It was Gabriel Hawkes.
(*)Chapter Ten
The swordpoint pricked his throat and forced him back against one of the posts that supported the upper tier. Nicholas Bracewell was helpless. He could not move an inch. Behind and below him in the yard was a company of actors engaged in a rehearsal but he could not cry for help. The rapier would rip out his voice in an instant. All that he could do was to watch the man he had once liked and respected so much. There was an additional shock to accommodate. Dangling from his assailant's ear was the jewelled earring which had been thrown into the pit after his corpse. Nicholas gaped.
'You have come back from the dead, sir,' he said. 'It is but an illusion.'
'We saw Gabriel Hawkes being carted away with the other plague victims and tossed into his grave.'
'Your eyes did not deceive you, Nick.'
'Then how can you be here before me now?'
'Because I am not Gabriel,' said the young man. 'My name is Mark Scruton. The poor wretch who died was indeed Gabriel Hawkes. He was a kinsman of mine who had fallen on hard times and been swept into that hideous dwelling in Smorrall Lane. It suited me to take his name and his address while yet living in a sweeter lodging.'
'You were planted on Westfield's Men,' said Nicholas as the truth slowly dawned. 'That memory of yours was used against us. You studied from our prompt books and gave your findings to our rivals.'
'That was the bargain I struck.'
'To betray your fellows?'
'What future did they offer me?' said Scruton with contempt. 'To be a hired man at the beck and call of Master Firethorn? Fed on the scraps of parts that were left over? Employed or dismissed on a whim? There was no future for me, sir! I am a true actor!'
'Your art beguiled me,' admitted Nicholas.
'Banbury's Men held out real promise. In bringing your company low, I earned my right to be a sharer with them. That gives me the status I deserve.' He smiled with self-congratulation. 'Gabriel Hawkes had to vanish before your eyes so that he could reappear as Mark Scruton. My uncle fell .sick with the plague but might have lingered a while and so delayed my plans. I helped him on his way to Heaven and spared him certain agony. You saw him taken from his foul bed and trundled off in his winding sheet.'
'Your earring was upon him.'
'It was my parting gift.' He flicked the jewel that now hung from his lobe. 'I have its twin, as you now see.
Nicholas pieced it all together in his mind.
'You feigned illness in London to prepare us for the shock of your death,' he said. 'Then you travelled with Banbury's Men and advised them how best to damage our enterprise. You snatched Dick Honeydew away then worked with that ostler to steal cur costumes.'
'You should not have found either, Nick.
'It was my duty.'
'And your undoing. You know too much, my friend.'
'Enough to see you hanged for it.'
'Enough to get you killed.'
Scruton lowered the sword and thrust at his heart but Nicholas moved like lightning. Dodging a foot to one side, he let himself fall backwards over the balustrade and somersaulted through the air before landing on his feet in the yard. Blood was oozing from his left arm where the sword had grazed him but the wound was not deep. Pulling out his own rapier, he ran back into the building and up the stairs to do battle on more equal terms but Mark Scruton had not waited for him. Though the book holder searched high and low, he could not find the man anywhere on the premises.
Gabriel Hawkes had disappeared again.
Sir Clarence Marmion sat in his chair without moving a muscle. He was a dignified figure, slim, erect and quite serene, a trifle cold perhaps but carrying his authority lightly. He wore a black doublet, slashed with red and rising to a high neck that was trimmed with a lace ruff. Oliver Quilley scrutinized him with utmost care to find the mind's construction in the face but his subject was yielding little of his inner self. The artist made some preliminary lines on the vellum oval that lay before him on the table. His sitter did not flicker an eyelid. It was an hour before Quilley broke the silence.
'The question of an inscription, Sir Clarence...'
'Inscription?'
'Most people require a few words on their portrait to give it meaning or individuality. Sometimes it is a family motto or an expression of love to the intended recipient of the miniature. I have known subjects who called for couplets of verse or even maxims in Greek.'
'That will not be my wish, sir.'
'Then what is?'
'A Latin tag.'
'Speak and it will be penned in.'
'Dat poena laudata fides.'
Quilley noted the phrase then furrowed his brow.
'A strange request, Sir Clarence. 'Loyalty, though praised, brings sufferings.' There is some association here with Marmion Hall?'
'That is not for you to know, Master Quilley.'
'The artist must have insight into everything.'
'Practise your art without more words.'
He returned to his pose and Oliver Quilley worked on until he had got all he needed from the first sitting. They were in the hall and the master of the house was seated against the far wall, his head framed by one of the gleaming oak panels. As the artist collected up his materials, he threw an admiring glance at the family portraits that hung all around them, noting with especial admiration that of the former Lady Marmion, stately mother of Sir Clarence. Dressed with controlled elegance, she was a gracious figure and prompted an outburst from Quilley.
'The lady looks so fine and dresses so well,' he said. 'Not like the women of the capital. What, sir! You cannot conceive of their monstrous fashions. Some wear doublets with pendant codpieces on the breast, full of jags and cuts, and sleeves of sundry colours. Their galligaskins are such as to bear out their bums and make their attire to fit plum around them. Their farthingales and diversely coloured nether stocks of silk, jersey and the like deform their bodies even more. I have met with some of these trulls in London, so disguised that it passed my skill to discern whether they were men or women!'
Coming from a man who minced about in flamboyant apparel himself, the attack had its comical side and Sir Clarence smiled inwardly. He then put a hand into his pocket and took out five gold coins.
'Here's payment for your work, Master Quilley.'
'Wait until I have finished, dear sir.'
'Take it on account.'
'If you insist,' said the other gratefully.
'A labourer is worthy of his hire.'
'An artist raises labour to a higher plane.'
'Did you do that for Master Anthony Rickwood?'
The question flustered Quilley but he soon recovered and answered with a noncommittal smirk, taking the money from his host and putting it quickly into his purse. Sir Clarence rang the small bell that stood on the table and a servant soon entered with a tray. It was the man who had earlier acted as a gaoler to the guest in the cellar. Instead of bearing instruments of torture, he was this time bringing two glasses of fine wine. He waited while the two of them took their first sip.
'You rode here alone, sir?' asked Sir Clarence.
'It was not a long journey,' said Quilley.
'Perils may still lurk.' He indicated a servant. 'Let my man here go back with you to York to ensure that no harm befalls you.'
