The Malevolent Comedy

Chapter Five

During the performance of Black Antonio, the inn yard of the Queen’s Head had been turned into a rudimentary playhouse. The stage was erected on trestles, benches put into the lower and upper galleries, and the yard itself used as a pit in which those who could only afford a penny stood shoulder to shoulder in the cloying heat. Secure within the world of the play, the audience could shut out the tumult of Gracechurch Street nearby and ignore the other intrusive sounds of a typical afternoon in the capital. Once a performance was over, however, and the spectators had gone, the playhouse was swiftly converted back to its more normal use as an inn. The stage was taken down, the benches removed and the place made fit to receive horses and coaches once more.

Most of the work was done by the lesser lights of Westfield’s Men under the control of Nicholas Bracewell. The only job that was left to one of Alexander Marwood’s servants was the onerous one of sweeping a yard that could accumulate the most amazing amount of litter in the course of an afternoon. The man to whom the task was allotted was a hulking giant in a tattered shirt, a pair of ancient breeches and a leather apron. As he swept away with his broom, he sent up a blizzard of dust.

‘Hold there, Leonard!’ said Nicholas. ‘A word with you, please.’

‘Any time you wish,’ replied the other, grateful for the opportunity to break off. ‘The play went well this afternoon.’

‘Did you watch it?’

‘Bits of it. I always cry at the end of Black Antonio.’

‘That’s a tribute to the actors.’

‘I snatched a few minutes here and there, when the landlord was not looking. He hates to see me resting.’

‘You wouldn’t know how to rest.’

Nicholas and Leonard were old friends. They had met in the unlikely venue of a prison, where Nicholas was falsely incarcerated and where Leonard was facing execution because he had accidentally broken the back of a wrestler who challenged all-comers at a fair. Rescued from his fate, Leonard had been unable to return to his old job at a brewery so Nicholas had found him employment at the Queen’s Head. Sweeping the yard, heaving barrels of beer about, cleaning the stables, carrying out simple repairs, helping in the garden and holding horses were only a few of the duties that came his way on a daily basis. Being able to talk to friends like Nicholas Bracewell made such toil more than worthwhile.

‘You’ve heard about Hal Bridger no doubt,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, I felt for the lad. He loved Westfield’s Men.’

‘His stay with us was all too short, Leonard. What we need to do is to find the man who killed him, and I’m hoping that you can help.’

‘How?’

‘The fellow was a stranger to the city — that much I know — so he would need to feel his way around the Queen’s Head to learn how we stage our plays. Nobody in the company was approached,’ Nicholas went on, ‘because I asked them. But you are here all the time and you keep your wits about you.’

Leonard grinned. ‘What few wits I have, that is.’

‘You’ve a quicker mind than some might think. A stranger could easily make that mistake, accosting you because you’d not suspect them of anything. Think, Leonard. Did anyone talk to you about us?’

‘Lots of people pass remarks about Westfield’s Men.’

‘This was a tall, lean, well-favoured man with a fair beard. Around my own age, I’m told, and dressed like a gentleman. Does that description jog your memory at all?’

‘I believe that it does,’ said Leonard, furrowing his brow and running a huge palm across his chin. ‘There was such a man, Nicholas. He spoke to me as I was carrying a pail of milk across the yard.’

‘When was this?’

‘Three or four days ago.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked about The Malevolent Comedy and where it was like to be performed. He was much as you describe, a pleasant man, easy to talk to and interested in your work.’

‘But he only asked about one particular play?’

‘Yes, Nicholas. He wanted to know where the actors waited until they took their roles onstage. And so I showed him.’

‘You let him see into the tiring-house?’

‘Only for a second,’ said Leonard, fearing disapproval. ‘And none of your property was there. I saw no harm in it.’

‘Did you recognise the man’s voice?’

‘Too soft to be a Londoner, yet not as soft and sweet as yours.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas, proud of his West Country burr. ‘But a soft voice hid a cold heart in the case of this man. I think that he may well have poisoned Hal Bridger.’

Leonard flushed with guilt. ‘Do you mean that I helped a killer?’

‘Not deliberately.’

‘I’d have knocked him down, if I’d know that was his ambition.’

‘He was here to stop the play for some reason, Leonard, and he chose the most effective method of doing so — he poisoned a member of the cast. I fear he may return.’

‘Then I’ll look out for him,’ said Leonard, grimly. ‘He tricked me into helping him murder Hal. That makes me so angry.’

