The Malevolent Comedy

Chapter Seven

The house was in a street off Cheapside, close to the Mercers’ Hall, where Linus Opie held high office in his guild. It was less palatial than might have been expected of such a wealthy man, with no conspicuous display of gold plate or rich tapestries, and no gilt-framed family portraits on the walls. Instead, the house reflected its owner’s love of music. The hall could seat thirty people with ease and still leave room for three keyboard instruments and a dais on which musicians and singers could perform. Edmund Hoode was fascinated to see where Ursula Opie lived. When he arrived that evening with Owen Elias, he was given a cordial welcome and shown to a chair at the back of the hall.

The other guests were largely business acquaintances of their host. They had brought their wives and, in some cases, their children, to hear one of the regular concerts that were put on at the Opie house. Elias had vanished and there was no sign of Bernice or Ursula Opie, so Hoode was left very much on his own. Having nothing whatsoever in common with the obese merchant tailor who sat next to him, he could manage only the most desultory conversation, nodding in agreement to everything that the man said about trade and offering a tentative forecast about the weather on the morrow. Before the concert started, he saw their host conducting the Bishop of London to a privileged position in the front row.

Hoode was amused. Knowing how promiscuous an existence his friend had led, he was tickled by the thought that Owen Elias would perform only feet away from a Prince of the Church. An actor whose private life would never attract an episcopal blessing was now taking a major role in what was, in effect, a religious service. Hoode admired him for it. Elias had a deep, rich singing voice of considerable range and Hoode had often written songs for him in his plays. Like other members of the company — Barnaby Gill and Richard Honeydew, for instance — Elias was keen to develop his singing talent by taking part in concerts, or giving recitals, whenever he could. It was an alternative source of income when the theatres were closed by plague, or when, during winter months, it was impossible to play outdoors at the Queen’s Head.

A polite round of applause signalled the arrival of the performers. Bernice and Ursula Opie led the way, followed by Owen Elias and by a callow young man with a lute. They began with a song by Orlando Gibbons, sung by Elias to the accompaniment of the lute. With her sister at the virginals, Bernice Opie then sang one of the three pieces by William Byrd that were in the programme, revealing a pleasing soprano voice with an unexpected power to it. When the lutenist favoured the audience with examples of John Dowland’s genius, he turned out to have a high, reedy voice that grated slightly on the ear.

Edmund Hoode barely heard him. His attention was fixed solely on Ursula Opie, moving from one instrument to another as she displayed her command of each keyboard, accompanying both Elias and her sister, individually, and during their occasional duets. Ursula was demure but dignified. She wore a pale blue gown with hanging sleeves of lawn. Her cambric ruff was lace edged and seemed, to Hoode, to set off her features perfectly. A French hood surmounted her head. To one member of the audience at least, she looked, in the candlelight, a picture of quiet beauty. Hoode was entranced.

When the concert was finally over, the guests responded with well-mannered clapping and Hoode was struck by the difference between them and the rowdy spectators who filled the Queen’s Head. Drinks and light refreshment were served and people were encouraged to mingle. Hoode tried to ease his way towards Ursula but it was her sister who accosted him, offering her brightest smile to the playwright.

‘I was so pleased to see you here, Master Hoode,’ she said.

‘Thank you. I thought you sang delightfully.’

‘Did you prefer the Byrd or the Tomkins?’

‘I found the Thomas Tallis most moving.’

‘But I did not sing that,’ she complained with a frown. ‘I was hoping that one of my songs would be to your taste.’

‘They all were,’ he reassured her, ‘and they could not have been performed better. The duets, too, were a magical experience, greatly helped by your sister’s accompaniment.’

‘Did you think so? I felt that Ursula was not at her best.’

‘Every note she played was a joy to hear.’

‘And what about the notes I sang?’ she pressed, wanting praise.

‘Musical perfection.’

‘Were you surprised, Master Hoode?’

‘I expected nothing less from you.’

The compliment broadened her smile. Though she was determined to monopolise him, Hoode kept looking around for her sister. When he saw her in a corner, talking earnestly to the lutenist, he felt a flicker of jealousy. Before Hoode could make his way to her, however, Owen Elias descended on him out of the crowd. The Welshman had dressed with care for the occasion, choosing his best doublet and hose, and investing in a new lawn ruff. He spoke as if they were on consecrated ground.

‘Did you enjoy the concert, Edmund?’ he asked.

‘Every moment.’

‘What of our duets?’

