The Malevolent Comedy

Chapter Three

Bemused by the frantic display in front of them, the actors were quite uncertain what to do. They stood in a circle around Hal Bridger and watched him writhe dramatically on the boards to the misplaced amusement of the roaring onlookers. Lord Loveless’s servant then twisted upward in torment one more time before lapsing into immobility. It was Nicholas Bracewell who reacted first. Realising that the play could founder if it lost its impetus, he set his prompt copy aside and stepped onstage, nodding deferentially to Lord Loveless as if he were another of his retinue. With great gentleness, he scooped up the body and carried it quickly into the tiring-house. Lawrence Firethorn showed his presence of mind by turning the incident into a jest.

‘Is that what your potion does, Mistress Malevole?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have none of it or there’s not a piece of furniture in my house will be safe from my flailing limbs?’

The rest of the cast followed where he led, using all their skills to disguise the fact that they had been deeply disturbed by what had just happened. With a combination of witty dialogue, vivid gestures and the comic business carefully devised in rehearsal, they took the play at breakneck speed into its closing scenes. No more magic potions were needed. Restored to normality, the three beautiful women sought the same rich husband, but each was rejected in turn by Lord Loveless because they were only interested in his wealth. It was the scheming Mistress Malevole — renouncing her malevolence — who emerged as his true love and he disclosed his own secret passion for her. The happy couple were promptly married by a priest, and Barnaby Gill, as the effervescent Clown, brought festivities to a close with an hilarious jig. Cheers, whistles and loud applause reverberated around the inn yard.

Westfield’s Men had a resounding success on their hands.

Nicholas Bracewell took no pleasure from the ovation. All that concerned him was the fate of the youth who lay on the table in the tiring-house. Though he tried to revive Hal Bridger, he knew that his efforts were in vain. What the audience had found so diverting were, in fact, the death throes of a young and innocuous assistant stagekeeper, making his very first — and last — appearance before the public. Nicholas was shocked and saddened. He used a cloak to cover Bridger’s face and hide it from the actors who were staring with ghoulish fascination at the contorted features. George Dart was appalled.

‘Hal is dead?’ he gasped.

‘I fear so,’ said Nicholas. ‘The poor lad was poisoned.’

‘Poisoned?’

‘I could smell it on his lips.’

‘God forgive me!’ exclaimed Dart. ‘I prepared that potion.’

‘You were not to blame, George.’

‘And I let Hal drink it in my place. I should have played that servant.’ He began to quake. ‘In giving the part to Hal, I killed him!’

Dart was inconsolable. Weeping copiously, he retired to a corner of the room with his head in his hands. At that moment, Firethorn led the company offstage. Actors who had acknowledged the applause with broad smiles now gathered around the corpse with a mixture of sorrow and bewilderment. Lord Loveless gazed down at the body.

‘What on earth happened, Nick?’ he demanded.

‘Hal’s drink was poisoned.’

‘Send for a doctor at once.’

‘He’s beyond the reach of medicine,’ said Nicholas.

There was a collective sigh of despair. Rising above it was a piercing cry of horror from Richard Honeydew, who pushed forward to stand beside the table and pulled back the cloak from Bridger’s face. The apprentice was no longer the guileful Mistress Malevole but a frightened boy with blood on his hands.

‘This is my doing!’ he said, aghast.

‘No,’ said Nicholas.

‘But I gave him that drink.’

‘You were not to know that it was poisoned, Dick.’

‘I murdered Hal Bridger.’

The acclaim in the yard reached a new pitch of hysteria and Firethorn responded at once, calling his actors to order so that he could take them back onstage to harvest the applause. Fixed smiles returned to their faces but grief burnt away inside them. Stunned by the gruesome death of the servant, Mistress Malevole had difficulty in standing and Lord Loveless had to wrap an arm around her shoulder to prevent her from tumbling over. Spectators clapped and shouted until their palms were sore and their throats hoarse.

Nicholas Bracewell, meanwhile, remained in the tiring-house. His only companions were the distraught George Dart and the body of Hal Bridger. Closing his eyes, he sent up a silent prayer for the soul of the deceased. When he lifted his lids again, he saw the head of Alexander Marwood peering around the door at the corpse on the table. There was a note of grim satisfaction in the landlord’s voice.

