The Counterfeit Crank (13 page)

‘Would he?’ said the man, suspiciously ‘If you are so concerned for his welfare, you could have saved him from being arrested in the first place. What sort of man are you to let a cousin of yours beg for a living on the streets?’

‘A repentant one,’ replied Elias, conjuring up a look of contrition. ‘You are right to chide me, my friend. When he
came to me for money, I turned Hywel away and I’ve been overcome with remorse ever since. It’s such a shameful thing that a member of my family should end up in Bridewell.’ He glanced at the ledger. ‘Why was he discharged?’

The book was slammed shut. ‘Never mind, sir. He has gone.’

Dorothea Tate was so unaccustomed to generosity that she could not believe that it was happening. Since she had turned up at the Queen’s Head, she had been fed, comforted and treated with a respect she had never known before. Two men with whom she had only a fleeting acquaintance had immediately come to her aid, and the landlord had shown her indulgence as well. Suddenly, she glimpsed a different world. Dorothea feared that her good fortune could not last and, when Nicholas Bracewell invited her to return to his lodging, she resisted the idea strongly. In the past, most men had only sought her company for one vile purpose. What had made Hywel Rees so different was his kindness and consideration. Where others tried to molest her, he offered her protection.

It took Nicholas some time to persuade her and she set out with misgivings. She felt excited at being rowed across the Thames for the first time, though the foul language of the waterman made her cheeks burn. It was when they plunged into Bankside that her apprehension grew. It was a haunt of desperate men and the kind of shameless women she had met in Bridewell, standing brazenly in tavern doorways to beckon custom. Nicholas hustled her on until they turned
into a quiet street. The houses were much bigger here and thatch had been replaced by tile. They stopped outside a door.

Dorothea drew back. ‘I’ll not go in alone with you,’ she said.

‘I do not expect you to,’ he replied. ‘Wait here a minute. I’ll not be long.’

Nicholas let himself into the house and closed the door behind him. Left alone in the street, she mastered the impulse to run, telling herself that he had shown her nothing but kindness. Though he had exposed Hywel’s deception at their first encounter, Nicholas had also saved them from a beating in the street. She had to trust him. If he had designs upon her, they would have been made clear by now yet he had treated her throughout with paternal concern. There was something else that influenced her. Everyone who spoke to Nicholas Bracewell at the Queen’s Head did so with fondness and respect. That was the clearest indication of his upright character.

When the front door opened, she expected him to come out again but it was an attractive woman who appeared. She took the girl gently by the shoulders.

‘Come in, Dorothea,’ she said with a welcoming smile. ‘My name is Anne. Nick has told me all about you. There’s shelter for you here until we find your friend.’

‘Something has happened to Hywel. I fear for him.’

‘He may yet be safe. Do not torment yourself with anxious thoughts,’ said Anne, leading her into the house. ‘God willing, your friend is still alive and well.’

It was the hand that gave him away. Looped around a piece of driftwood, the arm seemed to be clinging on desperately. As the piece of timber bobbed in the dark water of the Thames, the white hand broke the surface time and again to wave farewell to life.

The next day being the Sabbath, it began as usual with a visit to church. Nicholas Bracewell accompanied Anne Hendrik and Dorothea Tate through the streets of Bankside to the sound of a medley of bells. Washed, well fed and restored by a good night’s sleep, Dorothea was wearing one of the servants’ dresses and a borrowed hat that had been designed by Anne. When the girl knelt in prayer at the church, Nicholas had no doubt who was in her thoughts. Racked with anguish, she was pleading for the safe return of her friend and protector. After the service, Nicholas escorted the women back to the house, then left them alone in the hope that, if Anne could spend some time alone with Dorothea, she would win her confidence and draw out details that the girl had been too embarrassed to divulge to a man.

Nicholas, meanwhile, had to meet a friend on the other side of the river.

‘What did you learn, Owen?’ he asked.

