Edward Marston - The Queens Head

The two men had just come out of The Queen's Head at the end of another full day. Redbeard preyed on their minds. Nicholas reasoned that a man with a fondness for whores would not keep away from the brothels for long and he was visiting them all in turn. He was carrying a rough sketch of the stranger which Ruff had helped him to draw. They felt it was a good likeness of the man they sought but it had so far failed to jog any memories.

Samuel Ruff was eager to do his share of the work and he had taken the sketch around the stews in Eastcheap. Nicholas was concentrating on the more numerous brothels of Bankside, certain that their quarry would surface sooner or later.

'I think Redbeard is lying low,' said Ruff.

‘He'll come out to play at night,' added Nicholas. 'The smell of a bawd will tempt him back.'

'I've been thinking about those wounds of his.'

'The scars on his back?'

'They might have cost Will his life.'

'In what way?'

Redbeard must have taken a severe beating from someone and his wounds still smarted. He wanted revenge. First of all, he attacks that poor girl and makes her pay for it, then he comes rolling downstairs in a drunken fury. Those scars were still on fire.'

'Did Will touch his back at all?'

A glancing blow as he lashed out at the man. No wonder Redbeard drew his sword. He'd been caught on the raw.'

'That's no excuse for murder, Sam,' reminded Nicholas.

'Of course not, but you take my point? If that villain had not been given such a beating. Will might be alive today.'

Nicholas thought it through carefully before speaking.

'There's truth in what you say but I must disagree about those scars on his back. He was not given a beating.' 'Then what?'

'I think he was whipped through the streets.'

'A malefactor?' said Ruff in surprise.

'I will ask him when I finally catch up with him.'

Nicholas waved aside Ruffs offer of company on his search and set off into the night. His mind played endlessly with the possibilities as he walked over the Bridge and swung into Bankside. It was late but he had promised himself he would make three calls. The first two visits were fruitless but he was not dismayed. He went on to the third name on his list.

The Cardinal's Hat was situated in a narrow, twisting, fetid lane which had an open drain running down its middle. There was no declaration of papacy in the tavern's name. To advertise the wares of the house, the cardinal's hat on the sign outside had been painted with such lewd skill that its crown resembled in shape and colour the dimpled tip of the male sexual organ.

As Nicholas turned into the dark lane, a figure swung out of the shadows and bumped into him. After a grunted apology, the man tried to move off but Nicholas gripped him firmly by the throat. Slipping a hand into the man's jerkin, he retrieved his newly-stolen purse then flung the pickpocket against a wall. With groans and curses, the man limped off into the night.

The Cardinal's Hat was so grimy and sordid that it made the Hope and Anchor look like a church vestry. Bare-breasted whores lolled about, drink and tobacco stoked up an inferno of noise, and all the dregs of the London streets seemed to have fetched up within. Tables were jammed so close together that any movement across the room was almost impossible. The reek that greeted him was overwhelming.

Nicholas lowered his head to duck under the main beam and one of the prostitutes jumped up to plant a guzzling kiss on his lips. He eased her away and sought out the surly landlord. The man was small and sinewy, a watchful polecat with its claws at the ready. He gave Nicholas no help at all until the sketch was produced. Holding it up to the tallow, the landlord squinted at it then let our a yell of rage.

'That's him! I know the rogue!'

'He was here?'

'Last week. Monday. Tuesday, maybe.'

'You're certain he's the same man?'

'He's no man,' snarled the other, thrusting the sketch back at Nicholas. 'That's a vile beast you have there.'

'What did he do?'

'Alice would tell you if she was here-God help her!'

'Alice?'

'Yes!' hissed the landlord. 'When she took him up to her room, he was as quiet as a lamb. Five minutes later, she's screaming for dear life and the scurvy knave is beating her black and blue. The poor drab is in the hospital with both arms broken. But that's not the end of it, sir.'

'What do you mean?'

'The dog smashed a window upstairs and leans out to hack at our sign with his sword.'

'The Cardinal's Hat?'

'He'd have cut it down if we hadn't chased him off.' The landlord cleared his throat and spat on the floor. 'It's the same man in the drawing. If ever he steps in here again, they'll have to carry him out in his coffin!'

Sympathy and excitement stirred inside Nicholas. He was sorry that another girl had been so grievously assaulted but he was elated to have picked up the trail at last.

Redbeard had broken cover. Nicholas would stay at his heels.

Anne Hendrik sat in her favourite chair and worked at her sewing by the light of a large candle. Her needle rose and fell with an easy rhythm. It did not pause for a second when the front door opened her lodger returned. Anne kept her eyes and her mind on at she was doing, except that her needle now jabbed into the material with a touch of venom.

Nicholas Bracewell was puzzled. A warm smile and a welcome usually awaited him at the house. This time he had not even elicited a polite enquiry about how his day had gone. Anne sewed on.

'You have a visitor,' she said crisply.

'At this time of night?'

'The young woman insisted on seeing you.'

'Woman?' He was startled. 'Did she give her name?'

'No,' replied Ann tartly. 'Nor would she tell me what her business with you was. It was a private matter, she said. I showed her up to your chamber.' Her voice hardened as he took a conciliatory step towards her. 'Don't keep your visitor waiting, sir.'

He gestured his bafflement then went up to his bedchamber, lapping on the door before going in. The young woman leapt up from a chair and went over to him.

'Nicholas Bracewell?'

'Yes.'

'Thank heaven I've found you!'

She clasped his hands tightly and tears formed in blue eyes that looked as if they had cried their fill. The woman was short, neat, pleasantly attractive, no more than twenty and wearing a plain dress beneath a simple gown. Nicholas caught a whiff of the country. One glance told him why his landlady had been so offhand with him. The girl was clearly pregnant. Anne Hendrik had seen a distressed young woman in search of Nicholas and assumed that he was the father of the child.

He ushered her gently to a chair and knelt in front of her. The room was small but well-furnished and impeccably clean. She looked out of place in such comfortable surroundings.

'Who are you?' he asked.

'Susan Fowler.'

'Fowler?… Surely you are not his daughter?'

'No,' she replied in hurt tones. 'Will was my husband.'

Fresh tears trickled down her flushed cheeks and he took her in his arms to comfort her, letting her cry her fill before she spoke again. His head shook apologetically.

'I'm sorry. I had no idea that he was married.'

'It was almost two years ago.'

'Why did he say nothing?'

'He wanted it that way,' she whispered. 'Will said the theatre was a world of its own. He wanted somewhere to go to when he had to get away from it.'

Nicholas could sympathize with that desire but he still could not fit this attractive young housewife alongside the blunt and outspoken Will Fowler. There was a naive willingness about her that seemed unlikely to ensnare an actor, who, just like his fellows, had always taken his pleasures along the way with much more worldly creatures.

'Where do you live?' he asked.