‘Control your anger,’ advised Nicholas, ‘and, when you do see the man again, apprehend him and bring him straight to me. He may, of course, be quite innocent of the charge, but I’d rather take no chances.’

‘Nor me.’

They parted company and Leonard went off into the kitchen. Nicholas was about to join the others in the taproom when he saw a woman, hovering at the entrance to the yard. One of the servingmen from the inn was pointing at Nicholas. The man vanished but the woman plucked up the courage to beckon to the book holder. He strode across to her. Nicholas saw the distress in her face when he was ten yards away and guessed who she might be.

‘Are you Hal’s mother?’ he enquired.

‘Yes,’ she replied in a tremulous voice. ‘I want to speak to the man who came to our shop yesterday, one Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘That’s me, Mrs Bridger. Your husband turned me away.’

‘He was too hasty in doing so. Hal was our son.’

‘I’m glad that one of his parents acknowledges that. But if you wish to talk with me,’ said Nicholas, gently, ‘step inside and we’ll find some privacy.’

‘I’ll not come into a tavern,’ she said, shrinking back a foot or two. ‘Especially one that’s used as a playhouse. It’s against everything we believe. This place is a sink of immorality.’

‘Then we’ll move away from it,’ volunteered Nicholas, keen to respect her principles. ‘If we go into the lane opposite, we might get away from the worst of the din.’

Alice Bridger nodded. A thin woman of middle height, she was wearing a simple black dress with a white collar. Under the brim of her hat was a face that had lost its youthful prettiness without acquiring the hardness that distinguished her husband. Nicholas put her ten years younger than Terence Bridger, and sensed a kinder, more sensitive and more generous person. As they waited for a coach to rumble past before crossing the road, she glanced around nervously.

‘Your husband does not know that you’re here,’ decided Nicholas.

‘I came against his will,’ she said, apologetically. ‘It’s the first time I’ve disobeyed him but I had to know the truth.’

‘It will be painful, I fear.’

Nicholas helped her across the road and into the lane. When they found a doorway, they paused beside it to face each other. He was struck by the resemblance that Hal Bridger had shown to his mother. For her part, she seemed surprised that someone who worked in the theatre could be so polite and agreeable. Nicholas smiled.

‘We none of us have cloven feet and forked tails, Mrs Bridger.’

‘Do not mock me, sir.’

‘I was not doing so,’ said Nicholas, seriously. ‘Before we go any further, let me say that Hal was a credit to the company. I know that you despise the playhouse, but your son was at home with us. He soon made many friends.’

‘And you were one of them. Hal told us so.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘No,’ she explained. ‘After he left, my husband would not have him in the house, but Hal wrote to us. His letters were torn up and thrown away before I could read them. But I was curious.’

‘So you pieced them together again?’

‘They were addressed to both of us.’

‘And how did they make you feel?’

‘Sad. Very, very sad.’

‘For your son?’

‘For all of us,’ she confessed. ‘We were married for over twenty years before we were blessed with a child. That’s a long time to wait, a long time to pray. When my son was born, it seemed like a small miracle. We were such a happy family.’

‘I’m sorry if that happiness was destroyed. Hal went his own way, as sons are apt to do. I did the same myself at his age. But you did not come to hear about me, Mrs Bridger,’ he added quickly, with a self-effacing smile. ‘You want to know about your son.’

She clasped her hands tight. ‘Tell me what happened, please.’

Nicholas could think of few worse places to pass on sad tidings than a narrow lane only twenty yards away from a busy market, and he wished that she had been sitting down when he spoke. She looked frail and likely to faint but her religion gave her an inner strength that helped her through the ordeal. He tried to make it as swift and painless as possible, suppressing the details about the agony that her son had suffered, and emphasising the many good qualities in the boy’s character. All that Alice Bridger had been told was that her son was dead. The news that he had been poisoned made her shudder, but she somehow regained her composure.

‘I understand your feelings, Mrs Bridger,’ said Nicholas when he had finished. ‘Your husband left me in no doubt about your attitude to Hal. I regret it deeply, but I accept it. We’ll take full responsibility for his funeral. He’ll be buried in his parish church with his many friends there to mourn him.’

‘No,’ she said, breaking her silence. ‘I brought him into the world and I’ll see him out of it. We’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.’

‘Will your husband agree to that, Mrs Bridger?’

