‘What are you doing there?’ said a sharp voice.
‘Picking up this grass,’ he said.
‘Move away from that window.’
‘I have my work to do.’
‘Do it somewhere else.’
Agnes stood there with her hands on her hips and a look of deep suspicion on her face. She hated Valentine enough to have asked for his dismissal more than once but he did his job conscientiously and Emilia Brinklow was reluctant to part with any of the staff who had been engaged by her brother. His furtive manner showed that she had caught him out. Removing his cap with a clumsy attempt at courtesy, he aimed his repulsive grin at the maidservant and shrugged his apologies.
‘I’ve no wish to upset a woman like you, Agnes.’
‘Then keep out of my sight.’
‘Be friends with me, I beg.’
‘You are paid to work here and that is all.’
‘Why, so are you. Can we not lighten the load by sharing it a little? A smile and a kind word is all that I seek.’
‘You will get neither from me. Away with you!’
Her homely face was a mask of cold anger. Valentine replaced his cap and wiped the back of his hand across his harelip. Wilting under the maidservant’s stern gaze, he took his wheelbarrow off down the garden and disappeared behind the fountain. He would have to content himself with the few words he had managed to pick up through the open window.
Unaware of the exchange outside the parlour, Emilia Brinklow and Simon Chaloner continued their urgent conversation within it. The riotous behaviour at the Queen’s Head that afternoon had shocked both of them into silence and the long ride back to Greenwich had been a mute ordeal. Back at the house, they were able to give vent to their wounded feelings. White-faced and despondent, Emilia sat on an upright chair while Simon Chaloner circled the room with restless strides.
‘I should not have taken you there,’ he said.
‘It was my own decision to go, Simon.’
‘The danger was too great. It was madness.’
‘You could not expect me to miss the performance.’
‘What performance?’ he said ruefully. ‘Act Two had scarcely begun when those villains wreaked their havoc. We were lucky to escape injury.’ His hand went to his sword. ‘Had you not been with me, my love, I’d have hacked the rogues down one by one and sent their stinking carcasses to Sir John Tarker. They were plainly his creatures, hired to start that affray and chase The Roaring Boy from the stage.’
‘How can we prove that?’
‘We do not need to, Emilia.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I shall do what honour prompted me to do at the very start,’ he said, standing before her. ‘Go straight to Tarker and cut out his black heart.’
‘Simon, no!’ she protested, rising to clutch at him.
‘It is the only way to end this business.’
‘By throwing away your own life?’
‘Tarker is a monster!’
‘Then he must answer to the law,’ she pleaded. ‘If you lay hands upon him, you will be the felon. There has to be another way to bring him to justice.’
‘Yes, Emilia. We tried it in vain this afternoon.’
‘The situation may yet be retrieved.’
‘With my sword!’
‘No, Simon!’ she implored. ‘Dear God in heaven-no!’
She held him so tightly that his righteous indignation eventually gave way to concern for her. He stroked her hair and calmed her down with whispered condolences. Lowering her on to the chair again, he knelt down in front of her so that he could look up into her face. He used a gentle finger to brush away a tear that trickled down her cheek.
‘Take heart, my love,’ he said.
‘We were so close, Simon-then all was lost.’
‘Only our folly persuaded us that we could win. Tarker set his ambush well. He had The Roaring Boy stabbed to death just as callously as Thomas.’ He lifted her hand to kiss it, then shook his head with philosophical resignation. ‘This morning was so rich in hope but the afternoon has left me poor indeed.’
‘Poor?’
‘I was doubly robbed at the Queen’s Head.’
‘How so?’
‘I lost both a play and a dearest partner in life.’
Emilia squeezed his hand. ‘That is not so.’
‘It is,’ he said resignedly. ‘You will not marry me until this business is concluded and what chance is there of that now? My joy is further away from me than ever.’ He stood up again and moved across the room. ‘I have worked so sedulously on your behalf, Emilia. I have waited so long and tried so very hard. There is nothing more that I could have done save lay down my life.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘and I love you for it.’
