‘Our thief was a stranger to a tiring-house,’ he said, ‘or he would have taken the plot as well. Without that, our task would have been ten times more laborious.’
‘I find it laborious enough as it is,’ opined Quilter.
‘So do I,’ said Lipton, flexing his hand. ‘I begin to feel cramp.’
‘Fight it off,’ ordered Firethorn. ‘We need that neat calligraphy of yours until the bitter end.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘So the villain we seek is not a man of the theatre.’
‘He may not be a man at all,’ replied Nicholas.
‘An eunuch, then? Or a half-man like Barnaby?’
‘I’m no half-man!’ protested Gill. ‘Nor an eunuch either.’
‘The thief may well have been a woman,’ said Nicholas. ‘A young and beautiful one at that, according to Leonard. She asked him about the work of the book holder.’
‘What does that lumbering oaf know about it?’ said Firethorn.
‘Enough to understand the importance of the prompt book.’
‘And you think this woman may have taken it?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Would she have committed the other outrages?’
‘No,’ said Elias. ‘What woman would stoop to using poison?’
‘Margery, for one,’ replied Firethorn with a hearty cackle. ‘Had there been any in the house yesterday, she’d have poured it down my throat then danced on my dead body.’
‘So much for the joys of marriage!’ remarked Gill.
‘They’ll be forever beyond your reach, Barnaby. You’ll have to get your pleasure from being bitten on the bum by a rabid dog. Yes,’ he went on, looking at the scrivener. ‘Set that down as well. The Clown is bitten.’
‘Do not listen to him Matthew!’
‘And you may add – on the right buttock.’
‘No!’
‘Change that, Matthew. Barnaby prefers the left.’
‘To come back to the matter in hand,’ said Nicholas when Gill’s protests had died down, ‘I believe that the man we seek may have a confederate. He certainly bought the poison from the apothecary and paid that lad to set Rascal on us. But I fancy that this woman is part of the conspiracy,’ he went on, ‘and I wonder if the reason may not be right in front of us.’
‘How so?’ asked Hoode.
‘While we have been going over every single line of the play, I’ve seen things that did not strike me so much in performance. Look at the three women whom Lord Loveless sets up as rivals for his hand.’
‘Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor.’
‘The characters are excellently well drawn.’
‘That’s so throughout the play, Nick.’
‘Not always,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s real flesh and bone on all three ladies, and it brings them to life.’ He glanced at Honeydew. ‘The same goes for Mistress Malevole. There’s a depth and definition to her that several of the men lack.’
‘What do you read into that?’
‘I’m not sure, Edmund. But I do begin to wonder if Saul Hibbert’s women may be based on real people. They behave as if they do. And if that’s the case,’ Nicholas speculated, ‘none of them would be pleased to see the play for it pillories all four unmercifully.’
‘That’s where the comedy lies,’ said Gill, fussily.
‘Would you want to be shown as a cat, an owl or a monkey? For that’s what happens to the three women. Nor does Mistress Malevole come out of it with any credit. She’s portrayed as a malevolent snake, who schemes her way into Lord Loveless’s affections. No,’ Nicholas concluded, ‘Saul Hibbert has little affection for his ladies.’
‘Then the play does not have the ring of truth at all,’ said Firethorn, ‘for Saul has far too much affection for the fairer sex. When I spoke to him earlier, I had to prise him from a hot bed of passion. The fellow adores women.’
‘He uses them, surely,’ said Hoode, ‘but I sense no adoration in the man except for himself. Passion, once past, can leave only scorn in some men. I side with Nick. The ladies in the play are poorly treated.’
‘Everyone takes a knock in The Malevolent Comedy,’ said Gill.
‘But those most hurt are Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor. They are swinged soundly throughout. I wonder what their real names are.’
‘What does it matter? Let’s get back to our work.’