‘That’s our business. As for these friends you talk of,’ she went on, fixing him with a stare, ‘I’d rather that they stayed away.’

‘We’d like to show our respect.’

‘Then do so at a later date. You’re not wanted at the funeral. Visit his grave, if you must. We cannot stop you doing that.’

‘I’ll pass that message on,’ said Nicholas, quietly. ‘And before you go, I wish to do something that your husband prevented me from doing. Hal was a delightful lad and I miss him already. I’d like to offer my sincere condolences.’

‘Thank you.’

‘If there is anything that we can do …’

‘No,’ she said interrupting him with a wave of her hand. ‘There’s nothing, sir. You’ve done more than enough already.’

‘Hal came to us of his own accord, Mrs Bridger.’

‘And look what happened to him as a result.’

‘It was a tragic accident. It could have happened to anybody.’

‘You are wrong. What happened to our son was deliberate. It was a judgement from heaven on the sinful life he was leading,’ she asserted. ‘Hal was punished for his transgression.’

By the time that John Vavasor joined them, Saul Hibbert and Cyrus Hame had drunk the best part of a bottle of wine between them. The two playwrights had got on well, finding much in common and talking about their ambitions in the theatre. Vavasor was delighted to find them in such high spirits. Hame had been instructed to befriend Hibbert and win his confidence. It was John Vavasor, a plump, grinning, red-faced man in his forties, who was primed to offer the bait.

‘More wine here, I think,’ he said, lowering his bulk onto a seat at the table. A flick of the fingers brought a serving wench. Vavasor tapped the bottle on the table. ‘The same again, please, and another cup.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said and bobbed away.

‘So — this is the celebrated Saul Hibbert, is it?’ said the newcomer, eyeing him. ‘So young, so handsome and so supremely talented.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hibbert.

‘I envy you, sir. I am old, unsightly and only half-talented.’

‘I make up the other half,’ said Hame, gaily. ‘Apart, we struggle for recognition, but, together we can produce a play worthy of the name.’

‘Lamberto is far more than worthy,’ said Hibbert. ‘I’m honoured to share a table with its authors.’

‘The honour is entirely ours,’ insisted Vavasor.

A new bottle and a cup soon arrived. After pouring the last of the old bottle into his cup, Vavasor added some wine from the other bottle. Then he lifted his cup in a gesture of congratulation before sipping his drink. Hibbert took a moment to weigh him up. The older man presented a sharp contrast to his friend. While the latter hailed from Lincoln, Vavasor was a Londoner. His suit was expensive but dull, his face decidedly ugly and his voice coarsened by too much tobacco. He looked more like a debauched country lawyer than an eminent playwright. Cyrus Hame poured more wine into Hibbert’s cup and his own.

‘I told Saul that he would be better off with Banbury’s Men.’

‘Substantially better,’ said Vavasor.

‘How much did they pay you?’ asked Hame.

‘Four pounds,’ replied Hibbert, ‘with the promise of another pound if the play has more than ten performances within a month.’

‘We were paid five pounds for Lamberto.’

‘But that’s divided between the two of you.’

‘Cyrus took most of it,’ said Vavasor, genially, ‘because he has to pay his tailor and his wine merchant. I had the sense to marry wealth so money is immaterial to me. I write for rewards of the heart.’

‘Banbury’s Men will give us six pounds for our next play,’ boasted Hame, ‘and they’ve never paid that much before to anyone. We’ve set a standard where you could follow, Saul.’

‘Are you not afraid that I’d compete with you?’ said Hibbert.

‘Not at all. The stage at the Curtain will accommodate all three of us with ease. Besides, you write comedies whereas John and I are born tragedians.’

‘How do you get on with Lawrence Firethorn?’ wondered Vavasor.

‘Well enough,’ replied Hibbert.

‘Then you fared much better than me. When I took a play of mine to him, he sent me away with a flea in my ear. I’d never heard such foul language,’ he recalled, grimacing. ‘Firethorn threw the play back at me as if it gave off a nasty smell. I’d not work for that monster if the Queen herself commanded it.’

‘Yet he’s a magnificent actor.’

‘In certain roles.’

‘I wrote Lord Loveless with him in mind.’

‘And he played it well enough,’ agreed Hame, ‘but I fancy that Giles Randolph could have played it better.’

‘Does he have a gift for comedy?’