‘I was just saying how much I appreciated them,’ said Hoode, ‘along with the Byrd and the Tomkins, that is,’ he added, turning to Bernice. ‘Your voices blended so harmoniously.’

‘I simply followed where Bernice led.’

‘We loved the play yesterday,’ she said, beaming at Hoode. ‘You were so comical as the priest. I could not stop laughing, especially when you danced out of the way of that little dog.’

‘He was an uninvited member of the cast.’

‘So I hear.’

‘He livened up the afternoon for all of us,’ said Elias. ‘But I’m sorry that your sister did not enjoy The Malevolent Comedy as much as you. She spoke rather slightingly of it.’

Hoode was alarmed. ‘She disapproved?’

‘Pay no attention to Ursula,’ said Bernice. ‘She has too solemn a cast of mind. Father and I adored the play but she felt that it bordered on blasphemy to poke fun at the priesthood.’

‘Then your sister objected to my performance?’

‘Only to the character you played.’

‘Ursula is more at ease with the Bishop of London,’ said Elias. ‘I heard them talking in Latin earlier on. She’s a studious young lady.’

‘Too much study addles the brain,’ said Bernice, happily.

‘That’s my philosophy as well.’

‘What about you, Master Hoode?’

‘Oh, I admire your sister’s scholarship.’

‘Would you wish to waste your time learning a dead language?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then you are of the same mind as me. I hoped that you would be.’

Suppressing a giggle, she gazed at Hoode with undisguised fondness. He, meanwhile, was craning his neck to look for Ursula and he was heartbroken to learn that she was no longer in the hall. It was exasperating. Bernice Opie, the sister whom he thought too frivolous and inconsequential, exhibited a clear liking for him while Ursula, the person he had really come to see that evening, would not even speak to him. The irony of the situation was not lost on the sensitive playwright. Bernice’s mother came up to spirit her daughter away, leaving Hoode alone with Elias. Nudging his friend, the Welshman spoke in his ear.

‘Bernice is there for the taking, Edmund.’

‘I’d never dream of doing such a thing.’

‘Would you not like her to sing to you in bed afterwards?’

‘Shame on you, Owen!’

‘Ah, I see,’ said the Welshman, chuckling. ‘You’d rather make love to her sister in Latin.’

Though he would not be involved with the third performance of the play, Nicholas Bracewell nevertheless turned up at the Queen’s Head that morning. The first person he spoke to was Alexander Marwood. The book holder’s request was promptly refused.

‘No, no,’ said the landlord. ‘That’s out of the question.’

‘But I’d have the ideal view from that room.’

‘Find another place from which to spy, Master Bracewell. You’ll not make use of our bedchamber. My wife would never permit it.’

‘I’d only be in there during the play,’ said Nicholas.

‘No man is allowed into that room.’

Marwood spoke with the cold finality of someone who was only permitted to share the bedchamber himself on sufferance. It was his wife who controlled what happened within those four walls, and that meant a series of lonely nights for the harassed landlord. The joys of marriage had been all too fleeting in his case. Indeed, they now seemed so distant that he began to wonder if they had ever occurred.

‘Why did you want to go in that room?’ he asked, eyeing Nicholas warily. ‘You’ll not see much of the play from up there.’

‘I’d be looking at the audience.’

‘What pleasure is there in that?’

‘I do it out of necessity rather than pleasure,’ explained Nicholas. ‘The Malevolent Comedy has an enemy and I believe that he may be among the spectators this afternoon.’

Marwood was disturbed. ‘To cause more mischief on my property?’

‘Not if I can catch him in time.’

‘You did not catch him when he poisoned that young lad, or when he had a dog set loose upon you.’

‘I’m ready for him now,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I’ll not be hampered by my role as book holder. All I need is a vantage point from which to see the whole yard and watch the spectators.’

‘I sense trouble ahead.’

‘The play has made you healthy profits so far.’

‘What use are they if someone is bent on destroying me?’

‘Master Hibbert is the target here. You are quite safe.’

‘I’d be safer still if the play was cancelled,’ said Marwood, sourly.

‘It’s been advertised for this afternoon.’

‘Then I blame Master Firethorn for putting my yard in danger again. Whenever you play this comedy, you are waving a red rag at a bull. Choose something that will not goad this villain into action.’

‘But that’s the only way we may be able to ensnare him,’ argued Nicholas. ‘In staging this play, we’re also setting a trap.’

‘And I’m the one who’ll be caught in it.’

‘You stand to reap the benefits of a full audience.’

