‘He did do it, sir,’ she said, blurting the words out. ‘He did put a sack over that man’s head and wheeled him to the creek. I found him the sack in the kitchen. I also got him an apron and a cap so that Giddy looked like a servingman. There was no intent to harm the man,’ she insisted. ‘All that Giddy wanted to do was to frighten him. There were people about and he was sure that someone would rescue him. In the end, you were the one who did it. Giddy was glad of that.’
‘Did he say why he put Master Gill in that boat?’
‘It was but a jest, sir, like the others.’
‘Others?’ repeated Nicholas.
‘Giddy told me what he did. In one place, he paid an ostler to lock Master Gill in the privy. In Maidstone, he bribed a lad to throw a black cat in through the window where his enemy slept. Giddy had an excuse each time.’
‘You were his excuse here at the Blue Anchor.’
‘And I was glad to be it,’ she said. ‘Until now. Are you angry, sir?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’m not angry, Kate.’
‘But I lied to you and the others.’
‘You were protecting a man you loved, that is all. The important thing is that the truth has now come out. To be honest, I am relieved.’
‘Because Giddy played a trick on Master Gill?’
‘In a sense, yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I thought it might be the work of another man and that alarmed me. It was a cruel jest that could have led to serious harm. Giddy was wrong to do such a thing. But I do not hold it against you, Kate.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, clutching at him. ‘You are so kind.’
‘I just wish to find the man who killed him. That’s why I’m grateful for any information that helps me to do that. What you’ve just said has been very useful. It explains things that puzzled me.’ He squeezed her hands in gratitude. ‘Giddy was not a rich man, as you know. He leaves a poor bundle of things behind.’
‘He was rich in the things that mattered, sir.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have no use for his belongings but there may be something there that you could have as a keepsake.’ Her face lit up again. ‘Would you like to take something of your choice?’
‘Yes, please!’ she said with alacrity.
Bursting into tears again, she flung herself into his arms.
Sebastian Frant sat in the parlour of the cottage with his brother. Supper was over and both Thomasina and her aunt had retired early to bed. The two men were alone. David Frant lit a pipe and puffed away at it before speaking.
‘It is so good to see you both, Sebastian,’ he said.
‘We should have come to Faversham long before now.’
‘You must visit us, brother, for I am not able to travel to Dover.’
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘That I’m afflicted with an incurable disease. It is called old age.’
‘You are not that much older than me, David.’
‘I never enjoyed your rude health.’
‘You did,’ said Frant, trying to cheer him up. ‘And whatever the doctor says, you’ll last many years yet.’
‘I doubt that, Sebastian.’
Privately, so did Frant. He had been distressed to see how much his brother had declined since his last visit. His condition could not be ascribed solely to the passage of time. Some malady was slowly eating him away. David Frant had hollow cheeks, lacklustre eyes and a body that seemed to have shrunk in upon itself. When he had a sudden fit of coughing, it was minutes before he was able to speak again.
‘Forgive me, Sebastian,’ he said at length. ‘This tobacco will ruin me.’
‘It gives you pleasure and that is all that matters.’
‘I get little of it elsewhere, I know that.’
A knock on the door made both men sit up. The servant girl went to see who it was and voices were heard in the passageway. A visitor was then shown into the parlour. Nicholas Bracewell was profuse in his apologies for intruding at that time of the evening but both men were pleased to see him. Frant pumped his arm in greeting. His brother indicated a chair and Nicholas sat down.
‘Do you wish to hear more about the history of Faversham?’ he asked.
‘Another time,’ said Nicholas. ‘I come on an errand to see Sebastian.’
‘What kind of errand?’ asked Frant.
‘A sad one, I fear.’
Nicholas lowered his voice and told them about the murder of Giddy Mussett. David Frant was dismayed but his brother, who had seen Mussett on stage, was quick to gauge the loss involved.
‘But the fellow was a genius, Nick,’ he said. ‘Thomasina and I laughed at him until we were in pain. This is a terrible blow for Westfield’s Men.’
‘We are still dazed by it, Sebastian.’
‘What will you do?’
‘That is what I’ve come to tell you. We need your help.’
‘How can I be of any assistance?’ said Frant. ‘I can be a fool at times, as David here will tell you, but I’m no clown. Do not look to me to replace Giddy Mussett. I doubt if any man in England could do that.’
‘Happily, there is such a person.’
‘Who?’
‘Barnaby Gill.’
Frant was amazed. ‘But he has a broken leg.’
‘That will not hold him back in our hour of need.’
Nicholas explained how they proposed to overcome Gill’s disability and drew approving comments from both men. David Frant was so amused by the notion of a foolish friar in a wheelbarrow that he resolved to see the play himself. His younger brother was still bewildered.
‘What must I do, Nick?’ he said. ‘Push the wheelbarrow?’
‘A pen is all that we ask you to push, Sebastian. Thus it stands,’ said Nicholas, taking some sheets of paper from inside his jerkin. ‘Edmund has written a new scene for the play and a couple of new songs. His hand still shakes with grief at the loss of Giddy. You’ll see how he scribbles. We’d prefer a scrivener to make the words legible.’
‘But I do not know this play. What is it called?’
‘The Foolish Friar. A harmless comedy.’
‘One of Edmund’s pieces?’
‘No, Sebastian. It’s the work of another playwright but he is not here to make the changes that we require. Edmund will do that. He is a master cobbler.’ He held up the sheets of paper. ‘It has taken him only a few hours to produce these.’
‘You must help them, Sebastian,’ urged his brother. ‘They need you.’
‘And we’ll gladly pay you for the work,’ said Nicholas.
‘I’d not dream of charging you a penny,’ replied Frant, taking the papers from him to glance through them. ‘It will take me far less to copy these songs than it took Edmund to create them. Thank you for calling on me. I’m delighted to aid you.’
‘That’s what I told the others.’
‘It would have been impossible for me to refuse.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have a daughter to answer to,’ said Frant. ‘When we heard that Westfield’s Men were in Maidstone, I promised Thomasina that she would see the finest clown who ever appeared on a stage. She was disappointed to learn that Barnaby Gill was unable to take part even though he had a worthy substitute.’
‘Barnaby will now substitute his own substitute,’ said Nicholas.
‘Quite so. What would Thomasina say if I did not assist him willingly?’ He held up the papers. ‘I’ll deliver these to the Blue Anchor tomorrow morning with a set so crystal clear that even a blind man could read them.’
The rehearsal that morning went badly. Conway’s Men were never less than competent on stage but never more than entertaining. They seemed to lack commitment and went about their work with a sense of obligation rather than dedication. As they rehearsed the play that they would perform in Canterbury that afternoon, they fell short of even their own modest standards. Tobias Fitzgeoffrey was sarcastic.
‘Do you dare to call yourselves actors?’ he said, addressing his whole company. ‘A herd of cattle would give a better account of themselves on stage. And, at least, they would provide the audience with something to drink. All that you will do is to send them to sleep. It is shameful.’