Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘Hello, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘I hoped that you would come.’ He gestured for Gill to sit beside him. ‘There is someone who is very anxious to meet you.’

A tall figure came out of the shadows.

‘Welcome to Shoreditch!’ said Giles Randolph.

He gave a quiet smile of triumph.

When he reached the site with his little band of helpers, Nicholas Bracewell was pleased to see that work had continued throughout the day. Overcoming the shock of finding a murder victim underneath their timbers, Thomas Bradd and his men had cleared the site, burnt most of the debris and begun to dig the foundations. The builder was delighted to have fresh labour at his disposal and he set them to work at once. They included Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, George Dart, the puniest but most willing of them, and Owen Elias, who did not think his position as a sharer with the company absolved him from hard work and who handled his spade with muscular assurance.

Nicholas watched them with a mixture of pride and affection. He had intended to put his own considerable strength at Bradd’s service but another priority now existed. Their benefactor had to be traced, informed of Sylvester Pryde’s death and persuaded to leave the loan intact. It was an onerous assignment, made all the more difficult by the veil of secrecy which was drawn across the whole transaction. He was not quite sure where to begin. Waving a farewell to his friends, he walked swiftly back in the direction of London Bridge, considering all the possibilities and wondering why Pryde had gone to such lengths to shield his own privacy.

He was halfway across the bridge when he was met by an extraordinary sight. Mounted on a horse, and having the greatest trouble in controlling the animal, was Leonard, sweating profusely and trying to find a way through the milling crowd and trundling carts which blocked the narrow thoroughfare between the shops and stalls. A poor rider, he looked profoundly embarrassed to be in the saddle of such a fine horse, feeling unworthy of the status it conferred on him. When he saw Nicholas, his face lit up with relief and he tugged at the reins before dismounting clumsily.

It was only when Nicholas reached him that he realised that his friend was not alone. Leonard’s bulk had masked a second rider, a dignified man in a livery which seemed vaguely familiar. Nicholas also saw that the spirited animal which Leonard had been unable to master was Lawrence Firethorn’s stallion. His friend ran the back of his hand across his forehead then gabbled his message.

‘This gentleman came in search of you,’ he explained with a gesture towards the other rider. ‘He says that it is a matter of the greatest urgency. Master Firethorn knew where you had gone and loaned me his horse so that we could get to you fast.’ He thrust the reins at Nicholas. ‘You are to take him now to speed your own travel.’

‘Where must I go?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Follow me,’ said the other rider.

‘Who are you, sir?’

‘The steward of a household where a mutual friend of ours was known. Your presence is requested there immediately. I am not empowered to say any more.’

Nicholas had heard enough. When a steward was sent to deliver a message which could easily have been entrusted to a mere servant, then a matter of some importance was involved. The reference to a mutual friend was conclusive. Leonard was too obtuse to understand it but Nicholas knew at once to whom it pertained. It was his first piece of good fortune. Instead of having to follow a tortuous trail to their benefactor, he sensed that he might get to meet their guardian angel by a more direct route.

‘Shall we go?’ said the steward curtly.

‘Lead on.’

Nicholas mounted the horse, thanked Leonard, then followed his guide over the bridge. His companion rode in silence and shrugged off every question that was put to him. Nicholas soon abandoned his interrogation. He was grateful for the loan of the horse and controlled it without effort as they headed up Gracechurch Street before turning left into Eastcheap. His guide towed him at a brisk trot along Watling Street, past the daunting grandeur of St Paul’s Cathedral and on out through Ludgate. Fleet Street allowed them to break into a gentle canter and they were soon passing Temple Bar.

Stretching along the Strand was a row of some of the finest houses in London, stately mansions belonging to peers, bishops and men of wealth, coveted properties which gave their owners great kudos and an uninterrupted view of the Thames. Glad to be free of the city’s stench, Nicholas inhaled fresh air into his lungs. The steward raised an arm to warn him that they would soon be leaving the road. Nicholas rode beside him down a wide track towards their destination.

The house was situated just beyond the Savoy Palace, now converted into a hospital but still possessing a degree of splendour. It was a smaller property than most in the Strand but it lacked nothing in elegance. Studying the impressive facade, Nicholas surmised that only a rich man could afford to buy such a home. Servants were waiting to take charge of their horses and the front door was opened for them. The steward conducted his visitor across the hall and into a large, low room with oak-panelled walls and exquisitely carved oak furniture.

Nicholas was left alone for a few minutes and occupied the time in looking at the portraits which were ranged around the room. The largest of them captured his attention. Against a background of leather-bound books, the face of an old, proud, resolute, white-haired man stared out from the canvas. There was nobility in his features and a hint of defiance in his expression. Notwithstanding the library setting, Nicholas felt that he was looking at a military man. He also thought that he detected a faint resemblance to a certain Sylvester Pryde.

The door opened and the steward came into the room.

‘The Countess of Dartford,’ he announced solemnly.

The woman who swept in had such striking beauty and wore such costly attire that Nicholas blinked in astonishment. Removing his cap, he held it before him and gave a courteous bow. The steward withdrew and closed the door behind him. While Nicholas stood in the middle of the room, the lady of the house walked around him in a circle to take a full inventory of him, giving off a fragrance that was quite bewitching. A faint smile of admiration touched her lips but she took care not to let her visitor see it. Lowering herself onto a chair, she adjusted her dress then looked up at him.

‘You are Nicholas Bracewell?’ she asked.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Thank you for answering the summons.’

Now that he could study her properly, he could see a slight puffiness around her eyes as if she had been crying but it did not detract from the sculptured loveliness of her features. It was difficult to put a precise age on her. Her clear skin was that of a young woman but there was an air of maturity about her which hinted at more years than were apparent.

‘Can you be trusted, Nicholas?’ she asked.

‘Trusted, my lady?’

‘Sylvester told me that you could. He said that you were honest and reliable. A good friend who knew how to respect a confidence. Is that true?’

‘I believe so, my lady.’

‘He also told me how modest you are.’

‘Did he?’ said Nicholas.

‘Modest men have no need to boast. They can hold their tongues.’ She appraised him again. ‘I begin to think that he may have been right about you. Sylvester was a sound judge of character. He will be sorely missed.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

There was a long pause as she gathered her strength for what might be an ordeal. The Countess of Dartford folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath.