‘It will suffer far more if we offer them the botched piece we saw at rehearsal this afternoon. I was ashamed to be involved in such horror.’
‘Then help to turn it into an acceptable performance.’
‘Time is against us.’
‘I disagree, Edmund. It’s our greatest asset. Look at Owen,’ said Nicholas, indicating the Welshman. ‘He knows how little time he has to con his part and that inspires him to work at it all the harder. It is so with our fellows. I, too, had doubts about them when I walked in here – then I remembered that we have less than sixteen hours to pull the play together. When we get to the Guildhall tomorrow, there’ll be no room for grief or anguish. The company will respond as Owen has done.’
‘The play will not be the same without Lawrence.’
‘We thought it would not be the same without Barnaby yet we gave a rousing performance of it at Maidstone. The mayor loved it. When did we last earn five pounds when we were out on the road? And that’s another consideration, Edmund,’ he went on. ‘Cancel the performance and we lose both face and money. Fill the Guildhall tomorrow afternoon and we stand to replenish our coffers.’
Hoode was despondent. ‘That may be so, Nick. But no matter how much we earn, it will not atone for the loss of Lawrence.’
‘I grant you that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but imagine how pleased he will be when he comes back and finds that we have abided by our contract to play and swelled our funds.’
‘When he comes back? Do you honestly believe that he will?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then you are the only one of us here that does.’
‘I think not. Owen is of the same opinion as me.’
‘Even though you drew a blank with Conway’s Men?’
‘That left us chastened but not downhearted,’ explained Nicholas. ‘I was too hasty in singling out Tobias Fitzgeoffrey as the culprit. I reason thus. Two people who are linked to Westfield’s Men have been murdered. Fortunatus Hope was the first and Giddy Mussett, the second. Both were left where they would be found so that their fates would act as a warning to us. That is why Master Hope was killed at the Queen’s Head and not in some more private place. It was a visible blow against us.’
‘Nothing could have been more visible than Giddy’s death.’
‘It was meant to frighten, Edmund.’
‘It succeeded.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘but how much more upsetting would Lawrence’s death be? Suppose that we had found him lying in a stable with a dagger in his back? We would all have been distraught. Do you follow my argument?’
‘Very closely, and it brings me some relief.’
‘Good.’
‘Had Lawrence been murdered, his killer would have dangled his body in front of us to cause us real terror. Since that has not happened, there is a chance that Lawrence is still alive.’ His brow furrowed. ‘But why, Nick? Why spare him when his death would throw us into disarray?’
‘I can only guess. Whoever kidnapped him thought that his disappearance would be enough to halt us in our tracks. But that is not the case.’
‘I know,’ said Hoode, suddenly alarmed. ‘We are pressing on in spite of his loss. Could that not be dangerous for Lawrence?’
‘It is what he would expect of us.’
‘Not if it imperils his life.’
‘We’ve no means of knowing that it will.’
‘But it’s a possibility, Nick. Look at the situation. Lawrence is snatched from us in order to prevent us from playing again in Dover. If we ignore the message, will they not simply kill Lawrence in order to give us a starker warning?’
‘It’s a risk,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but we have to take it.’
‘I’m not sure that we should.’
‘We must, Edmund. Our intentions have been made clear. Instead of giving up in the face of fear, we struggled on at the Guildhall this afternoon. That will not have gone unnoticed. If our decision endangered Lawrence’s life, his dead body would have turned up by now. Yet it has not. He’s still alive,’ he continued, ‘and that means we have a chance to rescue him.’
‘I wish that I had your confidence.’
‘You share my love for the company. Let that carry you through.’
Hoode was reassured. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘We must perform the play.’
‘It will have another virtue.’
‘And what is that?’
‘It will bring our enemy out into the daylight again,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think that we’ve been watched ever since we set out from London. We know that the killer was in the audience at the Queen’s Head. I suspect that he’s seen every performance that we have so far given on tour. If we take to the boards at the Guildhall tomorrow, he’ll probably be hidden away among the other spectators.’
‘Wondering who his next victim will be,’ said Hoode with a shiver.
‘No, Edmund. Realising that he’ll not stop us.’
Nicholas stayed long enough to share a light supper with his friend and did his best to still Hoode’s apprehensions. As a courtesy, the book holder then went to Gill’s room to explain what happened on their visit to Conway’s Men. Before he could even tap on the door, however, he saw George Dart backing out of the room on tiptoe. Dart closed the door behind him and raised a finger to his lips to signal the need for silence. Nicholas took him to the other end of the passageway before he spoke.
‘Is he asleep, George?’
‘Yes,’ said Dart. ‘He was very tired.’
‘I know that he’s in pain.’
‘He never shows it in front of the others but it is different when we are alone. Every time he moves his leg, he’s in agony. Master Gill drinks wine to deaden the pain.’ He smiled hopefully. ‘Did you find what you were after, Nick?’
‘Unhappily, no. It was a false trail.’
Dart’s face fell. ‘Like all of the others.’
‘We’ll keep looking, George.’
‘And so will I.’
‘Your task is to take care of Barnaby.’
