The Return of the Warrior Read online

  As soon as Yori had left, Rose turned to Jack. ‘Is Akiko always so irritable?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘She must be tired. Things haven’t gone exactly according to plan since we arrived in England.’

  ‘So what’s the plan now?’ asked Rose.

  ‘We search Limehouse to start with.’ Jack began laying out his new clothes on the bed. ‘Akiko suggested showing the locket to some of the locals to see if anyone recognizes Jess and knows where she’s gone. If we have no luck with that, I suppose we’ll try the workhouses next.’

  ‘Not much of a plan,’ remarked Rose.

  ‘Well, what else can we do? Jess has disappeared without a trace.’ Jack held up the locket, letting it twirl on its chain. ‘This is a mystery too. I mean, who would give my sister such an expensive gift?’

  Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘A suitor?’

  ‘She’s still a girl!’ cried Jack, feeling instinctively protective of his little sister.

  ‘But will soon be a woman,’ replied Rose knowingly, ‘and a sought-after one at that, judging by her portrait … and her brother’s good looks.’

  Jack laughed away the compliment. ‘You haven’t changed, Rose!’

  ‘But you have.’ A coy smile spread across her lips. ‘For the better.’

  Flustered by her playful manner, Jack busied himself with selecting a shirt. ‘Look … I’m going to get changed. I’ll meet you downstairs with the others.’

  ‘If you want,’ said Rose, nonchalantly making her way to the door. ‘But do you really think you’ll find Jess just by asking people you happen to meet in the street?’

  Jack looked up. ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  Rose nodded. ‘For sure! We visit the jewellers off Cheapside and show them the locket. One of them’s bound to recognize whose work that portrait is. Then we can find the artist and ask him who paid for the portrait to be painted – and that person might know where your sister is!’

  ‘This looks to be the place,’ said Jack, having been directed by a goldsmith on Cheapside to a miniaturist portrait shop along Gutter Lane. The four of them stood outside a crooked little building tucked between a milliner’s and a bookseller’s. In the leaded window were a selection of small, blank, oval pieces of vellum and card, and some sample lockets.

  They entered the shop’s cramped confines. As their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they noticed a young man bent over a desk, painting by candlelight. He appeared to be copying a miniature portrait, stroke by stroke, and didn’t stir from his work.

  After a while, Jack coughed into his hand.

  The young man looked up, startled. He had pale skin, curly black hair and a wispy moustache. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Nathan Holme at your service. How can I help you?’

  ‘Nathan Holme!’ whispered Yori, nudging Jack excitedly. ‘The same initials as the portrait!’

  Jack hurriedly got out the locket and showed it to the miniaturist. ‘Tell me, is this your work?’

  The artist took the locket, cradled it gently in his palm and inspected the portrait under the glow of the candle. His watery eyes widened in surprise, then a sad smile passed across his lips. ‘I’m afraid not … that’s the work of my father, Nicholas Holme.’

  ‘Can we speak to your father?’ asked Rose eagerly.

  Handing back the locket, the young man mournfully shook his head. ‘My father passed away last month … the bloody flux …’ With a heavy sigh, he turned back to the two miniature portraits on his desk. ‘I’m trying to match his style, but I never could master his technique. It’s so elusive … his lightness of touch … the freshness he gave to his subject’s countenance … the way he captured their features so gracefully …’

  ‘I’m truly sorry for your loss,’ said Jack earnestly as he attempted to regain the young man’s attention. ‘I know what it means to lose a father. But I’m hoping not to lose a sister as well.’

  Nathan paused mid-stroke.

  ‘She’s missing,’ Jack went on, ‘and this locket is the only lead we have to her. Do you know who commissioned your father to paint this portrait?’

  Nathan put down his brush and pulled out a leather-bound book from the desk drawer. Opening it, he ran a finger slowly down the lines of scrawled black ink. Jack waited impatiently, trying to decipher the handwriting upside down and garner a name. Nathan flicked to the next page, found only a few entries, tutted irritably, then snapped the book shut.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea,’ he said with an apologetic shrug. ‘It appears to be yet another piece Bodley failed to account for, otherwise it would have been marked down in the ledger.’ He shook his head in a world-weary manner. ‘Typical of my father! He was terrible with money. He was always too wrapped up in his art to chase his debtors or handle his accounts himself. He left all that to Bodley, more fool him!’

