Edward Marston - The Trip to Jerusalem

'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.

(*)