Bankside was not entirely given over to stews, gambling dens, taverns and ordinaries. Because it was outside the City's jurisdiction, this populous area of Southwark had its share of cockpits and beat gardens and bull-baiting rings to please the appetites of those who flocked to them, but it also had its shops, its places of work and its respectable dwellings. Lined with wharves and warehouses for much of the way, it commanded fine views across the river of St Paul's and the City.
Anne Hendrik had lived in Bankside for a number of years and she knew its labyrinthine streets well. Born of English stock, she married Jacob Hendrik while she was still in her teens. One of the many Dutch immigrants who poured into London, Jacob was a skilful hatmaker who found that the City Guilds had a vested interest in keeping him and his compatriots out of their exclusive brotherhoods. To make a living, therefore, he had to set up outside the City limits and Southwark was the obvious choice. Hard work and a willingness to adapt helped him to prosper. When he died after fifteen happy years of marriage, he left his widow with a good house, a flourishing business and moderate wealth.
Other women might have moved away or married again but Anne Hendrik was committed to the house and its associations. Having no children, she lacked company and decided to take in a lodger. He soon became rather more than that.
'Is that you, Nicholas?' she called.
'Yes.'
‘You're late.'
'There was no need for you to wait up.'
'I was worried about you.'
Anne came out to the front door as he closed it behind him. When she saw him by the light of the candles, her comely features were distorted with alarm.
'You're hurt!' she said, rushing to him.
'No, Anne.'
'But there's blood on your hands, and on your clothing.'
'It's not mine,' he soothed.
'Has there been trouble, Nick?'
He nodded. 'Will Fowler.'
'What happened?'
They adjourned to his chamber. Anne fetched him a bowl of water so that he could clean himself up and Nicholas Bracewell told her what had occurred at the Hope and Anchor. He was still very shaken by it all. Anne was deeply distressed. Though she had only met Will Fowler a few times, she remembered him as a lively and loquacious man with a fund of amusing stories about the world of the playhouse. It seemed perverse that his life should be snuffed out so quickly and cheaply.
'Have you no idea who the man was?' she asked.
'None,' said Nicholas grimly. 'But I will catch up with the fellow one day.'
'What of this Master Ruff?'
'He was as stricken as I was, Anne. I helped him to find a new lodging for the night. He could not bear to stay in the place where Will had been murdered.'
'You should have brought him back here,' she offered.
Nicholas looked up at her and his affection for Anne Hendrik surged. Her oval face, so lovely and contented in repose, was now pitted with anxious frowns. Kindness and compassion oozed from her. In any crisis, her first instinct was always to give what practical help she could. It was a trait that Nicholas shared and it was one of the reasons that bonded them together.
'Thank you, Anne,' he said quietly.
'We could have found him something better than a room in some low tavern. Did you not think to invite him here?'
'He would not have come,' Nicholas replied. 'Samuel Ruff is a very proud and independent sort of man. His friendship with Will goes back many years and it was something that both of them treasured. Samuel wants to keep his own counsel and mourn alone. I can respect that, Anne.'
While he dried his hands, she took away the clouded water. Nicholas was exhausted. It was hours past midnight and the events at the Hope and Anchor had taxed him. Officers had been sent for and the whole matter was now in the hands of a magistrate. The dead body had been removed and there was nothing that Nicholas could do until the morrow. Yet his mind would not let him rest.
Anne Hendrik came back. She was a tall, well-kept woman with graceful movements and a lightness of touch in all she did. Her tone was soft and concerned.
'You need your sleep, Nick. Can you manage?'
'I think so.'
'If you want anything, you have only to call me.'
'I know.'
She gazed fondly at him then a sudden thought made her reach out and clasp him to her bosom for a few moments. When she released him, she caressed his hair with long, delicate fingers.
'I'm sorry about Will Fowler,' she whispered, 'but it could so easily have been you who was killed. I could not have borne that.'
She kissed him tenderly on the forehead then went out.
*
It was typical of Lawrence Firethorn that he took the tragedy as a personal insult. Without a twinge of conscience, he turned the death of a hired man into a direct attack upon his reputation. On the following afternoon, Will Fowler was due to appear in the company's latest offering at The Queen's Head, playing the most important of the secondary roles. Since the other hired men were already doubling strenuously, it was impossible to replace him. The whole performance was threatened and Firethorn worked himself up into a fine frenzy as he contemplated it.
