throbbing lump on the back of his head where he had been struck and the gash had been collected as his temple grazed the rough floorboards, but there were other random abrasions as well. His body and legs were a mass of bruises and he could feel a swelling beneath one eye. His fair beard was flecked with blood, his neck was stiff and difficult to move without a shooting pain. Clearly, the warning had been delivered with thoroughness.