‘I told you that this play would bring trouble,’ he said, baring his blackened teeth. ‘You should have changed the title.’

There was so much for the book holder to do that the next half an hour passed in a blur. Nicholas had to send for constables, report the murder and set an official investigation in motion. He also had to calm George Dart, reassure the tearful Richard Honeydew, keep the irate Lawrence Firethorn at bay and supervise the storing of costumes and properties. The first thing that he did was to slip onstage to retrieve the poisoned cup that had been tossed aside by Hal Bridger, sniffing it as he did so and noting the pungent odour. The potions that were given throughout the play were contained in a series of phials, filled with nothing more harmful than red wine, heavily diluted with water. Nicholas took charge of them all so that he could examine each one at leisure. As soon as the audience began to disperse, he was able to order the dismantling of the scenery and the stage.

After such an exultant performance, the tiring-house was usually a Bedlam of revelry and congratulation. There was no hint of celebration this time. Hushed by the death of Hal Bridger, the actors moved around in bruised silence, all too aware of the fact that the poison might have been given to one of them instead. In meeting his grisly end, the youth had saved someone else from the identical fate. It was only when the body was removed that most of the company felt able to talk. They drifted away to the taproom in a sombre mood.

Lawrence Firethorn stayed behind to consult his book holder.

‘How could this happen, Nick?’ he wondered.

‘Someone put poison into one of the phials.’

‘Then why was nobody struck down during this morning’s rehearsal? We drank the same liquid then as this afternoon.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, thinking it through. ‘After the rehearsal, I told George Dart to refill the phials and watched him as he did so. They were set out on the table so that Mistress Malevole could use them during the performance. Before that happened,’ he concluded, ‘one of the potions was poisoned. Some knave must have sneaked in here.’

‘Why? Did he have reason to hate Hal Bridger?’

‘He had no idea that he would be the victim because he could not possibly know which of the potions Hal would drink. It could just as easily have been Owen, Frank or Edmund who took the fatal dose.’

‘Or even me!’ said Firethorn in alarm.

‘The obvious intent was to commit a murder that would interrupt the play and bring it to an untimely end.’

‘Villainy!’

‘We were fortunate,’ Nicholas pointed out. ‘That particular potion was not used until late in the play, and our actors were sufficiently alert to cope with the situation. Thanks to your example, the play was saved.’

‘At what great cost, though! I’d rather lose a dozen plays than sacrifice the life of one member of my company. The Malevolent Comedy has been fringed with tragedy. It makes me sick to my stomach, Nick.’

‘I’ll find the man behind all this,’ vowed the other.

‘At least, you’ll know where to start looking.’

‘Will I?’

‘Of course,’ said Firethorn with growing fury. ‘Go to the Curtain. I’ll wager all I own that it was Giles Randolph who hired this killer.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Nicholas.

‘Naked envy is at work here. He heard about our new play.’

‘That would not make him stoop to murder. The best weapon that Banbury’s Men have is their own success. That hurts us most.’

‘I still believe that Randolph is behind all this somehow.’

‘And I’m just as certain that neither he nor his company is involved in any way. If they wanted to inflict real harm on Westfield’s Men,’ Nicholas pointed out, ‘they would strike directly at you and bring us to our knees. Why use a poison that might only lead to the death — as it did, in this case — of a mere hired man? I mean no disrespect to Hal,’ he added, quietly. ‘A willing lad and a pleasure to work beside. I’ll miss him sorely. But we’d all miss Lawrence Firethorn much more.’

Firethorn pondered. ‘Perhaps my wager was a little hasty,’ he said.

‘You stand to lose everything you have.’

‘Margery would skin me alive if that happened. Let me retract at once. But, if it was not one of Giles Randolph’s minions,’ he went on, scratching his beard, ‘then who, in God’s name, was it?’

‘Who and why?’ said Nicholas. ‘I think that motive is important here. The person we want most probably has a grudge against the company, against Master Hibbert or against the Queen’s Head itself.’

‘If we talk of grudges against the Queen’s Head, then add me to the list of suspects. I have a thousand grudges against that miserable reptile of a landlord. Come, Nick,’ urged Firethorn, ‘I saw you put those phials aside. Give me the one that contained the poison and I’ll push it down Marwood’s throat until he chokes on it.’

‘What purpose would that serve?’

‘My satisfaction.’

