‘As a means of revenge against the company.’
‘Because you rejected his play?’
‘Master Bartholomew could not live with the disappointment. It preyed on his mind until his wits turned. The theatre can drive people to extremes at times, Anne.’
‘I know that,’ she said meaningfully.
‘He was greatly vexed that his suicide jump failed,’ Nicholas went on. ‘Nothing he has done in a theatre has succeeded.’
‘Poor fellow! He has been sorely tried.’
‘Yes, Anne. But he did solve one mystery for us.’
‘Mystery?’
‘Those playbills that George Dart put up for us.’
‘Master Bartholomew tore them down?’ she said in amazement.
‘Desperate men are pushed into desperate actions.’
Anne sighed and picked up her cutlery again. Then her eye went back to the bloodstained bandage around Nicholas’s head. Her worries converged upon him once more.
‘How is your own wound, Nick?’ she said.
‘My head is still attached to my body,’ he joked lightly.
‘Did you ask the surgeon to examine it?’
‘Do not distress yourself about it, Anne. I am in good health now.’ He raised a finger to touch the bandage. ‘I wear this simply to excite your sympathy.’
‘What of that man with the red beard?’
His manner changed at once and he became much more earnest.
‘I have even more cause to find the rogue now,’ he said with his jaw tightening. ‘Redbeard and his accomplice have a lot to answer for and I mean to bring them to account.’
‘But how?’ she asked. ‘In a city of over a hundred thousand people two men can easily stay hidden. How will you seek them out, Nick?’
‘I may not have to do that,’ he suggested.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Instead of going after them, I can wait till they come to me. For they will surely strike again.’
‘Oh, Nick!’ she sighed, fearing for him once more.
‘I am not their intended victim,’ he assured her. ‘They had their chance to dispose of me last night and they did not take it. No, Anne, they are working to some complex plan.’
‘I do not follow you.’
‘It all started with the death of Will Fowler.’
‘But that was an accident,’ she argued. ‘He lost his temper and was drawn into a quarrel. It was a random brawl.’
‘That is what I thought,’ he admitted, ‘but I have grave doubts now. I believe that Will was deliberately murdered and that everything else which has happened – including the theft of our prompt book – is linked together.’
‘What are you saying, Nick?’
‘The real target is Lord Westfield’s Men,’ he said with conviction. ‘Someone is trying to destroy the company.’
Chapter Eleven
Having found a rose in full bloom, Edmund Hoode lost his heart to her completely. He loved her ardently with a reckless disregard of her unsuitability for this honour. Rose Marwood was a goddess in an apron to him. Her blithe presence in his life gave it new hope and purpose. The agonies surrounding the performance of his play had left him even more in need of the heady consolations of romance, and he was driven by one desire. She must be his.
Alexander Marwood was a serious hindrance to his wishes. The landlord’s vigorous melancholy drew much of its strength from his fears for his daughter. Obsessed with the notion that Rose would be debauched at any moment, he rarely let her out of his sight. One of the penalties of giving hospitality to a dramatic company at The Queen’s Head was that every female on the premises was put at risk. To the harrowed landlord, all actors were promiscuous lechers without a moral scruple between them and the fact that two of his serving-wenches were with child confirmed this view.
Edmund Hoode was therefore baulked time and again. Whenever he stole upon the girl, her father appeared from nowhere with an errand which sent her running off. On the one occasion that Marwood himself did not prevent a casual meeting between the lover and his lass, it was the girl’s mother who intervened. Tall, big-boned and generously plump, she had a hawk-eyed watchfulness that put Hoode to flight in seconds.
His chance eventually came, however, and he was equal to it. From the window of the rehearsal room, he saw his beloved stroll into the yard with her young brother. Hoode had already bribed one of the stagekeepers to assist him and he now signalled the fellow over. George Dart – the most loveless member of the company – had been chosen to bear Cupid’s arrow.
‘Yes, master?’