‘I stand only to suffer,’ moaned the landlord. ‘I’ve done nothing else since I let your accursed troupe into my yard. Westfield’s Men have brought murder, mayhem, fire, riot and ruination down upon me. And now you wish to invade our bedchamber! It’s too much, sir!’

Wringing his hands, he scurried off across the yard in a state of agitation. Nicholas scanned the windows above him, trying to decide which other room would be suited to his purposes. He was still unable to make up his mind when Leonard ambled over to him, his big, flat, pasty face crumpled with anxiety.

‘What’s this I hear about you leaving the company?’

‘Only for the duration of the play, Leonard.’

‘But what if the play should run for a week or more?’

‘My task is to make sure that it survives today,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then you’ll be keeping yourself out of work.’

‘No, Leonard. I’ll be protecting the company.’

‘Saving the skin of Master Hibbert more like,’ said Leonard with unwonted severity. ‘He’s upset all of us here at the inn with his high-handed ways, and your fellows do not like him either. George Dart tells me that he had you expelled from your post.’

‘Rested only.’

‘That rest could last a long time if he writes more plays for you.’

‘I’ve no power to stop him doing that.’

‘It’s in your interests to let The Malevolent Comedy fail,’ noted the other, ‘and well it may if you do not stand guard over it.’

‘I stand guard over the reputation of Westfield’s Men,’ said Nicholas, proudly, ‘and I’d hate them to falter on my account. I’ll need your help, too, Leonard. You know where every nook and cranny is. I count on you to search them before the play begins.’

‘If you wish, Nicholas.’

‘Then stand close to the stage during the performance, ready to help the actors if trouble breaks out. Keep one eye on the room above where I’ll maintain my vigil. I’ll wave a hand to warn you of danger.’

‘What about the stables?’

‘Lock them.’

‘And the gates to the yard?’

‘They’ll be chained until the performance is over.’

‘You are closing off all the points of attack.’

‘We can never do that completely. We must stay alert.’

‘At least, the dog will not run wild.’

‘We’ve faced fiercer animals than that,’ said Nicholas, smiling as a memory surfaced. ‘In Cambridge, a man once set his dancing bear upon us because our play was getting all the attention. In Exeter, some geese decided to wander across the stage in the middle of a performance. Putting on a play is an act of faith, Leonard. We are hostages to fortune.’

‘It was ever thus. What else can I do this afternoon?’

‘Keep your eyes peeled for that fair-haired gentleman.’

‘He’s not been near the place since.’

‘Has anyone else been asking about Westfield’s Men?’

Leonard nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, they have.’

‘Oh?’

‘About one of them, anyway.’

‘Who was that?’

‘You, Nicholas.’

‘Me?’

‘The book holder and his duties, anyway.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That you do far more behind the scenes than ever is seen onstage. That’s why it pains me to see that Master Hibbert has ousted you like this. George Dart will be a poor deputy.’

‘Tell me about him, Leonard.’

‘George?’

‘No, the gentleman who was so interested in me. Describe him.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was not a gentleman at all,’ said Leonard, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘It was a lady, a very beautiful young lady.’

Lawrence Firethorn was in no mood to conduct a rehearsal. After a sleepless night on the floor of his bedchamber, he ached and itched all over. True to her edict, his wife had kept him out of his bed and down on the bare boards in disgrace. Lord Loveless was anything but lordly in the morning but his sense of lovelessness had deepened markedly. With the apprentices trailing behind him, he rode off from Shoreditch in a daze. When his mind finally began to clear, it had to grapple with his dire predicament. Torn between competing claims on him, he knew that he had made an irrevocably bad decision. In trying to keep Saul Hibbert loyal to Westfield’s Men, he had been forced to suspend his book holder, scandalise his actors and, worst of all, estrange himself from his wife. He wished that he had never heard of The Malevolent Comedy.

The rehearsal was a shambles. Held to refresh the memories of the cast, it only concentrated on key scenes in the play. Since it began without any real commitment on the part of the actors, it quickly descended into farce. Firethorn was the worst offender.

‘George!’ he bellowed.

‘Yes?’ replied Dart, acting as prompter.

‘Give me the line.’

‘Which one, Master Firethorn?’

‘The one I’m struggling to remember, you idiot.’

‘There’ve been so many of those this morning.’

‘What am I supposed to say to Mistress Malevole?’

‘When?’

‘Now, George — now, now, now!’

Dart was flustered. ‘Which scene are we in?’

‘The one we started on ten minutes ago.’

‘I’ve found it. You and Mistress Malevole are in the garden.’

