The Counterfeit Crank

Chapter Ten

Margery Firethorn was smouldering with anger as she sat in the half-dark of her parlour. There was a single lighted candle beside her. It was the second night in succession when she found herself waiting up for an errant husband and that served to sharpen the edge of her temper. Everyone else in the house in Shoreditch had retired to bed but she was determined to sit up for her spouse, no matter how long it might take. Such was the strength of her resolve that there was no danger of her falling asleep. A hundred candles burnt brightly inside her.

At long last, she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves, clacking on the hard surface of Old Street. She blew out the flame and plunged the room into darkness, listening to Firethorn dismount, stable the animal and, after some delay, let himself into the house. Leaving his hat on the wooden peg behind the door, he stole into the parlour on tiptoe, intending to creep up the stairs with the least possible noise. Firethorn had just reached the first step when a voice shattered the silence.

‘Lawrence!’ snarled his wife.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed, a hand to his chest. ‘Is that you, Margery?’

‘Who else would bother to stay up for a worthless husband like you?’

‘Ah,’ he said, as she was conjured out of the gloom to stand a few inches away from him. ‘There you are, my angel.’

‘Angel me no angels,’ she warned. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Business affairs kept me away from your warm bosom.’

‘That was your excuse yesterday and I did not believe it then. You swore to me that you’d return early this evening so that you could welcome Jonathan.’

‘Jonathan?’

‘Have you forgotten that my brother-in-law was arriving today?’

‘It went quite out of my mind,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve had such a day at the Queen’s Head that all else fled from my busy brain.’

‘So I am left alone to feed the children, the apprentices and our visitor, while you are revelling with the other actors. It’s not fair, Lawrence. It’s not kind.’

‘A thousand pardons, my love,’ he said, reaching out to embrace her, only to have both hands smacked away. ‘Instead of scolding me, you should pity me.’

‘Pity you!’ she echoed. ‘I’d sooner beat you black and blue.’

‘If that relieves your anger, you may do it. I’ve suffered so much today already that I’ll not even feel the blows. I’ve been knocked about until I am quite numb.’

Margery grabbed his beard. ‘What’s her name, Lawrence?’

‘Who?’

‘The woman who has kept you out late for two nights. Who is this jade? Come, sir,’ she demanded, tightening her grip, ‘who is this wanton hussy?’

‘She goes by the name of Dame Fortune,’ he groaned, ‘and she’s battered me harder than you could ever do. It was not enough for her to deprive me of Edmund, Nick and the takings from The Maid of the Mill. She also robbed us of our costumes and took away my sanity.’

Margery released him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The slow death of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Your costumes were stolen?’

‘All that were of any value,’ he said. ‘Hugh Wegges discovered the theft this morning. The landlord offered us five pounds to cover our loss but we’d need ten times that amount at least. And the worst of it is, Nick Bracewell was not there to help.’

‘Why not?’

‘It would take too long to explain, Margery.’

‘He’s never let you down before.’

‘No, that’s why I summoned him. I knew that he’d call on Edmund at some time so I left a message there about the loss of our wardrobe. How can we play Love and Fortune tomorrow if we have nothing to wear?’

‘Nick is the only person who could answer that question.’

‘He’s promised to try,’ said Firethorn, wearily. ‘And, since we are so embattled, he’s agreed to hold the book for us tomorrow afternoon instead of deserting us.’ He gave a low moan. ‘I never hope to see a day as bad as this again, Margery.’ A mirthless laugh followed. ‘And there’s my wife, thinking that I’m lying in the arms of some buxom wench. Dame Fortune keeps a cold bed, I can tell you. I’ve had no pleasure between her thighs today.’

‘Oh, you poor man!’ she said, embracing him. ‘I misjudged you, Lawrence.’

‘I’ve been bound to Ixion’s wheel.’

‘Why did you not send word of all this trouble? I’d then have been able to explain to Jonathan that you were delayed. He was so anxious to speak to you.’

‘I had anxieties of my own to occupy me.’

‘You can see my brother-in-law tomorrow, and travel with him into the city.’

‘Must I?’ protested Firethorn.

‘Jonathan wishes to go to the Queen’s Head so that he can watch the rehearsal.’

‘When we are in such confusion? Keep him away, Margery. He’ll see us at our worst and take a low opinion of our work back to your sister in Cambridge. Instead of watching Love and Fortune, your brother-in-law will see only Hatred and Misfortune.’