‘Come with me, George.’
‘Where are we going, sir?’ asked the other, as he was hustled out and down a flight of stairs. ‘Am I to perform that service for you now?’
‘God willing!’
They reached the yard and Hoode glanced in through the open door of the taproom. Delighted that both Marwood and his wife were busy within, he gave Dart his orders.
‘She talks over there with her brother.’ He handed over a small scroll. ‘Give this to her privily.’
‘How, sir? The young fellow will see me.’
‘Distract him in some way.’
‘By what device?’
‘Do your office and be quick about it.’
‘I will try, sir.’
‘You will succeed, George,’ warned Hoode ominously. ‘That missive is for her eyes only. Away!’
‘Yes, master.’
Hoode stepped into the taproom and loitered near the door. Keeping one eye on the girl’s parents, he watched the diminutive stagekeeper skip across the yard. George Dart excelled himself. He reached the couple, stepped between them and relayed a message to the boy before guiding him firmly away. Rose Marwood was left alone, wondering how the scroll had got into her hand.
When she studied the seal, a look of pleasant surprise lit up her whole face. Edmund Hoode positively glowed.
‘Open it, my love,’ he whispered. ‘Open it.’
She obeyed his command as if she had heard it, breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment. Her surprise now gave way to bewilderment. With a frown of concentration, she stared at the sonnet for a few moments then turned it upside down to regard it anew from a different angle.
Hoode was aghast. He had expected his fourteen lines to wing their way straight to her heart and make her melt with passion. It had never even crossed his mind that this paragon, this ethereal beauty, this image of perfection could have any flaw. The truth was forced upon him with brutal suddenness. Rose Marwood could not read.
It had been going on for several days before a pattern began to emerge. Hugh Wegges noted that a few small items were missing from the tiring-house, Peter Digby was irritated by the disappearance of some sheet music, Thomas Skillen lost his favourite broom, and John Tallis could not find his cap. Other instances of petty pilfering went unreported. The next victim was Samuel Ruff.
He and Nicholas Bracewell had enjoyed a drink together after a day’s rehearsal at The Queen’s Head. They were seated in the taproom and Ruff made to pay the reckoning. When he opened his purse, however, it was empty.
‘My money has been stolen!’
‘How much was in the purse?’ asked Nicholas.
‘No more than a few groats but they were honestly earned.’
‘And dishonestly taken, it would seem.’
‘When could it have happened?’ said Ruff, as baffled as he was annoyed. ‘I’ve not been in crowds where pickpockets could easily set on me. My whole day has been spent here among my fellows.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘We have a thief in our midst.’
‘Here?’
‘You are not the only victim, Sam. I have had complaints all week. Someone has a wandering hand.’
‘Hunt the villain down!’
‘We will. But do not trouble yourself about the reckoning. I will settle it this time.’
‘Only until I am paid,’ insisted Ruff. ‘I will owe you the money un
til then, Nick. I always pay my debts.’
‘It is such a small amount, Sam. Hardly a debt.’
‘I felt nothing,’ admitted Ruff, staring in dismay at his empty purse. ‘He is a light-fingered rascal, whosoever he is.’
‘When did you last take coins out yourself?’
‘At noon. To pay for my food and drink.’
‘And since then?’
‘The purse has been at my waist ever since.’ A memory nudged him. ‘Except for a few minutes when Hugh Wegges made me try on a new costume. There were a dozen or more of us in the tiring-house.’
‘Can you recall who they were?’
‘No. I had no call to pay heed. Why?’
‘One of them is the thief.’
Samuel Ruff was deeply upset by it all. It had been some time since he had earned a regular wage and he had learned to husband his money carefully. The thought that one of his own fellows might have robbed him hurt badly. He plunged into gloom.
‘This is an omen,’ he decided.
‘Of what?’
‘The tide is turning against me. It had to come.’ A sigh of regret was followed by a helpless shrug. ‘I was happy to belong to the company until this.’