'Shameful!' he boomed. 'Utterly shameful!'
'Regrettable,' conceded Nicholas.
Westfield's Men have never cancelled before. We would set a dreadful precedent. The audience would be robbed of a chance to see me! You must take some blame for this, Nicholas.'
'Why, master?'
'It was you who kept Will Fowler employed.'
'He was a good actor.'
'You stopped me tearing up his contract a dozen times.'
'Will was a valuable member of the company.'
'He was too quarrelsome. Sooner or later, he was bound to pick a fight with the wrong person. God's blood! If only I'd followed my own instincts and not yours!'
They were in the main bedchamber at Firethorn's house and the actor was rampaging in a white shirt. After a sleepless night, Nicholas had repaired to Shoreditch soon after dawn to break the sad news. His report was not well received.
'It's so unfair on me!' stressed Firethorn.
'My thoughts are with Will,' said Nicholas pointedly.
'One of my hired men stabbed in a tavern brawl-a pretty tale! It will stain the whole company. Did you not think of that when you took him to that vile place last night?'
'He took me.'
'It makes no difference, I am the one to suffer. Heavens, Nick, we take risks enough flouting the City regulations. The last thing we need is a brush with the authorities.'
'I've done all that is needful,' assured the other. 'You will not be involved at all.'
'I am involved in anything that touches Westfield's Men,' asserted Firethorn, striking a favourite pose. 'Besides, how are you to hold the book for us if you are hauled off to answer magistrates? Do you see how it all comes back on me? It will severely injure my reputation as a great actor.'
Nicholas Bracewell heaved a sigh. He was mourning the death of a friend but Firethorn was riding roughshod over his feelings. There were times when even he found it hard to accommodate his master's tantrums. He addressed the immediate problem.
'Let us consider Love and Fortune?’ he suggested.
'Indeed, sir. An audience is expecting to see the play this very afternoon. It has always been popular with them.'
'And so it shall be again.'
'Without Will Fowler?'
'There is a solution.'
'There's no time to rewrite the piece,' said Firethorn dismissively. 'We could never unravel that plot at a morning's rehearsal. In any case, Edmund is in no condition to wrestle with such a task. The Armada play is putting him under great strain.'
'Edmund will not be needed.'
'Yet you say there is a solution?'
'Yes, master.'
'Will you raise Will Fowler from the dead, sir?'
'In a manner of speaking.'
'What riddle is this?'
'His name is Samuel Ruff.'
'Ruff!' bellowed Firethorn. 'That wretch who enticed you both into the Hope and Anchor?'
'He's an experienced player,' argued Nicholas. 'The equal of our own man in every way.'
'He could never learn the part in a couple of hours.'
'Samuel believes that he can. He is studying the role even now. I copied out the sides for him myself from the prompt book.'
'You take liberties, Nick,' warned Firethorn. 'Love and Fortune is our property. It is not for the eyes of strangers.'
'Do you wish the performance to take place today?'
'Of course!'
'Then this is the only remedy' I will not hire a man I've never met.'
'With your permission, I'll invite him to the rehearsal. You'll soon be able to judge if he can carry the part. We'll not find a better man at such short notice.'
But the fellow was injured last night.'
A flesh wound in the left arm,' explained Nicholas. 'The surgeon dressed it for him and it's not serious. Lorenzo wears a cloak in every scene. It will hide the injury completely. As for the rest of the costume, Samuel is almost of Will's height and weight so no alternations will be necessary.'
‘Stop thrusting the man at me!' protested Firethorn.
‘He is anxious to help.'
‘But for him, we would not need help.'
Samuel accepts that. He feels guilty about what happened.
‘That's why he wishes to make amends in some small way. Taking over his friend's role would mean so much to him.'
'The idea does not appeal.'
'Will Fowler would have approved.'
'I make the decisions in this company-not Will Fowler.'
'Maybe I should raise the matter with the other sharers,' said Nicholas artlessly. 'They might take a different view.'
'Mine is the view that matters!' snarled the actor.
Lawrence Firethorn prowled his lair like a tiger. When there was an explosion of boyish laughter from next door where the apprentices shared a room, he banged the wall and roared them to silence. When his wife sent word that breakfast was ready, he frightened the servant away simply by baring his fangs. At length, he began to come around.
'Experienced, you say?'