‘You’ll rally somehow.’

‘Even Lazarus could not rise again from this. Help me, my dove. Jonathan Jarrold is a tedious fellow at the best of times. Spare me his company.’

‘Leave we that decision until the morning. Our bed calls us.’

He smiled hopefully. ‘Are we reconciled, then?’

‘No,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘But we soon will be.’

Nicholas Bracewell rode into the yard of the Queen’s Head on the horse that he had borrowed from Anne Hendrik. Across the pommel were several garments that he had managed to collect from Anne and from some of her neighbours. She had also supplied the selection of hats that he had carried in a bag. George Dart came scurrying across to him to take everything he had brought. He took it off to the tireman. Nicholas dismounted and gave the reins to the ostler who stood by. He was pleased to see that their makeshift stage had already been erected but even more delighted to note that Owen Elias was there so early in the morning. The Welshman came across to him.

‘Good morrow, Nick,’ he said. ‘More costumes, eh? That’s good. I’ve loaned a rag or two from my own meagre wardrobe. They’ll serve for a rustic comedy like Love and Fortune. But what news of Dorothea?’

‘She frets, Owen.’

‘Who would not, in her position? I long to help the girl but I’m forced to chafe at the bit here. Lawrence sorely needs us.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I’ve not forgotten Bridewell.’

‘Nor have I.’

‘When we have a moment, I’ll divulge my plan.’

‘I hope that it involves slitting the throats of those two villains.’

‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave are certainly my targets. But, now that I’ve met the pair, I know that it will not be so easy to hit them.’ He saw Firethorn ride into the yard with a stranger. ‘We’ll talk anon, Owen.’

‘I hope that Lawrence is in a better mood today. He was roaring like a lion yesterday and James told us the reason for his distemper.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lawrence ventured into Master Lavery’s room and lost heavily at cards.’

Nicholas was taken aback. ‘But he spoke so strongly against it.’

‘Temptation got the better of him, Nick. I thought I saw him sneaking off upstairs last night. If he lost again, our ears are in for another roasting.’ He saw Firethorn bearing down on them. ‘Here he is,’ he noted, ‘and his eye is still inflamed. That means he had another defeat at the card table.’ He moved away. ‘I’ll leave him to you, Nick.’

Having given his horse to an ostler, Firethorn abandoned his companion and marched across to the book holder. The actor was torn between fury and resignation.

‘We are doomed,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘Every way I turn, I spy disaster.’

‘Then you have not looked at our wardrobe,’ said Nicholas with smile. ‘Owen and I have brought some new costumes and others have promised to do the like. We’ll have enough to dress the play this afternoon.’

‘But what about tomorrow’s, Nick? The Knights of Malta calls for better apparel than we can ever muster, and The Loyal Subject, that we play on Friday, needs a queen in all her glory. Are we to put Dick Honeydew on stage in sackcloth when he takes the part? How regal will the lad look in that?’

‘By then, we may have our own wardrobe back.’

‘How can that be? It will already have been sold.’

‘To whom?’

‘To anyone who’ll buy it. Our rivals would seize on such a purchase.’

‘Then they’d be foolish to do so,’ said Nicholas. ‘We’d recognise our wardrobe anywhere. As soon as one of us went to The Curtain, The Theatre or The Rose, we’d know who had our costumes and demand them back. No,’ he went on, ‘they’ll have to be sold singly to individuals. That will take time. No shop would buy such a range of attire. And there’s another thing to remember.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Hugh Wegges showed me the full inventory of what was taken. Some of those cloaks and gowns were heavy to wear. No one man could carry them all away himself.’

‘He had accomplices?’

‘Either that or one man made a number of visits to our wardrobe.’

‘What thief would risk doing that?’

‘One who knew where to hide his booty nearby,’ said Nicholas. ‘It may even be someone who is staying at the inn. Our landlord has opened up more rooms to guests. I mean to ask what their names are.’

‘I’ll do that office, Nick,’ volunteered Firethorn. ‘It never occurred to me that our costumes might be hidden right in front of us. That’s the last place we’d think to look. Let me speak to Adam. I’ll have him search every room.’

‘Cautiously, though. We must not spread commotion.’

Firethorn bristled. ‘I’ll spread much more than commotion if I find that the thief is still here.’ He became aware of a figure standing nearby and gave him a token smile. ‘One moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll just speak to my book holder.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Here’s another scourge for my back, Nick. This fellow is Jonathan Jarrold, a bookseller from Cambridge, the dullest creature on two legs. But he’s Margery’s brother-in-law so I must indulge him.’

