The Wanton Angel

by Edward Marston

  When he reached the other bank, he tipped the watermen handsomely and went ashore. He was soon picking his way in the half-dark around the site of The Angel. It was still largely covered with debris and there was little progress to note but Pryde still felt exhilarated by the experience. As he stood in the centre of the property, he could almost see the many sides of the theatre rising up around him and hear the applause that reverberated around its walls.

  Huge timbers stood upright against a wall, waiting to take their place in the new structure. Pryde ran his hand against one of them, feeling its rough-hewn surface and estimating its immense weight. When he heard a noise behind him, he tried to turn round but something hard and broad struck him viciously across the back of the head. He collapsed in a heap on the ground with blood gushing out of the wound. Still half-conscious, he opened his mouth to cry for help but no words emerged. The last thing he ever saw was the timber, which he had so lovingly caressed, descending murderously towards him.

  Chapter Seven

  Nicholas Bracewell set off early next morning on the long walk to the Queen’s Head. Instead of following his customary route to London Bridge, however, he took the opportunity to visit the site of The Angel to speak with the builder. Thomas Bradd was already there when Nicholas arrived, supervising some men who were clearing the site of its accumulated debris. Bradd was a short, sturdy man in his forties with a sense of power in his compact frame and the kind of weather-beaten face which suggested some years at sea. He gave Nicholas a lop-sided grin of welcome.

  ‘We should make more progress today,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘There is no wind to worry about so we can burn all this rubbish without danger. By this afternoon, we will be able to start digging the foundations.’

  ‘Some of us will join you when our play is done.’

  ‘It will be hard work,’ warned Bradd. ‘It is not like standing on a scaffold and spouting fine words into the air.’

  ‘We know that. We expect to sweat.’

  ‘Sweat, bleed and swear oaths aplenty.’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘This playhouse means everything to us. We will put strong arms and willing hearts at your disposal.’

  ‘I will use them mercilessly.’ Bradd gave a dark chuckle then pointed at the pile of timbers which lay on the site. ‘It is a pity that your actors are not here now. We could do with some of those strong arms to shift that timber. It stood upright yesterday but somehow it has tumbled in the night.’

  ‘That seems strange.’

  ‘It does. We stacked it with great care. A howling gale could not have blown it over.’

  ‘Then why does it now lie on the ground?’

  Nicholas watched two of the men begin to move the fallen timbers, slipping a rope around the end of the first one before dragging it clear of the pile then using a shorter plank to lever the timber back into an upright position. He could see the effort that it was costing them. Nicholas was no stranger to physical labour but some of his fellows had led a softer life. They would have a rude shock when they worked for Thomas Bradd on the site of The Angel.

  ‘I wish that we did not have to build so close to the bank,’ observed Nicholas. ‘The water runs high at this point.’

  ‘We will take account of that,’ said Bradd.

  ‘This would not be the only property to be flooded.’

  The builder tensed. ‘Do not tell me how to build, sir. I have had twenty years in the trade and know what precautions to take against flood and other perils. Besides,’ he said, waving an arm, ‘we have no choice. The site is not big enough for us to set the playhouse back from the river.’

  ‘You are right and we have faith in your judgement.’

  ‘I would not continue otherwise.’

  Nicholas soothed him before taking his leave. He did not get far. When he was less than a dozen yards away, a cry of fear made him turn back again. One of the men who had been shifting the timbers was now pointing at something which protruded from the base of the pile. It was a human hand. Nicholas broke into a run and overtook the builder as the latter waddled towards the gruesome discovery. Only a man’s left hand was visible but it bore a distinctive ring which Nicholas had seen many times before. His temples pounded and his mouth went dry as he identified Sylvester Pryde.

  ‘Get him out of there!’ he ordered.

  Then he grabbed one of the timbers and began to heave.

