Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘Then why did they single out Master Harling?’ asked Nicholas. ‘He came here with us but not as one of the company. He was simply a friend of our patron. If someone wanted to harm us, they’d have picked another victim.’

‘They did,’ observed Firethorn sharply. ‘Owen Elias.’

‘This has to be the work of the same villains,’ said Hoode.

‘Then why did they wait so long to strike?’ asked Nicholas. ‘We have been here for days. After Cupid’s Folly, Owen drank just as heavily at the White Hart as he did today. If the same killers are involved, why did not they assail him then? No,’ he went on, trying to work it out in his mind, ‘these crimes are definitely not connected. Bror Langberg is certain that the two men who stabbed Master Harling worked as cooks. They fled for their lives. It would be madness for them to lurk in the town when they were being hunted. Would you do so in their situation?’

Hoode pondered. ‘Nick argues well. He is right.’

‘I disagree,’ said Firethorn testily. ‘The coincidence is too great to ignore. We have enemies here. In future, we must stay together and arm ourselves if we go abroad.’

‘There is no need of that, Lawrence,’ said Nicholas.

‘I say that there is.’

‘Then I ask you to look at the way Master Harling was killed.’

‘He was stabbed to death.’

‘Why was Owen not dispatched in the same way?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters a great deal,’ asserted Nicholas. ‘I was a witness when Owen was knocked out with the butt of a pistol. Those ruffians could easily have thrust a dagger through his heart or simply shot him dead. Instead, they wanted him to be burnt alive.’

‘Such a hideous way to die!’ gasped Hoode.

‘Does it remind you of someone else?’

There was a long pause. ‘Will Dunmow.’

‘Exactly,’ decided Nicholas. ‘That’s the explanation here. My guess is that the two men who lay in wait for Owen today were the selfsame villains who ambushed him in London.’

Firethorn was incredulous. ‘That’s absurd, Nick. Why would two men come all the way from England in pursuit of Owen?’

‘Because they were extremely well paid.’

‘By whom?’

‘Will Dunmow’s father,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was furious at what happened to his son and I think that Owen bore the brunt of that fury. You must remember that it was he and James Ingram who put Will to bed that night. Owen gave a full account of it to Master Rooker, the friend who was charged to look after Will while he was in London.’

‘This is idle supposition.’

‘I wonder,’ said Hoode.

‘I don’t see a pattern here,’ said Firethorn.

‘Then you must open your eyes much wider,’ advised Nicholas. ‘The men who killed Master Harling were Danish. Those who sought Owen’s life were English.’

‘That proves nothing. There are several Englishmen living in Elsinore. It could have been any of them.’

‘You would not believe that if you’d talked, as I did, to the landlord of the White Hart. Two men arrived from London yesterday evening on the Speedwell . They lodged at the inn for one night. They also questioned the landlord closely about Westfield’s Men and were delighted to hear that we’d be performing in the square today.’

‘They probably wished to be in the audience,’ said Firethorn.

‘I’m sure that they were,’ Nicholas resumed, ‘and I’m equally sure that they went to the White Hart to await our arrival. These men are strangers to the town, Lawrence.’

‘If they lodged at the inn,’ said Hoode, ‘they’d have given their names to the landlord. Did you ask what they were called, Nick?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then we know who they were.’

‘I fear not, Edmund. They were too cunning to give their real names. One of them was called Ben — I heard it called out. Neither of them gave that name to the landlord.’

Firethorn scratched his beard. Nicholas was so sure of his facts that his judgement had to be respected. The actor-manager had been badly shaken by events at the White Hart. He wanted no repetition.

‘Owen must never be left alone,’ he decreed. ‘Someone must protect him at all times.’

‘He’s safe within the castle,’ said Nicholas. ‘Every gate is locked and guarded. Those villains would never be able to get anywhere near Owen. Besides, one of them was shot in the back. Instead of trying to take someone else’s life, he’ll be hanging onto his own.’

Josias Greet was in a state of panic. Having carried his friend to a hiding place not far from the inn, he was absolutely exhausted. Yet he knew that he had to move on. Ben Ryden was bleeding profusely. Every word he spoke was charged with pain.

‘Where are we, Josias?’

‘In a ditch behind the church.’

‘We must get away.’

‘You’re in no condition to walk.’

‘Carry me,’ ordered Ryden. ‘When it’s really dark, carry me.’

‘Where?’

‘To the harbour. We’ll steal aboard tonight.’

‘Yes, Ben,’ said the other, knowing full well that Ryden might not even live that long. ‘I’ll do as you say.’

‘Scurvy Welshman!’

‘We should have stabbed him when we had the chance.’

‘He had to be burnt to death. That was our commission.’

‘Forget about it now. All that we need worry about is you.’

‘My body is on fire. I feel as if there’s a red hot poker in my back.’ A spasm of pain made him convulse. ‘Damnation!’

‘Be quiet!’ said Greet, clapping a hand over his mouth. ‘You’ll give us away, Ben.’ He peered anxiously over the top of the ditch. An extension was being built to the church and they were hiding in its muddy foundations. ‘We cannot stay here much longer. They’ll come with torches for another search. We have to sneak away.’

He looked down at his companion with a mixture of sympathy and fear. Sorry that Ryden had been injured, he saw what a burden his friend had now become. If he had any hope of escape, Greet had to go alone. Ryden’s body sagged and his head fell forward. Weakened by the loss of blood, he lapsed slowly into unconsciousness, his mouth agape and his breathing laboured. Greet acted on impulse. After seizing the other man’s purse, he also deprived him of his dagger. Then he took another look over the top of the ditch. Lanterns appeared at the far end of the street. Another search was being conducted. By staying where he was, Greet risked discovery. In trying to take Ryden with him, he would make escape virtually impossible. There was only one thing to do and he did not hesitate.

‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ he said, raising the dagger. ‘I have to do this.’

Then he slit Ryden’s throat with a flick of his wrist.

After his glimpse of Sigbrit Olsen across the courtyard, Lord Westfield was in high spirits. He returned to his apartment and began to write a letter to her, praising her beauty and promising that he would dedicate himself to making her happy. He was not pleased to be interrupted by Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Yes?’ he said abruptly, holding the door open.

‘I want to speak to you about this afternoon, my lord.’

‘Bror Langberg has already done so. He told me everything that I need to hear about The Wizard Earl .’

‘I am not here to discuss the performance.’

‘Talk to me another time. I am too busy now.’

Nicholas held his ground. ‘Too busy to hear about an attempted murder?’ he asked, using a palm to stop the door from being shut in his face. ‘One of your actors was almost killed, my lord.’

‘Oh.’ Lord Westfield stood back. ‘You had better come in.’

Nicholas entered and closed the door behind him. He explained what had occurred at the White Hart and confided his suspicions about whom the two men might be, stressing that he was relying on guesswork rather than evidence.