Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘You saw them both at the Queen’s Head?’ he enquired.

‘We did,’ replied Olgrave. ‘The Welshman is a good actor, I have to concede that. Though he took two roles in the play, they bore no resemblance to each other. One moment he was a treacherous Turk, the next, the Viceroy of Sicily.’

‘What of Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘It was as Gregory told me. The man is the book holder, and reckoned to be a power in the company for all that he’s only a hired man. We saw him when the performance was done, helping the others to pack their stage away.’

‘How did two such people come to know Hywel Rees?’

‘That does not matter, Joseph. They have to be silenced.’

‘Yes,’ said Beechcroft. ‘They know far too much for my peace of mind. The last thing we need at the moment is for anyone to peep into our affairs. We’ve another banquet arranged for tonight and I wish to enjoy it without worrying about Nicholas Bracewell and his friend.’

‘You shall, Joseph. And so shall I.’

Beechcroft smirked. ‘Whom will you choose tonight, Ralph?’

‘I’ve not made up my mind.’

‘Joan Lockyer? She’s always a favourite with our guests.’

‘Then let them take her,’ said Olgrave, holding up a hand. ‘Joan is a comely wench but I’d hate to purchase a French welcome from between those ample thighs of hers. I’ll look for safer company in my bed tonight. Someone younger and freer from disease.’

‘Only a virgin would bring that surety, and we’ve few of those left in Bridewell.’

‘Alas, yes. There’s such a special pleasure in deflowering an innocent, especially if she fights as fiercely as Dorothea Tate. You missed a treat there, Joseph.’

‘So you say.’

‘And what I missed was the chance to close that pretty little mouth of hers for ever,’ said Olgrave, bitterly. ‘That would have saved us all his bother. Well,’ he added, ‘I’ll make amends in due course. She’ll not live much longer.’

‘The two men are the greater danger,’ said Beechcroft.

‘I know that well.’

‘What have you told Gregory?’

‘To wait for his moment and strike.’

‘And who’s to be the first victim, Ralph?’

‘Owen Elias,’ said Olgrave, complacently. ‘That vexatious Welshman. Even as we speak, he may already be dead.’

Owen Elias was in his element. Having adjourned to the taproom, he was celebrating the triumphant performance of The Knights of Malta with a tankard of ale and enjoying the admiration of the spectators who were gathered there. Adam Crowmere had been watching in the yard that afternoon and, at the landlord’s instigation, Elias declaimed his opening speech as the Viceroy of Sicily. It earned him a round of applause. When he saw Nicholas Bracewell come into the taproom, the Welshman knew that his friend wanted a private word with him. Finishing his drink, he sauntered across to the book holder.

‘Will you not have some ale, Nick?’ he asked. ‘You’ve earned it.’

‘I need to keep my head clear.’

‘When will you go there?’

‘Very soon,’ said Nicholas. ‘First, I must pass on some disturbing news. A message from Anne was just handed to me, brought by her apprentice, Jan Muller.’

‘Well?’

‘Dorothea has vanished.’

Elias was rocked. ‘She was kidnapped?’

‘No, Owen. She ran away.’

‘But why ? The girl was safe with Anne. Why put herself in peril again?’

‘Only she can tell us that,’ said Nicholas. ‘According to Jan, they searched Bankside for hours but saw no sign of her. The lad is clearly upset that she’s gone.’

‘So am I, Nick. What are we to do?’

‘Try to find her ourselves. Keep your eyes open, and not only for Dorothea.’

‘Who else?’

‘That man I warned you about is here somewhere,’ Nicholas told him. ‘Leonard saw him earlier on. He may well be lurking to waylay one of us. Take care, Owen.’

Elias patted his dagger. ‘I will.’

After giving the two men a signal, Nicholas went out of the taproom with Frank Quilter and James Ingram, leaving Elias to order another tankard of ale and join in the merriment. The actor was soon singing a bawdy song to amuse the others. In the convivial atmosphere, he was completely at ease and could have stayed all evening, but he had other priorities. Downing his ale, he soon bade farewell to his friends and rolled out of the inn.

It was a fine, warm evening as he walked along Gracechurch Street in the direction of the river. By the time he turned right into Canning Street, he knew that he was being followed and even caught a fleeting glimpse of the man. Elias sauntered on at the same unhurried pace, listening for the sound of the footsteps behind him, and noting that his stalker was slowly gaining on him. Crossing the road, he turned left down one of the alleyways that led to Thames Street. Once out of sight, he darted towards a lane on his right and dived swiftly down it.

Gregory, meanwhile, increased his own speed. Spying his chance to catch his victim alone, he quickened his step until he came to the alleyway. But there was nobody in sight. Elias seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Had he let himself into one of the gardens that backed on to the alleyway? Or had he slipped down one of the lanes off it? Gregory tried each garden door as he passed but they were all bolted. When he came to the lane on the right, he sensed that Elias must have gone that way, trying to outrun him. Pulling out his dagger, he broke into a trot.

He did not get very far. As he hurried along the lane, he was suddenly grabbed from behind by Elias, who had been concealed in a doorway, waiting to strike. Before he knew what was happening, Gregory was slammed hard against a stone wall. His dagger was knocked from his grasp and Elias kicked it away. Seizing him by the throat, the Welshman pressed him to the wall and held him there by sheer power.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘Nobody,’ said the other, still dazed. ‘I was simply walking to Thames Street.’

‘Then you came the wrong way.’ Elias unsheathed his own dagger to hold the point under the man’s chin. ‘Now, let’s have the truth or I’ll cut that lying tongue out.’

‘I mean you no harm, sir.’

‘Well, I mean you some harm. You followed me.’

‘No, that’s not true.’

‘Then why did you have a weapon in your hand, you cur?’

‘Dangers can always lurk in an alleyway.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Nobody, sir.’

‘Who sent you?’ repeated Elias, jabbing the point of his dagger into the man’s neck. ‘Was it Joseph Beechcroft or Ralph Olgrave? Yes,’ he said, seeing the look of alarm in the other’s eyes. ‘You know them both, I think. One of those rogues sent you to find us at the Queen’s Head.’ He jabbed the dagger again and drew blood. ‘Which one of those monsters from Bridewell was it?’

Gregory was shivering. ‘Master Olgrave, sir,’ he bleated.

‘What were your orders?’

‘To follow you, that’s all.’

‘Oh, to follow me, was it?’ said Elias with sarcasm. ‘What did you intend to do when you caught up with me? Make a present of your dagger?’ He tightened his grip on the man’s neck. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Gregory Sumner,’ spluttered the other.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Leave off, sir, or you’ll strangle me!’

‘Answer my question or I’ll squeeze every ounce of breath out of you.’

‘I dwell in the workhouse,’ admitted the other. ‘I’m a keeper in Bridewell.’

‘Then you’ll know what happened to my good friend, Hywel Rees,’ said Elias, releasing his hold. ‘You’re to come with me, Gregory Sumner. I can see that you must be a religious man,’ he taunted. ‘I’ve a lawyer nearby who’ll happily hear your confession.’