‘We search for a more dangerous enemy than our landlord,’ said Nicholas, briskly. ‘I’ll take the phial, and the cup into which the liquid was poured, to Doctor Mordrake. One sniff of either will tell him what poison was used. That must be our starting point.’

‘What of Hal Bridger?’

‘When the body is examined, they’ll reach the same conclusion.’

‘Then why not apply to the coroner?’

‘Because he will only decide the cause of death,’ said Nicholas. ‘Doctor Mordrake does business with every apothecary in the city. He’ll know where that poison can be readily bought. I’ll try to trace its origin. Before that, alas,’ he went on, shaking his head, ‘there’s a prior duty that calls.’

‘A prior duty?’

‘Hal’s family must be informed of his death.’

‘I’ll send them a letter,’ suggested Firethorn, anxious to evade the responsibility of delivering the bad tidings in person. ‘Fetch me pen and paper. I’ll write it now.’

‘They deserve better than a few choice words scribbled down,’ said Nicholas with reproach. ‘I’ll take on the office. His parents will want a full account of what happened.’

‘Thank you, Nick. You knew the lad better than me.’ He nodded in the direction of the taproom. ‘Will you take a cup of wine before you go?’

‘No, I’ll clear up here then slip quietly away.’

‘So be it.’ Firethorn stepped forward to embrace him warmly. ‘We are indebted to you once again, dear heart. Had you not made that entrance and carried the body away, we would all have faltered. You came to our rescue.’

‘Too late for Hal Bridger, alas.’

Firethorn nodded then left the tiring-house. Nicholas put all the phials on the table and sniffed each one until he found the offending bottle. It went into the pocket where he had concealed the cup from which the potion had been drunk. He was still tidying things away when Saul Hibbert came swaggering into the room.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘Are my actors all fled?’

‘You’ll find them in the taproom,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Then I’ll buy them their beer. They brought my play to life this afternoon and made me famous. A hundred people must have fought to shake my hand. I have only now been able to shake off my admirers.’

‘The congratulations were deserved, Master Hibbert.’

‘I’ll share the kind words with Lawrence and the others. Most of them, anyway,’ he said, curling a lip, ‘for there’s one idiot who’ll get no praise from me. That wretched servant to Lord Loveless did his best to ruin my work by pretending to have the falling sickness. I’ll make him fall in earnest when I catch up with him. What was the fool doing?’

‘Dying from poison.’

‘What?’

‘Hal Bridger was not acting out there,’ said Nicholas. ‘What you saw was a foul murder. The poison that he drank killed him within a matter of minutes. Officers took details of the crime and the body has been now removed. You’ll not be laying a finger on the lad.’

‘Can this be so?’ said Hibbert in amazement. ‘You believe that there was deliberate murder?’

‘We kept the truth of it from the audience.’

‘Thank heaven that you did, or my play would have been ruined!’

‘Can you not spare a sigh of regret for the victim?’

‘I am the real victim here,’ said Hibbert, angrily. ‘Someone set out to halt my work when it was at the very zenith of its power. I would’ve have been robbed of my triumph.’

‘Hal Bridger was robbed of his life,’ Nicholas reminded him.

‘I care nothing for that. How can you compare the death of a stripling to the violation of my art? You heard that acclaim out there. The Malevolent Comedy has made me the talk of London.’

‘Is that all that matters to you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then it’s high time you learnt to feel some compassion,’ said Nicholas, squaring up to him. ‘Because of your play, a blameless lad lost his life in front of a baying audience. He stepped onto that stage to serve you and your ambition. You might at least show thanks.’

‘I need no lessons in behaviour from you,’ snarled Hibbert.

‘It seems that you do.’

‘Step aside, man.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, standing his ground. ‘I want an apology first.’

‘Apology? For what?’

‘Putting yourself before Hal Bridger.’

Hibbert was contemptuous. ‘He means nothing to me.’

‘Well, he does to us,’ said Nicholas, vehemently. ‘When he joined Westfield’s Men, he became part of a family and we cherish each member of it dearly. Spurn him at your peril, Master Hibbert.’

‘Who are you to give orders to me? Be off with you!’

He reached out both hands to push Nicholas aside but he soon regretted doing so. His wrists were grabbed and he was swung so hard against the wall of the tiring-house that it knocked the breath from him. Putting a hand around his throat, Nicholas forced his head back.