‘For comedy, tragedy, history or any combination of the three,’ said Vavasor. ‘More to the point, he knows how to nourish new talent like ours — and like yours, Saul.’

‘I’m already committed to Westfield’s Men.’

‘Only for this play. What of your next?’

‘Lawrence and I are still discussing terms.’

‘Bring them to us before you accept them, and we’ll get a far better offer from Giles Randolph for you. Westfield’s Men are past their best,’ said Vavasor, downing some more wine. ‘Apart from Firethorn, there are only three men of consequence in the company.’

‘Barnaby Gill is one,’ said Hibbert.

‘And that testy Welshman, Owen Elias, another. Close your eyes and he’s Firethorn with a Celtic lilt. They are the only two actors that Banbury’s Men would like to poach.’

‘You spoke of three a moment ago.’

‘Three people — not three actors.’

‘The third person is their book holder,’ said Vavasor. ‘Nicholas Bracewell is the man at the tiller there. He’s steered them safely through every tempest. You must have noticed him.’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Hibbert, scowling. ‘I noticed him.’

‘Was that your device or his?’

‘What?’

‘I know that he’s wont to arrange their fights and invent clever effects for them. Is that what he did in The Malevolent Comedy?’

‘I do not follow you.’

‘During the last act,’ explained Vavasor. ‘When the servant died.’

‘Ah, that.’

‘It was a stroke of genius to have him thresh around and knock over all the furniture as if he were felling so many trees. The boy looked to be dying in earnest. Tell me, Saul, was that your doing?’

‘Yes,’ lied Hibbert. ‘Everything that you saw was mine.’

When she heard his footsteps outside her front door, Anne Hendrik was doubly grateful. She was not only pleased that Nicholas had returned earlier than she had expected that evening, she was relieved that he had not been killed in a duel. Opening the door to him, she received a kiss and took him into the parlour. Nicholas looked weary.

‘A tiring day?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but not without its rewards.’

‘What of your quarrel with Master Hibbert?’

‘Oh, that’s behind me Anne.’

‘Good.’

‘We met to discuss our differences in private and I left him with a dagger through his black heart.’

‘Never!’ she exclaimed. Then she realised that he was teasing her and beat him playfully on the chest with both fists. ‘That was cruel of you, Nick.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, embracing her. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Then let’s have no more jests.’

‘As you wish.’

By way of apology, he gave her another kiss. They sat opposite each other and she disposed of her own day in a couple of sentences. Nicholas then told her about the visit to the apothecary in Clerkenwell, and how Simeon Howker’s well-dressed customer had sounded very much like the man who had questioned Leonard at the Queen’s Head. Anne was more interested to hear about the conversation with Hal Bridger’s mother, reassured by the sign of what she took to be pure maternal affection.

‘I think that it was a mixture of motherhood and Christian duty,’ said Nicholas. ‘I can see where Hal got his bravery from. Only a very brave woman could stand up against Mr Bridger.’

‘Is that what she was doing?’

‘She was expressing grief in her own way, Anne.’

‘A peculiar way to me.’

‘I admired her. Mrs Bridger was sincere enough in her beliefs to tell me to my face that the Queen’s Head was a den of iniquity. It must have rankled that Hal was working so close to home and yet so impossibly far from his parents.’

‘At least, they’ll be reunited now, albeit briefly.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘Meanwhile, you have a killer to track down. How can you possibly find him in a city as large as London? There are so many places to hide.’

‘I fancy that we may bring him out into the light.’

‘How?’

‘By performing Master Hibbert’s play again tomorrow.’

‘I thought that A Way to Content All Women was advertised.’

‘It’s being set aside, Anne. There’s been such a clamour for the new play that we simply must present it again. That will at least assuage its author and, perhaps, entice along the villain who tried to ruin its first performance.’

‘Do you think he’ll resort to poison again?’

‘We’ll not give him the opportunity.’

‘What makes you think he’ll come back?’

‘Instinct,’ said Nicholas. ‘Having failed to stop us the first time, he’ll want to try again and The Malevolent Comedy is his target. Had the company itself been the mark, he might have aimed at us again today but the performance went unmolested. His grudge seems to be against Saul Hibbert’s play. It’s stirred up real malevolence.’

‘What is there in it that could cause such offence?’

‘Nothing in the play itself,’ replied Nicholas. ‘The playwright is another matter.’ He became thoughtful. ‘I wonder if I might ask you a favour, Anne?’