‘No, you imbecile!’ boomed Firethorn, flinging his hat on to the stage in his fury. ‘We did that scene an hour ago. This one takes place in the hall of my house. Are you sure that you have the right play in your hands? A prompter must be prompt and audible. You are neither.’

‘Do not hound him, Lawrence,’ advised Owen Elias. ‘You’ll only confuse him further. Try to build his confidence.’

‘He’s as useless as a Pope’s prick.’

‘You do him wrong,’ said Edmund Hoode, taking pity on Dart. ‘It was an act of stupidity to think you could turn him into Nick Bracewell.’

‘It would be easier to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’

‘George will not let us down if you treat him kindly.’

‘Kindly!’ roared Firethorn. ‘If he feeds me the wrong line again, I’ll tie him to the flagpole and hoist him to the top.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Back to the start of the scene,’ he ordered, ‘and let’s try to get it right this time, shall we?’

‘How can we when your memory is like a sieve?’ asked Gill.

‘Nobody invited your comment, Barnaby.’

‘I speak for all of us. You’ve stumbled badly throughout.’

‘Slander!’ said Firethorn over the murmurs of agreement. ‘I’m feeling for a new interpretation of the character, that’s all.’

‘And groping for your lines like a blind man.’

‘Silence!’

Gill smirked. ‘Whatever did Margery give you for breakfast today?’

The remark stung so hard that it set Firethorn off into a violent tirade against the Clown that was only ended when Elias and Hoode stepped in to keep the two men apart. Further rehearsal was impossible. The play was abandoned. The one saving grace was that its author had not been present to witness the general apathy and ceaseless parade of errors. Even the most assured comic moments had been thrown away.

‘Take heart, George,’ said Hoode, trying to console their little book holder. ‘You’ll have none of these problems this afternoon.’

‘I always lose my place when Master Firethorn shouts at me.’

‘He shouted at all of us today.’

Dart was wistful. ‘If only Nicholas had been here to bail us out,’ he said. ‘It’s a crime that he’s been deprived of his office for me.’

‘It’s more than a crime, George — it’s a vile sin.’

‘At the time when we need him most, he’s not here to help us.’

‘Nick would have been thoroughly ashamed of us this morning.’

‘And rightly so,’ said Dart. ‘Where is he?’

During the rehearsal, Nicholas Bracewell had deliberately kept out of the way, not wishing to embarrass his deputy or to subject himself to what was bound to be a painful exercise. He had never been asked to step down before and nursed a grievance that he did his best to keep to himself. On the other hand, he told himself, he could still serve the company by offering it the protection it needed. Much as he might resent Saul Hibbert, he wanted the play to go off without interruption. To that end, he and Leonard searched then sealed off all obvious hiding places for anyone intent on causing disarray. He also spoke to the gatherers on duty at the gate and instructed them to keep a close eye on the spectators as they were admitted. Anyone trying to bring small animals in was to be turned summarily away.

Long before the yard began to fill, Nicholas had retreated to a room that overlooked the stage from behind. Vacated by a traveller earlier that day, it was small, dark and infested with spiders but it was ideal for his purposes. It allowed him to watch unseen from above. Though much of the stage itself was obscured from him, he had a good view of the pit and the galleries. He kept the whole yard under surveillance. His eyesight was exceptionally sharp. During his voyage around the world with Drake, he had done his share of climbing into the crow’s nest to act as lookout. Rewards were offered for the first man to descry land and Nicholas made sure that he did not miss any opportunities. That same intense vigilance was now turned on the audience.

The galleries were replete with elegant young gentlemen but none of the dashing gallants fitted the description that Leonard had given of the fair-headed visitor. It was a different matter when it came to beautiful ladies. They were there in such abundance that Nicholas was spoilt for choice. The three aristocratic ladies in Lord Westfield’s entourage were quite dazzling and those elsewhere, bedecked with their finery, turned the galleries into a blaze of colour. The reputation of The Malevolent Comedy had patently spread, bringing in spectators from every level of society. Its problematical author, flamboyantly attired and seated beside yet another arresting beauty, was in the lower gallery.

The play started well and proceeded without mishap but it had none of the driving thrust of the earlier performances. Studying the reactions of the audience, Nicholas could see that they were not as engrossed as they should have been. They tittered when they should have laughed, laughed when they should have applauded and only came properly to life when Barnaby Gill entertained them with his jigs. Lord Loveless lacked authority, Mistress Malevole was muted and Edmund Hoode, as the comical priest, seemed to forget that he was performing in a comedy. While the play was continuously diverting, it never managed to realise its full potential.