‘You may be the talk of London,’ he said, ‘but it’s clearly not because of your manners. You’re a disgrace to the name of gentleman, Master Hibbert. You’ll start treating the members of this company — from the highest to the lowest — with the respect that’s due to them, or you’ll answer to me. And the same goes for the landlord. Talk to him civilly and pay your bills on time.’ He banged the playwright’s head against the wall. ‘Do you understand?’

‘I’ll kill you for this,’ yelled Hibbert, struggling in vain to escape.

Nicholas tightened his grip. ‘Do you understand?’

‘No,’ croaked the other, defiantly. Nicholas applied more pressure until Hibbert’s eyes began to bulge. The playwright was eventually forced to capitulate. ‘Yes,’ he gurgled. ‘I understand.’

‘Good,’ said Nicholas, releasing him with a cold smile. ‘And if you should still wish to kill me, Master Hibbert, I’ll be happy to indulge you at any time. You can have choice of weapons.’

‘Oh, I will!’ warned Hibbert, rubbing his throat. ‘Nobody treats me like that — least of all an upstart book holder. I’ll be back, I promise you. I’ll be back to get my revenge.’

Cursing under his breath, he reeled out of the tiring-house.

The atmosphere in the taproom was strangely subdued. Though the actors were entitled to celebrate, they did so in muted fashion, all too conscious of the fact that one of their number had been poisoned in the course of the play. Guilty feelings had been stirred by Hal Bridger’s death. Those who had mocked him and exploited his good nature now felt pangs of remorse. They wished that they had been kinder to him when he was alive, and more tolerant of his shortcomings. Lawrence Firethorn shared the general contrition, aware that he, too, had been unduly harsh to the assistant stagekeeper at times. Seated at a table in the corner, the actor-manager reflected on the situation with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode.

‘This changes everything,’ he said, gloomily.

‘I do not think so,’ countered Gill. ‘We must make the most of our success and play The Malevolent Comedy again tomorrow. When word of it spreads, we’ll be able to run for a week or more.’

‘And must we poison someone in each performance?’ asked Hoode, sardonically. ‘For that is what they saw and loved onstage this afternoon. Whose turn will be next? Yours, Barnaby?’

‘Cease this jesting.’

‘I speak in all seriousness.’

‘And so do I,’ said Firethorn. ‘Edmund is right. We owe it to Hal Bridger to let a decent interval pass before we tackle the play again. We’ll stage Black Antonio tomorrow, as planned.’

‘That’s madness!’ chided Gill. ‘You throw away our advantage.’

‘The Malevolent Comedy will keep for a few days.’

‘I never thought to hear such stupidity coming from the mouth of a blacksmith’s son. Strike while the iron is hot, Lawrence. Is that not the first thing you learnt at your father’s anvil?’

‘No,’ replied Firethorn, nostalgically. ‘The first thing I learnt was not to put my hand on the anvil because it was usually still hot from the horseshoe that had just been hammered into shape upon it.’

‘I do not think we should play at all tomorrow,’ opined Hoode.

‘Then you must have taken leave of your remaining senses,’ said Gill, pouting with outrage. ‘Leave our stage empty? Our rivals would love that, I am sure. Why not simply surrender our occupations altogether?’

‘I have already done that, Barnaby.’

‘And not before time, I may say.’

‘No more of this nonsense!’ ordered Firethorn, putting down his empty wine cup with a bang. ‘It’s folly to say that we’ll deny our audience tomorrow and double folly to say that Edmund is a spent force as a playwright.’

‘He admitted it himself,’ noted Gill.

‘Willingly,’ said Hoode. ‘I yield the palm to Master Hibbert.’

‘Westfield’s Men need more than one playwright to keep up a steady flow of new work,’ said Firethorn, ‘and I look to the time when we have you back at your incomparable best.’

‘Earlier today, you talked only of a second Edmund Hoode.’

‘Give me a third, a fourth or even a fifth Edmund Hoode and none of them would hold a candle to you.’

‘Saul Hibbert does,’ said Gill, flatly. ‘He holds a dozen candles in both hands to light up the stage with his brilliance.’

