The Malevolent Comedy

Chapter Four

Nicholas Bracewell had been to the house in Knightrider Street many times. It was a rambling edifice, whose half-timbered frontage bulged sharply outwards as if trying to break free of its foundations. Sagging heavily to the right as well, it was supported by the adjacent building, like a hopeless drunk being helped home by a considerate friend. With all its structural faults, it was an amiable place and Nicholas always enjoyed his visits there. He was not shown much amity on arrival. Had he not glanced upward in time, he would have been drenched by the pot of urine that was emptied through an open window into the street. As it was, he jumped nimbly out of the way of the downpour.

At least, he knew that Doctor John Mordrake was at home.

‘Come in, come in, Nicholas.’

‘I hope that I’m not disturbing you.’

‘Oh, no. Now that I’ve emptied my bladder, I’m at your service.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Mordrake.’

Nicholas was pleased to see him again. Mordrake was a big man whose contours had been cruelly reshaped by age so that he was bent almost double. Skeletal hands poked out from the sleeves of his shabby black gown. Out of the mass of wrinkles that was his face, two eyes shone with astonishing clarity, separated by an aquiline nose. Silver-grey hair fell to his shoulders and merged with his long, straggly beard. Around his neck, as usual, he wore a chain fit for a Lord Mayor of London, though no holder of that august office could ever equal his extraordinary range of achievements.

Detractors accused him of sorcery, but Doctor John Mordrake was a philosopher, mathematician, alchemist and astrologer of note and, on occasion, physician to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. He shuffled across to a chair and lifted a dead squirrel from it so that his guest could sit down. Filled with a compound of rich odours, the room was his laboratory and the huge, dust-covered, leather-bound tomes that lined the walls spoke of a lifetime’s study. Jars of herbs stood everywhere and on one table, in a series of large bottles, a number of small animals had been preserved in green liquid. In the fireplace, something was being heated in a small cauldron and giving off an acrid blue steam.

‘How can I help you, Nicholas?’ he asked.

‘I want a poison identified.’

‘That’s easily done.’

‘I’ll pay you for your time,’ said Nicholas.

Mordrake flapped a hand. ‘Keep your money in your purse, dear fellow. I would never charge a friend like you. My services are expensive to others but free to Nicholas Bracewell. I’ve not forgotten the favour you once did me when Westfield’s Men travelled to Bohemia to play before a Holy Roman Emperor.’

Nicholas remembered the visit to Prague only too well but had so many misgivings about the venture that he did not wish to revive any memories of it. Instead, he launched into a concise and lucid account of the tragic death of Hal Bridger. Listening intently throughout, Mordrake took especial interest in the symptoms displayed by the victim. He then asked to see the vessels that had contained the poison. Nicholas handed over the cup and phial, hoping that they retained at least some of the smell of the poison. Mordrake put both to his nose in turn. With so many competing aromas in the room, Nicholas feared that the old man would be unable to detect anything at all but he had reckoned without the sensitivity of the beak-like nose. It inhaled deeply through both nostrils.

‘Well?’ asked Nicholas.

‘It’s a fiendish compound.’

‘What can you detect?’

‘Monkshood, belladonna, henbane, even a hint of foxglove. And something more besides that I cannot quite name. A lethal dose for any man, however strong his constitution.’

‘Hal was young and delicate.’

‘Then the poison worked more swiftly on him.’

‘Could anyone mix the compound?’

‘No, Nicholas,’ said Mordrake, taking a last sniff of the phial. ‘This is the work of some corrupt apothecary, paid to dishonour his calling. You must check the phials more carefully if you stage the play again.’

‘We’ll not use any liquid at all next time,’ resolved Nicholas. ‘If the phial is held right inside the cup, nobody in the audience will be any the wiser. It was the author who insisted that the potion should be seen.’

The old man raised a shaggy eyebrow in surprise. ‘Since when has Lawrence Firethorn taken much note of authors?’

‘A good question, Doctor Mordrake.’

‘He has a reputation of being a law unto himself.’

