The Trip to Jerusalem

'I was merely stretching my legs.'

'Stretch them in another direction.'

'I will.'

'Sir Clarence has given strict order.'

As he headed back towards the house, Nicholas asked himself why such privacy was maintained. Something else puzzled him as well. The man had the clothes and the bearing of a gardener yet he wore a dagger at his belt. Why did he need to be armed?

Lawrence Firethorn arrived with his company to take possession of a new part of his empire. Having conquered York in such style, he was sure that he could score another victory at Marmion Hall. The complete change of performing conditions stimulated him and he took up the challenge at once, strutting about to get the feel of the stage and throwing his voice at the walls to test the acoustics. A rehearsal was called and everything was set up at speed. The company used the occasion to shake off some of the hangovers from the excesses of the previous night. Firethorn, by contrast, was brimming with energy. Hours of marital reunion had simply invigorated him.

Food and beer were provided by their host and they spent a pleasant hour in rest, The actor-manager stood aside with Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill.

'I like the feel of this place! he said.

'We have not come here to grope it,' observed Gill drily. 'Save yourself for Margery.'

'I sense that something extraordinary will happen.'

'You will remember all your lines?'

'Take care, Barnaby. Do not try me, sir.'

'I wish I could share your optimism, Lawrence,' said Hoode gloomily. 'Marmion Hall feels oppressive to me. As for extraordinary events, one has already occurred.'

'Yes,' agreed Gill. 'We were paid yesterday.'

'I was talking about Master Quilley.'

'Do not remind us, Edmund,' sighed Firethorn. 'It was a tragedy of the first degree but it must not be allowed to blight our work. Master Quilley was but a traveller who rode along the way with us. His death is shocking but it does not directly affect us.'

'We cannot shrug it off like that, Lawrence.'

'We must. We are players, sir.'

Hoode argued for compassion but the others were too caught up in the performance that lay ahead to accord the dead man more than a token pity. When the playwright went on to suggest that the murder might somehow be linked to Westfield's Men, they ridiculed the idea at once. He was still trying to argue his case when Nicholas came up.

'It is time to prepare ourselves, gentlemen.'

'We are always prepared,' said Gill petulantly.

'Our audience is starting to arrive.'

'Then I must get into my costume,' decided Hoode. He and Gill drifted off to the other side of the tiring-house but Nicholas detained his employer for a quiet word.

'We have a slight problem, sir.'

'Nothing that cannot be surmounted.'

'Christopher Millfield is nowhere to be found.'

'The man was right here but five minutes ago.'

'Ten,' corrected Nicholas. 'He is not here now.'

'Then he has gone outside to look upon the hedge.'

'Nobody was to leave the room unless they spoke to me first. Master Millfield ignored that ruling.'

'Then reprimand him, Nick.'

'I will when we can find him.'

'Send George Dart out on patrol.'

'I did that,' said Nicholas. 'He searched house and garden thoroughly but came back empty-handed. That is why we have a problem, sir. Master Millfield has disappeared.'

Mark Scruton waited in the shadow of a copse until he saw a dozen riders canter past on the road to Marmion Hall. He spurred his horse and came out from his cover. It did not take him long to attach himself to the rear of the other guests. When they turned into the long drive that led up to the house, he could see other people being shown in by servants. There was enough commotion for him to mingle with the crowd. When a female rider turned to appraise him, he touched his hat graciously. A coach was trundling up behind them now and fresh hooves could be heard back in the distance.

Scruton dismounted and a servant took care of his horse. The actor walked with an upright gait, leaning on his cane for support. He was part of a crowd that swept in through the main door of the house. Waiting to greet them in the entrance hall was Sir Clarence Marmion and his wife, both attired in their finery for the occasion.

Giving them a false name and a confident smile, the old man with the grey beard withstood their scrutiny without a flicker of concern. Host and hostess bestowed a welcome on the next influx of guests.

The first test was over and he had come through it with perfect aplomb. Mark Scruton was in. It was now only a question of biding his time.

Christopher Millfield returned ten minutes before the play began and faced a tirade from Lawrence Firethorn and a stern reproach from Nicholas Bracewell. He apologized profusely and claimed that he had got lost in the garden but the book holder did not entirely believe him. With the performance at hand, however, Nicholas was in no position to press him on the matter. He did his rounds and made a final check before taking up his position behind the curtains. It enabled him to see most of the stage and a little of the audience. He was in time to watch Sir Clarence filing into his seat beside his wife and family. Directly behind the host was a distinguished old man in a black doublet and breeches. As the guest scratched his grey beard, Nicholas had a sense of knowing the man but he could not put a name to the face. Nor did he have any time for reflection. Audience and actors were ready. The book holder gave the signal to begin.

A trumpet sounded and the Prologue was spoken by Edmund Hoode in shining armour. Music played and the action commenced. It never ceased for a second. Westfield's Men adapted their style superbly to the conditions and to the spectators, working on both to get maximum return. Their audience was much quieter than at the inn but their concentration did not waver.

The seneschal made them laugh, Berengaria made them sigh, the impaled crusader made them weep and King Richard himself made them proud to be English and Christian. The performance by Lawrence Firethorn touched the heights and swept everyone away, including Sir Clarence himself who was patently enraptured. As the play moved into its final gripping climax, Nicholas stole a glance at their host and saw something that he had missed before. The old man who sat behind Sir Clarence was wearing a familiar earring. A brilliant disguise was spoiled by an actor's vanity.

Alarums and excursions brought the stage battle to a close and Firethorn delivered his address to the troops in his most compelling vein. He was calling them to arms in the service of the Lord when the main door of the hall opened and they poured in. At first, the audience thought that the intrusion was part of the play and they marvelled at the number of extras who had been dressed in uniform and armed, but they soon saw that the newcomers were the real thing.

Sir Clarence Marmion was ahead of them. Darting out of his seat, he clicked open the. secret door in the oak panelling and dived through it. The old man went after him with astonishing sprightliness and got to the door before it closed. As he went through the aperture, he shut the door behind him. Nicholas observed it all and now understood why his host had taken the seat at the end of the row. He was right next to his escape route.

There was complete chaos in the hall as guests stood up to protest and soldiers pushed them roughly aside in their search. Firethorn finished his concluding speech but the play was already over. The real drama was now taking place elsewhere. Nicholas Bracewell was off at full pelt. Guided by instinct, he went out into the garden and sprinted along the avenue of yews. If the secret panel was a means of escape then there had to be an exit somewhere outside. He believed he knew where it was.

He reached the circle of rhododendron bushes and went through a gap in the foliage. What he had heard earlier was the whinny of a horse and he found two of them tethered to a post. Behind them lay a man in the Marmion livery with blood gushing from a wound in his chest. Nicholas stepped over the corpse to the thickest part of the bushes and pulled them back. A small door was revealed, cleverly set in a mound that was screened by foliage. He opened it and went in, finding himself in an underground passage that was lit at intervals by a few guttering candles. There was a pervading smell of damp and decay.