'Several years with good companies, Leicester's among them.'
'He can con lines quickly?'
'It was his trademark.'
'Is he quarrelsome?' demanded Firethorn. 'Like Will?'
'No, master. He's a very peaceful citizen.'
'And why does this worthy fellow lack work?'
'I don't know.'
'He must have some defects.'
'None that I could see. Will vouched for him.'
'Where did Ruff play last?'
'With Banbury's Men,' said Nicholas.. 'Banbury's Men!'
Firethorn's exclamation rang through the whole house. His interest in Samuel Ruff had just come to an end. The Earl of Banbury and Lord Westfield were sworn enemies who lost no opportunity to score off each other. Their respective dramatic companies were major weapons in the feud and they regarded each other with cold hatred. Banbury's Men had been in the ascendant at first but they had now been displaced by Westfield's Men. In the shifting world of London theatre, it was Lawrence Firethorn and his company who now held the upper hand and they were not willing to relinquish it.
'Meet him, at least,' pressed Nicholas.
'He is not the man for us.'
'But he fell foul of Banbury's Men through no fault of his own. He was forced to leave.'
'I will not employ him, Nick. It's unthinkable.'
'Then we must cancel the performance as soon as may be.'
'Hold! I will not gallop into this.'
'The others will be shocked by your decision.'
'It has not been made yet.'
'Give Samuel a chance,' whispered Nicholas. 'He's the man for the hour.'
'Not with that pedigree.'
'Do you know why he left Banbury's Men?'
'I don't care,' snapped Firethorn.
'Shall I tell you what his crime was?'
'Forget him.' He spoke in praise of you.'
There was a pause that was just long enough for the first seed of interest to take root. Nicholas carefully watered it with a few details.
'Giles Randolph took exception to what was said.'
'Randolph is an amateur!'
'He's full of self-love. It's not enough for him to be the leading actor with the company. They have to fawn and flatter at every turn to suit his taste, and Samuel could not bring himself to do that. They were playing Scipio Africanus.
'A miserable piece,' sneered Firethorn. 'Nothing but stale conceits and dribbling verse. I'd not soil my hands with it.'
'Giles Randolph was playing the hero. He had a scene with Samuel in the role of a tribune. It was-' Nicholas broke off abruptly and shrugged his shoulders. 'Ah, well. You've no wish to hear all this.'
‘Go on, go on.'
'It may just be idle gossip.'
'What happened, Nick?'
Lawrence Firethorn was keen to know. He and Giles Randolph were deadly rivals, talented artistes who competed with each other every time they walked on to a stage. Anything that was to the detriment of Randolph would come as welcome news. Curiosity made Firethorn tap his book holder on the chest.
'Come on, sir. They had a scene together.’
‘At an important point in the action.'
'Well?'
Nicholas had worked with actors long enough to learn some of their tricks. He delayed for a few seconds to heighten the tension then he plunged on.
'When Samuel gave of his best, Randolph complained that his performance was too strong. It stole the hero's thunder.'
'Ha! Some hero! Some thunder.'
'Samuel is a forthright man. He told the truth.'
'That Randolph is a babbling idiot!'
'That a leading actor should lead and not surround himself with poor players who would make him look all the better.'
'And me?' said Firethorn, intrigued. 'What of me?'
'Samuel used you as an example, master. You would outshine any company. The finer the players around you, the more you rise above them. They feed your inspiration.'
Firethorn beamed. No praise sweeter than that from a fellow actor. He judged Samuel Ruff to be very perceptive and began to forgive him for his association with Banbury's Men. Nicholas took advantage of his changed mood.
'Samuel is desperate to join us,' he continued. 'He feels it as a duty to Will Fowler. He is so eager to help us that he offered to do so without payment of any kind.'
'Indeed?' Firethorn's eye kindled.
'But I assured him that you were a man of honour, who would not conceive of employing someone without giving him fair reward.'
'Of course,' agreed the actor, hiding his disappointment.
'Then it's settled?'
Firethorn sat on the edge of the four-poster. Even in his night attire, he retained a crumpled dignity. He looked like a Roman senator brooding on affairs of state.
'Tell him to attend the rehearsal in one hour.'