‘A well-earned reputation,’ said Nicholas, fondly, ‘but he paid the playwright more attention in this case and abided by his every request. What the audience saw is what Saul Hibbert asked for and received.’

‘So he is indirectly responsible for the murder.’

‘Nobody would ever be able to convince him of that.’

‘Have I been of any use?’ asked Mordrake, handing the cup and phial back to him. ‘I like to feel that I’ve earned the exorbitant fee I might have asked from you.’

‘The names of renegade apothecaries would not come amiss.’

‘There are not many. Most are proud to uphold their standards.’

‘What of those who do not? There are villains in every profession.’

‘One moment, my friend.’

Mordrake sat on a stool at one of the tables and reached for a piece of parchment that was already half-covered with abstruse drawings. After chewing meditatively on the end of his quill, he dipped it into the inkwell and wrote down some names. Without bothering to dry the ink, he handed the list to Nicholas.

‘The first man has a shop in Trigg Alley,’ he said. ‘Find him and you’ll find the others, for he’ll direct you to them. They are all of them men who have sadly fallen from grace in their time.’

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Nicholas, studying the list.

‘Preparing a fatal poison does not make a man a killer. Bear that in mind. If it did, I’d have been hanged long ago, for I’ve made up some venomous concoctions to rid a house of vermin. At least,’ he went on, ‘that was what I was told when it was purchased from me. How would I know if the potion was instead used to remove a shrewish wife or send a troublesome husband to his Maker?’

‘I’m only after the person who bought the poison.’

‘Take great care. He’s an evil man.’

‘He must be called to account,’ said Nicholas, gravely. ‘I’ll track him down somehow. I owe it to Hal Bridger to do that.’

Sobbing quietly, George Dart and Richard Honeydew sat side by side on the bottom step of a staircase at the Queen’s Head and hugged each other for comfort. They looked so small and insignificant that most of those who went in and out of the taproom did not even notice them. Edmund Hoode saw them at once as he was leaving. Taking pity on them he sat between the pair and enfolded them gently in his arms.

‘What’s this, what’s this?’ he said, softly. ‘Crying will not bring Hal Bridger back to us. You must bear his loss with courage.’

‘But we killed him,’ whined Dart.

‘Away with that silly thought!’

‘We did,’ said Honeydew. ‘George made up that potion and I handed it to Hal in the cup. We are accomplices in a murder.’

‘You are nothing of the kind,’ said Hoode, ‘and, were he here now, Hal would be the first to tell you that. George did not put the poison in the phial any more than you, Dick, knowingly poured it into the cup. You loved Hal and would not harm him for the world.’

‘That’s true,’ said Dart, offering evidence in his defence. ‘I was his friend. I taught him how to duck under Thomas’s blows and keep out of Master Firethorn’s way when his temper was up. I tried to save Hal from any pain and not inflict it.’

‘You’d never hurt anyone, George,’ soothed Honeydew.

‘The same is true of you, Dick.’

‘You’re the kindest two lads in the company,’ said Hoode, giving them an encouraging squeeze. ‘George is a martyr to endure all the teasing that he gets, and Dick is the one apprentice who never stoops to silly mischief. I’d trust my life with either of you.’

‘That’s what Hal thought,’ said Dart, tears forming again.

Honeydew sniffled. ‘And he paid dearly for his mistake.’

‘We’ll never be able to forgive ourselves.’

‘Hal Bridger will haunt me in my dreams.’

‘And so will I, if we have any more of this,’ said Hoode, adopting a sterner tone. ‘Neither of you bears any blame. You might just as well blame Saul Hibbert for writing the play, or Lawrence for deciding to commission it, or the landlord for allowing it to be staged here. If you want to find a culprit, there’s a great long line of them to choose from and it includes me.’

‘You?’ they said in unison.

‘Yes. The Malevolent Comedy was only bought because I was unable to supply a new play myself. Had my rustic tale been deemed worthy enough, then that would have been staged here today, and Hal would still be alive. No, lads,’ Hoode continued. ‘There’s only one true culprit and we must all help to find him.’

‘How can we do that?’ asked Dart.