‘But not enough, I fear.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you will not be mine,’ he said. ‘You will not wed me now so that we can join forces to renew this fight together. You will not put me first in line of affection for once. Your love is on condition only.’
She crossed quickly to him. ‘It has to be, Simon.’
‘Why?’
‘I have explained it to you a thousand times.’
‘And I believed you, Emilia. Until today. Now I begin to wonder if your explanation truly answers me.’
‘I will not rest until the murder is resolved.’
‘Thomas is dead. Vengeance will not bring him back.’
‘It will give me peace of mind.’
‘Then-at last-you may pay heed to my existence.’
‘I do, Simon,’ she said with feeling. ‘On my honour, I do. But I am not able to open my heart fully to you until this dreadful burden has been lifted from it. That burden only took on extra weight this afternoon, for now I am oppressed by guilt as well as grief.’
‘Guilt?’
‘At the damage we have inflicted on Westfield’s Men.’
‘It was not deliberate, Emilia.’
‘That does not still my conscience. They risked their lives and their reputation for us. To what end? Their inn-yard playhouse was wrecked, their work dismembered and Edmund Hoode carted off to prison. And all because of me.’ She walked across to the window. ‘They must hate the very name of Brinklow. It has brought them nothing but trouble.’
‘I am to blame for that. I gave them the play.’
‘Only at my behest.’
‘You charged me to find the fittest company,’ he said, ‘and I did that when I met Nick Bracewell. I knew that he would be steadfast enough to hold his company together and put The Roaring Boy on the stage. He must regret that he ever got involved with this venture.’
‘I regret it, too,’ she said soulfully. ‘Nicholas was a kind and courageous man. I would not hurt him for the world. I hope his fellows do not turn against him for this.’
***
A pall of misery hung over the house in Shoreditch. Not even the warm resilience of a Margery Firethorn could lift it. When she served refreshment, only one of the guests, Nicholas Bracewell, had voice enough to give her proper thanks. The others hardly stirred out of their melancholy. Barnaby Gill was morose, Owen Elias stared gloomily at the empty fireplace and Lawrence Firethorn himself was in the grip of a pain deeper even than his toothache. When Margery left them alone again in the parlour, Nicholas Bracewell tried to rouse the others into action.
He slapped a table. ‘What are we to do?’ he said.
‘You have done enough already, sir,’ accused Gill. ‘It is all your doing that we are in this quandary. Had they listened to me, instead of to you, we would not have touched this leprous play. It has infected the whole company. You have much to answer for, Nicholas.’
‘Not so!’ exclaimed Owen Elias, jumping to the defence of his friend. ‘But for Nick, we would never have had the chance to present such a vital piece of theatre.’
‘Too vital!’ moaned Firethorn.
‘We were not to know the play would be waylaid.’
; ‘It was always a possibility, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but there was a limit to the precautions we could take. I warned the gatherers to look for any ruffians who sought admission to the play. I stationed extra men to curb any disturbance but they could not be everywhere. The brawl was too sudden and well-planned. We lost control.’
‘Control!’ snarled Gill. ‘If that indeed were all. We have lost more than control, sir. Our occupation’s gone!’
‘For the time being only,’ said Nicholas.
‘Forever. Face the truth-forever!’
Gill’s voice was like a death knell and nobody tried to interrupt its fearsome echo. The Roaring Boy had been an engine of destruction. It not only blackened a record of good audience behaviour at the inn, it caused several injuries, inflicted indiscriminate damage on their venue and led to the arrest of their playwright. Alexander Marwood’s furious vow that they would never set foot again in the Queen’s Head for once had legal reinforcement. The sheriff, whose men so roughly dragged Edmund Hoode away, also served the company with a writ. An injunction had been taken out forbidding them to perform any play at the Queen’s Head until further notice.
‘We are voices from the past,’ said Gill at his most lugubrious. ‘Mere phantoms. The Roaring Boy has silenced our art in perpetuity.’