‘Granted before you even put it into words.’

He smiled gratefully. ‘Come to the Queen’s Head tomorrow and watch the play from the gallery. I need a keen pair of eyes in the audience. You can see things from up there which are invisible to me.’

‘Including this Master Hibbert I’ve heard so much about.’

‘Even in a crowd, you’ll have no difficulty picking him out,’ said Nicholas with asperity. ‘He dresses to be seen and lets everyone know that he’s the author. Saul Hibbert is extremely vain.’

‘How unlike Edmund Hoode,’ she commented. ‘He’s modest and unassuming about his plays. How has Edmund taken this change of plan for tomorrow? He wrote A Way to Content All Women. Does he mind his work being substituted by another comedy?’

‘He’s bound to, Anne. It must make him feel he’s been cruelly elbowed aside. Lawrence is showing some sympathy for him at last. To make amends, he’s taking Edmund to supper this evening.

There were five of them at the table. Edmund Hoode sat beside Lawrence Firethorn while Owen Elias was opposite with the two young ladies in their finest attire. They were in a private room at the Queen’s Head and Firethorn was amusing his female guests with anecdotes from his long and tempestuous career as an actor. Bernice and Ursula Opie were sisters, young, bright and nubile. Owen Elias had got to know them during his visits to their house. Linus Opie, their father, was a wealthy mercer with a passion for music and the Welshman had been engaged to appear at his evening concerts on a number of occasions. Neither Opie nor his daughters realised that the man who sang religious songs with such fervour led a private life that would be frowned upon by any church. Elias hoped to maintain the illusion.

Firethorn turned his broadest smile on the two young ladies.

‘Have you ever seen Westfield’s Men perform?’ he asked.

‘Once or twice,’ replied Bernice. ‘Father brought us here for the first time last year. I remember the play well. I loved every second of it.’

‘And so do I,’ said Ursula. ‘It was called The Faithful Shepherd.’

‘Then you are sitting opposite the man who wrote it,’ said Firethorn, indicating Hoode. ‘Do you hear that, Edmund? You have two admirers at the table.’

‘Admirers?’ echoed Hoode with a pallid smile. ‘I was beginning to forget that such people ever existed.’

‘There are four of us in this very room,’ said Elias, heartily. ‘Though the two prettiest are sitting opposite you.’

‘I endorse that,’ said Firethorn with a chuckle of approval.

Bernice Opie smiled but Ursula was slightly embarrassed by the compliment. Though they shared a similarity of feature, the sisters were very different to look at. Both had dark hair, a pale complexion and full red lips. Bernice, however, the younger by two years, had a natural beauty while Ursula was undeniably plain. Their demeanour seemed to match their appearance. Bernice was confident, vivacious and aware, whereas her sister was shy, hesitant and solemn. When Ursula did finally speak at length, it was clear that she was the more intelligent of the two, but the attention of the men was lavished on Bernice.

‘You have such a lovely name, Bernice,’ said Firethorn.

‘Thank you,’ she replied.

‘Biblical, I take it?’

‘Bernice was the daughter of Herod Agrippa.’

‘Not to be confused with her great-grandfather, Herod the Great,’ put in Ursula, pedantically. ‘Agrippa sat in judgement on Paul, with Bernice present at the time, and they both treated him with respect and dignity. Bernice is later thought to have married King Ptolemy of Sicily.’

‘And to have been the mistress of the Emperor Titus,’ said Bernice, daringly. ‘She must have been a remarkable woman.’

The men laughed but Ursula had to hide a blush.

‘Bernice is almost as remarkable as her namesake,’ observed Firethorn with a flattering smile. ‘Do you not agree, Edmund?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Hoode, staring in wonder at her. ‘I do.’

‘Do you intend to marry a king or an emperor, Bernice?’

She gave a brittle laugh. ‘I’d never get to meet either, alas.’

‘You are meeting both at this very moment,’ Elias told her, pointing a finger at Firethorn. ‘In his time, Lawrence has played a host of kings and a dozen different emperors.’

‘I have ruled the world in its entirety,’ said Firethorn.

The next course arrived to interrupt the conversation but it soon resumed. Firethorn and Elias were pleased with the way that things were going. Bernice Opie was angelic yet with a knowing quality that made her even more tempting. Unaware of the fact that she had been brought there to ensnare Edmund Hoode, she enjoyed being the centre of attention and luxuriated in it. Ursula, on the other hand, became more withdrawn but she listened carefully to all that was said. Hoode was as polite as usual, showing an interest in both guests and asking about the concerts organised by their father. Ursula, it transpired, was a talented musician, able to play any keyboard instrument. Bernice was a singer.