‘By keeping your eyes and ears open. If he’s struck once, he may do so again. We must be on our guard.’ The others began to shiver. ‘The search for the villain has already begun. I’ve just spoken with Nick Bracewell, who managed to get the poison identified. We know exactly what killed Hal now. Tomorrow, Nick will try to find the apothecary who mixed the lethal potion.’

Honeydew was frightened. ‘And you think the killer is still here?’

‘It’s a possibility that we must consider.’

‘Then none of us is safe!’

‘We are, if we stay together, Dick — and take care what we drink.’

‘I’ll be afraid to touch a drop of anything.’

‘So will I,’ said Dart, querulously.

Hoode smiled. ‘You’ll drink when you get thirsty enough,’ he said. ‘The main thing is that you absolve yourselves of any blame. Nobody is pointing the finger at you. We understand your fears and want to help you overcome them. The worst is over, lads. Bear up.’

‘But the worst is not over yet,’ said Honeydew.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Hal has a family and they will want to know how he died. They are bound to come looking for George and me. You may say that we were not at fault,’ he went on, biting his lip, ‘but his parents may think that we are the murderers. I’m terrified to face them, Edmund.’

‘We both are,’ said Dart.

‘Then let me put your minds at rest,’ said Hoode, discreetly. ‘Nick spoke to Hal’s father and told him of the tragedy. For personal reasons, the parents will not come anywhere near the Queen’s Head. Shed that anxiety as well, lads. You are safe.’

‘Disowned his own son?’ asked Anne in a tone of disbelief. ‘Surely not.’

‘It is sad but true.’

‘Sad and reprehensible, I’d say. What sort of father turns his back on a boy who has been murdered? It’s bad enough if a child dies by natural means, but a calamity when he’s poisoned to death. Do the parents have no hearts?’

‘I only spoke with the father,’ said Nicholas, ‘and his heart was made of stone, hewn, I suspect, from some Puritan quarry. Theatre is anathema to him. Left to himself, he’d tear down every playhouse in London. Hal was very brave to defy such a man, braver still to join Westfield’s Men.’

‘Why?’

‘He left a secure trade as a saddler to trust his luck with the most precarious profession in the city. His bravery verges on heroism, Anne. And it cost him his young life.’

After the rigors of the day, Nicholas was glad to get back to the haven of his lodging in Bankside, and to relax in its welcoming parlour. Anne Hendrik, the English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, was a handsome woman in her thirties with skills she did not even know that she possessed until she was forced to run her late husband’s business in the adjoining premises. During the early months of struggle and financial restraint, she took in a lodger to defray expenses and found, in Nicholas Bracewell, a man who became her friend, confidante and, in time, her lover. Married in all but name, they shared a closeness that was a source of continual solace during times of strife. Nicholas could always rely on her support and sympathy.

‘Why did you have to take on this duty?’ she said, touching his arm. ‘It should have fallen to Lawrence, as manager of the company. This is so typical of him, Nick. He always shuffles off his own responsibilities onto you.’

‘I was happy to accept in this case,’ explained Nicholas. ‘I liked Hal and worked more closely with him than anyone. The lad did all that we asked of him, willingly and without complaint. In view of what happened,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘it’s perhaps just as well that Lawrence did not bear the bad news to the father.’

‘Why not?’

‘Puritanism brings out the worst in him. He’d have started an argument with Hal’s father and that would have been very unseemly in the circumstances. The boy deserves to be mourned, not haggled over. If Lawrence had gone to the leather-seller’s shop,’ he said, ‘he would have been seen as the Prince of Darkness.’

‘Would he and the father have come to blows?’

‘Most likely.’

‘I’m sure that you behaved more peaceably.’

‘I was far from peaceable this afternoon, Anne,’ he admitted. ‘As a result, I may have to fight a duel.’

‘A duel?’ she repeated, eyes widening in distress.

‘Unless the matter can be settled amicably.’

‘And can it?’

‘We shall see.’

Nicholas told her about his altercation with Saul Hibbert, conceding that he had been unduly robust with the man yet showing no regret. He felt that he was repaying him for the disdainful conduct they had all endured for weeks. Having already heard some bad reports about the playwright, Anne was not surprised that he had behaved so selfishly, but she was dismayed to learn that he had dismissed the murder of Hal Bridger with such scorn.