‘What does he want?’

‘To watch us at rehearsal. He has appointments with other booksellers this afternoon so he cannot see the performance itself. Margery insisted that I let him view our morning’s turmoil.’

Nicholas was confident. ‘We’ll give a better account of ourselves than you fear.’

‘Get him from under my feet, that’s all I ask. The fellow unnerves me.’ He swung round to beam at the visitor. ‘Come and meet Nick Bracewell,’ he said. ‘He’ll look after you, Jonathan. I must away.’

Firethorn headed for the tiring-house and left the two men to exchange greetings. Nicholas had heard mention of Jonathan Jarrold before and he knew that Firethorn had little time for the man, even though he had great admiration for the actor. Jarrold was short, thin and studious, his nervous eyes glinting behind spectacles, his body hunched apologetically in its plain garb. He rubbed his palms together.

‘I fear that I come at an inopportune moment,’ he said.

‘Rehearsals are always prone to misadventure,’ explained Nicholas, ‘so you’ll have to bear with us. Lawrence will have told you of the troubles we face.’

‘He talked of nothing else over breakfast.’

‘Then you’ll understand our shortcomings.’ Nicholas glanced upwards. ‘The best place to sit is in the lower gallery. It commands a fine view and you’ll have it all to yourself.’ He turned back to Jarrold. ‘Have you seen Westfield’s Men before?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Jarrold, nodding enthusiastically. ‘On my rare visits to London, I always come to the Queen’s Head, and you played at Cambridge last year.’

‘The plague forced us to go on tour.’

‘I’ll not forget your visit. We saw The Merchant of Calais, as fine a play as I’ve ever had the privilege to witness. Comedy, tragedy and romance were so sweetly co-mingled. Lawence was kind enough to introduce us to the author.’

‘Edmund Hoode.’

‘I’d hoped to renew the acquaintance today, but I hear that he’s indisposed.’

‘Illness keeps him from us,’ said Nicholas, ‘but we’ve a new playwright to fill his absence. As it happens, he hails from Cambridge as well.’

‘Oh, what is his name?’

‘Michael Grammaticus.’

‘But I know him,’ said Jarrold, clapping his hands together. ‘A true scholar, if ever there was one. When he was in Cambridge, he was always in my shop, searching for Greek and Latin texts. The both of them were.’

‘The both of them?’

‘Michael and his friend, Stephen Wragby. They were never apart. They lived together, studied together and taught together. Michael was the finer scholar but Stephen had the better imagination. I miss him so much,’ he went on, stifling a sigh. ‘He was far too young to die.’

‘Stephen Wragby is dead?’

‘Of the plague. It is not confined to London, alas. It reached out its long hand and snatched him away from us. Michael was utterly destroyed,’ recalled Jarrold. ‘Careless of his own health, he nursed Stephen until the bitter end. One friend died, the other was somehow spared. And I lost two of the best customers I ever had.’

‘Is that why Michael decided to leave Cambridge?’

‘He could not bear to stay without Stephen.’ He adjusted his spectacles. ‘Yet you say that Michael is a playwright now?’

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘One of his plays has already been staged and a second will be back from the scrivener any day. It’s a pity you missed Caesar’s Fall. It was the work of a brilliant intelligence.’

‘That is an accurate description of Michael Grammaticus.’

‘His new play is called The Siege of Troy.’

Jarrold laughed. ‘That proves my point. They were like twins. Michael and Stephen did everything together. Their minds coalesced into one.’

‘In what sense, Master Jarrold?’

‘Look at the title of this new play.’

‘The Siege of Troy?’

‘I saw a play by Stephen Wragby performed at Cambridge only a few years ago. It was on exactly the same subject,’ said Jarrold. ‘Except that it was written in Greek.’

Ralph Olgrave would never have identified the man on the slab at the morgue if it had not been for the damage to his skull. He moved some yards away from the stink of decay to speak to the coroner.

‘And they gave his name as Hywel Rees?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Master Olgrave.’

‘Did they give you their names as well?’

‘I insisted on it,’ said the coroner, fussily. ‘I do not admit strangers to the morgue to view the cadavers. That’s a ghoulish occupation and I’ll not allow it.’

‘So who were they? Was one of them called Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘Yes, I believe that he was.’

‘And the other?’

‘A sturdy Welshman by the name of Owen Elias.’

