The Wanton Angel

by Edward Marston

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘No. Whether out of loyalty or folly, I cannot say, but Rose will not part with it. This argues much for her strength of feeling about the man. Her parents have been stern interrogators but they failed to prise a name out of her. All that she will concede is that he was an actor. And she offered the briefest description of him.’

  ‘Rose Marwood is a pretty piece of flesh,’ said Pryde with a smile. ‘He was a fortunate man, whoever he might be.’

  ‘His good fortune has been our misfortune.’

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  ‘And it has left the girl in a parlous state.’

  ‘The price of pleasure can sometimes be very high.’

  ‘Let us talk about that price,’ said Nicholas discreetly. ‘This is a question I have had to put to each and every member of the company, Sylvester, so do not be offended when I direct it at you. The description which Rose gave could fit two or three of our players. Chief among them is you.’

  ‘Me?’ said Pryde indignantly.

  ‘Were you the girl’s lover?’

  ‘No, Nick. I was not nor would I be. Heavens, man, when I said she was a pretty piece of flesh, it was not because I had designs on her. I am not involved in any way here.’

  ‘Is that the truth, Sylvester?’

  ‘On my honour!’

  ‘I need to know.’

  ‘You have just been told, Nick. Ask the same question of yourself and you will understand how I feel. Are you the father of this child?’

  Nicholas almost blushed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Do you find Rose Marwood repulsive?’

  ‘Not at all. She is a most pleasant girl.’

  ‘Why, then, did you not bed her?’

  ‘Because my affections are placed elsewhere, Sylvester, as well you know. And that is only one of many reasons.’

  ‘I can offer even more why I would not even dream of embracing Rose Marwood or her kind. Suffice it to say, that I, too, have placed my affections elsewhere.’ He gave a lazy smile. ‘Those affections may shift from time to time but they would never alight on the daughter of an innkeeper. We talk of quality here, Nick. With a lady such as Anne in your life, you would not stoop to a dalliance with a serving wench. It would be beneath you.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘It is so with me.’

  ‘Yet Rose Marwood was so entranced by you.’

  ‘That does not make me her lover.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘and the vehemence of your denial makes me believe you. I am sorry to have to examine you on the subject but it is in all our interests to discover who the father of this child really is.’

  ‘One of our fellows deceived you.’

  ‘I find that hard to accept.’

  ‘Haply, the father does not even remember the coupling,’ said Pryde. ‘If it happened in a drunken moment, it might have no purchase on his mind.’

  ‘Rose Marwood would not give herself to a drunkard.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  Nicholas’s mind was racing. Having decided that Sylvester Pryde was the most likely father, he was perplexed to learn that the latter was innocent of the charge. Had one of the others deliberately lied to him? Owen Elias? James Ingram? Edmund Hoode? Lucius Kindell? Could it even have been – his blood congealed at the thought – Lawrence Firethorn himself? Gifted actor though he may be, he was also, when he could escape the vigilance of his wife, a compulsive lecher who would not scruple to show an interest in any attractive woman. If the actor-manager were the culprit, then the fate of Westfield’s Men really did hang in the balance.

  Sylvester Pryde came to his aid.

  ‘Ask the girl,’ he suggested.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rose Marwood. She knows the name. Elicit it from her.’

  ‘How?’ said Nicholas. ‘I would not be allowed anywhere near her. The landlord and his wife have used every means at their disposal to force the name out of her. Why would she tell me what she would never divulge to her parents?’

  ‘Because you would be gentle with her.’

  Rupert Kitely was a theatrical phenomenon. Short, slight and pleasantly ugly, he somehow transformed himself on stage into a tall, muscular individual with a dashing handsomeness that earned him a huge female following. The illusion was achieved by a subtle combination of a clarion voice, piercing eyes which reached every part of the theatre, graceful movement, vivid gesture and an inner dynamism which seemed visibly to increase his height and bulk. Kitely was the leading player with Havelock’s Men and the prime cause of its continued success. He made every role he played his own, stamping it with his authority and his trademark brilliance, taking it beyond the reach of lesser mortals in the company.