Nicholas nodded, then withdrew. It had worked out well. Confident of his powers of persuasion, he had already told Ruff at what time to present himself at The Queen's Head. The story of the hired man's departure from his previous company had not been entirely true but Nicholas had no qualms about embellishing the bare facts. A vain man like Lawrence Firethorn enjoyed seeing the vanity of others exposed. The main thing was that a crisis had been averted. The play would not be cancelled.
It was one small consolation after an horrendous night.
*
Samuel Ruff did not let them down. Though tired and grieving, he arrived at the rehearsal with a secure grasp on his lines and a real understanding of his character. When he was taken through his moves, he learned quickly and his evident respect for Firethorn was another telling factor. He was indeed the man for the hour.
The performance that afternoon delighted its audience. Love and Fortune was a romantic comedy about the perils of over-hasty passion and its use of mistaken identity was particularly endearing. Firethorn led the company with his usual verve, Edmund Hoode sparkled as a lovelorn gallant, and Barnaby Gill used all his comic skills to set the inn yard at a roar. With splendid wigs and costumes, the boy apprentices brought the female characters vivaciously to life.
Ruff himself was excellent in the testing role of Lorenzo. Not only did he carry his own part well, he improvised cleverly when, first, one of the actors missed an entrance, then another dried in the middle of a speech. Samuel Ruff was a veteran player, seasoned by long years in a demanding profession that had lately turned its callous back on him. In his ebullient performance, there was no hint of the dark sorrow that lay in his heart.
Love and Fortune proved the ideal play for the occasion. Will Fowler's death had shaken the whole company and there was a funereal air about the rehearsal. Once they began, however, the actors were swept along by the joyous romp and given no time to dwell on their sadness. Out of a deep tragedy, they had plucked forth a comic triumph.
Nicholas Bracewell was at the helm, marshalling the cast, cueing the action, making sure that the pace was maintained. Part of his job was to prepare a Plot of the drama, which gave details, scene by scene, of what was happening, who was involved and when they made their entrances and exits. Since they worked only from individual sides written out for them by the scrivener, the actors relied totally on the Plot that was hung up in the tiring-house and they had cause to be grateful for the legibility of Nicholas's hand and for his meticulousness. It was all there.
The book holder was thrilled at the way that Ruff was standing in for his old friend, and he saw the excitement in the man's face every time he came offstage. Here was no farm labourer, content to live out his days in rural anonymity. The playhouse was his true home. Like Will Fowler, he would never be happy away from it. Nicholas resolved to talk further with Firethorn.
The leading actor himself was in an affable mood, smiling upon all and sundry as he strode back into the tiring-house each time with applause at his heels. Before his next entrance, he would study himself carefully in a mirror and stroke his beard, fondle his locks or make slight adjustments to his hat and garments. It was not only the success of the play that was pleasing him, nor even the fact that Lord Westfield himself was there to witness it. Something else was putting that swagger into his walk. Barnaby Gill identified what it was.
'In the middle of the lower gallery,' he hissed.
'I thought so,' said Nicholas, flicking over a page of his prompt book. 'I recognized the signs.'
'He's directing every line at her.'
'Is he getting any response?'
'Response!' echoed Gill with spiteful relish. 'She keeps lowering her mask and favouring him with such ardent glances that he is almost smouldering. Mark my words, Nicholas, she knows how to tickle his epididymis.'
'Who is she?'
'Prepare yourself.'
'Why?'
'Lady Rosamund Varley.'
'Oh!'
Nicholas waved some of the actors into position to make their entrance. He did not dare to reflect on what he had just been told. A possible liaison between Lawrence Firethorn and Lady Rosamund Varley was far too disturbing to consider. He kept his mind on the job in hand and warned the lutenist to make himself ready. Gill's tone remained malicious.
'Love and fortune indeed!'
'Don't forget your costume change.'
'It's lust and misfortune!'
'Ben!' called Nicholas. 'Stand by.'
'Aye,' came the gruff reply from a thickset actor.
'His wife should geld him,' decided Gill. 'It's the only way to tame a stallion like that. Margery should geld him-with her teeth."
Benjamin Creech went past with a tray of goblets.
'Remember to offer the first to Lorenzo,' said Nicholas.
'Aye.'
'Don't drink any yourself,' teased Gill wickedly.
'No,' grunted Creech.
