showered with money he never expected to get, the landlord almost contrived a smile. Firethorn slapped him on the back and sent him off. His next task was to take Samuel Ruff aside to put a proposition to him. The player was duly impressed.
'I take that as a great compliment.'
'Then you accept?'
'I fear not. My way lies towards a farm in Norwich.'
'A farm!' He invested the word with utter disgust.
'Yes, sir.'
'But why, man?'
'Because I'm minded to leave the profession altogether.'
'Actors do not leave,' announced Firethorn grandly. 'They act on to the very end of their days.'
'Not me,' said Ruff solemnly.
'Would you rather chase sheep in Norwich?'
'Cows. My brother has a dairy farm.'
'We must save you from that at all costs, dear fellow. You'll be up to your waist in cow turds and surrounded by flies. That's no fit way for an actor to see out his full span.' He slipped an arm familiarly around the other's shoulder. 'When did you plan to travel?'
'Today, sir. But for that brawl in the tavern, I would have been well on my journey by now. As it is, I will stay in London until the funeral is over. I owe Will that.'
'You owe him something else as well,' argued Firethorn. 'To carry on in his footsteps. Can you betray him, sir?'
'I've already sent word to my brother.'
'Send again. Tell him he must milk his cows himself.'
Samuel Ruff was slowly being tempted. Firethorn took him across to a window that overlooked the inn yard. Down below was a mad bustle of activity as the trestles were cleared away by the stagekeepers and journeymen. It was an evocative scene and it had its effect on Ruff. He pulled away from the window.
'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.'
