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impossible to recognise the man. The axe which split open his skullhad rearranged his features into a gruesome mockery of their former good looks. Nicholas Bracewell identified his friend more by instinct than by any facial characteristics. The apparel and effects of the deceased served to confirm beyond reasonable doubt that it was indeed Sebastian Carrick. A proud actor had made an ignoble exit but there was faint consolation for Nicholas in his grief. Carrick’s death had been instantaneous. The crude butchery of his murder left no room for prolonged pain or suffering. Final agonies had been spared.
    As Nicholas gazed down at the slaughtered figure on its cold stone slab, his grief soon gave way to a surge of anger. A dear colleague had been cruelly cut down in his prime. On the verge of promotion from the ranks of hired men, Sebastian Carrick had been separated for ever from the world of theatre that he loved and adorned. The sense of waste and injustice made Nicholas seethe with indignation. He turned away from the body, fighting hard to contain his impotent rage and direct it to more useful purpose. Westfield’s Men forged a brotherly concord between the two friends. Nicholas wanted vengeance on behalf of the whole family.
    The keeper of the mortuary was a wraith-like individual with a voice like rustling leaves. He nudged his visitor.
    ‘There was good sport in his last hour,’ he said.
    ‘What say you?’
    ‘Look, sir.’ The keeper pulled the body over onto its side to reveal the red channels down its back. ‘Behold the work of a woman! That’s the sign of a leaping house.’
    He let out a harsh cackle. Nicholas studied the long parallel scratches on the white flesh, then gently lay the body on its back before covering it with the shroud. Though the mortuary was perfumed with herbs, the prevailing stink of death could still attack the nostrils and throat. When Nicholas began to cough and retch, he knew it was time to leave. He offered up a silent prayer, then went swiftly after the salvation of fresh air. A grim duty had become an excruciating ordeal.
    His worst fears were now realised. The mortuary had been his first port of call. Convinced that only death could make Sebastian Carrick miss an entrance onstage, he went to review the latest crop of cadavers to be harvested from the dark suburbs. The actor was amongst them, his face tormented by the manner of his death and his eyes still glassy with appalled surprise. Others had met violent ends that night but none could match him for stark horror.
    Nicholas hurried immediately to the coroner to make formal identification of the deceased but he was embarrassed to find that that was virtually all the information he could supply. The coroner pressed him for details that he simply did not have. Beyond the man’s name and employment, Nicholas knew almost nothing of Sebastian Carrick, taking him on trust in a profession where talent was the only real currency and where the life of the company was all. Actors talked mainly about acting. Carrick seemed to spend most of his spare time drinking, gambling, wenching and borrowing money to support these interests.
    ‘What of his family?’ said the coroner.
    ‘He never spoke of it,’ replied Nicholas.
    ‘Was the deceased born and raised in London?’
    ‘No mention was made.’
    ‘Can you tell me
nothing
of his circumstances?’
    ‘I fear not, sir.’
    ‘But he was your fellow.’
    ‘And fondly remembered.’
    ‘Master Bracewell,’ said the coroner, a plump old man with heavy jowls and drooping eyelids, ‘you have harboured a stranger in your midst. Can you call a man a friend when he is so secretive about his condition?’
    ‘Doubtless he had good reason.’
    ‘We shall never divine its nature. My verdict is a stale one. Murder by person or persons unknown.’
    ‘Who found the body?’ asked Nicholas.
    ‘Two officers of the Watch. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather. Sound fellows both who know their