For all that, it provided two fairly exhilarating hours for its audience and was happily free from any of the errors that had littered the rehearsal. Somewhere behind the scenes, George Dart was entitled to congratulate himself. The most important thing from Nicholas’s point of view was that no attempt was made to interrupt the performance. No poison, no dog, no fresh outrage. The Malevolent Comedy had finally been staged without attracting any malevolence. As a consequence, it was robbed of some of its tension and hilarity, but its cast had been spared and Nicholas was grateful for that.

The applause that greeted them as they came to take their bow was warm and generous. It did not compare, however, with the ovations that had been received on the two previous occasions. Keenly aware of that, Saul Hibbert looked deeply disappointed and Nicholas could see him apologising to his companion. For the author — as for others who knew the play — the performance had fallen far short of excellence. One man in the upper gallery seemed to relish the fact. Alone of the audience, he was not clapping at all. Instead, he looked on with a smile of satisfaction.

Nicholas recognised him at once as a playwright who had been rudely rejected by Lawrence Firethorn, only to achieve success with a rival company. It was John Vavasor.

Westfield’s Men knew only too well that they had let themselves down. Over their drinks in the taproom, they searched for explanations.

‘I felt so tired,’ admitted Edmund Hoode. ‘Tired and distracted.’

‘My heart was simply not in the play,’ said Owen Elias.

Francis Quilter sighed. ‘We all know why,’ he said. ‘We’re still in mourning for Nick Bracewell.’

‘And for Hal Bridger.’

‘Yes, Owen. Even more so for him.’

‘Nick will come back but Hal is gone forever.’

‘And in his place,’ Hoode reminded them, ‘we have Saul Hibbert.’

‘What will he have thought of us today?’

‘I daresay that he’ll tell us, Frank, and in blunt terms as well.’

‘No,’ said Elias. ‘We’ve been rescued from that. Lawrence has gone to intercept him and take full responsibility for what happened onstage. It’s the one useful thing he’s done all day.’

‘An act of penitence.’

‘He needs to show some of that penitence at home. According to Dick Honeydew, life in Old Street has been even more ear-splitting than usual. Margery took her husband to task for the way he treated Nick.’

‘Good for her!’ said Hoode.

‘I’d love to have been a fly on the wall,’ said Quilter.

Elias grinned. ‘Every fly within a mile heard the quarrel. Dick tells me that Lawrence was even exiled from his bed. No wonder he was so peevish this morning.’

‘It sounds to me as if Margery had the courage that we lacked.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hoode. ‘She stood up to Lawrence.’

‘So did I,’ claimed Elias. ‘I swore he’d never share my bed again until Nick Bracewell was back with us.’

‘Do not jest about it, Owen. It’s too serious a matter for that.’

‘Where is Nick?’ wondered Quilter. ‘Is he not here today?’

‘I’ve not seen him, Frank. Nor do I expect to do so.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’ll want to steer well clear of Saul,’ said Hoode, ‘and, since he was not holding the book this afternoon, Nick may feel out of place.’

‘Out of place!’ echoed Elias. ‘A pox on it! And a pox on Saul Hibbert as well! It’s an evil day for us when Nick Bracewell feels out of place among his friends. We need him.’

‘He’ll not be back while The Malevolent Comedy holds the stage.’

‘Then we defy Lawrence and refuse to play in it.’

‘Yes,’ said Quilter. ‘I’ll back you in that enterprise.’

‘Edmund?’

‘Let’s not act too rashly,’ said Hoode, holding up his palms.

Elias was shocked. ‘Do you not want Nick back with us?’

‘Of course, and as soon may be. But it would be wrong to whip the company into a frenzy over a choice of a play. I’ve no high opinion of Saul as a man,’ he continued, ‘but I’m the first to applaud his work. I’m an author myself and know how difficult it is to write a sprightly comedy. There’s an important principle at stake here.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘We want Nick instead of Saul Hibbert.’

‘No, Owen. It has a deeper significance than that. Should the company spurn a good play simply because it dislikes the playwright? Look at my case,’ Hoode said. ‘Everyone loves me yet How to Choose a Good Wife was turned down because it was a bad play. That’s how it should be. A play must be judged on its merits and not on the personality of its author.’

‘I never thought Saul’s play had any merits,’ said Quilter.

‘Then you are at variance with hundreds of happy spectators.’

‘Edmund is right,’ said Elias, grudgingly. ‘The play is popular.’

‘Not with those of us who have to act in it.’

