Nicholas was intrigued. ‘Agnes, then, was innocent of complicity in the murder. When she provided the key for Freshwell and Maggs, she thought she was simply letting in two thieves to borrow papers from the workshop.’
Emilia nodded. ‘She will stand trial and must take her due punishment but Agnes was only used by others. Freshwell and Maggs knew my brother would return that night. What they did not know was that I would follow soon after.’ She grimaced at the memory. ‘When I got back, the house was in disarray. I knew the cause at a glance. I honoured my promise to my brother. Everything went up in flames.’
Nicholas felt as if his own plans and aspirations had just been set alight. Emilia was an even more remarkable woman than he had imagined. Her play had just thrilled a packed audience but it had drawn a complete veil over a fundamental part of the story. He now understood why she was so anxious not to appear in it as a character herself.
‘Do not think too harshly of me, Nicholas.’
‘I will never do that,’ he said gallantly.
‘You will visit me at Greenwich one day?’
‘If I may. But you will surely come here again to see Westfield’s Men perform your play.’
‘I think not.’
There was no more to be said. Nicholas placed a kiss on her hand and took his leave of her. His place was downstairs in the taproom with his fellows: hers was back in Greenwich with her brother. The book holder was wistful but not abashed. Emilia had trusted him enough to let him look into her heart and he would always be grateful to her for that.
***
Celebrations were reaching the rowdy stage when he got into the taproom. Lawrence Firethorn had bought drinks for the entire company and Barnaby Gill was entertaining them with one of his jigs. Peter Digby played the accompaniment, delighted to be working once more for a company he feared he had inadvertently betrayed. George Dart was so euphoric that he did not mind having his ear clipped by Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper. Edmund Hoode was resting on his laurels in the corner and finding them a softer couch than he had enjoyed at the Marshalsea. Owen Elias was making some of the hired men laugh at his merry tales. The spirit of Ben Skeat seemed to float above the joyous gathering.
Margery Firethorn handed a cup of wine to Nicholas. He waved away enquires about Emilia and submerged himself in the jollity. The company had been through a long, dark tunnel of pain before it emerged into this blaze of light. It was entitled to sing and shout until its lungs burst. Nicholas was so happy for them that his own sadness was forgotten.
He made his way across to Hoode and sat beside him.
‘This is your finest hour, Edmund,’ he said.
‘I want to share it with Emilia. Where is she?’
‘Too exhausted to come. The Roaring Boy thrilled her but it also drained her emotions. It was a brother’s murder she was watching on that stage.’
‘My work distressed her?’ said Hoode in alarm.
‘It pleased her beyond measure,’ said Nicholas, ‘and she asked me to tell you that. It pleased and harrowed everyone who saw it, Edmund. Today you have become the most famous playwright in London.’
‘Yet the piece is not mine.’ He clutched at the book holder’s sleeve. ‘Come, Nick. It is time to let me know the secret. You will have divined it by now, I am sure. Speak a name into my ear and it will go no further. Who is the true author of The Roaring Boy?’
‘You swear to lock the truth away?’
‘On my oath!’
‘And you will never ask me again?’
‘Tell me who he is and I am satisfied.’
‘Then hear it,’ said Nicholas, cupping his hands over his friend’s ear to whisper into it. ‘Edmund Hoode.’
‘You mock me!’ complained the other.
‘I give you right and title.’
‘Another hand fashioned The Roaring Boy at first.’
‘You have made it your own,’ said Nicholas. ‘That other hand wrote another play. What you have done is to breathe fresh life into it. Take all the honour that is due, Edmund. No man here has deserved it more. Look how your fellows acclaim you.’ He took in the whole room with a sweep of his arm. ‘Besides, you did something on that stage this afternoon that no author could ever have done and Westfield’s Men are eternally in your debt.’
‘For what, Nick?’ said Hoode. ‘For what?’
‘Writing a play that cured us all of the toothache!’
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