‘I see none of that fabled brilliance now,’ observed Firethorn, as the playwright strode across the taproom towards them. ‘Master Hibbert looks as if he has sat upon those twenty-four candles of yours before he had the sense to snuff out their flames.’

Still enraged by his confrontation in the tiring-house, Saul Hibbert was puce and beetle-browed. He ignored the congratulations that were called out to him and charged over to Firethorn.

‘I crave a word in private, Lawrence,’ he said.

‘There’s privacy enough at this table,’ explained Firethorn. ‘I have no secrets from Barnaby and Edmund. We form the triumvirate that runs the company. If you wish to discuss business, pray do so in front of my honoured fellows here.’

‘We were less than honoured when you commissioned Saul’s play,’ recalled Gill, spikily. ‘You did not mention it to either of us.’

‘Do you disapprove of my choice?’

‘No, Lawrence. The Malevolent Comedy is unsurpassed.’

‘I rest my case.’

‘Then let me put mine,’ said Hibbert, sitting on the empty stool at the table. ‘I want some recompense for providing you with the outstanding play of your season.’

‘You’ve had your fee in full.’

‘I need more than that, Lawrence, and I feel that I’m in a position to demand it. I talk not of money — that’s irrelevant here. I ask only this of you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Dismiss your book holder.’

The others were so astounded that they could say nothing for a full minute. It was only when Hibbert repeated his demand that Firethorn found his voice. He burst out laughing.

‘Get rid of Nicholas Bracewell?’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s like saying that we should disband the whole company. Nick is its heart.’

‘Yet he’s only a hired man,’ argued Hibbert.

‘And blest are we that were lucky enough to hire him.’

‘I take issue with that,’ said Gill, contentiously.

‘Do not listen to Barnaby,’ said Hoode. ‘He has never appreciated Nick’s value. Nor do you, Master Hibbert. Did you not see what occurred today? But for Nick Bracewell’s speed in removing a corpse from the stage, your play might have twitched to death like poor Hal Bridger. You owe our book holder some gratitude.’

‘All that I owe him is enmity,’ said Hibbert. ‘He insulted me.’

‘That does not sound like him. Was there any provocation?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Then why did he speak roughly to you?’

‘He did more than speak,’ complained Hibbert. ‘He threw me against a wall and held me by the throat.’

‘I beg leave to question that,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick is the gentlest of men. He’d not hurt a fly. And you tell me that he attacked you?’

‘Attacked, insulted and abused me. Dismiss him at once.’

‘I’d like to hear his side of the story first.’

Hibbert was incensed. ‘You’d take his word against mine?’

‘Every time,’ said Hoode. ‘And even if he did lay hands upon you, I’m sure that he had a sound reason to do so. Dispense with our book holder? I’d sooner part with Barnaby.’

‘I resent that!’ shouted Gill.

‘We’ll keep both you and Nick,’ said Firethorn, with an appeasing pat on his shoulder. ‘Rest easy on that score, Barnaby.’

‘Do you deny my request, then?’ asked Hibbert.

‘A moment ago, it was a demand.’

‘You’ll not get rid of your book holder?’

‘No,’ said Firethorn. ‘He holds this company together.’

‘You had better search for someone else to serve in that capacity,’ warned Hibbert. ‘If you will not throw him out, then I will do so myself with the blade of my sword. He more or less challenged me to a duel.’ Firethorn put back his head and laughed. ‘What is so comical now?’

‘The thought that you could kill Nick in a duel,’ said Hoode with a chuckle. ‘Make your will before you lift your weapon because your heirs will be sure to inherit. Am I right, Lawrence?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘It’s Nick who instructs us in swordplay on the stage. He has no equal with a rapier. Do not offer him any other weapon either, Saul, for he is a master with every one of them. Nick Bracewell sailed around the world with Drake in younger days. He was trained to fight with sword, dagger and musket. And there’s no better man to have beside you in a brawl. Fight a duel with him and you commit certain suicide. I think you’d best mend this quarrel with Nick.’

‘Never!’ said Hibbert.

‘He’s the most reasonable man alive.’

‘What he did to me was unforgivable.’

‘Yet not without cause, I suspect,’ said Hoode.

‘Nicholas does get above himself at times,’ remarked Gill.

Firethorn grinned. ‘Would you cross swords with him, Barnaby?’

‘Not for a king’s ransom!’

‘There’s your answer, Saul. Make your peace with him.’

