Edward Marston - The Queens Head

He looked up questioningly but nobody had the answer.

Nicholas Bracewell was consumed with grief and anger. It was only now that he was about to lose Will Fowler that he realized how much the man's friendship had meant to him. The actor's warmth and effervescence would be sorely missed. Nicholas held the body more tightly to pull him back from death but he knew that it was all to no avail. Will Fowler was doomed.

Samuel Ruff was in tears, tormenting himself with the thought that he was to blame, muttering endless apologies to the prostrate figure. Nicholas saw the blank horror in his face then he noticed that Ruffs sleeve was dripping with blood that seeped from a wound of his own. The sword thrust had cut his arm before killing Will Fowler.

The dying man found enough breath to whisper.

'Nick…'

'I'm here, Will.'

'Find him…please…find the rogue!'

He clutched at his stomach as a new spasm of pain shot through him then his whole body went limp. A final hiss escaped his throat. Will Fowler had no need of a surgeon now.

Samuel Ruff buried his face in his hands. Nicholas felt his own tears come but his sorrow was edged with cold fury. A dear friend had been viciously cut down. In a flash of temper, a valuable life had been needlessly squandered. Will Fowler had begged him to track down the culprit and Nicholas now took this duty upon himself with iron determination.

'I'll find him, Will,' he promised.

Bankside was not entirely given over to stews, gambling dens, taverns and ordinaries. Because it was outside the City's jurisdiction, this populous area of Southwark had its share of cockpits and beat gardens and bull-baiting rings to please the appetites of those who flocked to them, but it also had its shops, its places of work and its respectable dwellings. Lined with wharves and warehouses for much of the way, it commanded fine views across the river of St Paul's and the City.

Anne Hendrik had lived in Bankside for a number of years and she knew its labyrinthine streets well. Born of English stock, she married Jacob Hendrik while she was still in her teens. One of the many Dutch immigrants who poured into London, Jacob was a skilful hatmaker who found that the City Guilds had a vested interest in keeping him and his compatriots out of their exclusive brotherhoods. To make a living, therefore, he had to set up outside the City limits and Southwark was the obvious choice. Hard work and a willingness to adapt helped him to prosper. When he died after fifteen happy years of marriage, he left his widow with a good house, a flourishing business and moderate wealth.

Other women might have moved away or married again but Anne Hendrik was committed to the house and its associations. Having no children, she lacked company and decided to take in a lodger. He soon became rather more than that.

'Is that you, Nicholas?' she called.

'Yes.'

‘You're late.'

'There was no need for you to wait up.'

'I was worried about you.'

Anne came out to the front door as he closed it behind him. When she saw him by the light of the candles, her comely features were distorted with alarm.

'You're hurt!' she said, rushing to him.

'No, Anne.'

'But there's blood on your hands, and on your clothing.'

'It's not mine,' he soothed.

'Has there been trouble, Nick?'

He nodded. 'Will Fowler.'

'What happened?'

They adjourned to his chamber. Anne fetched him a bowl of water so that he could clean himself up and Nicholas Bracewell told her what had occurred at the Hope and Anchor. He was still very shaken by it all. Anne was deeply distressed. Though she had only met Will Fowler a few times, she remembered him as a lively and loquacious man with a fund of amusing stories about the world of the playhouse. It seemed perverse that his life should be snuffed out so quickly and cheaply.

'Have you no idea who the man was?' she asked.

'None,' said Nicholas grimly. 'But I will catch up with the fellow one day.'

'What of this Master Ruff?'

'He was as stricken as I was, Anne. I helped him to find a new lodging for the night. He could not bear to stay in the place where Will had been murdered.'

'You should have brought him back here,' she offered.

Nicholas looked up at her and his affection for Anne Hendrik surged. Her oval face, so lovely and contented in repose, was now pitted with anxious frowns. Kindness and compassion oozed from her. In any crisis, her first instinct was always to give what practical help she could. It was a trait that Nicholas shared and it was one of the reasons that bonded them together.

'Thank you, Anne,' he said quietly.

'We could have found him something better than a room in some low tavern. Did you not think to invite him here?'

'He would not have come,' Nicholas replied. 'Samuel Ruff is a very proud and independent sort of man. His friendship with Will goes back many years and it was something that both of them treasured. Samuel wants to keep his own counsel and mourn alone. I can respect that, Anne.'

While he dried his hands, she took away the clouded water. Nicholas was exhausted. It was hours past midnight and the events at the Hope and Anchor had taxed him. Officers had been sent for and the whole matter was now in the hands of a magistrate. The dead body had been removed and there was nothing that Nicholas could do until the morrow. Yet his mind would not let him rest.

Anne Hendrik came back. She was a tall, well-kept woman with graceful movements and a lightness of touch in all she did. Her tone was soft and concerned.

'You need your sleep, Nick. Can you manage?'

'I think so.'

'If you want anything, you have only to call me.'

'I know.'

She gazed fondly at him then a sudden thought made her reach out and clasp him to her bosom for a few moments. When she released him, she caressed his hair with long, delicate fingers.

'I'm sorry about Will Fowler,' she whispered, 'but it could so easily have been you who was killed. I could not have borne that.'

She kissed him tenderly on the forehead then went out.

It was typical of Lawrence Firethorn that he took the tragedy as a personal insult. Without a twinge of conscience, he turned the death of a hired man into a direct attack upon his reputation. On the following afternoon, Will Fowler was due to appear in the company's latest offering at The Queen's Head, playing the most important of the secondary roles. Since the other hired men were already doubling strenuously, it was impossible to replace him. The whole performance was threatened and Firethorn worked himself up into a fine frenzy as he contemplated it.

'Shameful!' he boomed. 'Utterly shameful!'

'Regrettable,' conceded Nicholas.

Westfield's Men have never cancelled before. We would set a dreadful precedent. The audience would be robbed of a chance to see me! You must take some blame for this, Nicholas.'

'Why, master?'

'It was you who kept Will Fowler employed.'

'He was a good actor.'

'You stopped me tearing up his contract a dozen times.'

'Will was a valuable member of the company.'

'He was too quarrelsome. Sooner or later, he was bound to pick a fight with the wrong person. God's blood! If only I'd followed my own instincts and not yours!'

They were in the main bedchamber at Firethorn's house and the actor was rampaging in a white shirt. After a sleepless night, Nicholas had repaired to Shoreditch soon after dawn to break the sad news. His report was not well received.

'It's so unfair on me!' stressed Firethorn.

'My thoughts are with Will,' said Nicholas pointedly.

'One of my hired men stabbed in a tavern brawl-a pretty tale! It will stain the whole company. Did you not think of that when you took him to that vile place last night?'