  It was strenuous work and they were soon perspiring but Nicholas drove them on. Thomas Bradd did his share, handling the rough timbers with seasoned hands and helping to toss them aside. Any hope that the prone figure might still be alive soon vanished. The sheer weight of the timber would have crushed him to death. One leg was uncovered, then a second, then part of his chest. Nicholas was horrified to see that his friend’s bright apparel was now soaked with blood and caked with filth.

  The last and heaviest timber obscured the face of the victim. All four of them lifted it clear and dropped it on the ground. The sight which confronted them made one of the men turn away in disgust and another vomit. Bradd was transfixed. Nicholas was overcome with anguish. Sylvester Pryde was unrecognisable. The handsome face was smashed out of shape, the long hair and beard were glistening with gore. A huge gash in the forehead indicated that it had taken the full force of the timber as it fell. Nicholas fought to master his grief.

  ‘Poor devil!’ muttered Bradd. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A member of the company.’

  ‘This is a fearful accident.’

  ‘It was no accident,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was murdered.’

  Rose Marwood lay in bed and drifted in and out of sleep as the doctor examined her. The fever seemed to have taken a hold on her. For the first few days after her visit to Clerkenwell, nothing had happened. All that she felt was the lingering aftertaste of the strange brew prepared for her by Mary Hogg. Irritating minor symptoms then began to appear before developing overnight into a raging fever. Rose’s strength ebbed away. The only prayers that were said in her bedchamber now were the frantic entreaties of her mother, begging for forgiveness and pleading for her daughter’s recovery.

  Sybil was overwhelmed by remorse. The wild urge to get rid of an unwanted child was now replaced with true maternal concern. As she looked at the flushed face of her daughter, she was shocked by the thought that she might have been responsible for the girl’s illness. In trying to dispose of a child, the wise woman of Clerkenwell, it seemed, might also have brought about the death of its mother.

  ‘How is she?’ murmured Sybil.

  ‘Let me examine her properly and I will tell you.’

  ‘I have never seen Rose so sick.’

  ‘Stand back, please,’ said the doctor crisply. ‘You are in my light. It might be better if you waited outside.’

  ‘Do let me stay!’ she implored. ‘Rose is my daughter.’

  ‘Then let me attend to her.’

  Mouthing apologies, Sybil retreated to the other side of the room and watched with trepidation. The doctor was a small, wiry man in his fifties with a white beard and a wizened face. His instruments stood beside him in a leather case. After feeling his patient’s pulse, he opened her mouth gently so that he could peer into it. Then he placed a cool hand on the fevered brow. Rose’s eyes opened again but they lacked any expression. She dozed off within a minute.

  The doctor was thorough. When his examination was over, he turned to question Sybil, sensing that she might in some way be responsible for the girl’s sickness.

  ‘What have you done to her?’ he challenged.

  ‘Nothing,’ she murmured.

  ‘She is grievously sick.’

  ‘That is why we sent for you, doctor.’

  ‘When your daughter came to visit me, she was strong and healthy. Rose thought she was ailing but I told her that she was with child. That produces changes in the body. I explained that such changes were quite normal and tried to still her fears.�
�� He glanced back at the bed. ‘But look at her now. These symptoms have nothing to do with motherhood. What has happened to her?’

  ‘I do not know, doctor.’

  ‘Has she eaten rancid food? Drunk foul water?’

  ‘She is well-cared for,’ bleated Sybil defensively.

  ‘Then why is she locked away like this?’ he said sternly.

  ‘You used a key to let us in here and I see that bolt upon the window. It should be wide open to admit fresh air not shut tight like that.’

  ‘It will be opened,’ she promised. ‘It will, it will.’

  The doctor put his head to one side and studied her for a moment. Guilt made her shift her feet and rub her hands nervously together. He clicked his tongue in disapproval.