Hibbert was fuming. On a day when his play had bewitched a full audience, when it had introduced a striking new talent to the capital, when he expected to be feted by everyone he met, he had instead been thoroughly humiliated. Someone was going to pay for it. Rising abruptly from his seat, he stalked out in a temper.

‘He’s too rash to be the second Edmund Hoode,’ said Hoode with a contented smile. ‘I’d not dare to challenge Nick to a duel even if his sword were made out of paper. Saul Hibbert may be a clever playwright but he’s no judge of a fighting man. One of us needs to speak to Nick about this.’

‘Well, it won’t be me,’ said Gill.

‘I’ll gladly take on the role of peacemaker here.’

‘You may have to wait a while, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick has other business in hand. He’s gone to speak to Hal Bridger’s family.’

Nicholas Bracewell did not have far to walk. The Queen’s Head was situated in Gracechurch Street, only a hundred yards or so from the house near Bishopsgate, where Hal Bridger had been born and brought up. The boy’s father was a leather-seller and the family lived over the shop that he had kept for some thirty years. As he entered the premises, Nicholas inhaled the distinctive smell of tanned leather. Like his son, Terence Bridger was tall and slim but there was a hardness in his face that he had not passed on to his only child. Nicholas was surprised to see how old the man was — close to sixty, if not beyond it.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked Bridger, gruffly.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and I belong to Westfield’s Men. I need to speak to you about your son.’

‘I have no son.’

‘Are you not Hal Bridger’s father?’

‘Not any more.’

‘But he always speak of you with such respect.’

‘Then it’s a pity he did not show more of it when he was here.’

‘Your son loved you.’

‘Love is not love if it turns its back on obedience.’

Nicholas could see that his task was going to be even more difficult than anticipated. Terence Bridger’s stern tone and unforgiving manner marked him out as an enemy of the theatre. Nicholas sensed that the leather-seller had distinct leanings towards Puritanism.

‘He made his choice and must live by it,’ said Bridger.

‘I can see that he joined us without your permission.’

‘He defied both me and his employer. I had him apprenticed to a saddler in Cheapside. It was an honest trade, a chance to work with leather that I supplied. But Hal betrayed his calling. Instead of learning his craft, he was forever sneaking off to watch a play at the Queen’s Head, the Curtain or at that other devilish place in Bankside.’

‘The Rose?’

‘Theatre corrupted him. It turned a God-fearing young boy into a shameless heathen that I refuse to acknowledge as my own.’

‘Hal was no heathen,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘He attended church every Sunday, as do most members of the company.’

‘His church was there,’ snapped Bridger, pointing towards the Queen’s Head. ‘He worshipped in that foul pit of iniquity, where painted women consort with evil men to watch disgusting antics upon the stage.’

‘I can see that you’ve never actually attended a performance.’

‘Nothing would make me do so, sir!’

‘Then you condemn out of sheer ignorance.’

‘I do so out of Christian conviction,’ said Bridger, thrusting out his chin. ‘If you are party to the profanity that goes upon a stage, you are not welcome in my shop. Good day to you!’

‘I’ve not delivered my message about your son yet.’

‘He no longer exists. I tell you this, Master Bracewell,’ said the other, eyes glinting, ‘that I’d sooner wish a son of mine in his grave than fall into the clutches of a theatre company.’

‘Then your wish has been granted,’ said Nicholas, softly. ‘That’s what I came to tell you — Hal, I fear, is dead.’

Terence Bridger’s face was impassive. His voice was icily cold.

‘He died the moment that he walked out of here,’ he said.

Owen Elias laughed until the tears trickled down his rubicund cheeks.

‘He intended to fight Nick Bracewell in a duel?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘until we warned him against such lunacy.’

‘Saul Hibbert would not last a minute. I’m no mean swordsman but I wouldn’t chance my arm against Nick. He moves like lightning. Did you tell that to the reckless author?’

‘Saul is too choleric to listen to sound advice.’

‘Speak to him when he’s cooled down, Lawrence, or we’ll be bidding an early farewell to him at his funeral.’

They were still in the taproom at the Queen’s Head, where strong drink had now lifted the prevailing sadness a little. Seeing that Gill and Hoode had left the table, Elias had moved across to join Firethorn for a private talk. The Welshman sipped his ale ruminatively.