‘That does not stop me joining in the search,’ said the willing Dart. ‘When I wheeled Master Gill back from the Guildhall, I was as vigilant as any of them. And I all but stumbled on a clue that nobody else had found.’
‘A clue?’ asked Nicholas with interest.
‘That’s what I thought it might be at the time.’
‘And now?’
‘I was probably misled by him.’
‘By whom, George?’
‘It does not matter now. Master Gill told me to forget the man.’
‘What man?’
‘A beggar in the street.’
‘Go on. Tell me what happened.’
‘Well,’ said Dart, biting at a fingernail, ‘the poor wretch looked so miserable, sitting in a doorway like a stray dog, that I took pity on him. I stopped to give him a coin even though Master Gill chided me for doing so. The beggar was very grateful. He asked who I was and what I was doing in Dover. When I told him that I belonged to Westfield’s Men and that we were looking for Master Firethorn, he said that he could help me, if only I was to put more money into his palm. But I had none left to give.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘What I was told to do by Master Gill. He ordered me to wheel him back here and told me that I was a fool to listen to the fellow.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was telling a lie.’
‘Was that the impression that you got?’
‘No, Nick. I felt that he was in earnest. But Master Gill insisted that it was only a ruse to get more money out of me. If I gave the beggar a bag of gold, he said, I’d get nothing but falsehood out of him.’
‘Who knows?’
‘Master Gill was certain that the man was deceiving me.’
‘Yet he might have seen something,’ said Nicholas.
‘Oh, there was no question of that.’
‘Why not?’
‘The beggar was blind.’
Lawrence Firethorn had never before had such sympathy for the blind. Deprived of his sight by the piece of material tied across his eyes, he came to understand their plight and their helplessness. Firethorn had the additional handicaps of being tied up and gagged so he could not use touch and taste by way of guidance. All that he could rely on were his sense of smell and his hearing, and they gave him only limited intelligence. It was night. That much was certain. The tumult of the harbour had given way to a cloying silence that was broken from time to time only by the distant barking of a dog or the cry of a drunken man trying to find his way home. Firethorn could smell fish. Indeed, he could smell little else inside the room where he was locked. He decided that he was incarcerated in a warehouse of some sort. The abiding stink suggested that there was no window to admit any fresh air. As time wore on, the atmosphere became increasingly oppressive.
His captors had left him alone. That meant they had no fear that he could escape from his prison. Firethorn was tied to a stout wooden post and, even though he strained every sinew in an effort to break free, he could not budge the timber. He was there for the whole night. What happened then, he could only conjecture. He could certainly expect no sympathy from the two men who held him. When they moved him to the warehouse, they had been rough to the point of brutality, taking full advantage of his inability to defend himself. Firethorn vowed to take revenge on them a hundred times but he was in no position to exact it. Everything depended on other people. Whether or not he stayed alive depended on his captors. Whether or not he was rescued, depended on Westfield’s Men.
Firethorn was afraid. When he fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, the same question was repeating itself inside his mind: ‘Nick Bracewell – where are you?’
Any fears that Westfield’s Men would be unequal to the challenge that lay ahead were swiftly dispelled. When they gathered at the Guildhall early on the following morning, they had shaken off their despair and found a new resolution. Nicholas explained to them why he believed that Firethorn was still alive and they were further bolstered. There was also a strong rumour that their patron would arrive in Dover in time to see them perform. It served to make the actors apply themselves more rigorously. As a result, the rehearsal bore no resemblance to the halting performance of the previous day. Mistakes were still made but they were quickly rectified. Owen Elias’s grasp on his character and his lines was now secure. George Dart contrived to prompt audibly at the correct moments. Even Barnaby Gill, normally so peevish at rehearsals, was lulled into a rare state of optimism by the way that the company lifted itself out of its pervading woe. It augured well for the afternoon performance.
While most of the others returned to the Lion for refreshment, Nicholas remained behind with George Dart to put everything in readiness. Scenery was set up for the opening of the play and properties placed on stage. Benches were arranged so that everyone had a good view of the action. Gatherers had to be instructed in their role so that nobody slipped past them without paying an entrance fee. Sunlight streamed in through the windows on both side walls to eliminate any need for candles. When the work was done, Nicholas spared a few minutes to follow up the potential clue that Dart had mentioned. The two of them walked to the exact spot where the blind beggar had sat on the previous day but the man was not there.
‘Are you sure that it was here?’ asked Nicholas.
‘This was the very doorway.’
‘I saw no blind beggar when I passed by with Owen.’
‘Perchance he moved.’
‘Why should he do that?’
‘He had money to spend. I gave it to him.’
‘Look about for him. Try the streets nearby.’
They split up and went down all the adjacent streets and lanes. Their search was thorough but, once again, completely futile. Nicholas was disappointed. A tiny wisp of hope seemed to have vanished the moment that it appeared.
