The Mad Courtesan by Edward Marston

keenly.’
    She gave a shudder. ‘To die in such a fashion!’
    ‘His murder will be revenged,’ vowed Nicholas.
    ‘You must first find the murderer.’
    ‘It will be done.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘By patience and persistence.’
    She smiled. ‘You have both in large supply.’
    ‘Sebastian Carrick was a friend of mine.’
    ‘And of everyone he met,’ she said wistfully. ‘I never encountered a more engaging young man. He was joyfulcompany indeed. Who could have hated him enough to kill him?’
    It was early morning and Anne Hendrik was seated in the living room of her house in Southwark. She was a tall, well-groomed woman with easy charm and a natural grace. The English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she had spurned the many offers of marriage that came her way in order to retain her independence and run her husband’s business in the adjoining premises. Under her shrewd eye, it flourished. Since she had no children with whom to share the house, she elected to take in a lodger. Nicholas Bracewell had lived at the Southwark abode for some time now and his landlady had become a good friend and – when need arose and occasion served – a lover. A secretive man found someone in whom he could confide.
    Anne Hendrik saw the practical consequences.
    ‘This will affect the new play at The Rose,’ she said.
    ‘Sebastian was to have taken an important role.’
    ‘To whom will it now fall?’
    ‘My choice would be Owen Elias.’
    ‘What of Master Firethorn?’
    ‘He will resist the idea strongly at first.’
    ‘Can you win him around?’
    ‘Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill are of my persuasion. And there is no other actor in the company who could carry the part as well as Owen.’ Nicholas grew serious. ‘We need the best man we have, Anne.
Love’s Sacrifice
brings us here to Southwark. Much rides upon the event. We must give off our true fragrance at The Rose.’
    ‘I will be there to inhale it,’ she promised.
    Over a light breakfast of bread and meat, he had told her the full details of Sebastian Carrick’s death. She was frankly appalled. Anne Hendrik was well aware of the multiple burdens under which Westfield’s Men laboured to make their precarious living. This new crisis would only make matters worse. Though she had great sympathy for the company itself, her main object of concern was Nicholas Bracewell. She became fearful.
    ‘Take care, sir,’ she said anxiously.
    ‘The murderer must be brought to justice, Anne.’
    ‘But you will need to search the stews of Turnmill Street to find him. There are many perils there. I would not have you meet the same end as Sebastian himself.’
    ‘I will show all due caution.’
    ‘Go armed, Nick. Take friends.’
    ‘More may be achieved alone.’
    ‘Add discretion to your valour.’
    He grinned fondly. ‘That is why I live in your house.’
    ‘I’d have you continue here,’ she said softly. ‘For my sake, therefore, tread warily in Clerkenwell.’
    ‘My search begins elsewhere.’
    ‘With whom?’
    ‘A father has the right to know of his son’s death.’
    ‘Master Andrew Carrick?’
    ‘I must find a way to reach him.’
     
    The Tower of London was the oldest and most secure building in the city. Founded by William the Conqueroron the site of a Roman fortification, it still dominated with its awesome combination of elegance and strength. It was set between neat gabled houses and lawns sloping down to the glittering havoc of the Thames. The Norman citadel had been constructed of white stone from Caen and its enormously thick walls rose to a height of ninety feet. Successive kings enlarged and reinforced the edifice until it became a huge complex of towers, baileys, domestic buildings and outworks. By the time Elizabeth came to the throne, the Tower had fulfilled its usefulness as a royal residence but her family left vivid mementoes in the crypt of the Chapel Royal of St Peter’s ad Vincula where the vast majority of decayed bodies lacked heads. The obvious