Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

Putting the book aside, he reached for an identical ledger that had been beneath it. When he opened it to examine the most recent entries, he found a very different story. Income was now vastly in excess of expenditure, and it came from a variety of sources. Bridewell was the home for dozens of residents who paid a considerable rent for their rooms and who, in some cases, worked at skilled trades within the building and gave a percentage of their earnings to Beechcroft and Olgrave. A name that caught Nicholas’s attention was that of Ben Hemp, the forger. The sale of marked cards and loaded dice brought in an appreciable sum.

There was an item that had especial interest for Nicholas. Under the heading of entertainment, the costs of food and drink were set down. Listed opposite them was the amount of money that guests paid for the pleasure of enjoying one of the regular banquets. The ledger was quite specific. Those who wanted more than a delicious meal in congenial surroundings were charged extra for the company of one of the prostitutes. Every penny clearly went into the coffers of Bridewell rather than to the women themselves. Nicholas thought about Dorothea Tate, dressed to entice the men then hustled along to the hall with dire threats to bring her to heel.

On its own, the second ledger was enough to reveal the fraudulent operation run by Beechcroft and Olgrave, and to ensure their conviction, but Nicholas wanted more than that. Murder and rape had also occurred, and he knew the victims of each. It was time to go in search of those responsible. Before he could do so, however, Nicholas heard footsteps coming along the passageway outside the door. When a key was inserted in the lock, he had no time to flee through the window. Replacing the ledgers as he found them, Nicholas dived behind the arras and held his breath.

Two people came into the room and closed the door behind them. The heaviness of their tread suggested to Nicholas that they were both men. He listened to what sounded like a large bag of money being dropped onto the table. Coins were emptied out and someone began to count them. Hidden from sight, Nicholas hoped that he could stay where he was until the two men left the room, but his stench gave him away. The rags that he wore were impregnated with sour milk and its reek had not been dispelled by the breeze that blew in through the open window.

While he was still hunched behind the arras, it was suddenly pulled aside by Joseph Beechcroft. He held a dagger in his other hand and the keeper who accompanied him was carrying a cudgel. Both men glared accusingly at him. Nicholas shrunk back and brought his arms up protectively. Beechcroft brandished his weapon.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘And how on earth did you get in here?’

Dorothea Tate kept a lonely vigil outside Bridewell. A number of people had gone in through the gate, some in carriages, others on horseback, but nobody had come out. As evening shaded into night, she began to wonder if Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave were even inside the workhouse, but she did not abandon her post. The hope that one, or both of them, would ultimately appear, kept her huddled in the doorway on the opposite side of the road. The heavy stone in her pocket, she believed, would help her to avenge the murder of Hywel Rees. Once that had been achieved, Dorothea did not care what happened to her. She would be content.

Her position had rendered her vulnerable to various hazards. Stray dogs had bothered her, children had mocked her and a parish constable had chased her away for a while, but she quickly returned to her chosen spot. One passer-by had even tossed her a coin. As light began to fade, there had been less traffic on the street and the two watchmen who went past on patrol did not even notice the bundle of rags in the doorway. Obsessed by one ambition, Dorothea was not frightened to be alone on the street at night. Indeed, darkness helped her to merge with the stonework all round her and more or less disappear from sight.

She was not free from regret. Dorothea was sad that she had to flee from people who had befriended her at a time when everyone else turned away. Anne Hendrik and Nicholas Bracewell would doubtless be anxious on her behalf, and she was sorry about that, but she consoled herself with the thought that she was doing the right thing. Why should she expect others to exact justice for her when she could do so herself? She simply had to confront her detractors. That was the only way she would get true satisfaction.

She felt another pang of regret when the genial face of Owen Elias came into her mind. Delighted to hear another Welsh voice in the capital, it was he who had first come to their aid when Hywel’s performance as a counterfeit crank had been exposed. Her disappearance would disappoint and hurt Elias. He was bound to feel betrayed yet that could not be helped. Had she turned to him — or to Nicholas Bracewell — she knew that neither of them would have condoned what she was now planning to do. On the contrary, they would have done everything they could to keep her well away from Bridewell.

At long last, the gate was opened and a man emerged, leading a horse. Dorothea was on her feet at once, pulling the stone from her pocket in readiness. As soon as he mounted, however, and she could see him in profile, she knew that it was neither of the men for whom she lay in ambush. She returned to her place in the doorway and settled down once more. Her moment, she was certain, would eventually come.

Nicholas Bracewell’s disguise was effective. Even at such close range, Beechcroft did not recognise him. When the beggar flinched and spoke in a cracked voice, he was taken for what he appeared to be. The keeper raised his cudgel to strike.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

‘Tom Rooke, sir,’ croaked Nicholas.

‘When were you admitted to Bridewell?’

‘Today, sir.’

‘How did you get in here?’

‘I lost my way.’

‘He’s lying,’ snarled Beechcroft. ‘The room is always kept locked. He must have sneaked in earlier when I was in here myself.’ Sheathing his dagger, he stood back and snapped his fingers. ‘Beat him hard for his impudence.’

‘I’ll do so with pleasure,’ said the keeper.

Nicholas was forced to act. If he took the punishment, he knew that he would be beaten senseless then locked up more securely. Defence was vital. As the man wielded his cudgel for the first time, therefore, Nicholas dodged the blow, grabbed the tapestry and tore it from its pole so that he could wind it around the keeper. The two men then grappled fiercely. Beechcroft was astounded. The cowering beggar had suddenly turned into a vigorous man, who was patently getting the upper hand in the brawl. Beechcroft pulled out his dagger again and tried to stab Nicholas, but the latter simply twisted the keeper around so that he felt the point of the weapon in his shoulder.

Letting out a yell of agony, the keeper stumbled back, enabling Nicholas to wrest the cudgel from his grasp. Beechcroft continued to jab away without success. Nicholas pushed the keeper roughly to the floor and used the cudgel to knock Beechcroft’s dagger from his hand. When the latter made a dash for the door, Nicholas grabbed him by the arm, spun him round then shoved him with force against the wood. Panting with fear, eyes bulging from their sockets, Beechcroft had the uncomfortable feeling that he could identify his attacker.

‘I think I know you, sir, do I not?’ he said.

‘My name is not Tom Rooke,’ said Nicholas in his normal voice. ‘That much I’ll freely confess.’

Beechcroft goggled at him. ‘Nicholas Bracewell!’

‘The same.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to talk about the murder of Hywel Rees, and what that partner of yours did to a defenceless creature named Dorothea Tate.’