Impressed by the reputation of Westfield’s Men, and lured by the title of the play, a large audience descended on the Guildhall that afternoon. Most paid for a seat but there was also standing room at the rear and a number of sailors had been tempted away from their taverns to watch A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady. The mayor and his wife were there again, as were most of the city worthies. Sebastian Frant brought his daughter this time and they sat near the front so that they would get full value from the performance. Lord Westfield did not arrive in time but John Strood did, mingling with the standees at the back of the hall and wondering what had drawn his former shipmate, Nicholas Bracewell, into a theatre troupe. It struck him as an odd choice of profession.
Behind the scenes, Nicholas took on a role more usually assigned to Firethorn, that of instilling confidence and spirit into the company. While the actor-manager did it with a hortatory speech, declaimed with characteristic zest, the book holder preferred to move quietly from one person to another so that he could speak individually to them. By the time that Nicholas had finished, everyone knew what was expected of him. The musicians took up their places in the gallery and James Ingram was poised to stride out on stage to deliver the Prologue. The customary buzz of anticipation could be heard from the audience. They were there to enjoy themselves and Westfield’s Men were determined not to let them down. Certain that everybody was ready, Nicholas gave the signal. The musicians began to play.
Almost immediately, a lute string snapped with a resounding twang, catching the lutenist on the arm and producing an involuntary yell of surprise. It gained the first unintended laugh. When Ingram swept on stage to deliver the Prologue, his black cloak caught on the edge of the scenery and was badly torn. More laughter followed. It was an inauspicious start but the actors were not distracted. Once the play began, they imposed a degree of control over it that never really slipped. At the same time, however, they failed to inject any of the fire and hilarity that had marked earlier performances of the play. Gill was strangely subdued and it was only Nicholas’s frenetic manipulation of the wheelbarrow that produced any sustained mirth. The apprentices were little more than adequate as the female quartet and Rowland Carr, playing a disreputable hedge-priest, was less than reliable. It was not for want of effort. Everybody committed himself wholeheartedly to the enterprise but that soon became a fault. By trying too hard, they fell short of their high standards. They speeded up the action to an almost bewildering pace, their timing was awry and they lost all the subtleties of the play.
It was Owen Elias who lent the piece its real quality. In the leading role of Lackwit, he was so outstanding that they hardly missed Firethorn. The Welshman seized his opportunity to dazzle like a man who had been waiting a whole lifetime for such a moment. He was both hero and clown, winning the sympathy of the spectators yet earning most of the laughter as well. Elias had always been a fine actor with a commanding presence and a powerful voice but nobody had expected him to blossom in the part of Lackwit. Much to Gill’s disgust, Bedlam was overshadowed and it spurred the clown on to desperate measures. He inserted comic songs that were not even in the play and made such use of his facial contortions that he appeared to be having some kind of fit. None of it challenged Elias’s supremacy. It was he who rescued the play from the mediocrity into which it would otherwise have sunk.
Fortunately, the majority of the audience was unaware of the glaring defects in the performance. Unused to seeing plays on a regular basis, they were not unduly critical and enjoyed every moment. Even with its blemishes, A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady was superior to anything that Conway’s Men, or any other touring company, had offered to the people of Dover and they were highly appreciative. The actors, however, knew only too well how much better the play could have been. During the long and generous applause, they took their bow with a measure of guilt, feeling that they did not entirely deserve it. Elias was again the exception. Having carried much of the play on his broad shoulders, he felt entitled to bask in the ovation and he made the most of it. When he led the cast into the tiring-house, he was congratulated b
y all and sundry. Even Gill had a word of praise for him.
Nicholas was deeply disappointed. In times of adversity, Westfield’s Men could be usually be counted on to pull together but it had not happened that afternoon. What had worked so well in rehearsal that morning had faltered during the actual performance. Even experienced actors like Gill, Ingram, Carr and Frank Quilter had signally failed to do themselves justice. Something positive had been achieved. In defiance of the attempt to prevent them from playing at all, they had actually staged the comedy in front of a full audience. Money had been earned and spectators went away happy. But it was not enough to satisfy Nicholas. He was forced to accept the fact that, without Firethorn, the company was not in a fit state to defend their high reputation. Their patron, an assiduous theatregoer, would have been shocked to see how disorganised they had become. He would certainly not allow his company to perform at the castle in front of Lord Cobham.
Suppressing his own anxieties, Nicholas did his best to give encouragement to the others but it was in vain. They were sad and jaded. The performance had exposed their limitations and reminded them just how much they depended on Firethorn. All that they wanted to do – apart from Elias, that is – was to creep back to the Lion and reach for the consolation of strong ale. Gill crooked a finger to call Nicholas over to him.
‘That was an abomination,’ said the clown.
‘It was lacking in some respects,’ admitted Nicholas.
‘Thank heaven that Lord Westfield was not here to witness it.’
‘I, too, am grateful for that small mercy.’
‘Spare us from further disgrace, Nicholas.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Inform our patron that we are unable to perform at the castle. I’ll not be humiliated like that again. Until we find Lawrence, we are but pale shadows of what we should be. Look around you,’ said Gill. ‘There’s hardly a man among us who would dare to take to the boards again. Explain the situation to Lord Westfield. Tell him that we’ve given our last performance in Dover.’
The Vagabond Clown Page 25