‘All in good time,’ said Firethorn, musing on what he had heard. ‘Nick may have seen something that eluded our gaze. Women can become frothing demons in an instant, as I learnt to my cost only yesterday. If one of them was turned into a laughing stock onstage, she’d seek revenge. Could that be the reason our prompt book was stolen?’
‘It all comes back to one question,’ said Nicholas.
‘Go on.’
‘What do we really know of Saul Hibbert?’
‘We know him for a playwright of exceptional talent.’
‘And exceptional vanity,’ added Quilter. ‘We also know him for his spite and malice. Nick was the victim of that. Master Hibbert will never be a true member of a company because he despises us.’
Gill preened himself. ‘He does not despise me or my work.’
‘But where did he come from?’ asked Nicholas. ‘How did he get here and what did he do before he came? Where did he learn to turn a line and shape a scene? In brief – who is Saul Hibbert?’
Cyrus Hame was just about to leave when his landlady showed in the visitor. He was taken aback to see Saul Hibbert standing there. The newcomer had lost some of his overweening confidence.
‘I hope that I’m not intruding on your time, Cyrus,’ he said.
‘No, no. Come in.’
‘You said that I might call upon you.’
‘Upon me or upon John. Though should you go to the Vavasor residence,’ said Hame, indicating his untidy little room, ‘you’ll find it more commodious than my humble lodging.’
‘I’d rather talk to you.’
‘Then take a seat and let’s converse.’
‘Not if I’m holding you up, Cyrus.’
‘The lady will wait,’ said Hame with a confiding grin. They sat either side of a little table. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I wished to ask about contracts.’
‘That’s something you’ll have to discuss with Giles Randolph. Only he can sign on behalf of Banbury’s Men.’
‘But is he a fair man? Do his terms favour the playwright?’
‘We made sure that they did.’
‘You have control over your work?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Lawrence Firethorn slipped terms into the contract that I barely noticed in my readiness to sign. I’ve lived to regret that.’
‘Other authors have said the same of him. Master Firethorn is slippery. Does he want another play?’
‘More than one.’
‘But you’ve not committed yourself?’
‘No,’ said Hibbert, ‘I wanted to speak to you or John first. You claim that Banbury’s Men will pay me more and treat me better.’
‘We can only talk from our own experience.’
‘It’s much happier than mine.’
‘A playwright should go where he’s most esteemed,’ said Hame. ‘Look at John Vavasor. He was reviled by one company and welcomed by another. Lawrence Firethorn was brutal to him.’
‘I’m less than satisfied with Master Firethorn myself.’
‘Then you have a remedy within your grasp.’
‘Do I?’
‘John and I have told you as much.’
‘But the power of decision lies with Master Randolph.’
‘Naturally,’ said the other, ‘but we came to you with his authority. He trusts our judgement and knows that we would not offer praise lightly. For reasons too obvious to relate, Giles is unable to attend a performance at the Queen’s Head. Even if he were not onstage every afternoon,’ he went on with a sly grin, ‘I doubt that he’d ever find his way to Gracechurch Street, any more than Lawrence Firethorn
would go to the Curtain.’
‘So you’ve delivered good reports of me to Banbury’s Men?’
‘Giles cannot wait to embrace you.’
‘How much would he give me in advance?’
‘In advance?’
‘Against my next play,’ said Hibbert. ‘The truth is that I’ve spent too freely since I’ve been here, and need the funds to keep me while I work on my new play.’
‘Giles will not buy a pig in a poke,’ cautioned Hame.
‘That’s not what he’ll be doing. I’ll be able to show him a first act and tell him the plot of the whole play. The Malevolent Comedy has attested my merit. Its successor will have even tastier pork on it.’
‘Let me talk to Giles.’
‘Soon, please. My purse grows slacker by the day.’
‘Then we are two of a kind,’ said Hame, companionably. ‘We sail before the wind of our creditors. John had the good fortune to marry money. I can only seem to spend it.’
‘I share that fault, Cyrus. I’m a man of extravagant tastes.’