‘No great loss where you are concerned, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn pointedly. ‘Bonfires will be lit in celebration. But we will live to act on.’
‘Where?’ sneered the comedian. ‘How?’
‘With distinction, sir!’
‘There has to be a way out for us,’ said Elias.
‘There is, Owen,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘Westfield’s Men have faced adversity before-plague, fire, the machinations of our rivals-and we have always survived. We can do so again at this time of trial.’ His bluster became a tentative query for the book holder. ‘Is that not so, Nick? Stiffen our spirits. Teach us the road to salvation.’
‘But he is the author of our misfortune!’ said Gill.
‘We all share the blame for that,’ retorted Elias. ‘Only one man can rescue us and here he sits. Well, Nick? Your counsel is always sage. What must we do?’
Nicholas Bracewell weighed his words before speaking.
‘First, we must secure Edmund’s release,’ he said. ‘We may bewail our own lot but at least we still enjoy our freedom. Edmund languishes in the Marshalsea on a most serious charge. We must restore his liberty.’
‘How may we do that?’ asked Firethorn.
‘By calling on our patron once more. He can speak into ears that we are powerless to reach. Request Lord Westfield to find out how Edmund came to be incarcerated.’
‘We know that already,’ said Elias. ‘Seditious libel.’
‘Against whom?’
‘Sir John Tarker.’
‘I am not so certain of that, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sir John Tarker has a worthy reputation as a tournament jouster but he is also a notorious gambler and always in debt. He has neither the money nor the position at Court to bring about this action. We wrestle with a higher authority here.’
Firethorn nodded. ‘He must have influential friends.’
‘We need to know who they are. Only when we identify our enemies can we hope to prevail against them. Then there is another point.’ He scratched his beard in contemplation for a moment. ‘The play was interrupted well before Sir John Tarker was unmasked. How could Edmund be accused of libel when none took place? Do you follow me here, gentlemen?’
‘No,’ admitted Firethorn.
‘I do not even bother to listen,’ said Gill.
‘Well, we do, Nick,’ said Elias. ‘Attentively. Continue.’
‘The Roaring Boy was swept from the scaffold because a certain person knew that he would be revealed as a partner in the murder of Thomas Brinklow. What we believe is naked truth, he describes as libel. In other words, he must have had foreknowledge of the rest of the play. Why else attack it?’ Nicholas looked around at his three companions. ‘How did he find out? We closed ranks against all enquiry. We lived on top of each other to ensure our mutual safety. Yet he knew. Who taught him the innermost workings of the company? To speak more plain-who betrayed us?’
The question produced a flurry of speculation from Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias along with a vigorous self-defence from Barnaby Gill, who was sensitive to any charge of indiscretion. Nicholas soon interrupted them.
‘The fault may not be ours,’ he pointed out. ‘Before the play came into our hands, it was housed at Greenwich. Someone there may have gained improper access to it and been warned of its contents. On the other hand, no plans for any performance had then been made. The manuscript was harmless until it came alive on a stage. For that reason, I suspect a member of the company is involved.’
‘I’ll tear him apart limb by limb!’ vowed Firethorn.
‘Let us find him first.’
‘That will be my office,’ volunteered Elias.
‘No, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘I have more taxing work than that. You must track a more difficult prey with me.’
‘Say but his name and I’ll run him to earth.’
‘Maggs.’
‘My part in the play?’
‘The same. Freshwell was hanged but Maggs escaped.’
‘The law could not find him, how shall we?’
‘By searching more assiduously,’ said Nicholas. ‘The law had scapegoats enough in Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. With Freshwell to dance at the end of a rope beside them, they could spare Maggs. We may not.’
‘How do we know he is still alive?’
‘If he was cunning enough to evade capture, he will have the wit to survive. Find out where he is, Owen. The two of us will then have conference with him. There are hidden facts about this case that only Maggs knows.’