  Putting the ledger back in its drawer, Nathan resumed his painstaking copying of the portrait. But Jack wasn’t willing to give up on the locket so easily. He planted his hands on the desk and leant forward, forcing Nathan to stop his work. ‘Who’s Bodley?’ he asked.

  A dark cloud descended over the artist. ‘My father’s former apprentice, Rowland Bodley.’

  ‘Might Bodley know who commissioned this portrait of my sister?’ pressed Jack.

  Nathan blew away his wisps of moustache. ‘Possibly. I dismissed him under suspicion of embezzlement. There was no real proof, though, but I’m sure he was taking commissions and payments off the books. Now that my father’s gone, I’ve no way of knowing what pieces were crafted or sold.’

  Jack straightened, eager to follow this new lead. ‘So where can I find this Rowland Bodley?’

  Nathan glanced at the afternoon sun slanting through his window. ‘At this time of day, he usually frequents the Globe Theatre. You’ll recognize the pompous idiot by his hat. He always wears an ostrich feather in the brim, dyed red.’ At that, Nathan rolled his eyes. ‘He’s a bit flamboyant that way.’

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ said Rose, clapping her hands together. ‘Let’s go to see a play!’

  Some two thousand people had descended on the Globe Theatre for the afternoon performance of Ben Jonson’s The Alchemist. Working men, shop owners, gentlemen in their finery, housewives and their servants and children, from London and abroad, all rubbed shoulders as they queued outside the timber-framed, three-storey playhouse on the southern bank of the Thames.

  ‘See! Told you, Jack,’ said Rose with a smug grin. ‘Talking to the artist was a far better idea than wasting our time asking people at random in the street!’

  A pained expression passed across Akiko’s face.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Jack.

  ‘My top is pinching me, that’s all,’ replied Akiko with a strained smile. ‘How does anyone breathe in these clothes?’

  Earlier that morning, Jack had managed to persuade Akiko to swap her kimono for English clothes in order that their appearance didn’t attract so much attention. While the authorities might think they were all drowned, they still needed to keep a low profile. Courtesy of a shopping trip made by Rose, Akiko was now dressed in a figure-hugging bodice, billowing petticoat and wooden-soled shoes. Yori had kept to his simple saffron robes, and still carried his shakujō, but he had left the distinctive straw-bowl monk’s hat behind at the inn. In the theatre setting, barely anyone gave them a second glance.

  Rose called over her shoulder at Akiko, ‘Sorry, did I tie your bodice a little tight? It’s the fashion here.’

  Akiko tried to adjust the lacings. ‘But how am I even supposed to fight in this?’ she complained. ‘My legs are lost under two layers of petticoats!’

  ‘You’ll soon get used to the fashion,’ Jack assured her. He thought back to the first time he’d worn a kimono and how disconcertingly draughty that had been for him! Now he was clothed like an Englishman again: cambric shirt, velvet doublet and damask breeches, along with his new pair of black leather boots. At first it felt odd to be dressed
in such a manner after so many years in the attire of a samurai. But it was strangely familiar too, like slipping on a pair of old shoes. ‘Anyhow,’ he added, ‘now we’re presumed drowned, I hope we won’t be getting into any more fights.’

  Akiko cast him a doubtful look; whether that was to do with her dress or the likelihood of another fight, Jack couldn’t tell. But he was determined to avoid any further confrontations. Now they had a solid lead to follow, his only priority was finding his sister and he wanted nothing to get in their way.

  ‘Keep an eye out for a red ostrich feather,’ said Jack, his eyes sweeping the sea of elaborate hats and headdresses. Everyone seemed out to impress. There were hats made of silk, velvet, fur and taffeta, and hatbands of almost every colour, from green to blue, and from purple to gold. Some were jewelled, others embroidered; some wide-brimmed, many high-crowned. Most were adorned with eye-catching plumes, plucked from the tails of pheasants, herons, guinea fowl or some other wild bird. But there didn’t appear to be a single ostrich feather in sight.