‘Precious little from the gatekeeper at Bridewell,’ grumbled Elias. ‘He’d have told me nothing at all had I not wheedled the facts out of him.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘By posing as Hywel’s cousin.’

‘You have the looks and accent to carry it off.’

‘It was like getting blood from a grain of sand.’

He told Nicholas what had transpired. The two of them were in the Welshman’s lodging, a long, low room that was filled with amiable clutter. On the bed in the corner, the sheets were still rumpled from a night of passion, and from the sudden departure to church of the woman with whom Elias had been sleeping. There was a faint aroma of tobacco from the pipe that had been smoked earlier. Nicholas was disappointed that such scanty information had been gained at Bridewell. Elias added a telling detail.

‘I peeped into his ledger as he checked it,’ he explained. ‘Beside the name of Dorothea Tate was a scribble that I took to be a record of her discharge. But there was nothing beside Hywel’s name. Instead, it was scratched through with a line of ink.’

‘Scratched through?’

‘It was almost as if they were pretending that Hywel Rees did not even exist.’

‘That’s worrying news.’

‘I did not give up there, Nick. Since I got such short shrift at Bridewell, I decided to look elsewhere for help. I
reasoned that, if anyone could tell me how that workhouse was run, it had to be a lawyer.’

‘Which one did you choose?’

‘The only one that I could trust. That friend of Frank Quilter’s. The jovial man who gave us so much assistance when Frank’s father was unjustly accused.’

‘I remember him well,’ said Nicholas. ‘Henry Cleaton.’

‘He told me things that bear out what Dorothea was saying.’

‘You surely did not doubt her word?’

‘No, no,’ replied Elias, ‘but she’s a young girl, wounded by her experience at Bridewell and still confused about what really happened there. Master Cleaton was able to throw more light on how the institution is administered.’

‘What did he say?’

Elias took a deep breath. ‘Bridewell has been dogged by corruption for years,’ he said. ‘One treasurer was dismissed for letting it flourish under his nose, another convicted for taking money that should have gone to the poor souls inside the place. A third, I discovered, was so incompetent that he paid several bills twice by mistake thus losing any profit that might have been made. Like the prisons,’ he continued, ‘the management and victualling of Bridewell is leased out to the highest bidder.’

‘Is that how this Master Beechcroft became involved?’

‘Joseph Beechcroft has a partner in the enterprise,’ said Elias. ‘A man named Ralph Olgrave. They somehow persuaded the good aldermen of this city to pay them no
less than £300 a year to take over Bridewell.’

Nicholas was astonished. ‘As much as that?’

‘Master Beechcroft is a weaver, as I hear, and Master Olgrave a tailor. They wove a clever deal and tailored it to fit their needs. You can see why the two of them took an interest in the workhouse.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘They can watch their trades practised there. According to Dorothea, wool is carded, cloth woven, suits made up. Dorothea said that hides are tanned there as well – and not only those belonging to the inmates. Joseph Beechcroft and his partner have found a means of using cheap labour.’

‘The cheapest kind of all, Nick. They get no wages.’

‘Only bed and board.’

‘You heard Dorothea. The beds are hard and the food is dreadful.’

‘So even more money is saved.’

‘Henry Cleaton said that rumours have been coming out of Bridewell for some time, but they are only rumours. No clear proof of mismanagement has been found. In fact, the place is at last being run with some efficiency. What shook me,’ said Elias, ‘was how much power those men have. Our merry lawyer claims that the terms of their contract make them positive kings inside Bridewell.’

‘Kings or tyrants?’

‘Whichever they choose to be.’

‘Joseph Beechcroft does not sound like a benevolent monarch.’

‘Dorothea dubbed him a monster.’
‘And she got close enough to him to make that judgement.’

‘Why release her when she could make allegations against him?’

‘To whom could she complain?’ asked Nicholas. ‘What strength does the word of a convicted vagrant carry? She was no threat to Master Beechcroft. No, Owen,’ he concluded, ‘I believe that she was discharged to get her out of the way. Dorothea knew too much. As long as she was inside Bridewell, she’d have been trying to find out what happened to her friend. That would irritate them.’