‘I still believe that we should challenge Lawrence.’

‘Leave that to Margery,’ said Hoode. ‘She loves Nick as much as any of us and will do her best to get him back. Margery is our true champion. Let her joust with Lawrence on our behalf.’

Elias nodded. ‘It shall be so,’ he decided with a smile. ‘Margery will knock her husband from his saddle and trample all over him until he begs for mercy. That’s where our hope lies — in the arms of a woman.’

Nicholas Bracewell remained in his hiding place until the yard was almost clear. He was pleased that the performance had suffered no disturbance though his relief was tempered with disappointment. He felt that an opportunity had been missed to catch the person who had left such an indelible stain on the two earlier performances. Nicholas showed his customary tact. He did not even think of leaving the room until he saw that Saul Hibbert had disappeared from the gallery. Nothing would be served by another argument with the playwright. At least, Nicholas thought, he would not be blamed for the shortcomings that had come to light that afternoon.

When all but a few stragglers had gone, he left the room and went downstairs. Coming into the yard, he first encountered Leonard.

‘What did you see?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Little beyond the play.’

‘You were supposed to be on guard.’

‘I was, until the Clown began to dance,’ said Leonard. ‘I could not take my eyes off him. He made me laugh. I’m sorry, Nicholas.’

‘Luckily, we did not need you.’

‘I’m always here if you do.’

‘Unlock the stables and feed the horses,’ said Nicholas, ‘or you’ll have the landlord shouting at you again. And — thank you!’

‘I thank you for letting me watch such a wondrous comedy.’

Leonard walked off and Nicholas turned his attention to the stage. Under the direction of Thomas Skillen, the decrepit stagekeeper, George Dart and the others were removing the boards and folding the trestles. After bearing the weighty responsibility of holding the book, Dart had now reverted to his more usual role as an underling, and Skillen kept reminding him of it. To spare the old man effort, Nicholas took over many of the stagekeeper’s duties himself but Skillen was proving that he was still capable of doing them, even though now in his seventies.

Nicholas gave him a cheerful wave and waited patiently until the stage had been put away. George Dart then ran eagerly back into the yard to speak to him, looking up at Nicholas like a dog that expects a pat of approval from its master.

‘You did well, George,’ said Nicholas.

‘Thank you.’

‘The play went off without any misadventure.’

‘I was too frightened to make a mistake,’ replied Dart.

‘We’ll make a book holder of you yet.’

‘Coming from you, that’s real praise.’

‘I never doubted you, George.’

‘Master Firethorn did. After the rehearsal this morning, he was ready to nail me to the wall of the tiring-house.’

‘I hope that he had the grace to congratulate you this afternoon.’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘Fetch me the play and I’ll be off.’

‘Will you not stay to join us in the taproom?’

‘Not today.’

‘But everyone will expect you there.’

‘I’d feel a little uneasy,’ confessed Nicholas, ‘because I was not really part of the company this afternoon. I’d be an outsider. Besides, there’s always the chance that Master Hibbert will be there as well to soak up praise from any spectators. For a number of reasons, I prefer to keep out of his way.’

‘So do the rest of us,’ said Dart, sharply.

Nicholas clicked his tongue. ‘Now then, George.’

‘We hate the man.’

‘Show a proper respect for a talented author.’

‘I do that for Edmund Hoode. He truly deserves it.’

‘I agree with you there.’

‘Master Hibbert does not. He bullies us. In any case,’ Dart went on, ‘you should not dare to talk of respect. You showed him little of it yourself when you set about him the other day.’

‘I’ll not deny it,’ said Nicholas. ‘My temper was frayed and I hit out. But that’s all in the past.’

‘Not if he stays. Master Hibbert will never forgive you.’

‘That’s his business.’

‘He wants you out of Westfield’s Men for good.’

‘I mean to remain,’ declared Nicholas.

‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.’

‘Thank you, George. Now get the book so that I can take it home and lock it up securely.’

‘I’ll about it straight.’

Dart raced off and Nicholas smiled. As a result of his success as book holder, there was a spring in Dart’s step and confidence that oozed out of his spare frame. In the course of the afternoon, he had come through a time of trial. Nicholas was glad for him, hoping that it might liberate him from the mockery that was his usual lot. The new-found confidence did not last long, however. When he reappeared minutes later, Dart was the same worried, woebegone, timorous little creature he had always been. Nicholas felt sudden alarm.

‘Where is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s not there. I’ve searched high and low.’

‘Where did you leave it?’

‘On a bench in the corner.’