When his cue came, he straightened his back and made his entrance. Nicholas turned over another page. Barnaby Gill rid himself of some more bilious comments then let his gaze wander until it settled on one of the apprentices. Richard Honeydew was standing in profile as he shook out his petticoats. His face was small and beautifully shaped with a youthful bloom on it that made his skin look like silk. Barnaby Gill watched him in wonderment.
'Lawrence is such a fool!' he murmured. 'Why bother with women when you can have the real thing?'
*
The afternoon had been a resounding success for Lawrence Firethorn. He had held a full audience spellbound, he had delighted his patron, and he had fallen in love. It was an intoxicating experience. He was so carried away that he even paid Marwood the rent that was outstanding. Spared the horrors of Spanish occupation, and now showered with money he never expected to get, the landlord almost contrived a smile. Firethorn slapped him on the back and sent him off. His next task was to take Samuel Ruff aside to put a proposition to him. The player was duly impressed.
'I take that as a great compliment.'
'Then you accept?'
'I fear not. My way lies towards a farm in Norwich.'
'A farm!' He invested the word with utter disgust.
'Yes, sir.'
'But why, man?'
'Because I'm minded to leave the profession altogether.'
'Actors do not leave,' announced Firethorn grandly. 'They act on to the very end of their days.'
'Not me,' said Ruff solemnly.
'Would you rather chase sheep in Norwich?'
'Cows. My brother has a dairy farm.'
'We must save you from that at all costs, dear fellow. You'll be up to your waist in cow turds and surrounded by flies. That's no fit way for an actor to see out his full span.' He slipped an arm familiarly around the other's shoulder. 'When did you plan to travel?'
'Today, sir. But for that brawl in the tavern, I would have been well on my journey by now. As it is, I will stay in London until the funeral is over. I owe Will that.'
'You owe him something else as well,' argued Firethorn. 'To carry on in his footsteps. Can you betray him, sir?'
'I've already sent word to my brother.' 'Send again. Tell him he must milk his cows himself.'
Samuel Ruff was slowly being tempted. Firethorn took him across to a window that overlooked the inn yard. Down below was a mad bustle of activity as the trestles were cleared away by the stagekeepers and journeymen. It was an evocative scene and it had its effect on Ruff. He pulled away from the window.
'Nicholas Bracewell insists,' continued Firethorn. 'And I always listen to his advice. We need you.'
'I cannot stay, sir.'
'It would keep Will's memory alive for us.'
Ruff ran a hand through his grey hair and pondered. It was no easy decision for him to make. He had resigned himself to a course of action and he was not a man who lightly changed his mind. As the clamour went on outside, he tossed another glance towards the window. His old way of life beckoned seductively.
'How much were you paid with Banbury's Men?'
'Eight shillings a week.'
'Ah!' Firethorn was checked. He had been ready to offer a wage of seven shillings but something told him the man might be worth the extra money. 'Very well. I'll match that.'
‘London has not been kind to me,' said Ruff quietly.
'Give it another chance.'
'I will think it over, sir.'
Firethorn smiled. He had himself a new hired man.
Murder caused only a temporary interruption at the Hope and Anchor. Everything was back to normal by the next evening. Fresh rushes hid those which had been stained by Will Fowler's blood. Beer and wine had already erased the memory from the minds of the regular patrons and they were preoccupied once again with their games, their banter and their vices. The low-ceilinged room was a throbbing cacophony.
Nicholas Bracewell coughed as he stepped into the smoky atmosphere. When he looked down at the spot where Will Fowler had lain, his heart missed a beat. He crossed quickly to the hostess, who was drawing a pint of sack from a barrel. She was a short, dark, plump woman in her forties with a pockmarked face that was heavily powdered and large, mobile, bloodshot eyes. Her dress was cut low to display an ample bosom and a mole did duty as a beauty spot on one breast.
She served the customer then turned to Nicholas.
'What's your pleasure, sir?' Her features clouded as she saw who it was. An already rough voice became even more rasping. 'You're not welcome here.'
'I need some help.'
'I told you all I know. So did my customers.'
'A man was killed here last night,' protested Nicholas.
'You think we don't know that?' she retorted vehemently. 'When the watch and the constables and goodness knows who else come running into the house. We like to keep out of harm's way down this alley. We don't want the law to pry into us.'
‘Just answer one question,' said Nicholas patiently.
'Leave us alone, sir.'