‘There’s no disgrace in that. But what of Westfield’s Men?’
‘What of them?’
‘No ties of loyalty to bind you?’
‘None,’ said Hibbert, bitterly. ‘After all that’s happened, I’d break with them at the drop of a hat.’
Cyrus Hame lifted his hat in the air and let it fall to the floor. Saul Hibbert laughed. Having come for help and advice, he was going away reassured. A profitable future seemed to open up before him. They left the room and stepped out into the street. Hibbert went his way. His spirits were lifted and his arrogant strut restored but, long after the two of them had parted, it was Cyrus Hame who was still laughing.
Midnight bells were chiming when Nicholas Bracewell finally got back to Bankside. Forsaking the bridge, he had been rowed across the river by a talkative waterman with an interest in the stars. Nicholas was given a lecture on astrology that owed more to the ale the man had drunk than to any serious study of the subject. Arriving back at his lodging, he was pleased to see a light burning in Anne’s bedchamber. He let himself into the house and tiptoed upstairs, opening her door as silently as possible.
‘I’m still awake,’ she said, drowsily.
‘Did you get my message?’
‘Yes, Nick. It was kind of you to send it.’
‘George Dart blamed himself for the loss of the book,’ he said. ‘He was so keen to atone in some way that I took advantage of him. I felt that you ought to know what was afoot.’
‘Was the play reconstructed?’
‘To the last letter.’
‘You’ve always had an amazing memory.’
‘It does not compare with Lawrence’s. He holds over thirty parts in his head. When we go on tour,’ said Nicholas, ‘he can play any one of them after a mere glance at the prompt book.’
‘And where is the book for The Malevolent Comedy?’
‘Right here, Anne.’ He patted the manuscript under his arm. ‘I’ll lock it away before I come into bed. May I get you anything?’
‘Yes, please,’ she whispered. ‘Nick Bracewell.’
He kissed her gently on the forehead then went along the passageway to the room that he had rented when he first moved in. Since he now shared a bed with Anne, he used the room for storage. The most important item there was a large oaken chest, ribbed with iron and fitted with two locks. When he used his keys to unlock the chest, he opened the lid to reveal the history of Westfield’s Men, a collection of prompt books that went back over the years and that had been carefully annotated by the man in charge of them. It was a theatrical treasure trove. After adding the new play to the collection, he closed the lid and locked the chest again. Shortly afterwards, he was blowing out the candle beside the bed and snuggling up to Anne.
‘Will you be in danger tomorrow?’ she said.
‘I hope not.’
‘Every time you’ve played the piece, there’s been misfortune.’
‘The actors are all too aware of that, Anne. Most of them would love to see the back of The Malevolent Comedy. They think it brings bad luck. Frank Quilter said that it has the mark of the devil upon it.’
‘What do you think?’
‘That the mark is more likely to be upon the author.’
‘Then more trouble lies ahead.’
‘We’ll be ready for it.’
‘Good.’ She pulled him close. ‘At least, you’ll be back where you belong. What brought Lawrence to his senses?’
‘Necessity.’
‘He deserved to be severely scolded for what he did.’
‘Margery took on that task,’ he said, smiling. ‘She’s more skilled in the black arts of torture than Master Topcliffe at the Tower. I’ve her to thank for putting her husband on the rack. Margery defended me.’
‘She should not have needed to do so.’
‘I’ll waste no sleep, worrying on that score,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long day. Tomorrow, we face another trial.’
‘Would you like my eyes in the gallery again?’
‘No thank you. I can spare you this time. Besides, it would be cruelty to make Preben sit through a second performance.’
‘He’s not recovered from the first visit yet.’
‘Are all Dutchman so gloomy and severe?’
‘Jacob was not,’ she replied, ‘or I’d never have married him. He could be very jolly at times. Preben is more serious. He’s been in England for years yet still bears the stigma of being a stranger. But,’ she added, ‘I did not stay awake simply to talk about him. I want to hear the gossip.’
