Lucius Kindell walked up and down outside the Queen’s Head and tried to pluck up enough courage to go in. An inn which had offered him so much joy and friendship now seemed to be sealed off from him by an invisible barrier. Guilt jostled with necessity. Ashamed to show himself, Kindell knew that he must do so if there was any hope of reconciliation. He licked his lips, bunched his fists, straightened his back and summoned up every ounce of resolution. Then he went in through the gate.
Westfield’s Men had just broken off from their morning rehearsal. They were in a jovial mood. Their sense of unity was forbidding to the exile. He was afraid that they would shun him as one, if not drive him away with blows and harsh words. His steps became slower and more tentative. It was Edmund Hoode who saw him first and the young playwright could detect none of the apparent friendliness Hoode showed at their last meeting. Others glowered at him, a few turned away. When he collected a searing glare from Lawrence Firethorn, the newcomer lost all heart. He began to slink off.
Nicholas Bracewell went quickly after him.
‘Wait, Lucius!’ he called. ‘I crave a word.’
‘I fear that it will come with a blow,’ said the other, pausing at the gate and raising a protective arm. ‘You must think me the worst species of traitor.’
‘No, Lucius. You were practised upon.’
‘I was, I was. Master Kitely beguiled me.’
‘If you have realised that, you are already halfway to redemption.’ Nicholas smiled and gave him a pat on the arm. ‘Have you heard the glad tidings?’
‘It was the reason that I came.’
‘The Privy Council has spoken. They were so impressed by all three companies who performed at Court that they will not debar any of them. Westfield’s Men have been reprieved. And there is better news yet,’ he said. ‘We hear that they will also renounce their plan to close the inn yard theatres. The Queen’s Head may yet resound to our pandemonium.’
‘Until you move to The Angel,’ noted Kindell. ‘That is what vexes Havelock’s Men. To have another playhouse so close to The Rose in Bankside. What will happen to this inn when Westfield’s Men leave?’
Nicholas shook his head in doubt then looked shrewdly at the visitor. Kindell’s arrival might yet be providential.
‘Why did you come, Lucius?’ he asked.
‘To make my apologies.’
‘It is too late for that.’
‘I know,’ said the other, ‘but I am perplexed. I made a great mistake and I will pay dearly for it.’
‘In what way?’
‘When Master Kitely commissioned a new play from me, I was flattered. I thought it would take me from my fledgling role. In my vanity, I dreamt of being the Edmund Hoode of The Rose.’ He gave a shrug. ‘It will not come. Though I beat at my brains day and night, the new play will not come easily onto the page. What I have written only saddens me and it will appal Master Kitely when he reads it. The truth is … I am not yet ready to fly on my own. I need another’s feathers to buoy me up in the air.’
‘Honestly spoken, Lucius!’
‘Do not mock me.’
‘I pity you,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I also admire you for admitting the error of your ways and recognising that you still have limitations.’
‘Hideous limitations! My play is doomed.’
‘What does Rupert Kitely say?’
‘If it will not suit, it will be rejected outright.’
‘Has he not tried to help you?’
‘Yes,’ said Kindell, ‘but only to shape his own role into prominence. He is no craftsman like Edmund Hoode. He does not work at the carpentry of the whole piece.’
Nicholas let him unburden his woes. He was struck by the other’s candour and by his genuine remorse. Kindell had been naive rather than treacherous. His crime was forgivable.
‘Would you like to come back to us, Lucius?’ he said.
‘I dream of nothing else.’
‘It may take time.’
‘I will wait patiently.’
‘Then do the company a service as proof of your loyalty.’
‘I will do anything!’ vowed the boy.
‘How often does their patron visit Havelock’s Men?’
‘The Viscount attends almost every performance.’
‘Then deliver this to him,’ said Nicholas, taking a letter from inside his jerkin. ‘Be sure that you put it into his hands yourself.’
‘What shall I tell him?’ asked Kindell, holding the missive and staring at its large seal. ‘That it was given to me by Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘No,’ said the book holder. ‘Tell him the truth. That it comes from a beautiful lady who desired you to deliver it in person. I was there when the lady in question penned this letter so I can vouch for her. Say nothing more than that, Lucius. It is enough.’
‘He will press for the lady’s name.’
‘If you do not know it, you cannot speak it.’
‘How will I describe her?’
‘As I have. Beautiful and gracious.’
He rehearsed Kindell in his role as messenger then sent him on his way. Firethorn came sauntering across to him.