  They shuffled along until they reached the theatre’s main entrance. Squeezing through the doors, they entered a magnificent open-air amphitheatre with three tiers of galleries round the outer wall overlooking a large rush-covered yard. A rectangular stage jutted out into this central pit area, and on either side of the stage, two marble columns supported a ceiling painted with wispy clouds and a sea-blue sky. An ornate balcony overhung the stage at the back and a thatched roof sheltered those rich enough to afford seats in the galleries.

  Jack and his friends stood in the central pit along with all the other groundlings who’d paid their penny to watch the play. Looking around, Jack searched the galleries for the elusive Mr Bodley. There were several lords and their retinue of servants, many well-to-do gentlemen and ladies, but no red-feathered artist’s apprentices.

  ‘Can anyone see him?’ asked Jack, beginning to think that the miniaturist had sent them on a wild goose chase.

  Rose shook her head. ‘Not yet, but I don’t think everyone’s in.’

  A buzz of conversation, laughter and merrymaking consumed the spectators as they waited for the play to begin. A young woman bearing a large wicker basket threaded her way through the crowd, selling apples, nuts and bottles of beer. As she passed by, Rose subtly lightened her load of a bag of nuts.

  ‘Did you just steal that?’ asked Akiko, horrified.

  ‘I can’t deny my nature,’ said Rose, popping a nut into her mouth and grinning. She offered Akiko the bag. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied, then turned away to resume the search.

  ‘I’ll have one,’ said Jack, only catching the last part of the conversation. He chomped on the nut as his eyes continued to scan the galleries and pit, but, with the audience constantly shifting around, it was impossible to keep track of anyone.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t see much,’ said Yori, whose ringed staff was the only visible presence of him amid the throng.

  ‘Don’t worry, Yori. You keep a careful watch on Jack’s purse,’ Rose replied, gently patting his shoulder. ‘In a crowd like this, one needs to be wary of pickpockets.’

  ‘It takes one to know one, I suppose,’ said Akiko under her breath.

  Rose glared at her. ‘What was that?’

  Akiko smiled politely. ‘I was just saying, that’s good to know –’ Her eyes suddenly focused and she pointed towards the front of the stage. ‘There he is!’

  Spinning round, Jack followed the line of her finger to a tall man with a thin face, pinched mouth and a large white ruff round his scrawny neck. A bright red ostrich feather stuck out proudly from the front of his black velvet hat. He had a dandyish air about him and held a lace handkerchief to his nose. Ignoring the mutterings and complaints of his fellow groundlings, Jack barged his way to the front row, his friends trailing in his wake.

  ‘Mr Bodley?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the man in a high shrill voice. ‘And who might be enquiring?’

  ‘Jack Fletcher. I believe you’re an apprentice of Nicholas Holme.’

  ‘Was,’ replied Rowland Bodley, peering down his long nose at Jack, ‘but I’m now an artist in my own right.’

  ‘Why, of course,’ said Jack, sensing the man’s obvious pride. ‘That’s the very reason I wish to seek your opinion on this …’

  His ego flattered, Rowland condescended to look at the locket in Jack’s hand. His eyes widened in both recognition and what appeared to be … alarm. ‘Who sent you?’ he demanded.

  ‘No one sent us, but Nathan Holme told us where you might be,’ replied Jack.

  Rowland glanced down at the swords on Jack’s hip, then smiled nervously at him. ‘Oh, look!’ he cried. ‘The play’s about to start.’ As soon as Jack turned his head, Rowland bolted and disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Where did he go?’ shouted Jack, looking round the theatre pit in fury.

  Rose pointed to the tip of a red feather weaving its way through the crush of spectators. ‘He’s heading for the main door!’

  ‘I’ll stop him,’ said Akiko. Nimbly mounting the stage in spite of her two petticoats, she sprinted to the edge and leapt for the nearest gallery. There was a gasp of amazement from the audience as she flew through the air and caught hold of the upper gallery’s balustrade. Then she dropped down on to the lower gallery’s rail and, with the agility of an acrobat, ran round its circumference to the theatre’s entrance.

