Edward Marston - The Queens Head

'Nicholas Bracewell insists,' continued Firethorn. 'And I always listen to his advice. We need you.'

'I cannot stay, sir.'

'It would keep Will's memory alive for us.'

Ruff ran a hand through his grey hair and pondered. It was no easy decision for him to make. He had resigned himself to a course of action and he was not a man who lightly changed his mind. As the clamour went on outside, he tossed another glance towards the window. His old way of life beckoned seductively.

'How much were you paid with Banbury's Men?'

'Eight shillings a week.'

'Ah!' Firethorn was checked. He had been ready to offer a wage of seven shillings but something told him the man might be worth the extra money. 'Very well. I'll match that.'

‘London has not been kind to me,' said Ruff quietly.

'Give it another chance.'

'I will think it over, sir.'

Firethorn smiled. He had himself a new hired man.

Murder caused only a temporary interruption at the Hope and Anchor. Everything was back to normal by the next evening. Fresh rushes hid those which had been stained by Will Fowler's blood. Beer and wine had already erased the memory from the minds of the regular patrons and they were preoccupied once again with their games, their banter and their vices. The low-ceilinged room was a throbbing cacophony.

Nicholas Bracewell coughed as he stepped into the smoky atmosphere. When he looked down at the spot where Will Fowler had lain, his heart missed a beat. He crossed quickly to the hostess, who was drawing a pint of sack from a barrel. She was a short, dark, plump woman in her forties with a pockmarked face that was heavily powdered and large, mobile, bloodshot eyes. Her dress was cut low to display an ample bosom and a mole did duty as a beauty spot on one breast.

She served the customer then turned to Nicholas.

'What's your pleasure, sir?' Her features clouded as she saw who it was. An already rough voice became even more rasping. 'You're not welcome here.'

'I need some help.'

'I told you all I know. So did my customers.'

'A man was killed here last night,' protested Nicholas.

'You think we don't know that?' she retorted vehemently. 'When the watch and the constables and goodness knows who else come running into the house. We like to keep out of harm's way down this alley. We don't want the law to pry into us.'

‘Just answer one question,' said Nicholas patiently.

'Leave us alone, sir.'

Look, I'll pay you.' He dropped coins on to the counter and they were immediately swept up by her flabby hand. 'Thai man with the red beard. Samuel Ruff says that he came downstairs.' He didn't lodge here,' she asserted. 'He was a stranger.' Then he was up there for another reason.' The bloodshot eyes stared unblinkingly at him. Nicholas took more money from his purse and handed it over. She leaned forward to thrust her face close to his own.

'I want you out of here in five minutes.' 'You have my word.' 'For good.'

'For good,' he agreed. 'Now, who was she?'

'Joan. She has the end room on the first floor.'

Nicholas did not waste any of his meagre time. Bounding up the stairs, he found himself in a passage that was so narrow his shoulders brushed the walls. Crude sounds of lovemaking came from rooms where whores were busy earning their income. The stench made Nicholas cough again. Samuel Ruffs fortunes must have been at a very low ebb to drive him into such an unwholesome place.

He reached the end room and listened for a moment. No sound came from within. He tapped on the door with his knuckles. There was no answer and so he used more force.

'Come in,' said a frail voice.

He opened the door and looked into a tiny room that was lit by one guttering tallow. On the mattress that took up most of the floor space, a young woman was lying in heavy shadow. She seemed to be wearing a shift and was half-covered by a filthy blanket. He peered at her but could only see her in outline.

'Joan?' he asked.

'Did you want me?' she whispered.

'Yes.'

'Come in properly and close the door,' she invited in a girlish voice, sitting up. 'I like visitors.'

He stepped forward a pace and pulled the door shut. Joan reached for the tallow and held it so that its thin beam shone upon him. She gave a sigh of pleasure.

'What's your name, sir?'

'Nicholas.'

'You're a fine, upstanding man, Nicholas. Sit beside me.'

'I came to talk.'

'Of course,' she soothed. 'We'll talk all you want.'

'A man was up here with you last night, Joan.'

'Three, four, maybe five men. I can't remember.'

'This one was tall with a red beard.'

Joan stiffened and let out a cry. Putting the candle aside, she wrapped her arms around her body for protection and huddled against the wall. Her voice was trembling now.

'Go away!' she begged. 'Get out of here!'

'Did he give you his name?'

'There's nothing I can tell you.'

'It's very important.'

'Just go away,' she whimpered.

She broke down into frantic sobbing. When Nicholas bent over to comfort her, however, she pushed him away and drew herself the very corner of the room. He watched the waif-like creature until her fear subsided a little then he spoke gently.

'I need to find him, Joan.'

'Leave me be, sir.'

'He killed a friend of mine. I want him.'

She curled herself up into a frightened ball and shook her head vigorously. Nicholas held out his purse to her.

'Keep your money!' she said.

'Listen to me!' he pressed. 'My friend was murdered last night by that man with the red beard. I'll find him no matter how long it takes. Please help me, Joan.'

She stayed in the shadows as she weighed him up, then she uncurled and sat up again. He crouched down beside her and tried once more to enlist her aid.

'There must be something you can tell me.'

'Oh yes!' she said ruefully.

'Had you seen him before?'

'Never! And I don't want to see him again.'

'Did he give you a name?'

'He gave me nothing but rough words, sir. But there is one thing I will always remember about him.' A shudder went through her. 'His back.'

'Why?'

'He told me not to touch it, and I didn't at first. But I like my arms around a man and I couldn't help it. When my fingers touched his back…'

‘What was wrong with it?' he asked softly.

'Scars. Dozen of fresh scars all over it. Long, thick, raw wounds that made my flesh creep when I felt them.' A second shudder made her double up. 'He warned me. He did warn me.'

'What did he do to you, Joan?'

'This.'

She pulled the shift over her head and tossed it aside, then she lifted the tallow so that its pallid light fell on her. Nicholas blenched. He felt as if he had been kicked in the pit of the stomach.

The slim, naked, girlish body was covered in hideous bruises. Thick powder was unable to disguise the swollen face, the split lip and the blackened eyes. There was a telltale lump across the bridge of her nose.

He understood her fear all too well now. She could scarcely be much more than sixteen. In a fit of rage, her client had beaten her senseless and put years on her. Joan would bear her own scars for the rest of her life.

Nicholas put the purse into her hands and closed her fingers around it before leaving the room. He had learned something new and revolting about the killer with the red beard. It was not much but it was a start. There had been two victims the previous night. Will Fowler had been killed and Joan had been brutally assaulted. Both of them deserved to be avenged.

Richard Honeydew was finding that too much talent could be a disadvantage in the theatre. It excited envy. In the few months that he had been with Lord Westfield's Men, he had worked hard and shown exceptional promise but there was a high price to pay. The other three apprentices ganged up against him. Seeing him as a threat, they subjected him to all kinds of hostility, teasing and practical jokes. It was getting worse.