'Even though he was murdered?'
Christopher Millfield was taken aback for a second but he retrieved his composure very quickly. Unable to determine if the man's reaction arose from guilt or surprise, Nicholas tried to probe.
'Did his death not strike you as sudden?'
'He was afflicted by the plague.'
'It does not usually kill its victims so fast.'
'I have seen men snuffed out in a single day.'
'The old or the weak,' said Nicholas. ' The young and the fit are able to put up some sort of struggle.'
'What are you saying, Master Bracewell?'
'Until the day when fever broke out, Gabriel was a healthy young man in the prime of life. He should have not have been carried off so speedily.'
'Your conclusion?'...
'Someone helped him on his way'
'You have proof of this?' ;;:
'I have a strong feeling.'
'Is that all?' said Millfield with a smirk. 'You will need more than that to make your case. Besides, what does it matter now? Gabriel was marked for death. If someone did kill him, then he rendered the man a service by sparing him the agonies of a lingering end.'
You take this too lightly, Christopher.' It is idle contemplation.'
'When a good man is murdered?'
'By whom?' challenged the other.
Someone who stood to gain from his early demise.' ,
Millfield met his searching gaze without a tremor.
Royston was no more than a glorified village with a bevy of thatched cottages huddled around the church like anxious children clutching at their mother's skirts. Westfield's Men had once more come too late. Their rivals had performed in the yard of the Barley Mow to an audience drawn from all the villages in the area. What enraged Lawrence Firethorn to bursting point was the fact that Banbury's Men had again filched a play from his own repertoire, The Two Maids of Milchester, another rustic comedy that was suitable for the lower sort. They were poisoning the very water from which Westfield's Men drank.
After abusing everyone in sight in the roundest terms, the actor-manager withdrew his company to a field nearby to consider their next move. Nicholas Bracewell put forward the idea mooted by Christopher Millfield and it found ready acceptance. Rather than struggle on to the next possible playing location, they elected to look for somewhere nearer. Pomeroy Manor sounded an interesting possibility and Firethorn warmed to the notion.
'Master Pomeroy is not unknown to me,' he said with casual arrogance. 'Lord Westfield presented him after one of my performances at the Rose. He knows my worth.'
'As who does not?' asked Nicholas, 'Ware does not! Royston--be damned--does not!'
'To their eternal shame, Master.'
'I would not play before these dolts if they offered me a king's ransom. Palates that have been jaded by a taste of Giles Randolph would choke on the rich food of my talent. There is a world elsewhere!'
'Shall I ride on to Pomeroy Manor?'
'With all haste, Nick,' said Firethorn, scenting the chance of a performance at last. 'Take Master Millfield with you. He knows the way and will ease your solitude.'
Nicholas could have wished for another companion but he had no choice in the matter. Edmund Hoode was quick to offer the loan of his horse to the book holder and--what was more astonishing--Barnaby Gill handed over the bay mare to Millfield with something approaching willingness. It was a gesture that Nicholas was to remember later.
The two riders set off on their expedition. Though Millfield had never been to the house before, he seemed to have a mental map as to its whereabouts. Four miles of cantering along rutted tracks brought them to the crest of a hill which presented them with a perfect view of Pomeroy Manor and they reined in their mounts to enjoy the prospect. It was truly impressive.
The property was built on the site of an ancient moated manor house which had belonged to the Church. On the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII, it had been acquired by the Pomeroy family who rebuilt it in Tudor bricks, with eight octagonal chimneys having star tops, rising from crow-stepped gable-ends. The windows were low-mullioned and transomed, formed from moulded bricks that were rendered in a smooth grey clay that had been dredged from a river estuary. A porch added to the overall symmetry and acted as a trellis for an explosion of roses. Ivy had got a finger-hold on the front walls.
'It is just as I imagined,' said Millfield.
'A rare sight in this county,' observed Nicholas.
'What's that, sir?'
'Brick-built houses of this type are only found in East Anglia as a rule. Does Master Neville Pomeroy have connections with that part of the country.'
'So I am led to believe.'
'Where did you glean all your information?'
'From listening in the right places.'
Millfield chuckled and urged his horse on.
After the disappointments in Ware and Royston, they gained adequate recompense. Hearing of their arrival, the master of the house had them brought into the room where he had been going through his accounts with his Steward.
Neville Pomeroy was a stout, solid man of middle years with curling grey hair and slow movements. He gave them a cordial welcome, heard their business then nodded with enthusiasm. They were in luck.
'You come at a timely hour, gentlemen,' he said. 'I am only returned from London myself today and thought to have missed you as you passed through Royston.'
'You knew of our presence here?' said Nicholas.
'From Lord Westfield himself. We have mutual friends in the city. I have seen his company tread the boards and warrant they nave no equal. Master Firethorn will honour me if he plays inside my house.'
'Then we may draw up a contract? '
'Indeed so, Master Bracewell. I will need a day to send out Word and gather in an audience but, if you can bide your time, then 1 can offer you warm applause on the morrow. How large is the company?'
'But fifteen souls, sir.'
'Then must you lodge at the inn nearby. The Pomeroy Arms will give you free board at my request. It is but a small place, I fear, but it should serve your purpose.'
'We thank you heartily, sir.
'The gratitude is all mine. I love the theatre.
'What would you have us play?'
'Tarquin of Rome.'
It was an unexpected choice but Nicholas did not question it. The play was a tragedy on the theme of tyranny and betrayal. It was strange fare for a hot summer evening in the privacy of one's house yet it revealed a serious student of the drama. Tarquin of Rome was an exceptional piece of writing. It furnished its title-role with speeches that could ring the withers and fire the soul. Pomeroy had chosen shrewdly.
Nicholas and Millfield rode back to their fellows. Their news was passed around with glee. Firethorn made decisions at once. Tarquin of Rome was not a play they had planned on staging during the tour, and they had brought neither the costumes nor properties for it, but the actor-manager was in no way discomfited.
'They shall have it, Nick.'
'So I told Master Pomeroy.'
'We have a day to prepare. It is sufficient. Give me twenty-four hours and I'll be Tarquin to the life!'
He launched into the speech at the culmination of the death scene and the verse came out in a torrent. Lawrence Firethorn had the prodigious memory of a real actor who never forgets lines once learned. He carried some fifty parts in his head, each one a leading role of great complexity, yet he could produce them on demand.