  The French Doctor, a light comedy with an undertow of political satire, allowed him to display his comic gifts to the full. As the eponymous hero, Rupert Kitely gave a performance that was full of fire, pathos and hilarious mime. His timing was faultless. Even in rehearsal, he gave of his very best. Unbeknown to him, he had an appreciative audience. A pair of gloved hands applauded him from the lower gallery. Kitely looked up to see their patron, Viscount Havelock, beating his palms enthusiastically together. The French doctor replied with a low bow.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said, ‘but the real performance will take place this afternoon.’

  ‘I will be there, Rupert.’

  ‘You honour us.’

  ‘And you honour the name of Havelock’s Men.’

  Kitely bowed again. ‘Your humble servant, my lord.’

  ‘I crave a word with you.’

  ‘I will join you presently.’

  Dismissing the company, Kitely quickly made his way to the steps which led to the gallery. Viscount Havelock was a rare visitor at a rehearsal. Only a matter of some importance could have brought him there and Kitely was eager to know what it was. The patron’s broad smile heralded good news.

  Charles, Viscount Havelock was an elegant man of medium height in his thirties with a long, shining, open face which gave him an almost boyish appearance, an impression reinforced by the youthful vigour which he exuded. He was completely free from the signs of dissipation which betrayed Lord Westfield and, to a much larger extent, the Earl of Banbury, his two major rivals as patrons of the theatrical arts. The Viscount rose from his seat when the actor came up the steps.

  ‘This French doctor will have the whole audience laughing until they weep with joy,’ he said approvingly.

  ‘That is our intention, my lord.’

  ‘It is one of your finest roles.’

  ‘I strive to make it so.’

  ‘Strive but give no sense of having striven.’

  ‘True art consists in concealing the huge efforts which lie behind it,’ said Kitely. ‘With a poor player, all that you see are the panting preliminaries.’

  ‘This morning I witnessed genuine talent.’

  ‘Above all else, my lord, we aim to please our patron.’

  ‘You do, Rupert.’ He waved an arm to take in the whole theatre. ‘Do you like The Rose?’

  ‘I adore the place.’

  ‘You are happy that the company took up residence here?’

  ‘Extremely happy, my lord.’

  ‘Have you no regrets?’

  ‘None of consequence.’

  ‘Good. It is a worthy venue for your art.’

  The two of them gazed around the theatre with a pride which was buttressed by possessiveness. The Rose was their chosen home. In the time they had been there, Havelock’s Men had earned a considerable reputation for themselves and they almost always played before full audiences. Constructed on the site of a rose garden to the east of Rose Alley in the Liberty of the Clink, it was a striking new playhouse which brought spectators from all over London to Bankside. It was built around a timber frame on a brick foundation with outer walls of lath and plaster, and a thatched roof. Over the stage was a decorated canopy, supported by high pillars and surmounted by a hut,
containing the winching apparatus which made possible all manner of spectacular effects.

  Viscount Havelock inhaled deeply and beamed.

  ‘I never come here without feeling inspired.’

  ‘We are eternally grateful to you,’ said Kitely.

  ‘Would you not rather be treading the boards in one of the Shoreditch playhouses? The Curtain, perhaps?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘The Theatre?’

  ‘It is no match for The Rose.’

  ‘What of the inn yard venues?’ asked the other, turning to face him. ‘I first saw you at the Bel Savage Inn. And your company was at the Cross Keys for a while.’

  ‘Those days are past. This is perfection.’

  ‘Is it, Rupert?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Even perfection can be improved a little.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I was hoping that you would teach me. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you could add anything or anybody to The Rose, who or what would it be.’

  Kitely did not hesitate. ‘Barnaby Gill.’

  ‘The clown with Westfield’s Men?’

