Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘I thought you’d have dinner with the others.’

‘I will, Anne,’ he said, ‘but I felt that I had to have a word with you first. Your instinct was sound. She simply cannot be in two places at once.’

‘Who?’

‘Sigbrit Olsen. Our patron is dining with her at this very moment yet I’ve just seen the lady in the chapel.’

‘The chapel? What were you doing there, Nick?’

Easing her back into the room, he shut the door behind them then told her about his visit to the chapel. All her suspicions were confirmed. The sister of Sigbrit Olsen was being used as an occasional substitute. Lord Westfield was unwittingly revelling in the company of a woman who would not stand at the altar with him.

‘He must be warned,’ she said.

‘He will be.’

‘It would be cruel to keep this from him.’

‘Leave everything to me, Anne,’ he said, kissing her on the lips. ‘I’m hungry. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll join the others now.’

‘But you haven’t heard my news yet.’

‘Oh — and what would that be?’

‘When I first moved in here, one of the servants showed me around the castle. We managed to understand each other in German.’

‘I remember. Go on.’

‘Well,’ continued Anne, ‘on the way back from the ballroom today, I bumped into her again. She was disturbed about the murder that took place here. She said that it made the castle very unpleasant to work in. We’ve all noticed how the atmosphere here has changed.’

‘It was bound to, Anne.’

‘I tried to cheer her up by telling her that the killers were not inside Kronborg. I explained that the two men had worked as cooks in the kitchens.’

‘And?’

‘She gave me that look again, Nick, the one that made me feel as if I’d said something very stupid. It seems that her husband works in the kitchens. According to him,’ she went on, ‘nobody at all has fled from there. Whoever committed that murder was not certainly employed as a cook. Someone is lying.’

Nicholas Bracewell was in a quandary. Aware that the performance of The Princess of Denmark might not even take place, he had to watch the actors working hard on the play that afternoon. If he stopped the rehearsal, his explanation would be met with dismay and disbelief. Yet, if he let them carry on, he would be allowing them to think that all the scenes that were being expertly honed in the ballroom would soon be set before a very special audience. Having uncovered deceit elsewhere, Nicholas felt that he was now guilty of it himself. He was, in effect, letting his friends waste their time and effort.

Preoccupied with his dilemma, Nicholas began to make some uncharacteristic mistakes. Most of them went unnoticed by the others but Lawrence Firethorn had sharper instincts. When the rehearsal was over, and everything had been dismantled, he took his book holder aside for a quiet word.

‘What ails you, Nick?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Is dropping the book nothing? Is letting your attention wander nothing? Is forgetting that you are Nicholas Bracewell and therefore a man who never errs — do you call that nothing?’

‘I was a little distracted.’

‘By what?’

Nicholas hesitated. ‘I will tell you another time.’

‘Now,’ demanded Firethorn. ‘I want the truth now .’

‘You will not like what you hear.’

‘I did not like what I saw this afternoon.’

It was an honest assessment of Nicholas’s work and he was ready to acknowledge it. When the last of the scenery and properties had been carried away to be stored, he agreed to accompany Firethorn to his apartment. Once inside, the actor closed the door then put his back to it.

‘Now, then, Nick — what is going on?’

‘Lord Westfield is being hoodwinked.’

‘By whom?’

‘Judge for yourself.’

Composing his thoughts, Nicholas gave him as clear an account as he could of what he believed was a deliberate deception. At first, Firethorn could only bluster in protest but he listened with growing concern as the evidence mounted up. The conclusion was inescapable. Between them, Nicholas and Anne Hendrik had unearthed a cunning ruse that could have appalling consequences if allowed to continue unchecked. Firethorn was infuriated.

‘This is a heinous crime!’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes, Lawrence, but what lies behind it?’

‘A cruel sense of humour. Our patron has been enticed by a beautiful woman so that he can be married off to a plain one.’

‘Sigbrit Olsen is not plain,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s what made the trick possible. She has similar features to her sister but lacks her complexion and her brilliance.’

‘Brilliance is the word. She glitters like a star.’

‘There is something else. Anne did not notice this because she only saw one side of the lady’s face and that was by candlelight. I had a much clearer view in the chapel.’

‘What did you see, Nick?’

‘A livid scar that runs down the side of her chin,’ replied the other. ‘It could be largely hidden by powder when viewed by the flames of a candle. In the light of day, it’s more difficult to disguise,’

Firethorn was fuming. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ he cried, pacing the room like a caged animal. ‘Is this what we came all this way for — to see our patron married off to some scar-faced harpy?’

‘You misjudge the lady. It may well be that she is quite unaware of the deception that is being practised in her name.’

‘She must know. She’s in this up to her waist.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’m not sure that she is. I only saw her for a fleeting moment but it was when she was completely off guard. Bear in mind that she had been praying there for almost half an hour. That gives you some indication of her character.’

‘She was seeking forgiveness for her sins,’ snarled Firethorn.

‘That’s not what I saw in her face, Lawrence. I saw honesty and decency and a kind of innocence. I begin to think that Sigbrit Olsen is as much a victim of this plot as our patron.’

‘Do not forget us — we are victims as well.’

‘Lord Westfield is the person who stands to lose most.’

‘He must be told directly, Nick. We can’t let him marry this counterfeit princess. It’s unthinkable.’

‘He will want to know who is behind this subterfuge.’

‘What will you tell him?’

‘The truth,’ said Nicholas. ‘It has to be Bror Langberg.’

‘You were quite wonderful,’ congratulated Bror Langberg, enfolding his niece in his arms. ‘You played the part as well as any actor.’

‘I hardly spoke,’ said Hansi Askgaard.

‘You did not need to — did she, Johanna?’

‘No,’ replied his wife fondly. ‘All that you had to do, Hansi, was to sit there and he was spellbound. Lord Westfield never took his eyes off you.’

‘I could wish a more handsome husband for my sister.’

Langberg smiled. ‘His title and his fortune are very handsome.’

‘Sigbrit will not have to sleep with either of those.’

‘She’ll be happy enough with the marriage.’

‘I hope so, Uncle Bror.’

‘Had it been otherwise, I’d not have commended it to her. Lord Westfield is a restless man. He yearns for the city pleasures. While he is in London, Sigbrit will have a fine country house to herself.’

‘I hate to think that she will be lonely.’

‘There’s no danger of that,’ he assured her.

They had returned to Hansi’s room after dinner to discuss what had happened. Each of them felt that it had been a success. Lord Westfield had been placed at one end of a long table with Hansi at the other. Langberg and his wife sat opposite each other on the vacant sides. They provided most of the conversation because their guest had been too engrossed with the woman he thought would be his future wife. Saying little and smiling often, Hansi let her natural radiance hold his attention. She had one grievance.