Firethorn and Elias were on their best behaviour. Seasoned in the ways of the world, they had both supped with beautiful young ladies in a private room before, always with one object in mind. They were not in pursuit of another conquest this time so they acted with uncharacteristic restraint, treating their guests with avuncular propriety. Both of them tried hard to bring Hoode to the fore so that Bernice could appreciate his talent and versatility.

‘Edmund is a complete man of the theatre,’ said Firethorn with an arm around his shoulder. ‘Poet, playwright, actor, philosopher and artist. Did you know that Edmund designs the scenery for his plays?’

‘No,’ answered Bernice. ‘How clever of you!’

‘When I write,’ explained Hoode, ‘I see clear pictures in my mind.’

‘And you act a role as well?’

‘If you saw The Faithful Shepherd, then you saw me onstage.’

‘I believe that we may have seen you in The Loyal Subject as well,’ said Ursula, making a rare contribution. ‘It was a wonderful play.’

‘Also from Edmund’s magical pen,’ said Firethorn.

‘We must get father to bring us to another play here, Ursula,’ said her sister, excitedly. ‘Now that we’ve met Master Firethorn and Master Hoode, I cannot wait to see them on the stage again.’ She turned to Elias. ‘What could we see at the Queen’s Head tomorrow?’

‘The Malevolent Comedy.’

‘What an intriguing title! One of your plays, Master Hoode?’

‘Not this time, alas,’ said Hoode.

‘We’ll see it nevertheless if we can persuade our father. Oh, it’s been such a lovely evening, hasn’t it, Ursula?’ Her sister gave an obedient nod. ‘We can’t thank you enough for inviting us.’

‘It’s we who are overwhelmed with gratitude,’ said Firethorn.

When the meal was over, a coach came to pick the guests up and the three men waved them off in the street. Hoode was transported. He gazed after the vehicle until it disappeared around a corner, his face aglow, his eyes luminous, his mouth agape. Firethorn nudged Elias and they shared a secret smile.

‘Did you enjoy your meal, Edmund?’ asked Firethorn.

‘It was like supping with a goddess,’ said Hoode.

‘Bernice Opie is truly celestial, is she not?’

‘You feasted your eyes on her all evening,’ noted Elias.

‘And she obviously adored you.’

‘I sing at their house on Sunday. I’ll take you with me, Edmund.’

‘Will you?’ said Hoode, eagerly. ‘I’d love to meet her again.’

‘What man would not?’ asked Firethorn with a sly grin. ‘I think that Bernice Opie is one of the most gorgeous creatures in London.’

‘That may be so, Lawrence, but she was immature and shallow.’

‘I thought you liked her.’

‘I did,’ confirmed Hoode, ‘but it was her sister who really caught my eye. Bernice cannot begin to compare with Ursula. She’s my choice.’

Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias goggled in astonishment.

The decision to stage The Malevolent Comedy on the following day was by no means universally popular. Among the actors, only Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were enthusiastically in support of the idea. Most of the others were still haunted by the tragedy that had occurred at the earlier performance, fearing that something equally disastrous might happen. Edmund Hoode had opposed the notion on the grounds that it was too soon after the death of Hal Bridger but his protests were waved aside. To a company so anxious to increase its takings, a revival of the play was essential. Word-of-mouth would guarantee a full audience and the chance to sell so much refreshment to them might even serve to appease the nagging landlord. Horrified that a murder had taken place in his yard, Marwood was too shrewd a businessman to let emotion get the better of commercial gain.

Nicholas Bracewell was opposed in principle to the revival but the decision did not lie with him. Had it done so, he would have opted for A Way to Content All Women on that warm Saturday afternoon. Since the company were forbidden to play on the Sabbath, it would have meant that Saul Hibbert’s play waited until Monday before being staged again, giving Westfield’s Men a longer interval to absorb the blow it had inflicted on them at its first outing. Since the die was cast, Nicholas did all he could to make the revival a success, making sure that someone was in the tiring-house at all times so that no stranger could enter it unseen.

