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duty.’
    ‘Where may I find them?’
    ‘About their business even now, sir.’
    Nicholas thanked him and took his leave. Deeply shocked by the murder and its implications for the company, he was also disturbed by his ignorance of the dead man’s private life. There might be a family somewhere with a right to know of his demise. There might be dependants for whom the tragic turn of events would be a catastrophe. The sooner Nicholas identified and contacted these people, the more considerate it would be. Instead of touring Clerkenwell in search of the two watchmen, therefore, he hastened across to the Shoreditch lodging of Sebastian Carrick. Itwas a small, sagging, ugly dwelling in a narrow lane but the landlady was a tidy housewife. She heard his tale with motherly concern, and then she ushered him upstairs to a cramped but exceptionally clean room whose oak beams and floorboards gave off a cosy sheen. Carrick’s possessions extended largely to items of clothing and to a few tattered playbills advertising past performances by Westfield’s Men. As he perused everything with care, Nicholas questioned the landlady about her lodger but she could furnish little beyond the confidence that he had been a charming guest whom she would miss greatly. When she began to sob, her visitor was glad that he had suppressed the grisly details of the murder. In the short time he had been there, the actor had clearly gained the affections of his stout hostess.
    ‘Is this all you can tell me?’ said Nicholas.
    ‘Except that he was tardy with his rent,’ she said with mock scolding. ‘But he always gave such a pretty excuse that I did not truly mind.’
    ‘Did he have many callers?’
    ‘None, sir, to my knowledge.’
    ‘Can you name his tailor? His barber? His friends?’
    ‘We saw but little of him.’ A memory surfaced. ‘His chest may give some answers, sir. I forgot his chest.’
    Nicholas rallied. ‘Where did he keep it?’
    ‘Even here, sir. I will find it this instant.’
    She flung herself onto her knees and groped beneath the bed to pull out an empty chamber pot. Behind it she found a small wooden chest with iron bands around it. When she handed it to Nicholas, he saw there was a key in the lockand rightly gauged that it contained nothing of value. He opened the lid and examined the contents, his hopes all but shattered when he discovered only trinkets and unpaid bills. Then his interest quickened again. At the bottom of the chest was a letter that had been delivered only days before and it provided invaluable clues about its recipient. It was a missive from his father, one Andrew Carrick, whose elegant hand and stylish turn of phrase proclaimed a gentleman.
    The father patently disapproved of his son’s choice of profession but he nevertheless made solicitous enquiries about the latter’s progress. But it was the buoyant tone of the letter which astonished Nicholas. Given the situation, the father was entitled to complaint if not to self-pity yet there was no hint of it. Optimism somehow shone through. It was quite remarkable, for Andrew Carrick was not writing from the comfort and freedom of his own home in Suffolk.
    He was imprisoned in the Tower of London.

Chapter Three
    L awrence Firethorn rode slowly home to Shoreditch in an uncharacteristically jaded mood. Performances in front of an adoring public usually increased his normal ebullience and turned him into a gushing fountain of affability and good will. He would then conduct a post mortem on the play with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode, striving always to improve and refine each offering so that it would be even better the next time around. Firethorn also took care to seek the opinion of Nicholas Bracewell which was invariably sound, objective, honest and completely free from the tiresome prejudices of the fellow sharers. Business done, the actor-manager could turn to pleasure. Applause still rang in his ears to keep him happy and exhilarated. Firethorn would