  ‘What has been going on here?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  ‘Why has the girl declined so?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Let me give you a warning,’ he said, fixing her with a cold stare. ‘Do not try to meddle with nature. Rose is unwed and she was shocked to learn that she was with child. You and your husband must also have been shaken by the tidings. That is nothing new. I see it happen all the time to the parents of young girls who give birth out of wedlock. They are hurt,’ he continued, ‘they feel ashamed and desperate. They blame their daughters and make them suffer bitterly. In some cases, they are even driven to extremities.’

  ‘Extremities?’ croaked Sybil.

  ‘I think that you know what I mean.’

  ‘No, doctor.’

  ‘Unwanted children are conceived all the time,’ he said with a glance at the bed. ‘London is full of quacks and charlatans who will offer to get rid of those children at a price. They are not only tricksters. Such people can cause great damage.’

  ‘Can they?’

  ‘What they do is to slaughter innocent babes in the womb. That is not only a heinous crime, it is a sin against nature and an offence before God.’

  ‘I know that now,’ she gabbled.

  ‘Never expose your daughter to such witchcraft,’ he insisted. ‘Or you may put her own life in jeopardy.’

  ‘Will she die, doctor? Will Rose die?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘What must we do? Tell us and it will be done.’

  ‘The first thing you must do is to love and cherish your daughter. Nurse her tenderly. It is always the best medicine.’

  ‘I will sit beside her day and night.’

  He crossed to open his case. ‘I will leave a potion for her,’ he said, taking out a little flask and handing it to her. ‘Give her two drops of it in a small amount of clean water twice a day and make sure that she swallows it. Use a damp cloth to wipe her brow and keep it cool. And open that window to clear away this smell of sickness.’

  ‘I will, I will, doctor. What else must I do?’

  His instructions were long and specific. Sybil made a careful note of them but avoided his piercing gaze because it made her sense of guilt almost unbearable. She plied him with questions of her own and stored up each answer in her memory. Before he left, the doctor casually slipped a hand under the pillow and extracted a battered Roman Catholic Prayer book. Sybil backed away and shuddered violently.

  ‘This has no place in a Protestant household,’ he chided. ‘You know the law. We have put aside the old religion. How did this forbidden book come to be in the girl’s bed?’

  ‘I do not know,’ she lied, snatching it from him. ‘But I will throw it away at once, doctor. I give you my word.’

  ‘Honour it,’ he said sharply. ‘Or I will have to report this to your parish priest. You will not save your daughter with Romish incantations or with concoctions sold by quacks. Medicine is the only cure.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  He looked at Rose. ‘Call me if her condition worsens.’

  ‘We will, doctor.’

  ‘And remember that you are a mother.’

  The words were a stinging rebuke and Sybil felt the full force of them. When the doctor scurried out of the room, she sat down on a stool and wept contritely. Rose seemed peaceful now, eyes closed and breathing regular. But the fever was clearly still upon her and Sybil suspected that it had originated in a Clerkenwell backstreet.

  She was still sobbing when her husband eventually arrived.

  Alexander Marwood was even more appalled than usual.

  ‘The doctor asked for his fee,’ he moaned. ‘Do you know how much the man charged me?’

  ‘It does not matter,’ she said.

  ‘It matters to me, Sybil. The fee was exorbitant.’

  ‘If he can save Rose, I would give him every penny we have,’ she said, crossing to the bed. ‘We have wronged her, Alexander. We treated her like a criminal instead of a daughter. I feel so ashamed of what you made me do.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to shift some of the blame. ‘You badgered me, sir. You forced me to punish Rose.’

  Marwood was dumbfounded. No husband was less capable of forcing a wife to do anything than him. Obsequious requests were his only means of influencing Sybil. He peered over her shoulder at the slumbering girl. He was sorry that Rose was so ill but his first thought was still of his own humiliation.

  ‘Has she lost the child?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘No, Alexander.’

  ‘But you told me that she would.’

  Sybil’s words burnt into him like a branding iron.

  ‘I told you nothing of the kind. Do you understand?’