‘Did he show no sign of sorrow at all?’ she asked.

‘Only at the way that Hal’s death interrupted his play.’

‘Master Hibbert is a monster.’

‘You might change your mind if you met him, Anne.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a man of great charm when he chooses to be,’ said Nicholas, ‘and the ladies flock to him. Saul Hibbert is careful to flatter Lawrence as well, so that he can secure more permanent place with the company. When it comes to the rest of us, however,’ he continued with a frown, ‘he has nothing but disregard. He treats hired men as if we were a lower order of creation, and he’s even shown contempt towards Edmund.’

‘That’s unpardonable. Edmund would not strike back.’

‘I did so on his behalf, Anne, and on behalf of all the others whom our arrogant author has seen fit to bully and criticise.’

‘Someone had to stand up to him,’ said Anne, admiringly.

‘That’s what I felt.’

‘But I’m worried that it might lead to a duel.’

‘Lawrence wants me to apologise to Master Hibbert.’

‘For what? It’s he who should apologise to you.’

‘He’s already done so,’ said Nicholas with a half-smile, ‘though I had to squeeze it out of him. That’s the reason he wants me dismissed.’

‘He has no right to do that, Nick.’

‘Lawrence made that clear.’

‘Yet he still takes Master Hibbert’s side?’

‘No, Anne. He simply wants the two of us quickly reconciled. Saul Hibbert may be a tiresome man but The Malevolent Comedy carried all before it. We need such an author to compete with our rivals,’ he said, ‘and Lawrence knows that full well. He urges me to woo Master Hibbert.’

‘You can hardly do that with a sword in your hand.’

‘I’ll not shirk a duel, if one comes along.’

‘Duelling is against the law.’

‘It makes no difference, Anne. What he did this afternoon was against the more sacred laws of humanity. An innocent life is snuffed out in the course of his play and all that he can do is to protest about it. Truly,’ he went on, gritting his teeth, ‘I don’t know which of them I despise the more. A father who pretends that his son does not exist, or a playwright who treats the lad like a piece of dirt to be kicked aside.’

‘Both are equally hateful,’ said Anne without equivocation.

‘The problem is that I have to go on working with Saul Hibbert, for we’ll stage his play again and again. We are yoke-fellows.’

‘What will happen next?’

Nicholas gave a shrug. ‘That depends on him.’

Lawrence Firethorn gave him plenty of time to calm down but, after a few hours, Saul Hibbert was still simmering with rage. They met in the author’s room at the Queen’s Head and shared a bottle of sack. A haunting aroma of perfume hung in the air but it was clear to Firethorn that even time spent in the arms of a woman had failed to dispel the playwright’s sense of grievance. He continued to brood.

‘I’ll not let this pass, Lawrence,’ he warned.

‘Be ruled by me. Try to forget the whole incident.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Because that’s what Nick Bracewell is prepared to do.’

‘The devil take him!’

‘Be reasonable, Saul.’

‘Was that ruffian book holder of yours reasonable when he took be by the throat? No!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do not waste your time by appealing to my reason, Lawrence. I’m beyond that.’

‘All may seem different in the morning.’

‘Not to me.’

Hibbert seemed more indignant than ever and more vengeful. Two cups of sack did nothing to still his anger. Over a third, Firethorn tried once again to placate him.

‘Circumstance was against you both,’ he said. ‘After your play was such a triumph, you were rightly on fire with joy. By the same token, Nick Bracewell — after the death of Hal Bridger — was also profoundly stirred. Blood was up when the two of you met.’

‘Mine still is.’

‘Nick is mildness itself now. He accepts that he acted on impulse.’

‘I knew that you’d take his side.’

‘That’s not what I’m doing.’

‘It’s the thing that annoys me most,’ said Hibbert, tossing back his long, wavy hair. ‘You listen to a hired man before an author. You prise a lackey above someone who’s just delivered you the best success you’ve enjoyed all season.’