Elias chuckled. ‘One Maggs will hunt another.’
‘While you are about that,’ said Firethorn, ‘I’ll engage the services of Lord Westfield on our behalf. We’ll see if he can find the key to Edmund’s cell.’
‘And what must I do,’ asked the peevish Gill.
‘Nothing,’ said Elias. ‘That’s contribution enough.’
Nicholas reviewed the situation and reached a decision.
‘I’ll to Greenwich tomorrow at first light,’ he said. ‘This latest business may force a more complete story from Master Chaloner. I fear that something was held back from us and I will pursue him until I learn why.’
Action dispersed anxiety. Instead of bemoaning their fate, they could now take positive steps to amend it. Barnaby Gill still wallowed in pessimism but the others were eager to vindicate the name of Westfield’s Men, and that could be done only if they found out the full details surrounding the murder of Thomas Brinklow. Since The Roaring Boy could not prosecute their case, they had to marshal their evidence in a different way. After further lengthy discussion, Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias bade farewell to their hosts and set off down the street.
They did not get very far. Someone waited at a corner ahead of them and leapt out into their path with a sheepish smile. Peter Digby was trembling with embarrassment.
‘I must speak with you, Nicholas,’ he said.
‘Is the matter so urgent?’
‘I fear that it may be.’
‘Then it touches on this afternoon’s affair?’ Digby nodded and threw an anxious glance at the Welshman. ‘Speak freely in front of Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Though he is famed for babbling tongue, he knows when to hold it.’
‘Would that I did!’ said the musician.
He took the two friends down a quiet lane so that their conversation could be neither witnessed nor overheard. Peter Digby was so conscious-stricken that perspiration broke out on his forehead. He gave a shamefaced grin of apology.
‘What ails you, Peter?’ said Nicholas. ‘Tell us.’
‘I may be wrong,’ said the other. ‘Pray God that I am! I would never forgive myself if I was lured into treachery. The company is my life
. Westfield’s Men are my family.’
‘They will always remain so,’ assured Elias.
‘Not after today.’
‘Why, man? What have you done?’
‘Nothing with intent to cause harm.’
Nicholas put an arm around the musician’s shoulders. With the exception of the much-maligned George Dart, there was not a more decent and innocuous member of the troupe than Peter Digby. Any damage or inconvenience he had caused his fellows must be inadvertent.
‘Do not tell Master Firethorn,’ pleaded Digby.
‘We will not,’ promised Nicholas.
‘He would expel me straight.’
‘The matter begins and ends here, Peter.’
‘Then hear the worst.’ He licked his lips and glanced nervously around. ‘When the play went into rehearsal, we were all enjoined to reveal nothing of its substance to anyone outside the company. Nor did I, Nicholas. Not wittingly, I swear. But an old friend came to see Mirth and Madness. One Orlando Reeve with whom I once studied.’
‘Was his visit unusual?’
‘Most unusual. Orlando looks down upon the theatre. Yet this was his second appearance at the Queen’s Head in weeks.’
‘Second appearance?’
‘Yes,’ said Digby. ‘On the first, he bought me wine and teased me about a falling off in our work. He mocked us so much that I had to defend Westfield’s Men. I told him that we would assert ourselves with a wonderful new play.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘The Roaring Boy?’
‘Even so.’
‘What did you disclose of its contents?’
‘Little beyond its characters and theme.’
‘And this second unexpected visit?’
‘Orlando bought me more wine,’ confessed Digby. ‘He flattered me and wriggled inside my guard. Playbills had been posted up for The Roaring Boy and he affected interest. Before I knew it, I was singing him snatches of the ballad.’ The old face was contorted with apprehension. ‘Tell me that I did no harm, Nicholas. Assure me that I could not possibly have betrayed my fellows in such a foolish way.’
‘You did well to confide in me,’ said Nicholas. ‘This Orlando Reeve is a musician, you say?’
‘A virtuoso of the keyboard.’
‘For whom does he play?’
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