Edward Marston: Trip to Jerusalem

'You are no actor, sir,' said Nicholas with contempt.

'I was skilful enough to fool you,' reminded the other. 'What is spying but a form of acting? I was a master of my art.' His eyes narrowed. 'Then you came along and ruined my plans. Because you escaped me at the Three Swans, I had to run away from the company. They will never accept me as a sharer now.'

'Then I have done them a favour.'

Scruton jabbed with the dagger again but Nicholas was too nimble for him. The actor continued to circle his man and look for an opening. Nicholas stayed on the alert and tried to keep him talking.

'You betrayed your fellows,' he accused.

'It was needful.'

'But quite unforgivable.' He hazarded a guess. 'And you murdered Oliver Quilley."

'I had to. He had told me all he could.'

'About what?'

'Marmion Hall. I used him as my eyes. He got in here and saw what I needed to know. When I had persuaded him to part with the information, I closed his eyes for good.' Scruton grinned. 'He was a scurvy painter and will not be missed.'

'You will be arraigned for his killing.'

'No, sir. I have friends in high places.'

Scruton made a sudden move and thrust hard with his dagger but Nicholas grabbed his wrist. They wrestled back against one of the pews and threshed about wildly for the best part of a minute. Nicholas managed to twist the weapon out of the other's hand and it fell to the floor with a clatter. Mark Scruton was enraged. With a fresh burst of energy, he flung the book holder back against the altar rail and got his hands on his throat. Nicholas was slowly being strangled.

So absorbed were they in their fight that they did not observe the figure who slipped in through the steel door nor did they see the gold crucifix being removed from the altar. Nicholas was in distress. A steel band was around his neck and it got tighter by the second. Scruton was a blurred object before his eyes. Making a last supreme effort, he grabbed his opponent by the arms and threw him violently away. Scruton went back a few yards. They were the last steps he would ever take. Before he could move in again, his skull was smashed open by one vicious blow from the crucifix and his brains spattered the white cloth of the altar. Having spent so much time betraying Roman Catholics, he had now been cut down by a symbol of their faith.

Christopher Millfield looked down at the corpse then threw the crucifix away. Banging sounds from above warned that the soldiers would soon find their way into the secret passage. Millfield did not seem perturbed. He flashed a smile at the panting Nicholas.

'You were right to suspect me.'

'Another of Walsingham's men?'

'Yes, Nick, but of a different order from this fool.' He kicked the dead body. 'Scruton had served his purpose as a spy. Such people have no further use. My job is to pay them off and send them on their way.'

'You have a brutal livelihood, sir.'

'It is well-paid and very well protected.'

Nicholas rubbed his throat and looked around at the scene of carnage. Mark Scruton lay dead, Sir Clarence Marmion was in a coma and the chapel had been wrecked by the force of the violence. He finally began to understand the steps which had led to this grim ending. Revulsion against Christopher Millfield stirred in his stomach but he had the grace to offer a grudging compliment.

'I should have listened to you, sir.'

'When?'

'When you told me you were the finer actor.' Millfield was still beaming as soldiers rushed in.

It was a day of departures. Banbury's Men had already slunk away with their tails between their legs. Sir Clarence went off to London under armed guard. With her ruffled feathers now smoothed, Susan Becket returned to her own hostelry. Humphrey and Eleanor Budden went home to a new life in Nottingham. In the company of four liveried servants, Margery Firethorn rode back to Shoreditch to pay some bills and count the days until her husband's return. Mark Scruton joined Gabriel Hawkes in the grave. Christopher Millfield went off to terminate the careers of other spies on behalf of Walsingham.

Westfield's Men were to stay on for a few days in York. Their success at the inn brought in requests for further performances and they were to offer other delights from their repertoire. It was an immense comfort to know that their plays were once again their exclusive property. The man who had most cause to be pleased was instead subdued and withdrawn.

Nicholas Bracewell sought him out in the taproom.

'Be of good cheer, Edmund. Our troubles are over.'

'They leave much sadness in their wake.'

'We must strive to put it behind us.'

'I have done so,' said Hoode gloomily, 'but my mind is fixed on misery. I liked them both, you see, Christopher and young Gabriel, as I took him to be. I trusted them.'

'We were all taken in,' admitted Nicholas. Nobody more completely than me. I feel humbled by it all. I should have listened to Mistress Budden.'

'Did she throw light on these dark deeds?'

'She did, Edmund. That good lady warned me about Master Millfield. She told me that he was an atheist.'

'Was he so?'

'No Christian would use a crucifix to commit a murder. He is a godless man in every sense. And now I realize why he has escaped the law.'

'He hides behind Sir Francis Walsingham.'

Indeed, sir.'

Hoode put a congratulatory hand on his friend's arm.

'Take heart, Nick,' he said. 'You can still be proud of your part in this business.'

'Can I?'

'You found that tunnel to the secret chapel.'

'I stumbled on it by accident. Master Millfield knew where to look and found it by design. That is why he disappeared after the rehearsal. He was conducting a search.'

Hoode sighed. 'Sir Clarence was a traitor and I am glad that he has been called to account but it grieves me that our company was used as a cloak for so much deception.'

'It has been rooted out now.'

'Let us hope so. I do not want another play of mine to be ruined by the arrival of soldiers. Which of those spies called them to Marmion Hall? Scruton or Millfield?'

'Neither, Edmund.'

'Then who, sir?'

'Master Oliver Quilley' But how?'

'From beyond the grave,' said Nicholas. 'He was no spy but a disappointed artist who felt he was never paid his worth. He exacted further payment from the great houses where he worked by stealing things and selling them for gain. Master Quilley brought a book from Marmion Hall because its silver clasp promised a good price. They found it in his room. The book was a Roman Catholic missal.'

'And that led to the arrest of Sir Clarence.'

It was a last ironic twist to the whole affair. They shared a drink and Nicholas did his best to cheer his friend up but Hoode was still gripped by dejection. One question still tormented him.

'Sicinius…'

'Who, Edmund?'

'Sicinius.'

'Ah, your play.'

'I still do not know who stole my part, Nick.'

'Is it that important to you?'

'I would give anything to learn his name.'

'Then let me put you out of your pain,' said the book holder. 'I made enquiry about the performance by Banbury's Men of Pompey the Great!

'Well? Well?'

'Your play was much admired in spite of their poor treatment of it.'

'And Sicinius? My Sicinius?'

'Gabriel Hawkes.'

'But he is dead.'

'Along with Mark Sermon.' He patted Hoode on the back. 'Be happy, sir. Do you not see what this means?'

'No.'

'You are the only man alive to have played Sicinius. The part is solely and wholly yours again.'

Edmund Hoode let out a whoop of joy.

'Thank you, Nick. This puts me in Heaven.'

'Close enough to it.'

'What?'

'Jerusalem.'

The playwright's smile widened into a broad grin.

A spiritual journey had finally come to an end.