Look, I'll pay you.' He dropped coins on to the counter and they were immediately swept up by her flabby hand. 'Thai man with the red beard. Samuel Ruff says that he came downstairs.' He didn't lodge here,' she asserted. 'He was a stranger.' Then he was up there for another reason.' The bloodshot eyes stared unblinkingly at him. Nicholas took more money from his purse and handed it over. She leaned forward to thrust her face close to his own.
'I want you out of here in five minutes.' 'You have my word.' 'For good.'
'For good,' he agreed. 'Now, who was she?'
'Joan. She has the end room on the first floor.'
Nicholas did not waste any of his meagre time. Bounding up the stairs, he found himself in a passage that was so narrow his shoulders brushed the walls. Crude sounds of lovemaking came from rooms where whores were busy earning their income. The stench made Nicholas cough again. Samuel Ruffs fortunes must have been at a very low ebb to drive him into such an unwholesome place.
He reached the end room and listened for a moment. No sound came from within. He tapped on the door with his knuckles. There was no answer and so he used more force.
'Come in,' said a frail voice.
He opened the door and looked into a tiny room that was lit by one guttering tallow. On the mattress that took up most of the floor space, a young woman was lying in heavy shadow. She seemed to be wearing a shift and was half-covered by a filthy blanket. He peered at her but could only see her in outline.
'Joan?' he asked.
'Did you want me?' she whispered.
'Yes.'
'Come in properly and close the door,' she invited in a girlish voice, sitting up. 'I like visitors.'
He stepped forward a pace and pulled the door shut. Joan reached for the tallow and held it so that its thin beam shone upon him. She gave a sigh of pleasure.
'What's your name, sir?'
'Nicholas.'
'You're a fine, upstanding man, Nicholas. Sit beside me.'
'I came to talk.'
'Of course,' she soothed. 'We'll talk all you want.'
'A man was up here with you last night, Joan.'
'Three, four, maybe five men. I can't remember.'
'This one was tall with a red beard.'
Joan stiffened and let out a cry. Putting the candle aside, she wrapped her arms around her body for protection and huddled against the wall. Her voice was trembling now.
'Go away!' she begged. 'Get out of here!'
'Did he give you his name?'
'There's nothing I can tell you.'
'It's very important.'
'Just go away,' she whimpered.
She broke down into frantic sobbing. When Nicholas bent over to comfort her, however, she pushed him away and drew herself the very corner of the room. He watched the waif-like creature until her fear subsided a little then he spoke gently.
'I need to find him, Joan.'
'Leave me be, sir.'
'He killed a friend of mine. I want him.'
She curled herself up into a frightened ball and shook her head vigorously. Nicholas held out his purse to her.
'Keep your money!' she said.
'Listen to me!' he pressed. 'My friend was murdered last night by that man with the red beard. I'll find him no matter how long it takes. Please help me, Joan.'
She stayed in the shadows as she weighed him up, then she uncurled and sat up again. He crouched down beside her and tried once more to enlist her aid.
'There must be something you can tell me.'
'Oh yes!' she said ruefully.
'Had you seen him before?'
'Never! And I don't want to see him again.'
'Did he give you a name?'
'He gave me nothing but rough words, sir. But there is one thing I will always remember about him.' A shudder went through her. 'His back.'
'Why?'
'He told me not to touch it, and I didn't at first. But I like my arms around a man and I couldn't help it. When my fingers touched his back…'
‘What was wrong with it?' he asked softly.
'Scars. Dozen of fresh scars all over it. Long, thick, raw wounds that made my flesh creep when I felt them.' A second shudder made her double up. 'He warned me. He did warn me.'
'What did he do to you, Joan?'
'This.'
She pulled the shift over her head and tossed it aside, then she lifted the tallow so that its pallid light fell on her. Nicholas blenched. He felt as if he had been kicked in the pit of the stomach.
The slim, naked, girlish body was covered in hideous bruises. Thick powder was unable to disguise the swollen face, the split lip and the blackened eyes. There was a telltale lump across the bridge of her nose.
He understood her fear all too well now. She could scarcely be much more than sixteen. In a fit of rage, her client had beaten her senseless and put years on her. Joan would bear her own scars for the rest of her life.
Nicholas put the purse into her hands and closed her fingers around it before leaving the room. He had learned something new and revolting about the killer with the red beard. It was not much but it was a start. There had been two victims the previous night. Will Fowler had been killed and Joan had been brutally assaulted. Both of them deserved to be avenged.