  ‘He has no equal and his antics would enrich our fare immeasurably. Barnaby Gill is the finest comic talent in the whole of London.’

  ‘After a certain Rupert Kitely.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ said the actor with a modest smile, ‘but even I could not dance a jig like Master Gill. Put him in Havelock’s Men and we would reach new heights.’

  ‘Whom else do you covet?’

  ‘Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘We have plays enough of our own.’

  ‘But they lack the quality of his best work,’ returned the other. ‘Whether writing a new play or cobbling an old one, he is a virtual master with a sure touch. Even when he turns his hand to tragedy, he does not falter. I hear disturbingly good reports of The Insatiate Duke.’

  ‘You were not misled by your informers.’

  ‘The praise has reached your ears, my lord?’

  ‘Ears, eyes and every other part about me, Rupert. I was in the gallery at the Queen’s Head yesterday afternoon. It is an extraordinary play, I must concede. A collaboration between Edmund Hoode and a clever young playwright from Oxford. They will go far together.’

  ‘Would that we had them both.’

  ‘Hoode and his apprentice?’

  ‘Do not forget Barnaby Gill.’

  ‘Would you poach anyone else from Westfield’s Men?’

  ‘Only their book keeper.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell is their secret weapon,’ said Kitely with grudging admiration. ‘It is he who holds the company together and raises the standard of what they offer. If I could choose but one of the names I have mentioned, I think I would first take Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘Take the others as well,’ said the Viscount casually.

  ‘The others?’

  ‘All three of them and this book keeper.’

  ‘That could only happen in the realms of fantasy.’

  ‘We may well enter them before too long.’

  Kitely tried to read his enigmatic smile. Unlike other patrons, Viscount Havelock took a direct interest in the affairs of his theatre company, attending every new play without fail and proffering advice on a whole range of matters. Rupert Kitely had come to respect this advice. What he at first took for his patron’s unwarranted interference was almost invariably sage counsel. He sensed that the Viscount was there to pass on more valuable advice.

  ‘Do you ever go fishing, Rupert?’ asked the patron.

  ‘Fishing?’

  ‘In the river.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘I think that you should.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you may catch exactly what you seek,’ said the other with a quiet chuckle. ‘Bait your hook well, my friend, then cast your line into the Thames and leave it there awhile. Who knows? When you pull it out again, you may have landed all four of the men you value so highly.’

  ‘How, my lord?’

  ‘That is what I have come to tell you.’

  Lawrence Firethorn spent the morning brooding on the subject.

  ‘Sylvester is lying,’ he decided.

  ‘I think not,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘He is the obvious candidate here.’

  ‘That is what I rushed to believe at first but I was woefully wrong. Sylvester Pryde is no saint. He is the first to confess that. But I am certain that he did not lay a finger on Rose Marwood.’

  ‘A finger is not the appendage in question, Nick.’

  They were standing in the yard at the Queen’s Head at the end of an erratic rehearsal of Mirth and Madness, a staple comedy from their repertoire and a complete contrast to the tragedy which preceded it. Knowing that they were only allowed in the inn yard on sufferance, the company had been preoccupied and lacklustre, stumbling over their lines, missing their entrances and generally turning a lively romp into something akin to a funeral march. Lawrence Firethorn, surprisingly, had been the chief offender which was why he did not castigate his company, trusting instead that the presence of an audience would serve to unite the players with the play.

  ‘Who, then, was it?’ he wondered.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘If not Sylvester, it must be one of our other fellows. Unless we are in the presence of a virgin birth here. Did you see a star in the east, Nick? Are we to expect the imminent arrival of Three Kings, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Forgive my blasphemy, dear heart, but this business has put me on the rack.’

  ‘Mistress Rose is the real victim here,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Indeed, she is, and my wife said the same to me when she heard. I had great difficulty preventing Margery from walking all the way here from Shoreditch to comfort the girl. Women understand these things more than us. It is bad enough to have to face the pangs and perils of childbirth, she told me, but it must be agony to do so without the father at your side. Rose Marwood must be in torment.’

