Huge timbers stood upright against a wall, waiting to take their place in the new structure. Pryde ran his hand against one of them, feeling its rough-hewn surface and estimating its immense weight. When he heard a noise behind him, he tried to turn round but something hard and broad struck him viciously across the back of the head. He collapsed in a heap on the ground with blood gushing out of the wound. Still half-conscious, he opened his mouth to cry for help but no words emerged. The last thing he ever saw was the timber, which he had so lovingly caressed, descending murderously towards him.
Chapter Seven
Nicholas Bracewell set off early next morning on the long walk to the Queen’s Head. Instead of following his customary route to London Bridge, however, he took the opportunity to visit the site of The Angel to speak with the builder. Thomas Bradd was already there when Nicholas arrived, supervising some men who were clearing the site of its accumulated debris. Bradd was a short, sturdy man in his forties with a sense of power in his compact frame and the kind of weather-beaten face which suggested some years at sea. He gave Nicholas a lop-sided grin of welcome.
‘We should make more progress today,’ he said gruffly.
‘Good.’
‘There is no wind to worry about so we can burn all this rubbish without danger. By this afternoon, we will be able to start digging the foundations.’
‘Some of us will join you when our play is done.’
‘It will be hard work,’ warned Bradd. ‘It is not like standing on a scaffold and spouting fine words into the air.’
‘We know that. We expect to sweat.’
‘Sweat, bleed and swear oaths aplenty.’
‘Whatever it takes,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘This playhouse means everything to us. We will put strong arms and willing hearts at your disposal.’
‘I will use them mercilessly.’ Bradd gave a dark chuckle then pointed at the pile of timbers which lay on the site. ‘It is a pity that your actors are not here now. We could do with some of those strong arms to shift that timber. It stood upright yesterday but somehow it has tumbled in the night.’
‘That seems strange.’
‘It does. We stacked it with great care. A howling gale could not have blown it over.’
‘Then why does it now lie on the ground?’
Nicholas watched two of the men begin to move the fallen timbers, slipping a rope around the end of the first one before dragging it clear of the pile then using a shorter plank to lever the timber back into an upright position. He could see the effort that it was costing them. Nicholas was no stranger to physical labour but some of his fellows had led a softer life. They would have a rude shock when they worked for Thomas Bradd on the site of The Angel.
‘I wish that we did not have to build so close to the bank,’ observed Nicholas. ‘The water runs high at this point.’
‘We will take account of that,’ said Bradd.
‘This would not be the only property to be flooded.’
The builder tensed. ‘Do not tell me how to build, sir. I have had twenty years in the trade and know what precautions to take against flood and other perils. Besides,’ he said, waving an arm, ‘we have no choice. The site is not big enough for us to set the playhouse back from the river.’
‘You are right and we have faith in your judgement.’
‘I would not continue otherwise.’
Nicholas soothed him before taking his leave. He did not get far. When he was less than a dozen yards away, a cry of fear made him turn back again. One of the men who had been shifting the timbers was now pointing at something which protruded from the base of the pile. It was a human hand. Nicholas broke into a run and overtook the builder as the latter waddled towards the gruesome discovery. Only a man’s left hand was visible but it bore a distinctive ring which Nicholas had seen many times before. His temples pounded and his mouth went dry as he identified Sylvester Pryde.
‘Get him out of there!’ he ordered.
Then he grabbed one of the timbers and began to heave.
It was strenuous work and they were soon perspiring but Nicholas drove them on. Thomas Bradd did his share, handling the rough timbers with seasoned hands and helping to toss them aside. Any hope that the prone figure might still be alive soon vanished. The sheer weight of the timber would have crushed him to death. One leg was uncovered, then a second, then part of his chest. Nicholas was horrified to see that his friend’s bright apparel was now soaked with blood and caked with filth.
The last and heaviest timber obscured the face of the victim. All four of them lifted it clear and dropped it on the ground. The sight which confronted them made one of the men turn away in disgust and another vomit. Bradd was transfixed. Nicholas was overcome with anguish. Sylvester Pryde was unrecognisable. The handsome face was smashed out of shape, the long hair and beard were glistening with gore. A huge gash in the forehead indicated that it had taken the full force of the timber as it fell. Nicholas fought to master his grief.
‘Poor devil!’ muttered Bradd. ‘Who is he?’
‘A member of the company.’
‘This is a fearful accident.’
‘It was no accident,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was murdered.’
Rose Marwood lay in bed and drifted in and out of sleep as the doctor examined her. The fever seemed to have taken a hold on her. For the first few days after her visit to Clerkenwell, nothing had happened. All that she felt was the lingering aftertaste of the strange brew prepared for her by Mary Hogg. Irritating minor symptoms then began to appear before developing overnight into a raging fever. Rose’s strength ebbed away. The only prayers that were said in her bedchamber now were the frantic entreaties of her mother, begging for forgiveness and pleading for her daughter’s recovery.
Sybil was overwhelmed by remorse. The wild urge to get rid of an unwanted child was now replaced with true maternal concern. As she looked at the flushed face of her daughter, she was shocked by the thought that she might have been responsible for the girl’s illness. In trying to dispose of a child, the wise woman of Clerkenwell, it seemed, might also have brought about the death of its mother.
‘How is she?’ murmured Sybil.
‘Let me examine her properly and I will tell you.’
‘I have never seen Rose so sick.’
‘Stand back, please,’ said the doctor crisply. ‘You are in my light. It might be better if you waited outside.’
‘Do let me stay!’ she implored. ‘Rose is my daughter.’
‘Then let me attend to her.’
Mouthing apologies, Sybil retreated to the other side of the room and watched with trepidation. The doctor was a small, wiry man in his fifties with a white beard and a wizened face. His instruments stood beside him in a leather case. After feeling his patient’s pulse, he opened her mouth gently so that he could peer into it. Then he placed a cool hand on the fevered brow. Rose’s eyes opened again but they lacked any expression. She dozed off within a minute.
The doctor was thorough. When his examination was over, he turned to question Sybil, sensing that she might in some way be responsible for the girl’s sickness.
‘What have you done to her?’ he challenged.
‘Nothing,’ she murmured.
‘She is grievously sick.’
‘That is why we sent for you, doctor.’
‘When your daughter came to visit me, she was strong and healthy. Rose thought she was ailing but I told her that she was with child. That produces changes in the body. I explained that such changes were quite normal and tried to still her fears.’ He glanced back at the bed. ‘But look at her now. These symptoms have nothing to do with motherhood. What has happened to her?’
‘I do not know, doctor.’
‘Has she eaten rancid food? Drunk foul water?’
‘She is well-cared for,’ bleated Sybil defensively.