After close questioning of his witness, the coroner judged him to be a man of good reputation and sound character. Nicholas gave stern undertakings and signed a document that bound him to his stated purpose on the penalty of arrest. He then took charge of the horse and mounted it at once to ride straight back to the Queen’s Head. When he trotted into the yard, he questioned all the ostlers to see if any of them remembered having seen the roan before. They handled too many horses in the course of a day to be sure, but one of them vaguely recalled stabling the animal along with another around noon. A young man had dismounted from the roan. His companion had been much bigger, older and in the attire of a merchant.
Nicholas took this ambiguous description off to the cellar to see if Leonard could correct or add to it. The affable giant was in the process of lifting a barrel of ale onto his shoulder when his friend came down the stone steps, and he put it back down again in order to give a proper greeting. Leonard was only too eager to help but he could contribute no significant new details about the victim’s companion. What he was certain about was the fact that the older man had more or less forced the boy — as he still thought him — to finish his pint of ale.
‘And the tankard was emptied?’ said Nicholas.
‘I stood over him while he supped the last drops. Not that it gave him any pleasure.’ Leonard scratched his beard. ‘Lord knows why. It was our best ale yet he drank it down as slow as if it were hot pitch.’
‘In some sorts, it was.’
‘Why, master?’
‘I believe that tankard was poisoned.’
Nicholas explained and the massive visage before him first lit up with surprise — ‘A girl? Drinking in a tavern in the guise of a man?’ — then crumpled with sorrow and bewilderment. Aware of how important even the tiniest shred of evidence was, Leonard now began to cudgel his brain unmercifully but it could yield little more than had already been disclosed. Girl and travelling companion had been alone together, he could vouch for that. A third person might have tampered with the ale but the balance of probability pointed to the older man as the culprit. No other visitor to the Queen’s Head that day had been struck down by poison, so the fault could not be laid at Alexander Marwood’s door.
‘Who served them with their ale?’
‘One of the wenches.’
‘Find her out and bring her to me directly.’
‘Could you not go into the taproom yourself, master?’
‘I could,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I do not want to make the landlord any more choleric. Bridges must be mended before Master Marwood and I can speak cordially again. The less he sees of Westfield’s Men at the moment, the better. I would be most grateful if you could do my errand.’
‘I’ll about it straight.’
‘Thank you, Leonard.’
It was five minutes before he came back and the serving wench he brought with him was not at all willing to come. Fearing that she was being lured into the cellar for some nefarious purpose, she chided and protested at every step. The sight of Nicholas reassured her slightly and her smudged button of a face even smiled when he slipped a few coins into her hand. She brushed back her lank hair so that she could study him properly. Nicholas asked her about the two travellers who came in at noon and she was able to give a reasonable description of both but she had heard nothing that passed between them and saw nobody else joining them at their table. What she did notice was how ill at ease the younger patron had been in the tavern.
‘You’d have thought it his first visit to a taproom.’
‘First and last,’ muttered Nicholas to himself.
With nothing more to be gleaned at the inn, he thanked them for their help and collected his horse. He was soon making his way along the ever-populous Gracechurch Street until it became Bishopsgate Street. When he came to the gate itself and rode out beneath the heads of the traitors who had been set on spikes there, he was able to coax a steady canter out of the roan, and the journey to Shoreditch was over fairly quickly. Reaching his employer’s house, he tethered his mount and ducked under the eaves. Lawrence Firethorn answered the door himself and whisked his book holder straight into the parlour.
‘You come most promptly upon your hour!’
‘It is needful.’
‘We must have urgent conference, Nick.’
‘That is why I am here.’
‘Sit down, man, sit down,’ said Firethorn, ushering him to a chair and pushing him into it. ‘Take your ease while you yet may for there is little hope of rest ahead of us.’
‘I must speak with you on that subject.’
‘Only when you have first listened.’
Firethorn punched his guest playfully on the shoulder and stood back to appraise him with a fond smile. A theatrical career was a precarious one at the best of times and few sustained it with any consistency over a long period of time. Lawrence Firethorn was one of those exceptions, a durable talent that never seemed to fade, an actor of infinite variety and bravado. Admirers spoke of his superb voice, gesture and movement while others were swept away by his commanding presence. Supreme when he was on stage, he knew full well how much he owed to the controlling figure of his book holder behind the arras. With Nicholas Bracewell at his back, he could lead his company to triumph after triumph.
‘Ah, Nick!’ he sighed. ‘What would I do without you!’
‘I fear that you may have to find out.’
‘Our theatre may burn down, our landlord may oust us and London may drive us on to the open road but I am not in the least troubled. As long as I have you, I have hope.’
‘With regard to the tour-’
‘It is all arranged,’ interrupted Firethorn, moving around the room. ‘Barnaby and I have laboured long and hard today to stitch it all together like tidy seamsters. Our esteemed patron, Lord Westfield, has shown his usual concern and offered money and guidance to send us on our way.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘The money, alas, will never appear because our dear patron is more adept at borrowing than loaning, but the advice came in abundance. It has determined our itinerary and given us promise of certain welcome along the way.’ He snatched up a sheet of parchment from the table and handed it to Nicholas. ‘This is our company. Small it may be in number but it is large enough in talent to present a wide repertoire of plays. See that each man is informed of our purpose. We will set forth tomorrow.’
‘You will do so without me, I fear, Master Firethorn.’
His host gulped. ‘What is that you say?’
‘I beg leave to be excused.’
‘Excused!’ repeated Firethorn. ‘Excused! Nick Bracewell being excused from Westfield’s Men! It is like excusing London Bridge from spanning the Thames. God’s death, man, you are our very foundation! Excuse you and we plummet straight down into a swamp of oblivion.’
‘The choice is forced upon me,’ explained Nicholas.
‘There is no choice. You are ours.’
‘My decision will hold.’
‘I override it. You leave with us on the morrow.’
‘It may not be.’
Firethorn extended his arms. ‘We rely on you, dear heart!’
‘I will rejoin the company as soon as I may. You have my word on that. Thus it stands with me …’
He recounted his story as succinctly as he could and Firethorn’s manner changed at once. Obsessed as he was with himself and with his company, the actor-manager could yet feel pangs of sympathy. The murder of a defenceless girl had laid a deep responsibility on Nicholas Bracewell and nothing would prevent him from discharging it. He was being forced to return to a home he left and a family he had renounced.