‘I hope that you chastised him roundly, Nick.’
‘There was no need.’
‘Lucius Kindell is a villain.’
‘He is a foolish young man as we once were ourselves.’
Firethorn grinned. ‘In some senses, I still am. But why were you so civil to that traitor?’ he said, scowling again. ‘He is in the pay of Havelock’s Men now.’
‘That is exactly why I courted him.’
‘But Rupert Kitely is as base a man as Giles Randolph. Between the two of them, they do not amount to one complete actor. As for their patron at The Rose, he made my blood boil when I saw him at Court, smiling at us as if he already knew we would be disbanded. I loathe that devious Viscount, Nick. Do you know what I will do?’
‘What?’
‘Ask Edmund to put him in a play, to bring the whole city’s ridicule upon his head. If it is done cunningly enough, he will not sue for libel. Yes,’ he said warming to the notion. ‘That is a role I long to play. Lawrence Firethorn in the guise of Viscount Havelock.’
Nicholas suppressed the urge to burst into laughter.
Persistent rain turned the streets of London into a sea of mud but Viscount Havelock was not deterred by inclement weather. The invitation had been so enticing that he would have kept the assignation if the city had been swept by a blizzard. His carriage squelched its way along a wide thoroughfare before turning into a street. The rain drummed ceaselessly above his head. When they reached the designated house, the Viscount took out the letter once more, inhaled its fragrance and read its honeyed words by the light of the lantern.
It had been delivered to him by Lucius Kindell who was patently ignorant of the identity of the sender. The lady’s anonymity lent a piquance to the whole evening. Viscount Havelock could not wait to meet her and to solve a mystery which so intrigued him. Alighting from the coach, he picked his way through the mud and went in through the already open door of a large house. The maid who admitted him curtseyed but was too shy to raise her eyes to him. She conducted him upstairs and into an antechamber. The Viscount was left alone in a pleasant room with branched candelabra throwing a shadowy light. When he saw the wine in readiness on the table, he rubbed his hands in delight.
Noises from the adjoining bedchamber told him that she was there and he tried to construct her appearance in his mind. He was still adding the finishing touches to his portrait when he heard the door open. Keeping his back to it, he waited until she had time to enter the room then turned to survey his latest conquest. Her beauty was striking, her attire wondrous and her perfume alluring but Viscount Havelock was proof against all of her attractions.
‘Cordelia!’ he exclaimed.
‘Charles!’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You invited me.’
‘I did no such thing, sir,’ she said, having exp
ected Lawrence Firethorn instead. ‘You are the last person in London I would wish to see. I would sooner seek the company of the meanest beggar than lower myself to your level.’
‘You insult me, Cordelia.’
‘Not as much as you once insulted me.’
‘Still harping on that, are you?’
‘Get out, sir! Get out of the house!’
The wrangling continued apace for a full hour.
Heavy during the day, the rain became torrential at night, working in league with a fierce wind to wash London like a tidal wave. Bankside bore the brunt of the downpour. Water streamed off thatched roofs and swelled the rivulets that ran through every street. Swollen and angry, the Thames itself started to test the strength and height of its banks. The site of The Angel theatre was especially vulnerable. Ground which was already sodden after a week of rain now became completely waterlogged. As the foundations were weakened, brick walls and wooden posts began to sway slightly in the howling wind.
But the real enemy were the huge timbers themselves. Delivered by barge, they had been dragged by rope up the incline and a deep trench had been gouged out of the mud. It was now a gushing waterfall, pouring into a river that was already lapping dangerously at the remains of the derelict wharf. Wind, rain and river had no respect for angels. As the night wore on, the wind reached gale force, the rain became a deluge and the River Thames, dark and unruly, burst its bank and sent its overflow surging up the trench to meet the waterfall. The whole site was soon flooded.
Timbers which lay in readiness were picked up and borne away, walls which had seemed solid were knocked over as if by a giant hand, and wooden posts were uprooted and tossed onto the flood. As more water poured irresistibly into the site, and as the wind reached a new pitch of hysteria, The Angel theatre was swept away in its entirety and the dreams of Westfield’s Men went sailing away for ever downstream.
A week wrought substantial changes in the company’s position. They lost their benefactor, abandoned the notion of building a playhouse, paid compensation to Thomas Bradd, allowed Lucius Kindell back into their ranks and elected to remain at the Queen’s Head. Though forced upon them, it was a universally popular decision. The Angel theatre had fired their imaginations at first but Owen Elias was not the only one to see its inherent drawbacks. They were happy to be safely back in their own home.