The morning rehearsal was slow and uninspired, allowing Hibbert to voice his displeasure in the ripest of language. Seated alone in the middle of the lower gallery, he looked like an eastern potentate who had just discovered an outbreak of lethargy in his harem, and who felt deprived of full satisfaction. Only Firethorn and Gill escaped his biting criticism. Hoode was censured and Francis Quilter sharply reprimanded. The playwright reserved his most stinging rebukes for the book holder, however, blaming Nicholas for mistakes that were not his responsibility and trying to shame him in front of his friends. Nicholas was unperturbed. He trusted the judgement of his fellows. The actors knew that he had done his job with customary efficiency.

‘Ignore him, Nick,’ counselled Hoode when the rehearsal was over. ‘He was picking on you needlessly.’

‘I’d rather he berate me than the actors. If he wants to bring the best out of his cast, he should treat them with more respect. They’re not dray horses, to be forced into a trot with the lash of a whip.’

‘Lawrence can be too fond of the whip at times.’

‘That’s different,’ said Nicholas, tolerantly. ‘He’s one of us. We’re used to the feel of his lash.’ He looked into Hoode’s cheerful face. ‘I hear that you supped with him last night.’

‘With him and with two charming young ladies, sisters whom Owen knows. He’s sung at their father’s house.’

‘Then they must be the daughters of Linus Opie, a man who loves his music, by all accounts. Owen has mentioned him before. Dick Honeydew has taken part in their concerts as well.’

‘When I attend the next one, the only person I’ll hear is Ursula.’

‘Ursula?’

‘The elder of the sisters. She plays upon the virginals.’

Nicholas was amused. ‘From the sound of your voice, a virgin has played upon you. Who else was at this supper?’

‘None but Lawrence and Owen.’

‘Did either of them have designs on these young ladies?’

‘No,’ said Hoode, ‘they stayed their hands for once. Owen was keen that I should meet his two friends, and I thank him from my heart.’

‘I thought Lawrence bought your supper because he repented of the unkind things he said about your last play.’

‘They were not unkind, Nick, they were all too accurate. And your own objections to it were also just. How to Choose a Good Wife was a feeble comedy and I knew it when I was writing it.’

‘Your inspiration will soon return,’ Nicholas promised. ‘We burden you with high expectation, Edmund. All that you need is a long rest.’

‘Not any more.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve had enough of lying fallow,’ said Hoode, joyously. ‘When I met Ursula Opie, my creative urge was suddenly fired again. As soon as I got back to my lodging, I started work on a new play.’

Gracechurch Street was even more crowded than usual that afternoon but it was not solely because of the market. So many people converged on the Queen’s Head to see the play that, eventually, the gatherers had to turn some away. Every seat was taken in the galleries, every square inch in the yard. Even generous bribes could not get gallants past the door. Disappointed spectators refused to leave until they had been given a guarantee that The Malevolent Comedy would be performed again soon. Westfield’s Men were the victims of their own success. Their inn yard playhouse was too small to satisfy the demands of their public.

Lawrence Firethorn was cheered by the news that so many people had been eager to see the play. On some of the cast, however, it had a different effect. Like Nicholas, many actors were worried that there might be a second attempt to bring their performance to a halt. It made them nervous and unhappy. Francis Quilter even went so far as to suggest that the play had a curse on it and there were several murmurs of agreement. Firethorn stamped heavily on the dissenters.

‘Listen to them, Nick,’ he said as they gathered in readiness. ‘They have excellent roles in an outstanding play that has brought in the biggest audience we’ve had all season. This is an actor’s dream yet they behave as if it were a kind of nightmare.’

‘Their minds are still on Hal Bridger.’

‘Well, they should be on The Malevolent Comedy.’

‘They will be, once we start,’ said Nicholas, looking around the tiring-house. ‘I understand their qualms. It was only two days ago that Hal lay dead upon that table there. George suffers most. Now that Hal has gone, he has to play the part of the servant himself. I fear that George will collapse before the poisoned cup is offered to him.’

‘He’d better not,’ growled Firethorn, ‘or I’ll kick him into oblivion.’

Pushing two actors aside, he checked his appearance in the mirror. Nicholas, meanwhile, flicked a glance at George Dart. Eyes closed, the little assistant stagekeeper was obviously praying. Nicholas could guess what entreaties were winging their way up to heaven. While he did not want the performance ruined, the book holder was nevertheless hoping that the killer would show his hand somehow. Nicholas had already warned Leonard to be vigilant and to look for the fair-haired man who had enquired so closely about the company. Anne Hendrik was another spy in the crowd, accompanied by Preben van Loew, her chief hatmaker, a dour, middle-aged Dutchman who was acting as her chaperone against his will. Alone in the yard, he was a reluctant spectator.