‘There’s little enough of that, Anne.’
‘No quarrels, no scandal among the actors?’
‘All I can tell you is that Edmund is in love.’
‘That’s to say the Thames is full of water. Give me news.’
‘This is news,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had it from Owen. He brought two sisters to sup with Edmund and one of them enchanted him. Our lovelorn poet is already writing a sonnet to her.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Good for us but bad for Edmund.’
‘Bad for him?’
‘According to Owen, he’s fallen in love with the wrong sister. Her name is Ursula and she’s no interest in men unless they compose religious music. Edmund is doomed to worship from afar.’
‘You said that it was good for Westfield’s Men.’
‘Very good, Anne.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s made him start writing again.’
Edmund Hoode lay on his bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling. Enough moonlight was spilling in through the shutters to dapple the walls. Tired but unable to sleep, he wrestled with the fourteen lines he hoped would win the heart of Ursula Opie, arranging and rearranging them constantly in his mind until he reached a degree of satisfaction. There was a secondary problem to be addressed. Did he send the poem to her anonymously or disclose his identity? If she was touched by it, then she should be told the name of its author. If, on the other hand, she was offended in some way, it was better that she should not know its origin or grave embarrassment could ensue.
After long cogitation, he settled on a compromise. Hoode decided to append the letter ‘E’ to his sonnet, both admitting and denying that it was his work. ‘E’ could just as well stand for Edward, Eustace, Edgar or a number of other names, allowing him to disclaim authorship if any discomfort threatened. To a woman susceptible to noble sentiments expressed in high-flown language, however, it could represent only one poet and she would respond accordingly. Hoode had recovered from the disappointment of the concert. Shy in public, Ursula had not lingered in the hall. Like him, she was a private person, a creature of thought and deep feeling, a young woman, as the concert had shown, with a strong spiritual dimension to her life. Bernice had sung her songs prettily but Ursula had played with a commitment that revealed how much more the music meant to her. Hoode yearned for her.
With th
e sonnet bursting to come out of him, he leapt off the bed, lit a candle and reached for his quill. There was no hesitation. The words over which he had pondered so long now came streaming out of his brain in the perfect order. After reading the poem through, he felt a surge of creative power. It needed no correction. Instead, he set it aside, pulled another sheet of parchment in front of him and started to work again on his play. Sustained by the knowledge that it had been inspired by Ursula Opie, he laboured long into the night. When the first cock began to crow, Hoode, impervious to fatigue, was still crouched low over his table.
Nicholas Bracewell set out very early the next morning with the prompt copy of The Malevolent Comedy in a satchel slung over his shoulder. By the time he had crossed the bridge and entered Gracechurch Street, the market was already under way, its booths, stalls and carts narrowing the thoroughfare, its customers thronging noisily, its vendors extolling the virtues of their produce aloud and its poultry squawking rebelliously in their wooden cages. Nicholas’s broad shoulders soon found a way through the press but he did not turn in to the Queen’s Head. Walking past it, he went on to the parish church of St Martin Outwich on the corner of Bishopsgate and Threadneedle Street. Built over a century earlier, the church stood beside a well that was served in earlier times by a device that allowed one bucket to descend the shaft as the other was pulled up. A pump had now been installed and, when Nicholas went past, housewives were queuing with buckets to draw water.
The funeral of Hal Bridger had taken place the previous day. Out of deference to the wishes of the parents, Nicholas and the others had stayed away but he wanted to pay his respects to his young friend. It did not take him long to find the grave in the churchyard. A fresh mound of earth rose up through the grass, a simple cross was standing over it. Nicholas came forward and removed his cap. Looking down at the grave, he tried to recall happier times in the boy’s short life. He remembered the smile of astonished joy on Bridger’s face when he first hired him to work for Westfield’s Men, and the fierce pride he took in performing even the most menial duties for them.
The Malevolent Comedy Page 16