‘Nick is no lackey,’ rejoined Firethorn, hotly.

‘What else is the fellow? He’s a servant, a slave, a hireling, a nothing man, a minion, a menial, a faceless creature, who holds a book at a performance. Ha!’ he snorted with distaste. ‘Cancel his contract and you could replace him in five minutes.’

‘Five years would not be enough to replace Nick Bracewell.’

‘And how many years would it take to find another Saul Hibbert?’

He almost spat the challenge at Firethorn and the actor had to bite back his initial reply. Having come to pacify the man, he did not wish to alienate him further by having an argument with him. In two bare hours that afternoon, Hibbert had proved his worth. His was a talent that had to be kept, nurtured, developed, refined and, at all costs, put beyond the reach of rivals such as Banbury’s Men. In The Malevolent Comedy, as in no other new play, Firethorn had something able to hold its own against Lamberto, the pride of the Curtain. However contentious he was, however intemperate his language, Hibbert had to be wooed.

‘And I’ve another complaint,’ said the playwright, returning to the fray. ‘I’m told that you play some mouldy old tragedy tomorrow.’

‘Black Antonio is popular with our audiences.’

‘But staged so often as to be threadbare.’

‘It was always our intent to offer it again tomorrow.’

‘But only if my play disappointed. Instead of which, it dazzled like the sun and left an audience begging to feel its warmth again. Why fall back on Black Antonio when you have a wonderful new play to offer?’

‘It was not felt proper, Saul.’

‘By whom? Barnaby felt it proper. He told me so. He believes that The Malevolent Comedy could occupy the stage for a fortnight.’

‘And maybe it will,’ said Firethorn, exasperated by the mention of Barnaby Gill, ‘but the final decision about tomorrow lies with me, and, in deference to the company’s feelings, we’ll rest your play awhile.’

‘The company’s feelings? What on earth are they, Lawrence?’

‘I can see you are not well-versed in the ways of the theatre. Actors are ever at the mercy of superstition. If something goes awry during a performance, it plants a fear in their mind. And there cannot be a more worrying mishap onstage than the death of a member of the cast.’

‘Do you mean that the actors refuse to play it again?’

‘No,’ said Firethorn, choosing his words carefully, ‘they will do as they are told, but they’d prefer to leave your comedy aside tomorrow. They are not in a mood to do it justice and believe, in any case, that we should rest your play as a mark of respect to Hal Bridger.’

‘An assistant stagekeeper?’ scoffed Hibbert.

‘Nick Bracewell agreed.’

‘Who manages Westfield’s Men — you or him?’

‘I do,’ said Firethorn, straightening his shoulders.

‘Then why bother with the riffraff of the company, for that is all they are. Assistant stagekeepers and book holders!’ He gave a derisive laugh. ‘Any fool could do such an office. It’s work for trash, for rabble, for scum, for the sweepings of the streets.’

‘It’s work that has to be done well,’ said Firethorn with passion, ‘or playwrights like you and actors like me are made to look ridiculous. Never condemn those behind the scenes, Saul. Our success rests on them as much as on our own abilities.’

‘I dispute that.’

‘Then we must agree to differ.’ Firethorn rose from his chair. ‘I’ll bid you good night and hope that wiser counsels prevail on the morrow, and that you come to see Nick Bracewell in a fairer light.’ Hibbert stifled a retort. ‘It’s another reason why Black Antonio holds the stage in your place, Saul. It will keep you and Nick apart.’

‘We’ll meet again ere long, I assure you.’

‘Then do so as fellows in the same company. Are we agreed?’

Hibbert gave a reluctant nod but his eyes were smouldering.

It took Nicholas Bracewell the best part of the morning to track down the man. Simeon Howker’s name was the last on the list and Nicholas had to work his way through the others before he finally trudged off in the direction of Clerkenwell. The shop was in a narrow lane that twisted between rows of filthy tenements. Few in such a poverty-stricken area of the city could afford a doctor or a surgeon, none could aspire to the services of a physician. The vast majority therefore fell back on their local apothecary, hoping that his herbal remedies would cure the vast range of diseases and disabilities that they took to his door. Nicholas was easily the healthiest man ever to step over the threshold.