‘A Welshman?’

Olgrave was unhappy to hear that. It suggested that the dead man had a relative or friend who was searching for him, someone who would feel obliged to join the hunt for the killer of Hywel Rees. That was worrying. Nicholas Bracewell had an assistant.

‘How would I find these gentlemen?’ said Olgrave.

‘They left no address with me, sir.’

‘Have you any idea where they might have come from?’

‘I cannot answer for the one,’ said the old man, ‘but I could hazard a guess about the other. The Welshman is an actor. There was something about the way he dressed and spoke and held himself. Owen Elias belongs on a stage. If you wish to find him, search the playhouses for that is where he’ll be.’

‘I fancy that Nicholas Bracewell might be there as well,’ said Olgrave to himself, as he remembered their earlier encounter. ‘For he is no mean actor.’

Adversity usually brought out the best in Westfield’s Men but that was not the case with Love and Fortune. Dressed in assorted costumes that were visibly the wrong size, shape and colour, the actors were inexplicably tentative in a play that they had performed many times. Entrances were missed, lines forgotten or gabbled too quickly, and properties knocked clumsily over. None of the actors rose above competence. Lawrence Firethorn was uninspired, Barnaby Gill lacklustre and Owen Elias strangely out of sorts. Even the reliable Richard Honeydew, taking the role of the heroine in a wig and a borrowed costume, was unable to lift the play. The audience grew restive.

Some of the unintended humour worked to their advantage. Spectators who were unfamiliar with the play, shook with glee when James Ingram inadvertently dropped a chalice to the floor or when Frank Quilter came onstage too soon and collided with the departing George Dart, sublimely unsuited to all three of the small parts allotted to him. Those who had seen the comedy before, however, found it disappointing fare and several began to drift away long before the performance ended. A tepid round of applause told the company what it already knew. They had failed.

Firethorn was relieved to escape into the safety of the tiring-house. Flinging himself down on a bench, he put his head in his hands. Nicholas came over to him.

‘It might have been worse,’ he observed.

‘Yes,’ moaned Firethorn, ‘Lord Westfield might have been here to witness our shame.’

‘You redeemed yourselves in the last act.’

‘That was fear and not redemption, Nick. We had to get something right or they’d have started throwing things at us. As it was, the insults were beginning to fly.’

‘We’ll make amends tomorrow.’

‘How? By playing The Knights of Malta in these borrowed costumes?’ He plucked at his doublet. ‘Whoever heard of a proud knight in remnants such as these?’

Elias heard him. ‘Do you mind, Lawrence?’ he said, indignantly. ‘You happen to be wearing my finest apparel.’

‘It was certainly not tailored to fit me, Owen. It ruined my performance.’

‘It’s a poor actor who blames his costume.’

‘And a poor judge of taste who chooses this as his best doublet?’

‘I’ll not be insulted,’ warned Elias, pugnaciously.

‘Stand off, Owen,’ said Nicholas, easing him away. ‘He does not mean to upset you. The fault lies not in our wardrobe but in the effect that our losses have had upon us. To lose Edmund was bad enough. To have our takings stolen and our wardrobe plundered has put a strain on all of us. We’ll vindicate our reputation tomorrow.’

‘Our reputation as what?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Fools and imbeciles? Did you see what happened out there today? We were all blundering about the stage like so many demented George Darts.’

‘I did my best, Master Firethorn,’ said Dart, meekly.

Nicholas gave him a kind smile. ‘You always do, George. Thank you.’

‘That was the idiot you designated to hold the book today,’ remarked Firethorn. ‘Imagine how much worse it would have been if that had happened. Fire and brimstone! They’d have skinned us alive for our mistakes.’

‘Tomorrow, we’ll improve,’ said Nicholas. ‘Crying over our mistakes achieves nothing. We must strive to put them right.’

‘How can we do that, if our book holder wants to leave us?’

‘I’ll be here. I give you my word.’

‘That’s some relief at least.’

‘You’ll gain some more, if you go home early this evening,’ advised Nicholas, quietly. ‘Master Jarrold told me how late you returned last night. I think we both know the reason why.’ Firethorn looked guiltily up at him. ‘How can you condemn others for going astray when you take the same path yourself?’

‘But I came so close to winning,’ said Firethorn in a whisper.

‘Would that have made it right to set such an example to the others?’

‘No, Nick. I’m justly reproached. The lure of gain blinded me to all else. Margery must never find out, or she’ll ban me from her bed in perpetuity.’

