Edward Marston - The Roaring Boy

‘I always find it in the end,’ said Topcliffe.

‘Find what, sir?’

‘The truth. No matter where a man may hide it, I will root it out. Sometimes I have to look in their heart and sometimes I have to prise open their brains. I will even lay bare a man’s soul in order to get at it.’ He stood up and came around the table. ‘Where do you keep the truth?’

‘About what, Master Topcliffe?’

‘This play of yours, The Roaring Boy .’

‘It is not my play,’ insisted Hoode. ‘I was merely the carpenter who made the necessary repairs. Another hand wrote the piece. Look for him.’

‘I do, sir. That is why you are here.’

‘But I do not know his name!’

‘You will remember it in time.’

‘The author preferred to remain anonymous. I have no idea who he was or why he wrote what he did. I will swear that on the Bible, sir.’

‘They all say that.’ Topcliffe grinned. ‘Follow me.’

He walked to the end of the room and opened a door. Hoode went after him with reluctant footsteps and found himself in a passageway that led to a flight of steps. Topcliffe went down them with his victim in tow. They came into a long, low, stone-floored chamber that was lit by altar candles. One glance at the contents of the room was enough to make Hoode’s stomach heave.

In the middle of the room stood a large, solid, wooden contraption with all manner of straps, spikes and ropes attached to it. Stout handles on all four sides of the rack allowed it to be tightened inexorably in all directions. Other devices were ranged around the walls. These further refinements of torture included iron bridles to fit over the head and deep into the mouth, an array of thumbscrews and a wooden coffin lined with razor-sharp teeth that could bite ever deeper into the flesh of its occupant when its sides were beaten with hammers. Red-hot tongs and pokers nestled in the brazier that stood in a corner.

It was not just the sight of these objects that made Hoode retch. The atmosphere in the room was unbearable. The smell of suffering was almost tangible. Richard Topcliffe thrived on it but his guest was inhaling the reek of a charnel-house.

The interrogator indicated the rack with immense pride.

‘Have you ever seen such a wonderful machine?’ he said. ‘It is my own invention. Compared to this, the one at the Tower is child’s play. Do you see what I have done here? Every part of a man’s body can feel a separate agony. Look at this device for the hands, Master Hoode. You will be able to appreciate its cunning.’

‘Will I?’ Hoode murmured.

‘You spoke of your carpentry on a play. Well, here is carpentry of a much higher order. Each finger slots into its own individual hole, as you may see. I simply turn this one handle and the subtlety of my design becomes apparent.’ He was almost drooling now. ‘All ten fingers are simultaneously crushed and a tongue is invariably loosened.’

Edmund Hoode was in such distress that he clutched at a wall for support. The fact that he did not know the name of the play’s author was irrelevant. Richard Topcliffe would search for it with a cruelty and relentlessness that were their own justification.

‘Go back to the Marshalsea now,’ said Topcliffe.

‘Back?’ gasped Hoode in relief. ‘I am released?’

‘For the time being. Reflect on what I have said and you will soon remember the name that evades you. This visit has simply acquainted you with my methods, Master Hoode.’ He gave his faint smile. ‘You have seen my instruments.’

***

The three men continued to question Emilia Brinklow about the nature of her brother’s work but the help she could give them was limited. She was sometimes allowed to view the results of his toil but he never discussed the means by which he made them. Privacy had been the major preoccupation of Thomas Brinklow.

‘What about his wife?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Cecily?’

‘Was she taken into his confidence?

‘Even less so than me,’ said Emilia, ‘and that upset her deeply. She was always curious about the time he spent in his workshop but he never let her past that iron door. Cecily was locked out just as much as the rest of us. She protested bitterly but in vain.’

Nicholas thanked her for her help and asked if he could show his friends around the ruined laboratory. Emilia gave them the freedom of the house. She herself felt the need to pay an important call elsewhere.

‘I will to the church,’ she said. ‘Simon lies there. I want to offer up a prayer for the salvation of his soul.’

‘That is only proper,’ said Nicholas.

‘I feel ready to look upon him now.’

‘Prepare yourself first. It is not a happy sight.’

‘Duty bids me endure it.’

She gave him the key from her pocket and took her leave. They could easily have entered the ruin from the garden by stepping over one of its walls but it seemed sensible to approach it as its designer must have done. Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias both commented on the thickness of the door. When it was thrust open, they stepped into the wilderness beyond and marvelled. Nicholas indicated some of the apparatus at the far end of the workshop.

‘Here is his forge where he fashioned that knife-blade,’ said Nicholas. ‘Close by are two more furnaces.’

‘Was not one enough?’ asked Elias.

‘Not for a craftsman,’ explained Firethorn. ‘I grew up in a world of sparks and steel. My father was a blacksmith and taught me that iron is not simply a dull metal. If it is handled aright, it can come alive. My father knew how to make it hiss in the coals and sing on his anvil.’

‘How many furnaces did he have?’

‘Two, Owen. One firing will drive out some impurities from the metal. A second may refine it more and render it easier to handle. All depends on how much heat you apply.’ Firethorn enjoyed a rare lapse into nostalgia. ‘I watched my father for hours on end in his forge. Most of his time was spent in shoeing horses and fitting iron rims on cartwheels but he was a skilled metalworker as well. His wrought-iron screen still stands in the village church.’

‘Thomas Brinklow was no blacksmith,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘He had three furnaces to conduct his experiments, each one different in size and shape to the others. What does that suggest to you, Lawrence?’

‘It goes well beyond my father’s art. I’d say he found a way to alter the properties of the metal by the separate firings. Something may have been added in its molten state.’ He knelt beside one furnace and picked up a handful of small cinders. ‘Here is one clue, sirs. I would expect to find a forge like this burning charcoal. These cinders are the last remains of coal, a fuel that causes untold problems.’

‘Unless he found a way to cure them,’ said Nicholas.

Firethorn felt the cinders. ‘Or a new type of coal.’

‘From Wales, perhaps,’ said Elias. ‘We have mines.’

‘Or from even further afield,” added Nicholas. ‘Ships carry timber and other fuels into London every day.’

They continued to speculate for some time before Nicholas drew his friends down the garden to the middle of the largest lawn. He lowered his voice.

‘Here we may certainly talk in complete safety.’

‘Are we then overheard?’ said Elias.

‘There is a spy in the house. I believe I know who it is. She will not be able to listen to us out here.’

‘She?’ repeated Firethorn.

‘If I am correct.’

Valentine suddenly came out of the bushes some twenty yards away with his wheelbarrow. He gave Nicholas the most obsequious grin and ambled off in the direction of the house. The book holder’s companions were taken aback.

‘Who, in God’s name, is that?’ said Elias.