‘Yes, sir?’ asked the apothecary.

‘Simeon Howker?’

‘The very same.’

‘I’m a friend of Doctor Mordrake,’ said Nicholas, barely able to see the man in the dark interior of his shop, ‘and I’m hoping that you may be able to help me.’

‘If you have dealings with Mordrake, you’ll not be needing me. He knows of herbs that I’ve never even heard of, and can cure anything from smallpox to the standing of the yard.’ He stepped out of the shadows. ‘Do you have trouble with the standing of your yard,’ he said with a crude cackle. ‘’Tis a common problem among men. It either stands when you would have it flaccid, or lies dormant when it needs to rise and bid welcome to a lady. Is that your ailment, sir?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I only came for information.’

‘Even that has a charge on it.’

Simeon Howker was a short, stringy man in his forties with a lean face that was fringed by a wispy ginger beard. Wearing a black gown and a black skullcap, he peered at his visitor over a pair of glasses. The shop was small, cluttered and musty. Around its shelves, Nicholas could see endless bottles of herbs. Howker named them at speed.

‘Aconite, buckthorn, buttercup, cinquefoil, wild cherry, darnel, hellebore, hemlock, laburnum, larkspur, lobelia, mandrake and many more besides,’ he said. ‘Most are harmless unless mixed with other herbs. Several that are poisonous can yet be used as remedies if sold in the right compounds.’

‘And you know how to make those compounds, I daresay.’

‘Of course, good sir. I am part apothecary and part magician.’

‘You may also be an accessory to a murder.’

‘What’s that?’ said the other, so startled that he retreated into the shadows. ‘I’ll hear no wild accusations in my shop, sir. I’m a law-abiding man, as any of my customers will witness.’

‘It’s one of those customers I came to talk to you about,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Someone recently asked you to make a lethal compound for him that would kill as soon as it was swallowed.’

‘Rat poison is all that I sell.’

‘This poison was bought by a rat and I’m anxious to catch him. The compound that you mixed for him sent a young friend of mine to an early grave. I want his killer brought to justice.’

‘I had no truck with him. Why come to me?’

‘Because your name was on the list that Doctor Mordrake gave to me, a list of five apothecaries, who’d sell their souls rather than earn an honest living.’ Howker started to bluster. ‘Save your breath to tell me what I came to find out and do not try to deceive me,’ warned Nicholas, fingering his dagger, ‘or I’ll cut the truth out of your miserable carcass.’

‘I made no poison, sir. It was one of the others.’

‘They didn’t dare to lie to me and neither must you. Monkshood, belladonna, henbane, a pinch of foxglove and something else to make it more deadly still — those were the ingredients.’ He moved forward to confront the apothecary. ‘And you mixed them, did you not?’

‘No, no,’ cried the other. ‘I swear that I refused to do it.’

‘Then someone did come in search of the poison?’

‘Came and went away. I practise no witchcraft. I would never make such an evil potion.’

‘You’re a craven coward who cannot admit the ugly truth,’ said Nicholas, whipping out his dagger and holding it at the man’s throat. ‘I’ll ask you one more time. Lie to me again and I’ll send you off to join my friend on a cold slab.’ Howker started to quiver. ‘Now — who instructed you to make that poison?’

‘Nobody.’

The dagger pricked his throat and made him yell. ‘Who?’ said Nicholas, knowing that he was at last on the right trail.

‘He did not give a name.’

‘When did he come?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘Alone or with someone else?’

‘On his own,’ said Howker. ‘If you please, sir, could you put that dagger away before it hurts me? I’ll tell you what I know, I promise you.’

Nicholas sheathed his weapon. ‘What did the man ask for?’

‘A deadly poison. He said his farm was overrun with rats.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘Not for a moment, sir. He was no farmer. And he bought too little of the compound to deal with a plague of vermin. But he paid me well,’ he remembered, ‘and stood over me while I mixed the compound.’

‘Describe him.’

‘It’s very gloomy in here.’

‘Describe the man,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘You saw him well enough to realise that he was not a farmer, and if you work in this light every day, you must be used to it. How tall was he?’