‘She’ll hear nothing from me.’

‘Nor me.’ He pursed his lips in recrimination. ‘Oh, I rue the day that Philomen Lavery came to stay at the Queen’s Head. He corrupted all our judgements.’

‘Put him and his pack of cards behind you. He’ll soon be gone.’

‘So will Margery’s brother-in-law, thank heaven. Dear God! Why did Jonathan have to visit us now when we are at our wits’ end? He’s one more burden on my back. Let him go back to Cambridge and stay there.’

‘I was pleased to meet him at last.’

‘Jonathan Jarrold? The man is tedium made manifest.’

‘Not so,’ said Nicholas, recalling what he had been told about Cambridge. ‘I found his conversation very illuminating.’

He broke away to supervise the dismantling of the stage and the storing of costumes and properties. Since so many garments had been borrowed, he asked Wegges to take particular care of them. Nicholas was following an established routine but he was impatient, tied to his duties at the Queen’s Head when he wanted to be investigating a murder. While he laboured for Westfield’s Men, his mind was on Bridewell.

Joseph Beechcroft was still perturbed. He and his partner were in the room at Bridewell that they used as an office. Beechcroft drummed his fingers nervously on the table.

‘How do we even know that the fellow was an actor?’ he said. ‘That was only the coroner’s guess. Owen Elias could just as easily have been a weaver or a tailor.’

‘No,’ said Olgrave. ‘Have faith in the coroner. His whole life is spent in making judgements of character. He’ll weigh a man up, whether he be alive or dead. If he picked this one out as an actor, then I trust his word.’

‘But we sent someone to enquire at The Rose and they came back empty-handed. It was so at the two playhouses in Shoreditch. Owen Elias was not there.’

‘That still leaves the company that plays at the Queen’s Head.’

‘No, Ralph,’ said Beechcroft. ‘I think we are following a false trail.’

‘Only because you did not speak to the gatekeeper, as I just did.’

‘The gatekeeper?’

‘Yes,’ replied Olgrave. ‘I reasoned that, if anyone wanted to know more about us, and the way that we run Bridewell, they’d come knocking at the door. And that’s exactly what a certain Welshman did.’

‘Owen Elias?’

‘He did not give his name, it seems, but claimed to be the cousin of Hywel Rees. When told that the fellow had been discharged, he produced the name of Dorothea Tate.’

Beechcroft was alarmed. ‘They are closing in on us!’

‘The gatekeeper gave nothing away.’

‘He did not need to, Ralph. They know that that troublesome Welshman was killed and hurled into the river, and they have the girl to help them.’

‘Her voice will not convince any court in the land.’

‘It might, if they provide the evidence to back it up.’

‘How can they do that?’ asked Olgrave with a mocking laugh. ‘Take us to the torture chamber and wring confessions out of us, as if we were scheming Papists? For without that, they have nothing.’

‘They have enough to unsettle my stomach, I know that.’

‘The cure is at hand. We simply remove Nicholas Bracewell and the girl.’

‘What of this other man, Owen Elias?’

‘He’s Welsh,’ said Olgrave with a sneer. ‘I’ll send him to join his countryman.’

Nicholas Bracewell was kept waiting at the lawyer’s office until Cleaton had finished talking to a client. The book holder spent the time examining the sketch of Bridewell that Anne Hendrik had drawn under the guidance of someone who had actually been inside the institution. How accurate Dorothea Tate’s memory had been, Nicholas did not know, but the sketch gave him an idea of the basic design of the building with its three courtyards and its wharf beside the Thames. The girl had marked the position of the room where she had slept, and of the hall where the feast had taken place. A small cross told Nicholas where Ralph Olgrave’s private chamber was located.

Henry Cleaton appeared from his office and shepherded an elderly woman to the front door. After greeting Nicholas, he invited him into the cluttered room and both of them sat down.

‘I still have qualms about this,’ admitted the lawyer.

‘All that you are doing is to give advice, as you would to any client.’

‘I’d never urge them to break the law, Nicholas.’

‘I believe that I’m working strictly within it.’

‘A magistrate might take a contrary view.’

‘Then I’ll make sure I do not come up before one,’ said Nicholas with a grin. ‘What do you have for me, Master Cleaton?’

‘Only this.’ The lawyer handed him a writ. ‘It’s the paper that will commit you to Bridewell, but mark this well: I can simply get you inside the place. You’ll have to get out again yourself.’