  Fighting his way against the tide of incoming theatre-goers, Rowland spotted Akiko and, realizing that she’d get there first, turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction. Jack could see the red feather bobbing along as the artist zigzagged across the pit like a pheasant fleeing the huntsman.

  Jack pushed through the crowd, shouldering people aside in an effort to cut the man off. Not looking where he was going, he bounced off a prodigious beer belly.

  ‘Oi! Watch it!’ growled its heavily bearded owner as ale slopped from his bottle.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack, trying to circumnavigate the massive man. But Rowland had already diverted back towards the stage. He had a clear run to the area behind the stage and its exit on to the street. Their quarry was about to escape! Then he heard the jangle of gold rings on a shakujō staff as Yori admirably tried to locate the fleeing artist and block his path. Whether by luck or good judgement, Yori converged with Rowland at the foot of the stage.

  ‘Out of my way!’ cried Rowland, coming face to face with the diminutive monk. But Yori stood firm, his shakujō staff planted in the packed earth. Rowland tried to push him aside, but Yori proved immovable as stone, his whole being grounded with the power of ki.

  Jack hurried over to trap the artist as Akiko leapt off the lower gallery and closed in from the opposite direction. Hemmed in on all sides, Rowland clambered on to the stage and made for the back curtain. However, as he dashed across the open stage, Rose threw her bag of nuts at him. Scattering everywhere, the nuts rolled under his feet and sent him crashing to the floor. The spectators roared with laughter at the pratfall.

  Jack jumped on to the stage and advanced on the flailing artist. Judging by his instinct to flee, the man clearly knew about the locket and who had commissioned the miniature, and he was obviously scared … like Mrs Winters. But why?

  Jack’s gut tightened. He now feared even more for his sister’s safety.

  Scrambling to his feet, Rowland seized a rapier from the back wall – a theatrical prop yet real and sharp enough to cut. ‘Stay back!’ he warned Jack, brandishing the weapon.

  Considering how wildly the sword’s tip wavered, Jack realized the artist was no swordsman. Still, following his recent duelling experience, Jack no longer underestimated the deadliness of a rapier’s reach and speed. He drew his katana in readiness, triggering an awed intake of breath from the audience.

  ‘I said, stay back!’

  Rowland lunged forward, thrusting the rapier at Jack’s chest.

  Jack deftly moved aside
, at the same time striking down with his katana. Their swords clashed. Rowland retreated, then thrust again. Having no wish to kill the man, Jack deflected the attack with the edge of his blade before slamming the flat of his sword across Rowland’s wrist. He howled in pain and dropped his rapier. As the weapon clattered on to the stage, Jack surged forward with his katana out straight. Its tip touched Rowland’s bare throat above his ruff and forced him back against one of the stage columns.

  Fishing the locket from his pocket, Jack held it before the artist’s eyes. ‘Tell me what you know about this!’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life,’ declared Rowland.

  ‘Really?’ said Jack, twisting the blade of the katana ever so slightly and making the artist wince. ‘Then why did you run?’

  Rowland glared defiantly back at him. But there was a glint of fear too. ‘You won’t get another word from me!’

  Jack applied the lightest of pressures to his katana. Its razor-sharp point pierced the artist’s skin like a peach, drawing a bead of blood. Rowland yelped in shock and pain.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ he begged, holding up his trembling hands. ‘I confess, I confess … it was me who killed Master Holme.’

  A collective gasp of astonishment ran round the audience.

  Rowland broke down into sobs. ‘I-I-I poisoned him … with arsenic … after he discovered I was stealing his money and commissions … but I only did it because he wouldn’t acknowledge my skill as an artist!’ Rowland looked up, furious indignation in his eyes. ‘Half those portraits were my doing!’

  Jack stared at the quivering man, astounded at this unexpected confession. ‘That isn’t what I wanted to know … I was asking who commissioned this locket?’

  Rowland stopped sobbing and blinked. ‘Why, I-I-I don’t know.’

  ‘Surely you were there when this portrait was painted?’

  Rowland peered at the picture and nodded vaguely. ‘Yes … I do remember the girl coming in for her portrait. Fine cheekbones … angelic hair … and eyes as deep blue as the ocean –’