‘About your height, sir.’

‘His build?’

‘Much slimmer than you.’

‘What of his age?’

‘Thirty or more, perhaps.’

‘Well-favoured?’

‘And well-dressed in doublet and hose. A proper gentleman.’

‘No gentleman buys poison with intent to murder,’ said Nicholas, tartly. ‘What else can you tell me about the fellow?’

‘Nothing, except that he wore a beard and a jewelled earring.’

‘What colour was the beard?’

‘As fair as yours and neatly trimmed.’

‘A strange customer to come into a shop like yours, then.’

‘Very strange.’

‘How did he know where to find you?’

‘You’ll have to ask him that, sir, though I do have a reputation.’

‘I can see that you live up to it in this sewer of a shop,’ said Nicolas, glancing around. ‘Did it never occur to you, when you mixed that poison, that you were serving a man with murder on his mind?’

Howker shook his head. ‘I gave him what he asked for. He paid.’

‘Did he say where he was staying?’

‘Not a word.’

‘What about his voice? Low or high?’

‘Somewhere in between.’

‘Was he a Londoner?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Howker, confidently. ‘He was a visitor to the city. I’ve heard the tongue before but could not place it. There was a whisper of the country about it yet he did not seem to be a countryman. That’s all I can tell you, sir,’ he bleated. ‘If I’d known that the poison was to kill someone, I’d never have sold it to him.’

‘You’d sell anything for money, you rogue.’

‘I’ve a wife and children to support. They come first. Do not blame me, please. I only seek to make my living here.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘as a purveyor of death.’

Resisting an impulse to attack the man, he stormed out of the shop and slammed the door behind him. It had been a long morning but he had finally made some progress. It was a start.

Black Antonio was a tragedy of revenge and thwarted love, written in soaring verse and offering Lawrence Firethorn a title role that allowed him to explore the outer limits of his talent. In his full-blooded portrayal of the ill-starred Antonio, there was not even a tiniest vestige of Lord Loveless, who had tripped across the same boards so entertainingly on the previous afternoon. Firethorn was a different man entirely, a noble savage, honest, upright, fearless in battle yet gentle in his wooing, a tragic hero brought low by the one flaw in his character.

Since the play was a staple part of their repertoire, Nicholas Bracewell felt able to miss the rehearsal that morning so that he could conduct his search among the apothecaries. George Dart had held the book in his stead, yielding it up for the performance itself. With the death of Hal Bridger still at the forefront of their minds, the actors began with some trepidation but they soon hit their stride. A sizeable audience came to watch them in the bright sunshine. The company gave a sterling account of the play and it went off without incident.

When he had taken as many bows as he felt able to, Firethorn led his troupe gratefully into the tiring-house. Pulling off his helmet, he stared into a mirror and used a cloth to wipe the black pigment from his sweat-covered face. Nicholas went across to him.

‘It was like a furnace out there,’ said Firethorn. ‘I started to melt. Another half-hour in that sunshine and my last bit of blackness would have trickled away. I’d have been White Antonio.’

‘That would have made for a very different play.’

‘Today I was black on the outside and white on the inside.’

‘Master Hibbert is quite the opposite,’ remarked Nicholas, quietly. ‘A handsome face disguises a very ugly man.’

Most of the actors were so relieved to come through the performance unscathed that they changed quickly out of their costumes and scampered off to the taproom. Firethorn waited until he and Nicholas were alone before he took up the book holder’s comment.

‘Saul is no villain,’ he said, easily. ‘He’s a proud man with a right to take pride in his talents. I know that it makes for vanity but we all suffer from that disease.’ He rubbed the last speck of black from his hands. ‘I spoke to him last night, Nick.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He’ll not relent.’

‘Neither will I.’

‘It’s not like you to be so stubborn.’

‘I have my pride as well, Lawrence.’

‘In the past, you’ve always put the good of the company first.’

‘And I did so again yesterday,’ said Nicholas, ‘when I clashed with Master Hibbert. During the rehearsals for his play, he sneered and snarled at almost everyone but you and Barnaby. And he had no more concern for Hal’s death than he might for a squashed fly.’