There was no rallying speech from Firethorn this time. Instead, he subjected his company to a withering stare. It was a signal for them to shake off their uneasiness and give their best. They responded at once. A minute later, The Malevolent Comedy was under way again. It began well and built up a steady momentum, soon turning the inn yard into a veritable sea of laughter. Lord Loveless was pre-eminent yet again, the Clown even more hilarious, and Mistress Malevole a winning blend of impishness and spite. In the role of a comic priest, Edmund Hoode’s facial expressions were a source of delight in themselves and nobody realised, when he looked up at the galleries, that he did so in the hope that Ursula Opie might be watching him.

For the first three acts, the play gathered pace and left a trail of uninhibited pleasure in its wake. Notwithstanding the reservations some of them felt, Westfield’s Men had somehow improved on their earlier performance, finding a greater conviction and new veins of humour to explore. Nicholas dared to believe that they might come through the afternoon without anything untoward happening. His hopes were soon dashed. During a feast that was held at Lord Loveless’s house, the table was laden with wine and food. Lively music was played. There was a mood of merriment. The Clown then somersaulted onto the stage and danced such a spirited jig that the audience clapped him throughout.

Barnaby Gill relished the applause until he discovered that he had a dancing partner. From out of nowhere, a small dog suddenly appeared and jumped up on the boards beside him, doing its best to nip the Clown’s heels. Gill was terrified. Unable to kick the animal away, he leapt up on the table, only to be followed by the yapping dog. Between them, they knocked every dish, vessel, candle and piece of fruit from the table, sending it cascading across the stage. Lord Loveless roared with fury, the Clown howled in fright, Mistress Malevole fled into the tiring-house and the comical priest tried in vain to catch the dog.

Thinking that it was all part of the play, the spectators cheered on the animal. Since the women had been turned into a cat, an owl and a monkey, respectively, the arrival of a real animal gave the play additional spice. The dog possessed an actor’s instinct. The more they encouraged him, the more chaos he created, eluding the priest, tripping up Lord Loveless and sinking his teeth into the protruding buttocks of the Clown. The Malevolent Comedy was suddenly a play about a dog.

Nicholas Bracewell reacted swiftly to the emergency. Grabbing a cloak, he ran onstage and managed to throw it over the dog, snatching it up and holding it tight as it barked and wriggled in his arms. He went through the tiring-house into a passageway that led to a store-room. Dog and cloak were tossed inside without ceremony and the door quickly locked. Nicholas hurried back to his station behind the scenes to take up the book, hoping that the play could be salvaged. He was in time to hear Lord Loveless deliver a line extempore as he looked around for the absent Mistress Malevole.

‘Where has that scheming little bitch gone to now?’

The gale of laughter gave the actors the opportunity to regain their poise. Nicholas pushed Mistress Malevole back onstage and sent Dart with her to pick up all the items that had been knocked from the table. By pretending that the canine interruption had been rehearsed, Lord Loveless and the priest were able to turn it to their advantage, inventing fresh lines to cover the hiatus and finding immense humour in an improvised inspection of the Clown’s wounded posterior. In the background, the dog continued to yelp in its new kennel but it went unheard.

Having come safely through the crisis, the actors picked up their speed again and sailed on with renewed confidence. Though they kept one eye open for further unheralded interventions, none came. What the audience heard from that point on came exclusively from the pages of Saul Hibbert’s play. If it had been a success at its first performance, it was now a monumental triumph. The spectators whooped, whistled and clapped until the noise was deafening.

Lawrence Firethorn beamed at all and sundry, bowing low to the acclaim then blowing kisses up to the dozens of women who were calling out his name. Lord Loveless was yet one more memorable character to join his already large collection. After giving a final bow, he surged into the tiring-house and tore off his costume in a rage.

‘I’ll kill that mangy cur if I get my hands on it!’ he yelled.

‘Do not blame the animal,’ advised Nicholas. ‘The fault lies with the person who released him onto the stage.’

‘And who the devil was that, Nick?’

‘The same man who poisoned Hal Bridger.’

Firethorn blinked. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely sure,’ said Nicholas, ruefully. ‘He’s back.’