Free The Mad Courtesan by Edward Marston

and elevate their custom-built amphitheatre above all other venues.
    Randolph was not troubled by even a hint of modesty. He took his ovation like a conquering hero on a procession through the streets of a grateful capital. Even his bow had a lordly condescension to it. The sustained clapping was not seen by him as pure gratitude. It was an act of homage to a superior being and he replied with an arrogant smile. Heady compliments fell from the galleries like warm snowflakes and he stretched both arms wide to catch them. Giles Randolph was still luxuriating in the prolonged adoration when a loud voice speared its way through to him.
    ‘Sublime, sir! Almost the equal of Master Firethorn!’
    He stalked off the stage with high indignation.
    The insult was far worse than the boiling oil.
     
    Preoccupied as he was with the dramatic turn of events, Lord Westfield responded promptly to the request that was made of him. He always showed a proprietary affection towards his theatrical company and was stunned to learn of the murder of one of its number. He was anxious to do all that he could to further any enquiries into the crime. Word was duly passed along the line and a fulsome letter was written. Nicholas Bracewell was given right of access to the Tower of London.
    ‘These are mean quarters in which to receive visitors.’
    ‘No matter, sir.’
    ‘Yet the straw is fresh. I can vouch for that.’
    ‘Do not trouble yourself.’
    ‘And the casement catches the sun at noon.’
    ‘I did not come to mock your lodging, Master Carrick.’
    ‘Nobler guests than I have sheltered here.’
    ‘I do believe it.’
    ‘Finer souls have breathed this noisome air.’
    Nicholas let him ramble on. They were in the lawyer’s room in the massive Beauchamp Tower, a cold, bare, featureless apartment that looked down on Tower Green to give its tenant a privileged view of any executions that took place there. Andrew Carrick sensed the bad tidings as soon as his visitor introduced himself and he tried to keep them at bay with an inconsequential stream of chatter. Nicholas could see the family likeness at once. Carrick had his son’s cast of feature and his proud bearing. Imprisonment had bowed his shoulders slightly and lined his face with disillusion but it had not taxed his essential goodness. The book holder knew he was in the presence of a man of integrity.
    Andrew Carrick eventually worked up enough courage to face the grim news that he feared. He sat on a stool and gestured towards Nicholas with a graceful hand.
    ‘Speak, sir. You have been very patient.’
    ‘I bring word of your son, Master Carrick.’
    ‘Do not hedge it about with consideration,’ said the other. ‘Tell me straight. Is Sebastian ill?’
    ‘Dead, sir.’
    ‘Dead?’
    ‘Murdered.’
    The lawyer winced at the blow. It was minutes before he was able to resume. Fatherly love was tempered by a note of weary resignation. His sigh carried its own history.
    ‘I feared that it might come to this,’ he said. ‘My son had many virtues but his vices were too profuse.’
    ‘Sebastian was a fine man and a fine actor, sir.’
    ‘You speak like a friend, Master Bracewell.’
    ‘His death is a loss we must all bear.’
    ‘Present me with the details.’ He saw the hesitation. ‘Hold nothing back, sir. I doted on Sebastian but he brought me much pain while he was alive. I am prepared for the worst account. Your face tells me it was a heinous crime. Remember that I am a lawyer who would weigh the full facts of the case before I make a judgement. Speak on.’
    Nicholas recited the tale without embellishment and the older man listened intently. A long silence ensued. It was broken by the hoarse voice of a distraught father.
    ‘The murderer must be brought to justice.’
    ‘He will be,’ said Nicholas.
    ‘The law must exact full payment.’
    Andrew Carrick rose to his feet and paced the room with restless anxiety. At a time when he wanted to devote himself to the pursuit and