‘That was shameful of him.’

‘I tried to persuade him of that.’

‘A little too roughly, it seems. Saul is adamant. He feels aggrieved, Nick. Only an apology from you can mend this rift.’

‘Then he’ll wait for it in vain.’

Firethorn was worried. ‘Do you want to drive him away?’

‘No, he’s a true dramatist.’

‘Well, that’s what will happen if this argument between the two of you is not resolved.’ He moved in closer. ‘I ask you as a friend, Nick. Bend a little, for my sake. Admit to Saul that you were too upset by Hal Bridger’s death to know what you were doing.’

‘I knew exactly what I was doing,’ said Nicholas.

‘This wound needs a balm. You’ve always been the healer among Westfield’s Men. Act as our apothecary once again.’

‘After recent events, I’ve lost a little faith in apothecaries. They can kill as easily as cure. I did not look for this quarrel, Lawrence. I was provoked beyond measure — and so would you have been. Instead of caring about a playwright we might employ in future,’ suggested Nicholas, ‘look to the one we already have. Edmund has given us a whole sequence of wonderful comedies but he does not feel obliged to preen himself as a result. Yet, on the strength of one play, Master Hibbert has swaggered like a petty tyrant. We should work to resurrect Edmund. He’s a true member of the company.’

‘Forget about him,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have a plan for Edmund.’

‘What sort of plan?’

‘Never mind.’

‘But I do mind,’ said Nicholas with suspicion. ‘I know Edmund. He needs to be handled with the greatest care.’

‘He will be — if Owen and I have our way. But that’s for another time. There’s room for more than one playwright in our stables, and I’m resolved that Saul Hibbert will join us.’

‘Then you may take it for granted.’

‘Not if you and he are at each other’s throats.’

‘I’m no impediment here,’ said Nicholas. ‘Master Hibbert is clever enough to use the evidence of his own eyes. He knows that Lord Westfield lends his name to the finest company in London.’

‘In the whole country!’

‘That’s why he offered the play to you first. You were Lord Loveless to the life. He must have been thrilled with your performance.’

‘And justly so,’ said Firethorn, beaming. ‘I was at my peak.’

‘That’s the reason a bond has been forged with Master Hibbert,’ said Nicholas. ‘You accepted his play and the company ensured his fame when we presented it here. There’s no way that Saul Hibbert would take his talent elsewhere.’

Intrigued by the invitation, Saul Hibbert had made his way to the Green Man at the appointed time. Having sat alone at a table for some while, however, he was beginning to wonder if he was the victim of a hoax, lured there to satisfy someone’s warped sense of humour. After waiting another five minutes, he decided to leave, but, before he could rise from his seat, a voice rang out across the tavern.

‘Pray stay where you are, Master Hibbert,’ said the newcomer. ‘A thousand apologies for my lateness.’ He stood beside the table. ‘I can see that you that received my letter.’

‘It was unsigned. I did not know quite what to expect.’

‘Then I hope that you’re not disappointed. I like to think that I have a manly hand, so you would not have come here in expectation of meeting a female admirer. After the performance of The Malevolent Comedy that I was privileged to witness yesterday, you’ll have no shortage of adoring young ladies.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Hibbert.

‘A fellow playwright and friend,’ said the other, sitting down.

‘Do you have a name?’

‘One that has attracted some renown. I am Cyrus Hame.’

‘The author of Lamberto?’

‘Co-author with esteemed partner, John Vavasor. He’ll be here soon to join in the discussion. John admired your play as much as me.’

‘Thank you.’

Hibbert was still mystified. He looked at his companion and tried to work out why the man had been so eager to meet him. Cyrus Hame smiled back at him. He was a tall, slim, well-featured man in his thirties, wearing a doublet and hose that were striking without being gaudy, and sporting a pearl earring. Hame had an engaging manner.

‘Let me be honest with you, Master Hibbert,’ he said, stroking his fair beard and displaying a perfect set of teeth. ‘I think that your future as a playwright lies with Banbury’s Men.’