‘We are happy to have you, Sam.’
‘It has meant everything to me, Nick, and I cannot thank you enough for your part in it all.’ Embarrassment made him lower his head. ‘You met me at … a difficult time … when I was …’
‘You do not have to explain,’ said Nicholas kindly to spare him any further discomfort. ‘I understand.’
Samuel Ruff had been brought back from the dead as an actor. Having resigned himself to leaving the profession, he had been given one last chance to redeem himself and had done so admirably. The tiny spark inside him had been fanned into flame again and he had revelled in the world that he loved. Nicholas had watched it with pleasure. Samuel Ruff had been given back his dignity.
‘And now it is all over,’ said the actor sadly.
‘That is not so, Sam.’
‘But Master Gill is adamant. He will not tolerate me.’
‘He is only one of the sharers,’ Nicholas pointed out. ‘The others know your true value, Sam.’
‘They would still rather let me go than Master Gill.’
‘It may not come to that.’
‘Please try to help me!’ begged Ruff, clutching at the other’s wrist. ‘I am desperate to stay with Westfield’s Men. No other company would take me now. Please, Nick, use what influence you have on my behalf.’
‘I will,’ promised Nicholas. ‘Take heart.’
‘And what of Master Gill?’
‘We must study to persuade him.’
‘Will he submit, think you?’
‘Every man can have his mind changed.’
‘I truly hope so!’ He released Nicholas’s wrist and sat back with a tired smile. ‘Such a change in my life! When we two first met in that tavern, I was minded to go home.’
‘You did go home, Sam.’
‘I did?’
‘To the theatre.’
Ruff acknowledged the remark with a nod then his smile became more confidential. He leaned across the table.
‘Shall I make confession to you, Nick?’
‘Of what?’
‘I hate cows. I cannot abide the beasts.’
‘We saved you from that,’ said Nicholas with a grin.
‘Oh, you did so much more, my friend!’
When Marwood had been paid for the ale, they went out together into the yard. Evening was starting to close in on what had been a fine, clear day. They reached the main gate and paused at the archway. Ruff’s emotion showed through again.
‘I could not bear to lose this, Nick!’
He shook the book holder’s hand warmly then strode off through the archway to head towards his lodging. Nicholas cast one more glance around the yard and would have gone out into Gracechurch Street himself if his attention had not been caught by a sign of movement at a window. It was the tiring-house.
Nicholas was troubled. Everyone else from the company had gone home and the room had been locked up to protect the valuable costumes that were stored there. His first instinct was to cross to the window and peer in but that might alert whoever was inside. He decided instead to go back into the taproom to confront Marwood.
‘Could I have the key to the tiring-house, please?’
‘It has not been returned, Master Bracewell.’
‘Then who has it?’
‘I have no idea, sir.’
‘Give me the key to the adjacent room.’
‘What is amiss?’ asked the worried landlord.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Nicholas casually, trying to make light of it. ‘I daresay that Hugh Wegges is working late on a costume.’ He took the proffered key. ‘Thank you, Master Marwood. I will return it very soon.’
Nicholas hurried off to the tiring-house and tried the door. It was locked. He went around to the door of the adjacent room and let himself quietly in. Crossing the floorboards with a gentle tread, he reached the door that connected with the tiring-house and put his ear to it. Muffled sounds came from within and he thought he heard a costume swish. He had no doubt what was happening. The thief was at work again.
Lifting the latch with painful slowness, he eased the door wide enough open to look into the tiring-house. He was so startled by what he saw that he had to blink. It was the most unexpected discovery of all and he could not at first believe it.
In the corner of the room, Barnaby Gill was kissing a young woman. They were locked in a tender embrace and the actor was behaving with almost knightly courtesy, taking his pleasure softly and with evident respect for his lady. If it had not been so astonishing, the sight would have touched Nicholas.