‘Could one of the actors have taken it?’

‘No,’ said Dart. ‘As soon as the play was over, they rushed off to the taproom. The book was there when we took the stage to pieces. I saw it before I came out to speak to you.’

‘That’s the only complete copy of The Malevolent Comedy,’ said Nicholas. ‘Without it, the play cannot be staged. Think, George. Are you sure that you left it on the bench?’

‘I’d swear to it on the Holy Bible.’

‘Then there’s only one conclusion — it’s been stolen.’

Lawrence Firethorn was in despair. Battered by circumstance and bruised by marital confrontation, he had led his company with less than his accustomed gusto that afternoon. To his utter chagrin he had been compelled to give Saul Hibbert an abject apology then stand there while the author denounced the performance in forthright language and had especial words of censure for Lord Loveless. Reeling from the encounter, all that Firethorn wanted to do was to drink himself into a stupor. Instead, he found Nicholas Bracewell waiting for him at the door to the taproom with bad tidings. The actor was apoplectic.

‘The book was stolen?’ he cried.

‘So it appears,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Are you certain that nobody took it in jest?’

‘This is no jest, Lawrence. Everyone knows how sacrosanct the book of a play is. That’s why I guard it so carefully.’

‘But you were not there this afternoon, Nick. In my folly, I let George Dart take your place. He’s to blame for all this. I’ll crucify him!’

‘George served you well this afternoon,’ said Nicholas, coming to his defence, ‘and worked just as hard after the play was over. He could not watch the book every second. The real fault lies with the thief, not with George.’

‘What am I to do?’ groaned Firethorn, clutching at his hair. ‘I’ve already worn sackcloth and ashes for Saul Hibbert once. Am I to don the robe of shame again?’

‘Send me in your stead.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘I’ll try to reason with our author.’

‘You’d find a charging elephant more inclined to reason. No, Nick,’ said Firethorn, ‘it falls to me to face his ire again. I’ll tell Saul what’s befallen us. Stay here to learn the outcome.’

‘I will,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need a quick decision on the matter.’

Leaving his book holder at the bottom of the staircase, Firethorn ascended the steps again and went along the passageway. He tapped on the door of Hibbert’s but elicited no response. He knocked harder.

‘Go away!’ yelled Hibbert from inside the room.

‘This is Lawrence again.’

‘I don’t care if it’s the King of Mesopotamia — go away!’

‘But I need to speak to you on urgent business.’

‘I’ve urgent business of my own!’ rejoined Hibbert, angrily.

Firethorn heard the rhythmical creaking of the bed and understood what that business might be. He waited until the sound reached its peak then faded slowly away. The actor-manager banged on the door again.

‘I’m still here, Saul,’ he called out.

‘Then you can stay there all night.’

‘I came to warn you that we may not be able to stage your play tomorrow. Or any other day this week, for that matter.’

‘Why not?’

‘When you are ready to listen, I’ll tell you.’

A long pause was followed by the sound of movement. When the door was finally inched open, a sullen Hibbert peered out. But for the shirt he had hurriedly put on, the author was naked.

‘Your timing was poor enough onstage today,’ he said, nastily, ‘but it’s deserted you altogether now. You knew that I was entertaining a lady and should have kept your distance.’

‘This news will brook no delay.’

‘What news?’

‘The book has been stolen.’

‘What book?’

‘The prompt copy of your play,’ explained Firethorn. ‘When George Dart’s back was turned, someone sneaked into the tiring-house and took it. The Malevolent Comedy has vanished.’

‘Damnation!’

‘There may yet be a remedy.’

‘Yes,’ snarled Hibbert. ‘I’ll hire a brace of lawyers to sue you for the wilful loss of my property. This is a disaster.’

‘Do you still have your foul papers?’

‘What?’

‘Your early draught of the play,’ said Firethorn. ‘The one from which the fair copy was made by the scrivener.’

‘No, it was covered in blots and scribbles. I threw it away,’

‘Then we are lost.’

‘What of your own copies?’ asked Hibbert. ‘Sides were written out for the actors. Put them all together and we have a complete play.’

‘Only if we had all kept our roles. Most of us have not. When we commit a part to memory, it stays lodged in the brain. We toss the written record of it away.’

‘That’s idiocy.’

‘It’s practicality. I’ve played thirty-six different roles this season, dozens more in the past. By my troth, if I kept a copy of every part I played, the house would be filled to the rooftops with paper.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell is behind all this,’ said Hibbert, vindictively. ‘I’ll wager that he stole the play in order to get revenge.’