Nicholas Bracewell looked around the taproom at the grinning faces with a mixture of relief and satisfaction. His deft stage management had rescued them from the threat of the Countess of Dartford and The Angel theatre had been destroyed by force of nature rather than by the depredations of any rival. He was content, especially as none of his fellows would ever know how close they came to being taken over by a new and dangerous patron. When Lawrence Firethorn had talked about portraying Viscount Havelock on stage, he had no idea that his book holder had arranged for the Viscount to take on the part of the actor for an evening.
Lucius Kindell came over to sit beside Nicholas.
‘A thousand thanks,’ he said. ‘I never hoped that I would be invited back to Westfield’s Men.’
‘On sufferance,’ warned Nicholas.
‘I know it well.’
‘Work with Edmund and make amends for what happened.’
‘He tells me that it was your doing,’ said the other. ‘You persuaded them to have me back. The offer could not have been more timely. I was thrown out of Havelock’s Men by their patron himself. The letter which I gave him seemed to delight him at first but he hurled it at me when we next met.’
‘You were a good messenger, Lucius.’
‘Viscount Havelock did not think so. Who wrote it?’
‘I told you. A beautiful lady.’
‘But what was her name?’
‘That would betray a confidence,’ said Nicholas, recalling how Anne Hendrik had penned the missive at his dictation, her elegant feminine hand ensnaring a viscount. ‘A gentleman must always protect a lady’s reputation, Lucius. And this one prefers to remain unknown.’
Kindell thanked him again and went to rejoin Hoode over a drink. The two of them were soon deep in discussion over their next collaboration. Nicholas watched with pleasure then caught a glimpse of Rose Marwood as she tripped across the taproom, now recovered and regaining something of her bloom. Leonard, too, was there, thrilled that his friends would be staying at the inn after all. Lawrence Firethorn was engaged in a heated argument with Alexander Marwood, the one yelling and the other gesticulating wildly. When the landlord stumped angrily out, Firethorn came across to Nicholas with a huge grin.
‘That is what I would have missed, Nick.’
‘What is that?’
‘My battles with that mangy cur of a landlord. I thrive on them. With all its virtues, a new playhouse could never compare with the Queen’s Head. We have lost our guardian angel but we have also lost the huge debt which the loan incurred. No,’ he said with philosophical calm, ‘we are fortunate men.’
‘We are!’ said Nicholas with feeling.
‘Alexander Marwood is a menace but remember this, Nick. Better the devil we know than The Angel we do not!’
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About the Author
EDWARD MARSTON was born and brought up in South Wales. A full-time writer for over forty years, he has worked in radio, film, television and the theatre and is a former chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. Prolific and highly successful, he is equally at home writing children’s books or literary criticism, plays or biographies.
www.edwardmarston.com
By Edward Marston
THE BRACEWELL MYSTERIES
The Queen’s Head • The Merry Devils • The Trip to Jerusalem
The Nine Giants • The Mad Courtesan • The Silent Woman
The Roaring Boy • The Laughing Hangman • The Fair Maid of Bohemia
The Wanton Angel • The Devil’s Apprentice • The Bawdy Basket
The Vagabond Clown • The Counterfeit Crank • The Malevolent Comedy
The Princess of Denmark
THE RAILWAY DETECTIVE SERIES
The Railway Detective • The Excursion Train
The Railway Viaduct • The Iron Horse
Murder on the Brighton Express • The Silver Locomotive Mystery
Railway to the Grave • Blood on the Line
The Stationmaster’s Farewell • Peril on the Royal Train
The Railway Detective Omnibus:
The Railway Detective, The Excursion Train, The Railway Viaduct
THE CAPTAIN RAWSON SERIES
Soldier of Fortune • Drums of War • Fire and Sword
Under Siege • A Very Murdering Battle
THE RESTORATION SERIES
The King’s Evil • The Amorous Nightingale • The Repentant Rake
The Frost Fair • The Parliament House • The Painted Lady
THE HOME FRONT DETECTIVE SERIES
A Bespoke Murder • Instrument of Slaughter
Five Dead Canaries
If you liked The Wanton Angel,
try Edward Marston’s other series…
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1T 6DW
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in 1999.
This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2014.
Copyright © 1999 by EDWARD MARSTON
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
&nbs
p; All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1511–4
The Wanton Angel Page 25