‘I accept that.’ Nicholas studied the wording of the writ. ‘Is this a forgery?’

‘I’d never stoop to such a thing. What you hold there is quite authentic. I had it of a friend of mine who sits on the Bench. You’ll see that there is a gap where a name is to be inserted,’ said Cleaton. ‘Had I filled that in, I would have been guilty of forgery and I drew back from that.’

‘In any case, you would not know what name to use for I’ll have to invent a new one. If I’m committed to the workhouse as Nicholas Bracewell, I’m likely to suffer the same fate as Hywel Rees. They must not know who I am.’

‘You go there as a counterfeit.’

‘Only to reveal a much greater counterfeit,’ said Nicholas. ‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave pretend to be honest men, engaged in a worthy enterprise, but they are guilty of the most dreadful crimes. I mean to rip away their disguises.’

‘I fear for your safety, Nicholas. They are evil men.’

‘Then that evil must be exposed to the world, and I can only do that by getting cheek by jowl with them. Master Olgrave gave me the notion. If I would know how Bridewell is run, he told me, I’ve only to get myself imprisoned there.’

‘That puts you at their mercy.’

‘Only if they discover who I am,’ said Nicholas. ‘By the time that they do that, it will be too late. Now, Master Cleaton, teach me the way of it. What is the correct procedure when a vagrant is convicted in a court?’

With some reluctance, the lawyer told him what he wanted to hear, describing the process from the moment a vagrant was arrested until he or she was committed to Bridewell. Though he warned Nicholas of the dangers, the latter was not deterred in the slightest. He was adamant that, whatever the risks involved, someone had to answer for the murder of Hywel Rees and the rape of Dorothea Tate. When the instruction was over, Cleaton took him to the front door.

‘Are you a lucky man by nature?’ he said.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because luck is what you’ll need once you are inside Bridewell.’

Nicholas pondered. As he looked back, he could see nothing but a continuous stream of bad luck, culminating in the poor performance at the Queen’s Head that afternoon. Like those who had been enticed to the card table, he was involved in a game of chance. The difference was that he stood to lose far more than his money.

‘I am due some good luck, Master Cleaton,’ he said.

‘Then I hope that you get it, my friend.’

Nicholas took his leave and mounted the horse that he had left tethered outside. He had intended to pay a visit to Edmund Hoode and the most direct way was to ride along Cheapside. But the conversation with Jonathan Jarrold suddenly came into his mind and sparked his curiosity. Since he had the horse at his disposal, he could go by a much longer route without too great a loss of time. Accordingly, he kicked the animal into a trot and headed in the direction of Cornhill, wondering if he might be able to single out the lodging to which Michael Grammaticus somehow never invited visitors.

Cornhill was the highest hill in the city, the site of an ancient grain market that gave it its name, and a place where the pillory and stocks were rarely uninhabited. The early evening had not thinned out the bustle. As Nicholas trotted along the thoroughfare, he had to pick his way past carriages, carts, mounted riders and the hordes on foot. Moving his head to and fro, he scrutinised the properties on both sides of the road and was impressed by their size and state of upkeep. If the playwright lodged in Cornhill, then he had no need to be embarrassed about his address.

Nicholas rode on until he reached a large house that soared above the buildings all around it with an almost aggressive ease. He decided that it must be the home of a rich merchant or a leading politician. Its owner would not have been popular with those who lived in the cottage immediately opposite because their light was obscured. Indeed, although it was still early evening, candles burnt in the windows of the cottage. As he glanced up at a window on the second floor, Nicholas realised that his journey had not been in vain. Quill pen in hand, a figure was crouched over a table. Though he could only see the man in a fleeting profile, Nicholas recognised him as Michael Grammaticus.

A short distance beyond the cottage, he reined in his horse and looked back over his shoulder, wondering whether or not he should call on the playwright. Certain that the man would be working on the new scenes for A Way to Content All Women, he decided that it would be unwise to interrupt him, and he suspected that Grammaticus would be discomfited by an unheralded visit. Nicholas swung his horse around. He was about to ride back down the hill when he saw another familiar figure. The man was cantering towards him on a bay mare. Before he reached Nicholas, he brought the animal to a halt and dismounted in front of the cottage where Grammaticus was working. Almost immediately, a servant emerged to take charge of the horse and lead it to the stables at the rear. The man, meanwhile, entered the cottage with a proprietary strut.

It was Doctor Emmanuel Zander.