  ‘That was Anne’s first reaction as well.’

  ‘I, too, have sympathy for the girl – profound sympathy – but my prime duty is to ensure the safety of the company.’

  ‘That has been done. We have our playhouse back again.’

  ‘But for how long, Nick?’ said Firethorn. ‘We told the landlord that we would identify the mystery lover and pass the name on to him. I know full well how he will react if we go to him empty-handed. And his fury will be mild compared with that of the fiery she-dragon he is married to. What do we do?’

  ‘Remain patient.’

  ‘That is like telling me to remain dry in the middle of a tempest. How can I be patient when Marwood is yapping at my heels like a terrier? Call him off.’

  ‘I will do my best.’

  ‘He is upsetting the whole company,’ said Firethorn irritably. ‘He should be more friendly towards us in view of the fact that Westfield’s Men contains his future son-in-law.’

  ‘I cannot guarantee that.’

  ‘You think he will disown the girl?’

  ‘Let us find the man first,’ said Nicholas cautiously. ‘I am distressed at our failure to do so. It can only mean that we have someone among us who adds lies to lechery.’

  ‘There is one sure way to expose him, Nick.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Firethorn cheerily. ‘Wait until the child is born. If it speaks in Welsh, then Owen Elias is our man. If it has aristocratic poise, Sylvester Pryde is unmasked. And if it has a face like a full moon and sighs like a furnace, then it is Edmund Hoode who has been a-leaping.’

  ‘I think you will find it is none of them.’

  ‘Whoever he is, he cannot hide for ever. I rely on you, Nick.’ He punched Nicholas playfully on the arm. ‘You will root him out in the end.’

  ‘Someone may do that office for me.’

  ‘
Who is that?’

  ‘Our landlord’s wife,’ said Nicholas. ‘She will hound her daughter until she gets the name out of her. Rose Marwood is in desperate straits. Prisoners at the Tower endure a milder interrogation than the one the girl must weather.’

  ‘God’s lid!’ exclaimed Firethorn putting both hands to his face and shivering with horror. ‘I have just had a gruesome thought.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Suppose that the child bears a resemblance to either of the girl’s parents? Suppose it has the same unsightly features as Marwood and his wife? It was better to drown the monster at birth in the Thames. No child should be forced to go through life with such a cruel handicap. Have you ever seen two such hideous human beings in one marriage?’

  ‘They are not well-favoured,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

  ‘Yet they are very well-matched. Duplicate ghouls.’ He gave a shudder. ‘You are right, Nick. Rose’s predicament is dire. How can she hold out against them? Her parents only have to leer at the girl and they will fright the name of her lover out of her.’

  Sybil Marwood hovered over her daughter like a giant eagle, pecking away at her with painful questions and constant reproach.

  ‘For the last time, Rose,’ she said, ‘who is he?’

  ‘I cannot tell you, mother.’

  ‘Stop protecting the knave!’

  ‘I gave him my word,’ bleated the girl piteously. ‘I have to honour my promise.’

  ‘Honour!’ shouted Sybil. ‘You dare to talk of honour! Have you so soon forgot your Ten Commandments? Honour thy father and mother. The Bible enjoins us so. Yet you have dishonoured us in the most dreadful way. And now you make our suffering all the worse by lying to us.’

  ‘I have not lied, mother.’

  ‘Then what else have you done?’

  ‘Told you the truth.’

  ‘Half of it,’ said her mother angrily, ‘and the worse half at that. The half we do not know concerns the father. Now cease this prevarication and surrender his name.’

  ‘It is a secret that must remain locked away.’

  ‘Rose!’

  ‘I am sorry, mother.’

  ‘Stop torturing me like this.’

  ‘It is you who is torturing me.’

  ‘I have been sainted,’ blustered the other.