  When Nicholas Bracewell finally reached the Queen’s Head, he found the company in a buoyant mood. The stage had been erected, properties had been set out and the actors were chatting happily in groups. Nicholas was given a mocking cheer when he appeared. Usually the first to arrive, he was now the straggler in the party. Lawrence Firethorn sought to rub the message home.

  ‘Ah, Nick!’ he said good-humouredly, ‘so you have risen from your bed at last, have you? You are unconscionably late, dear heart. It is not like you to put the caresses of a lady before the needs of your company. Why the delay?’

  ‘I will tell you in private.’

  ‘Secrets, eh? I long to hear them.’

  Nicholas drew him aside to break the sad tidings. He explained that the delay was forced upon him. When the body of Sylvester Pryde was uncovered, constables were summoned and the crime reported. Nicholas supervised the transfer of the corpse to the morgue before giving a sworn statement to the coroner. It was only then that he was able to hurry to the Queen’s Head.

  Firethorn was thunderstruck by the news.

  ‘God in heaven!’ he murmured. ‘This is a tragedy!’

  ‘We must decide what to do,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘My advice would be to cancel this morning’s rehearsal so that we may appraise the situation. Black Antonio needs little enough attention. We have performed the play so often that we could do so at a moment’s notice without any rehearsal.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘We need time to think.’

  ‘Let me speak to the company. They will have to be told sooner or later and I would rather they heard it from my lips. In any case,’ he added, ‘they will be able to help me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Someone must have seen Sylvester leave here last night. They can give me some idea of what time that was. I had already returned to Bankside so I have no knowledge of his movements. Sylvester Pryde was a good friend to us. I will track down his killer,’ he vowed, ‘and the trail starts here.’

  ‘We will all want to follow that trail, Nick,’ said the other vehemently. ‘The culprit must be made to pay for this hideous crime. He has not only murdered Sylvester. He has killed our new playhouse stone dead.’

  ‘That may not be so.’

  ‘But Sylvester was our intermediary.’

  ‘The loan is secured and the terms agreed.’

  ‘Might not our benefactor wish to withdraw the money?’ said Firethorn anxiously. ‘His
only reason for helping us was his friendship with Sylvester. That can no longer exist.’

  Nicholas was calm. ‘Let us not race to meet a problem that may not exist,’ he said. ‘Two things must be done as soon as possible. We must find this guardian angel of ours and acquaint him with this terrible event. My hope is that he will want the playhouse to be as much a theatre as a memorial to Sylvester Pryde. Our loan may still be safe.’

  ‘You spoke of two things, Nick.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What is the other?’

  ‘We must keep up the spirits of the company,’ said Nicholas. ‘These heavy tidings will tear at their hearts but we must not let them despair. Westfield’s Men are under surveillance. If our work suffers, our chances of survival grow small. The company must strive to its utmost.’

  ‘We will, Nick. For Sylvester’s sake as much as for our own. He would not want us to betray our art.’

  ‘I will impress that upon them.’

  When they were herded into the tiring-house, Westfield’s Men knew that something was seriously amiss. The lateness of Nicholas Bracewell and the absence of Sylvester Pryde were worrying signs but none of them suspected how the two were conjoined. Nicholas broke the news to them as gently as he could but there was no way that he could lessen its impact. The whole company was rocked. Richard Honeydew fainted, two of the other apprentices burst into tears and George Dart had a fit of uncontrollable shivering. Edmund Hoode offered up a silent prayer for the soul of the departed. Owen Elias pulled out his dagger and swore to avenge the murder. Barnaby Gill retreated into a watchful silence.

  ‘We will not rehearse this morning,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We need time to make certain decisions and some of you, I know, will prefer to be alone with your thoughts. But remember this,’ he said over the murmur of agreement. ‘Black Antonio must not suffer. Though we have lost a fellow, we still have a duty to our audience, our patron and ourselves. Mourn for Sylvester in your hearts. Do not take that sorrow onto the stage this afternoon.’