‘And, to her credit, she refused to turn punk at Master Beechcroft’s request.’

‘So she could not serve her purpose in that respect. As far as he knew, she was alone and friendless in the city. When he had her turned out, Joseph Beechcroft believed that he was throwing Dorothea to the wolves and would never hear from her again.’

‘He reckoned without us, Nick.’

There was a long pause. ‘Let us suppose,’ said Nicholas, trying to think it through, ‘that the gatekeeper was telling the truth. Imagine that Hywel Rees was indeed discharged a few days ago. What would he have done?’

‘Banged on the door until they let Dorothea out as well.’

‘And if he’d been chased away?’

‘He’d have done as she did, Nick,’ decided Elias. ‘Hywel would have turned to the two people in London who showed him any friendship. I fancy that we’d have seen him at the Queen’s Head, asking for our help.’

‘That’s my belief. Yet there’s been no sign of him. As I know to my cost,’ said Nicholas with a wry smile, ‘the Welsh are nothing if not tenacious. Hywel is like you, Owen. He’d not give up without a fight. But, all of a sudden, he disappears from the city. Would he desert Dorothea like that?’

‘Never!’

‘Then there are only two explanations.’

‘He has either been hounded out of London altogether.’

‘Or he is no longer alive,’ said Nicholas, solemnly. ‘Master Beechcroft, we are told, swore that he’d not be allowed to cause any more trouble at Bridewell. How far would he go to shut Hywel up?’

Lawrence Firethorn’s day also began with a visit to church, taking the entire household with him. When he had seen his wife, children, servants and the apprentices safely returned to the house in Old Street, he mounted his horse and headed for the city. His first port of call was Edmund Hoode’s lodging and he was pleased with what he found.

‘You are out of bed at last, Edmund,’ he observed, approvingly.

‘I have been on my feet for the best part of an hour,’ said Hoode, embracing his friend. ‘I am trying to build up my strength again.’

Firethorn nudged him. ‘And I know why, you rogue. That comely girl, the daughter of the house, let me in. Adele looks even more fetching today. You’ll need all your strength to board that pretty little carrack.’

‘I’d not even think such thoughts on the Sabbath.’

‘More fool you!’

Firethorn inspected him more closely. Simply by exchanging his nightshirt for his doublet and hose, Hoode looked markedly better. His cheeks were still hollow but there was a sparkle in his eye and more zest in his voice. He sat near the window and waved his visitor to the chair opposite him.

‘What’s this I hear of a theft at the Queen’s Head?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, angrily, ‘some rogue beat Luke Peebles to the ground and stole our money. We lost pounds that we can ill afford.’

‘Have you no idea who the culprit might be?’

‘No. Adam Crowmere has questioned all his servants but none could help us.’

‘Thank heaven this did not happen under our old landlord,’ said Hoode. ‘He’d have used it as an excuse to lever us out of the inn.’

‘His substitute shows Marwood up for the miser that he is. We could not ask for more sympathy. Adam even offered to make good our losses.’

‘A worthy benefactor!’

‘Our contract ties us and we had to refuse. But we saw his true character.’

‘Everyone has kind words to say of him. Michael Grammaticus told me that this generous landlord has been trying to help the company in other ways.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘He’s done things that would
never even cross the mind of that maltworm, Alexander Marwood. New benches have been added to the galleries so that we may seat another sixty buttocks, and a better range of food is being served in the yard. More people have been tempted in.’

‘Michael spoke of playbills.’

‘Yes, Adam Crowmere lets us put them on every wall we choose. Nobody can pass the Queen’s Head without knowing what Westfield’s Men offer next. It’s such a joy to have a landlord who is on our side.’

‘If only I were there to share the joy.’

‘You will be, Edmund. I see a new man before me.’

‘The old problem persists, Lawrence. I am still tired for most of the day.’