He opened the door further and it creaked on its hinges. The couple immediately sprang guiltily apart and swung round to face him. He was given another severe jolt. The woman wore the costume and auburn wig that would be used in the next play.
It was Stephen Judd.
The apprentice turned red and Barnaby Gill blustered.
‘What business have you here, sir?’ he demanded.
‘I saw something through the window.’
‘It is nothing that need concern you. I was giving the boy some instruction, that is all. We are done now.’
‘Yes, Master Gill,’ said Nicholas evenly.
‘You may leave us,’ added the other loftily.
‘I will see Stephen safe home first.’
‘Get out!’
There was an expressive venom in the command but Nicholas held his ground and met the other’s glare. Barnaby Gill gradually backed off as cold reason searched him out. If the book holder reported what he had witnessed, the sharer would be placed in a very awkward predicament. Firethorn and the others were well aware of Gill’s preference for boys but it was mutually understood that he would not pursue or corrupt the apprentices. His brief moment with Stephen Judd could be fatal.
Nicholas stared him out. In those long, silent minutes, a bargain was struck between the two men. In return for saying nothing of what he had seen, Nicholas would keep Samuel Ruff in the company. It was an uneasy compromise but Gill yielded to it.
Stephen Judd was still flushed with guilt, which suggested that this had been the first time that he had succumbed to the actor’s blandishments. Nicholas was determined that it would also be the last time. A serious talk with the boy was now due.
‘Get changed, Stephen,’ he said.
Nervous and confused, the apprentice turned to Gill for guidance. The actor made a vain attempt to take control of the situation and waved a dismissive hand at the book holder.
‘You need not wait for him, sir,’ he said fussily. ‘I will take the lad back to his lodging. We bid you adieu.’
‘Get changed,’ repeated Nicholas quietly.
After a long pause, Gill gave the boy a curt nod and the latter began to remove the costume and wig. Nicholas opened the do
or fully and stepped to one side. Barnaby Gill took his cue. Without a backward glance, he marched quickly away from the scene of his latest disappointment. Another conquest had been lost.
Sunday morning found Lawrence Firethorn in his accustomed place in the parish church of St Leonard’s, Shoreditch, with his wife, children, apprentices and servants. He sang lustily, prayed zealously and stayed awake throughout a long and wayward sermon on a text from the Gospel According to St Mark. To all outward appearances, he was a contented family man at his regular devotions, and nobody in the full pews would have guessed that the matronly woman who stood, sat or knelt beside him was harbouring such murderous thoughts about her husband.
The Spanish Armada had served to strengthen the Protestant church immeasurably and to extend its hold over some of its less devout souls. Fear of invasion sent everyone hurrying to matins and vespers to pray for deliverance, and the English victory was celebrated in every pulpit in the land before a packed and grateful congregation. During that summer and autumn of 1588, churchwardens in town and country alike had far less cause to tax any feckless parishioners with poor attendance. Armada fever and its association with Rome swelled the flocks of even the most undeserving shepherds, and banished any nostalgia for the glories of the old religion.
Lawrence Firethorn had never been lax in attending to his spiritual needs. Old enough to remember the Latin liturgy that was restored during Mary’s reign, he had been pleased when Elizabeth’s accession brought a return to the Protestant service. He had quickly fallen under the spell of the Books of Common Prayer and the beauty of its language was a gift to an actor of his stature. The colour and ritual of the church had a theatricality which appealed to him and he was always ready to learn something from a priest who brought histrionic skills into the pulpit.
As he went down on his knees once more at the end of the service, his eyes did not close in prayer. They were fixed on the altar and a beatific smile covered his face. Margery Firethorn took a sidelong glance at him and wondered if he had been transfigured, such was the light that shone from him. But her husband was not suffused with the joy of Christian worship. What mesmerised him was the colour of the altar cloth – a royal blue embroidered with gold. It precisely matched the hue of the bodice that Lady Rosamund Varley had worn to The Curtain.
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