The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(118)

"I need you to make yourself useful, love," he murmured, and produced a purse from his pocket. "We'll need transport upriver, and perhaps the means to break a man out of bondage."

Ned took the money and weighed it thoughtfully in his palm.

"I reckon I know just the man."

Mal sat down on the end of the bed. Sandy was sleeping again, his features relaxed for the first time since Mal's arrival. Trying to move silently so as not to disturb his brother, Mal examined every inch of the room. There had to be some way out of this trap.

They had not yet shackled him, which was his main advantage. Perhaps they were counting on the fact that he would not try to escape alone, and with Sandy in tow he would have little chance against their enemy's henchmen. A quarterstaff might be a good weapon to subdue a madman, but he didn't doubt they had other more deadly arms beside. His own life doubtless meant nothing to them, whatever their plans for Sandy.

He mentally inventoried the contents of the room and each item's possible uses. It did not take him long. Their accommodation had deliberately been stripped of most of its furniture and all of its bedding, probably to prevent Sandy from taking his own life.

The most promising weapon was the piss-pot, which could be used to hit the guard over the head, should he turn his back, or its contents could be thrown in his face to blind him. The bed and its mattress could be pushed up against the door to prevent anyone entering. That would not be much use unless he could find another way out. He examined the windows carefully. They hinged outwards, blocked by bars set into fresh mortar. If he had a knife or even a belt buckle, he might be able to poke it through the gap and dislodge them eventually, but he had neither. Not that time was likely to be on his side. The servants must have reported to their master by now; indeed he had expected Sandy's captors to come straight up here and demand to know how Mal had got in. Unless no one in authority was here right now.

A country house in Richmond, an absent master, and a manservant in blue-and-white livery. The cards fell into a pattern, though it was not one he had expected. Walsingham had it right: Blaise Grey was the rotten fruit to draw in the wasps, whilst the father stayed aloof and loyal to the Crown. But were they working with the Huntsmen, or against them? Either the father was a hypocrite, or the son; and Mal could not decide which of them he trusted least.

CHAPTER XXXI

Mercifully Southwark had been spared a conflagration. A couple of cottages at the end of Gravel Lane had burnt down, and several trees in Paris Gardens were no more than charcoal skeletons, but the rest of the suburb had escaped with only minor damage. Even so, Bankside was unnaturally quiet, even the bear-baiters' mastiffs cowering silent in their kennels.

"Perhaps everyone is at church, giving thanks for their escape," Coby said.

She and Master Parrish were leaning on the gate at the entrance to the theatre field, unwilling to approach closer to the smouldering ruins. Either side of where the theatre entrance had been, blackened timbers thrust up from the earth at odd angles, the only remnants of the staircase towers. The tiring house was a heap of silver ashes, stirred into ghostly life by the breeze.

"The bodies must have burnt to nothing," she said. "Poor Master Naismith."

"A pyre fit for Athenian princes. Come, there is naught we can do here."

At Master Parrish's suggestion they stopped by the Naismiths' house in Thames Street to enquire after the apprentices. Betsy told them Philip had paid a brief visit yesterday evening, with Oliver trailing in his wake as ever. Coby exchanged knowing glances with Master Parrish. They both knew only one thing would tempt Philip back here so soon: the hoard of jewels under the floorboards. Mistress Naismith had rallied somewhat and wanted to know all about the previous day's events, so they accepted her offer of breakfast before setting off for Suffolk House.

Coby found little to say on the journey; the walk up the hill to St Paul's and then westwards along the Strand brought back too many memories of her visit with Master Naismith. By the time they arrived the great house was only just beginning to stir, and a single retainer in blue-and-white livery stood on duty at the gate.

"Gabriel Parrish and Jacob Hendricks of Suffolk's Men, come to report to His Grace on the condition of his servants and their theatre," the actor said.

The retainer looked down his nose at them.

"His Grace is indisposed."

"We know that," Coby put in. "I helped rescue him from the fire."

The retainer hesitated, and Master Parrish leant closer.

"Perhaps we could speak to his secretary, Master Dunfell? He had supervision of the theatre business until recently."

"Wait here. I'll send word to Master Secretary."

The retainer ducked into the gatehouse for a moment, then resumed his station, gazing impassively out into the street. Coby looked about the empty yard. Blank windows stared back at her, their leaded panes dull as old pewter despite the sun overhead. She started as a pale-faced man in riding leathers emerged from one of the doors, but he headed straight for the archway leading to the stable yard with only the briefest of curious glances towards the visitors.

"Anyone would think the duke was dead," she whispered to Master Parrish.

After several more minutes another retainer arrived: the same man who had greeted Master Naismith on their previous visit.

"Master Dunfell is absent on His Grace's business," the man said, leading them across the yard. "However Lady Katherine would like to see you." His tone of voice suggested he was as surprised by this turn of events as themselves.