‘That will pass in time,’ said Firethorn. ‘Before you know it, you’ll be reaching for
A Way to Content All Women
again.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Though
I
could tell you how to do that for I’ve devoted my life to the art.’

‘My interest in the play has been rekindled,’ confessed Hoode.

Firethorn was thrilled. ‘You’ve started work on it again?’

‘No, but I talked about it with Michael. He’s offered to help me finish it.’

‘How? He has no ear for comedy. Just
look
at the man!’

‘Do not be misled by appearances,’ said Hoode. ‘Michael has a keen sense of humour. When he was at Cambridge, he acted in two comedies by Plautus. Admittedly, they were performed in Latin but they taught him much about how to provoke laughter.’

‘He can more easily produce tears. That’s where Michael’s skill lies, in the realms of tragedy. Flashes of humour there may be in
The Siege of Troy,
but it’s a play that will move an audience with its dark and mysterious power.’

‘Do not forget that I, too, have written tragedies.’

‘Yes, but you are Edmund Hoode, who can turn his hand to anything. How many authors are able to do that? Michael Grammaticus will never ape you in that respect.’

‘Give him the chance to try, Lawrence.’

Firethorn was unconvinced. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’

They talked for half an hour before Hoode began to weaken visibly. His visitor decided to take his leave. Getting to his feet, Firethorn clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Welcome back, Edmund!’ he said. ‘You’ve risen from the dead.’

‘Bear my fondest regards to all of our fellows.’

‘To those that deserve them, I will. But not to Barnaby, the wretch, who cannot find the time to call on you when you need comfort. And there are one or two others who do not merit your affection.’

‘Why not, Lawrence?’

‘They have let the company down badly.’

‘How?’

‘By allowing themselves to be seduced,’ said Firethorn, scornfully. ‘If there was a woman in the case, I would not mind, but the seduction involves a card table.’

‘At the Queen’s Head? Our landlord detests both cards and dice.’

‘Adam Crowmere does not share his objections. He
has a man, lodging at the inn, who plays in his room and conjures money out of our fellows’ purses. Nathan Curtis and Hugh Wegges were the first to suffer. They had to beg Nick to give them their wages in advance. The latest victim is Frank Quilter.’

‘That surprises me,’ said Hoode. ‘Frank is such a level-headed man.’

‘Not when he gets ensnared in a card game. All common sense then vanishes. He lost a lot of money at the table. I mean to raise the matter with Master Lavery.’

‘Who is he?’

‘The cunning devil who deals out the cards,’ replied Firethorn. ‘The sermon this morning urged us all to confront Satan in his various guises. I mean to do just that.’

The naked body lay on a cold stone slab in the morgue, the stink of decay softened by the smell of herbs that had been scattered around. Nevertheless, both Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias coughed when the foul air first hit their throats. They took care not to inhale too deeply. Though there was blazing sunshine outside, the room was dank and chill. The coroner, an elderly man with a wispy beard, indicated the latest cadaver to join his grim collection.

‘This is the only one who might meet your description,’ he said.

‘Where was he found?’ asked Nicholas.

‘He was pulled out of the Thames yesterday evening.’

Elias was doubtful. ‘I’m not sure that it’s him.’

‘Water disfigures the face,’ warned the coroner. ‘As you see, the body’s bloated well beyond its normal size. We cut his clothing off and burnt it. He was wearing nothing but rags.’

Nicholas ignored the body and stared at the face, trying to imagine what it would be like without the gashes on the temple where the head had been bludgeoned. It was the nose that caught his attention. He pointed to a long scar.

‘Look at that, Owen,’ he said. ‘Do you remember that scar on Hywel?’

‘I thought it was more to the left.’

‘No, I fancy not. This young man – God rest his soul – is the right age and height and colouring. That mark on his nose tells me that it might well be Hywel Rees.’

Elias bit his lip. ‘If only I could hear his voice! I’d know him then.’