engaged in another form of crusade.
Sir Clarence was in the hall to welcome Nicholas Bracewell when the latter arrived. The book holder was fatigued and explained what had kept him up most of the night. His host was dismayed.
'Master Quilley dead?'
'Murdered, sir.'
'Has the villain been apprehended?'
'Not yet, Sir Clarence.'
'This is bleak intelligence.'
'The fellow was amusing company.'
'That is what I found.'
'I believe that you commissioned him.'
'Master Quilley was to have painted my portrait. I wanted it quickly so that I could present it as a gift to my wife.' He looked up balefully at the oil painting of his father. 'I have not the time to wait for something of this order. Oliver Quilley was my only hope.'
'There are other limners for hire.'
'He came by special recommendation.'
Nicholas tried to pursue the subject but his host dismissed it with a wave of his hand, preferring instead to talk about the play and its mode of presentation. He was clearly knowledgeable about the theatre and had visited the playhouses during his occasional visits to London. It was a treat to discuss drama with him and it served to brighten his manner immeasurably. Nicholas soon decided that the stage would be erected at the far end of the hall. A panelled door opened into a room that could be used as the tiring-house. Curtains could be rigged up on a rail. Large windows let in a fair amount of light but it would need to be supplemented by candles and tapers.
While the book holder continued to work out the logistics of performance, Sir Clarence gave orders to his servants and rows of chairs were brought into the hall. Standees in abundance had watched the play at the inn but all the guests would be seated here. There would be far less sweat, swearing and jostling and a lot more refinement. At the personal invitation of Sir Clarence Marmion, all the gentry of the West Riding were coming that afternoon. It would be a select audience.
A large gilt armchair was brought in and placed at the end of the front row, directly beneath the portrait of the host's father. Evidently, it was Sir Clarence's own chair for he tried it out and glanced over at the stage. Nicholas could not understand why the master of the house did not occupy a prime position in the centre of the row. It seemed perverse to place himself at such an angle to the action of the play.
When all the arrangements were made, Nicholas was given refreshment then left alone to await the arrival of the company. He took the opportunity to stroll outside in the sunshine and admire the magnificent formal gardens. One outcrop of rhododendrons claimed his attention. They were a hundred yards or more from the house and trained into a small circle. What intrigued him was the fact that the bushes were moving about as if blown by a minor gale and yet there was no breeze at all.
Shielded by an avenue of yews, Nicholas made his way towards the rhododendrons. They were still now but a noise told him what might have caused the movement. He was hoping to confirm his theory when a thickset man stepped out to block his way. 'This part of the garden is out of bounds, sir.'
'I was merely stretching my legs.'
'Stretch them in another direction.'
'I will.'
'Sir Clarence has given strict order.'
As he headed back towards the house, Nicholas asked himself why such privacy was maintained. Something else puzzled him as well. The man had the clothes and the bearing of a gardener yet he wore a dagger at his belt. Why did he need to be armed?
Lawrence Firethorn arrived with his company to take possession of a new part of his empire. Having conquered York in such style, he was sure that he could score another victory at Marmion Hall. The complete change of performing conditions stimulated him and he took up the challenge at once, strutting about to get the feel of the stage and throwing his voice at the walls to test the acoustics. A rehearsal was called and everything was set up at speed. The company used the occasion to shake off some of the hangovers from the excesses of the previous night. Firethorn, by contrast, was brimming with energy. Hours of marital reunion had simply invigorated him.
Food and beer were provided by their host and they spent a pleasant hour in rest, The actor-manager stood aside with Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill.
'I like the feel of this place! he said.
'We have not come here to grope it,' observed Gill drily. 'Save yourself for Margery.'
'I sense that something extraordinary will happen.'
'You will remember all your lines?'
'Take care, Barnaby. Do not try me, sir.'
'I wish I could share your optimism, Lawrence,' said Hoode gloomily. 'Marmion Hall feels oppressive to me. As for extraordinary events, one has already occurred.'
'Yes,' agreed Gill. 'We were paid yesterday.'
'I was talking about Master Quilley.'
'Do not remind us, Edmund,' sighed Firethorn. 'It was a tragedy of the first degree but it must not be allowed to blight our work. Master Quilley was but a traveller who rode along the way with us. His death is shocking but it does not directly affect us.'
'We cannot shrug it off like that, Lawrence.'
'We must. We are players, sir.'
Hoode argued for compassion but the others were too caught up in the performance that lay ahead to accord the dead man more than a token pity. When the playwright went on to suggest that the murder might somehow be linked to Westfield's Men, they ridiculed the idea at once. He was still trying to argue his case when Nicholas came up.
'It is time to prepare ourselves, gentlemen.'
'We are always prepared,' said Gill petulantly.
'Our audience is starting to arrive.'
'Then I must get into my costume,' decided Hoode. He and Gill drifted off to the other side of the tiring-house but Nicholas detained his employer for a quiet word.
'We have a slight problem, sir.'
'Nothing that cannot be surmounted.'
'Christopher Millfield is nowhere to be found.'
'The man was right here but five minutes ago.'
'Ten,' corrected Nicholas. 'He is not here now.'
'Then he has gone outside to look upon the hedge.'
'Nobody was to leave the room unless they spoke to me first. Master Millfield ignored that ruling.'
'Then reprimand him, Nick.'
'I will when we can find him.'
'Send George Dart out on patrol.'
'I did that,' said Nicholas. 'He searched house and garden thoroughly but came back empty-handed. That is why we have a problem, sir. Master Millfield has disappeared.'
Mark Scruton waited in the shadow of a copse until he saw a dozen riders canter past on the road to Marmion Hall. He spurred his horse and came out from his cover. It did not take him long to attach himself to the rear of the other guests. When they turned into the long drive that led up to the house, he could see other people being shown in by servants. There was enough commotion for him to mingle with the crowd. When a female rider turned to appraise him, he touched his hat graciously. A coach was trundling up behind them now and fresh hooves could be heard back in the distance.