When the stage had been dismantled and put away, all trace of the players may have vanished but not of the performance itself. The yard into which the spectators had been crammed was littered with discarded food and other rubbish. One of Leonard’s many tasks was to sweep the yard with a broom so that it was relatively clean when the audience filled it on the following afternoon. It was lonely and repetitious work but he did it with his customary zeal, using his strength to sweep everything into a huge pile that he could load into his barrow. As he brushed away with rhythmical strokes, Leonard sent a small shower of dust into the air. He did not see the man who came into the yard.

‘One moment, friend,’ said the stranger. ‘Do you work here?’

‘I do, sir,’ said Leonard, pausing to lean on his broom.

‘Then you’d know of the company that performs here.’

‘Westfield’s Men, the best players in London. And I’m part of the troupe, sir, for I sweep up after them.’ Leonard glanced around the yard. ‘This mess was made this afternoon during Love and Fortune.’

‘Do you know any of the actors?’

‘Know them, sir? Why, I’m friends with each and every one.’

The stranger, a small weasel of a man in his thirties, stepped in closer.

‘Would they include a fellow by the name of Owen Elias?’ he asked.

‘Yes, they would. Owen’s among the finest of them.’

‘A fiery Welshman, as I hear.’

Leonard chuckled. ‘Then you hear aright. Owen will let no man put him down. If you meet him in the taproom, be sure to treat him with respect or he’ll buffet you for certain.’ He looked down at the man. ‘What’s your business with him?’

‘The person I really seek,’ said the stranger, ‘is a friend of his, who may or may not have any dealings with Westfield’s Men. Have you ever heard tell of one Nicholas Bracewell?’ Leonard burst out laughing. ‘What did I say to set you off?’

‘Anyone who knows Westfield’s Men will know Nick Bracewell, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he holds them all together,’ said Leonard, proudly. ‘Nick is the best friend that I have in the company. He’s their book holder.’

Owen Elias juggled with three apples and kept them spinning through the air. As soon as Hoode applauded him, however, he lost his concentration and his timing. All three apples tumbled to the floor. Hoode bent down to retrieve them.

‘No, no, Edmund,’ said Elias. ‘I dropped them, so I must pick them up.’

‘It was my fault that they fell to the floor.’

‘I should not have been so easily distracted. It was Barnaby who taught me how to juggle. He can keep five apples in the air at one time and they are never in any danger of being dropped.’ He gathered up the fruit and replaced it in a bowl. ‘You may judge what that proves.’

‘Barnaby has quicker hands than you.’

Elias gave a coarse laugh. ‘Many young men have learnt that.’

After a long day without visitors, Hoode was relieved when the Welshman called to see him, but distressed to hear of the calamitous performance of Love and Fortune that afternoon. Hoode had felt well enough to get out of bed and dress, but he was tiring as the evening wore on. Elias did his best to entertain his friend with antics and anecdotes. They were both pleased when Nicholas Bracewell joined them.

‘I was beginning to think my friends had forgotten me,’ said Hoode.

‘We could never do that,’ promised Nicholas. ‘Owen will have told you of our tribulations today. We barely got through the play.’

‘I should have been there to help you.’

‘Not while you are still unwell,’ said Elias. ‘But what’s this I hear about Michael Grammaticus stealing your play away from you?’

‘That’s not the case at all, Owen.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He’s merely writing a couple of scenes to see if he can pick up Edmund’s voice. Michael believes that he can work just as well in a comedy.’

‘How?’ wondered Elias. ‘Comedy is about laughter and I’ve never seen the fellow crack his face. I’ve seen happier countenances on a slab at the morgue.’

Nicholas shot him a look of reproof. By prior arrangement, they had agreed to say nothing about Bridewell in Hoode’s presence, nor to worry him with details of what had been taking place there. Elias gave the book holder an apologetic shrug. After a few minutes, he bade farewell to his friends and went off. Left alone with him, Nicholas was able to take a closer look at Hoode.

‘How do you feel now, Edmund?’

‘I am well in the morning, when I take my medicine, then drowsy after I’ve dined. The medicine revives me again towards the end of the afternoon but I’m unable to stay awake late into the evening.’

‘There is a definite pattern, then?’

‘Oh, yes. Doctor Zander said that there would be.’

‘Has he called on you today?’

‘Not yet,’ said Hoode, ‘but he promised to come today or tomorrow. I worry about his frequent visits. It must be costing Michael so much money, yet he’ll not hear of my paying the bills. The wonder is that he has not been here today either, though he did warn me that he’d only come when he’d finished a scene for my comedy.’