‘We’ve not had good fortune with new playwrights, have we?’

‘No, Owen. I thought we’d found a gem in Michael Grammaticus, but he turned out to be passing off his friend’s plays as his own. And since that friend was no longer alive, we could hope for nothing more from his cunning brain. Nor from dear Jonas Applegarth,’ said Firethorn with deep regret. ‘The poor fellow was hanged by the neck in this very building — though how they found a rope strong enough to bear his weight, I’ll never know.’

‘Then there was Lucius Kindell, full of promise, seduced away from us by Havelock’s Men. And was there not one Ralph Willoughby, before my time with the company?’

‘Burnt alive during the performance of The Merry Devils.’

‘Do all our dramatists have a death wish?’

‘One of them does, Owen,’ said Firethorn, seriously, ‘and he’s the man we must discuss. Forget the new and cleave to the old. I’ll do my utmost to keep Saul Hibbert alive to write more plays for us, but my chief concern is for Edmund. He has abdicated his position.’

‘Tie him back on his throne and force a pen into his hand.’

‘It’s not as easy as that. Edmund has lost all appetite.’

‘He’s a creature of moods, Lawrence, as you well know. When his juices flow,’ said Elias, ‘he’ll write all day and night without a break. There’s not a playwright in London who has produced so much work of such high quality.’

‘You’d not say that if you read How to Choose a Good Wife.’

‘I did read it — the first act, anyway. I lacked the courage to go any further. It made my toes curl with embarrassment.’

‘I could not believe Edmund had put his name to it.’

‘Nor me,’ said Elias, pursing his lips. ‘It was not a new work at all but a collection of everything cut out of his earlier plays, strung untidily together like washing on a line.’

‘It contained a frightening message for me, Owen.’

‘Yes. Edmund is unwell.’

‘Worse — he’s fallen out of love with the theatre.’

‘You’ve hit the mark there. Except that it is not only the theatre that has made him jaded. Edmund is out of love. It’s as simple as that. Only when he’s pining for a pretty maid can he write from the heart. We’ve seen it before, Lawrence.’

‘Too many times.’

‘Edmund is happy in his work when he’s unhappy in love.’

‘Then there’s our solution,’ announced Firethorn, snapping his fingers. ‘We must find him a good woman.’

‘A bad one would have more chance of exciting his interest,’ said Elias with a grin. ‘She must have enough respectability to lure him and a touch of wickedness to close the trap.’

‘Let’s draw a portrait of her in our minds.’

‘She must be tall and slim.’

‘But not too tall,’ said Firethorn, warming to the task, ‘for she must appeal to Edmund’s protective instinct. And not too slim, either. He likes the bold curve of a breast as much as any of us.’

‘And a pair of shapely hips.’

‘What of her hair?’

‘Raven-black with eyebrows to match.’

‘He’s always had a weakness for fair-haired ladies before.’

‘Then we must wean him off it with a darker siren. Black hair, white cheeks, red lips and a pair of eyes to tempt a saint.’

‘I want her for myself!’ cried Firethorn, rubbing his hands gleefully together. ‘By all, this is wonderful! I see the lovely lady, forming before my eyes as we speak, Owen. We are co-authors, bringing her to life as readily as Edmund creates a beauty on the page.’

‘Is she rich or poor?’

‘Neither. We’ll have no wealthy widows or menial servants. Our lady must be young, of middling sort and independent.’

‘Yet not too forward. She must be schooled in that.’

‘How much shall we need to pay her?

‘Not a penny, Lawrence. This is no work for a hired enchantress.’

‘Then how do we find her?’

‘London is full of such comely creatures.’

‘And just as full of rampant satyrs to chase them.’

‘She is here somewhere,’ said Elias, thoughtfully, ‘and I believe I know the very woman. Yes, she would be ideal for Edmund Hoode. Pert, fetching and full of accomplishments.’

‘Not one of your discarded mistresses, I hope.’

‘No, no, this lady is not for me. She’s too refined and intelligent. I like redder meat in my bed. Edmund has subtler tastes. He’ll adore her.’

‘Who is this paragon?’

‘Buy me some more ale,’ said Elias, ‘and I’ll tell you her name. Just wait, Lawrence. Our worries will soon be over. One glance at her and Edmund will start writing as if his life depended on it.’