‘Has Michael ever mentioned a friend called Stephen Wragby to you?’

‘No, he so rarely talks about himself.’

‘Did he tell you anything about his time at Cambridge?’

‘Very little, Nick — except that he was glad to escape from it.’

‘Why should a scholar want to flee a seat of scholarship?’

‘He yearns for the excitement that only a playhouse can offer.’

‘It’s offered us excitement of the wrong sort today,’ said Nicholas. ‘We’ve had mishaps before but nothing to rival this afternoon’s parade of accidents. We let our audience down badly, Edmund.’

‘Owen had even harsher criticism than that.’

‘Had Michael been there, he’d have doubted that we had a talent for comedy.’

‘Only one thing would keep him away from the Queen’s Head,’ said Hoode. ‘He must be penning that new scene for my new play.’

Nicholas thought about what he has seen earlier, Grammaticus bent over his work while someone stepped familiarly into the cottage as if he owned it. He also recalled that it was the playwright who had rushed to fetch a doctor when Hoode was stricken during the rehearsal of Caesar’s Fall. Nicholas came to a sudden decision.

‘I’ll bring someone else to see you, Edmund,’ he said.

‘But Doctor Zander is my physician.’

‘We need another opinion.’

‘We’ve already had that from Doctor Rime.’

‘A third pair of eyes will do no harm.’

‘Doctor Zander will be very hurt if we turn to someone else, Nick.’

‘Then we must make sure we do not tell him,’ said Nicholas.

Three glasses of Canary wine made Lawrence Firethorn feel much better about himself and the company that he led. As he sat in the taproom with Barnaby Gill and some of the other sharers, he felt almost strong enough to return home to endure an evening of boredom with Jonathan Jarrold.

‘The strange thing is,’ mused Gill, ‘that the rehearsal was so much better than the performance itself. We should have invited the spectators to that.’

‘We had an audience of one, as it happens,’ said Firethorn. ‘Margery’s brother-in-law is visiting us from Cambridge, filling the house with the musty smell of old books. He liked what he saw in rehearsal so will bear a kind report back to his wife.’

‘We earned no kind reports this afternoon, Lawrence.’

‘I blame you for that.’

Gill flared up at once. ‘Me! I was the company’s salvation.’

‘Not when you fell on your bum in the middle of a jig.’

‘That was the fault of the costume. It was far too big for me.’

‘The costume was the right size, Barnaby. You were too small for it.’

‘I demand the right to be dressed properly on stage,’ said Gill, rising to his feet. ‘How can I dance when I have breeches that trip me up like that? Find me something that fits me or I’ll not play at all tomorrow.’

Firethorn grinned wickedly. ‘We’ll offer up a prayer of thanks.’

But the barb was lost on Gill, who had already flounced out. Firethorn drained his cup and thought about leaving. Adam Crowmere sauntered across to him.

‘We found nothing, Lawrence,’ he said with regret. ‘I’ve searched every room here and there’s no sign of your wardrobe. It could be miles away by now.’

‘Nick was wrong for once, then.’

‘I fear so.’ He nudged Firethorn. ‘Shall we see you again tonight, Lawrence?’

‘No, Adam. I’m done with it.’

‘But you might win back all that you lost. That’s what I did last night.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, mournfully. ‘I watched you doing it.’

‘My luck will doubtless change tonight. Why not find out?’

‘There’s no pleasure in watching someone take my money from me. I might as well have tossed it in the Thames as risk it on the turn of a card.’

‘But you enjoyed the game,’ Crowmere reminded him. ‘I could see it in your face. It set your pulse racing. Master Lavery will be leaving soon,’ he added. ‘Come now or you lose your opportunity to get your revenge on me. I, too, will be away.’

Firethorn was concerned. ‘You, Adam? But you are the best landlord that the Queen’s Head has ever had. We want you to stay forever.’

There was vocal agreement from the others at the table. Crowmere gave a bow.

‘My thanks to you all,’ he said, ‘but I, alas, do not own the inn. Alexander does, and the letter I received today made that clear.’

‘Why?’ asked Firethorn, anxiously. ‘What does he say?’

‘His brother died in his sleep, it seems. Alexander will stay in Dunstable until the funeral then return to London post-haste.’ He gazed around the table with a benign smile. ‘You’ll soon have your old landlord back in the saddle again.’