‘He’d never dream of hurting the company in any way.’

‘His quarrel is with me.’

‘Then he’ll settle it in his own way,’ said Firethorn, ‘but not like this. Nick is the only person who can save us from this sorry plight.’

‘I’ll not have him involved.’

‘Then resign yourself to seeing another play at the Queen’s Head tomorrow. And hire as many lawyers as you like,’ he went on. ‘Look to our contract and you’ll find that the book is the legal property of Westfield’s Men. We bought it from you.’

‘I still have moral ownership.’

‘That’s a poor argument in a court of law.’

‘The book must be found forthwith,’ ordered Hibbert. ‘Instead of bickering with me, you should be out looking for it.’

‘And where would you suggest we start?’ asked Firethorn. ‘We’re still trying to find the man who poisoned Hal Bridger then paid for a dog to be unleashed upon us.’

‘I’ll warrant he’s behind this latest crime as well.’

‘A moment ago, you accused Nick Bracewell.’

‘He’ll be gloating over this terrible loss of mine.’

‘You mistake him badly. Nick is more upset than anyone. The book of any play is like a precious jewel to him. He’d defend it with his life.’

‘Pah!’

‘It’s true, Saul,’ said Firethorn. ‘Had he been in his place today, a whole army would not have been able to wrest the prompt book from him. In pushing Nick aside, you took away your play’s protection.’

‘I still abide by that decision.’

‘Even though you saw the effect upon us? That was the main reason we lacked any spirit today. We missed our book holder.’

‘Can one man make such a difference?’

‘Judge for yourself.’

‘Saul,’ purred a woman’s voice in the background.

‘One moment,’ Hibbert said to her.

‘Come back to bed now.’

‘Go to her,’ encouraged Firethorn, waving him away. ‘I can see you’d rather sport with your mistress than save your reputation.’

‘My reputation is everything to me, Lawrence.’

‘Then watch it wither on the vine. It rests on three performances of a play that no longer exists. Success entails keeping yourself in the public eye, Saul. A month off the stage and you’ll be forgotten.’

Hibbert was rocked. ‘Is there no way we can redeem ourselves?’

‘Only one.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Turn to Nick Bracewell. Let him work his magic.’

‘How could he come to our rescue?’

‘The way he did once before,’ said Firethorn, ‘when a play of Edmund Hoode’s went astray, stolen by a disaffected actor. Within the space of twelve hours, Nick had conjured another copy out of the air.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Then ask Edmund. The play was called Gloriana Triumphant. We played it to celebrate the victory over the Spanish Armada.’

Hibbert’s resolve weakened. ‘Is there no other solution here?’

‘None.’

‘Could nobody else do what Nicholas would do?’

‘They would not have the knack of it, Saul.’

‘I’d rather it be any man but him.’

‘Nick may say the same about you, I fear.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’d come to the aid of other playwrights without hesitation. With you, alas, he’s more likely to drag his feet.’

‘He’d dare to refuse?’ asked Hibbert, aghast.

‘I’ve no means to compel him.’

‘Hold him to his contract.’

‘You abrogated that, Saul. He was contracted to stay in place for every play we staged but you disbarred him from yours.’ Seizing the advantage, Firethorn twisted the knife gently. ‘It might be the one way to win him back,’ he suggested, floating the idea. ‘The one way to soothe his injured pride.’

‘The one way?’

‘Let him occupy his rightful position again.’

‘He’ll not touch my play!’

‘Without him, you may have no play.’

‘Saul,’ cooed the woman. ‘How long are you going to be?’

‘Just wait!’ he snapped at her.

‘Is that how you treat a lady?’ she complained.

‘Be quiet, please. I need to think.’

‘You’ve already made your feelings clear,’ said Firethorn, pretending to withdraw. ‘I’ll tell the company we play Black Antonio again tomorrow and send George off to the printer for some new playbills.’

‘Wait, Lawrence!’

‘Go to the lady. She sounds impatient.’

‘I’ll need time to meditate on this.’

‘Time is not on our side, Saul. The whole five acts of your play will have to be copied out again. Can you imagine how long that will take?’

‘It took me months to write it.’

‘Then why throw all that effort away in a fit of pique?’

‘I need to have my work back on the stage.’

‘Then make your peace with Nicholas.’

‘You talk of a man who assaulted me.’

‘Let him make amends by snatching your career from the fire.’

‘You are sure he’ll do it?’

‘Only at the price I named,’ said Firethorn, exploiting the other’s uncertainty. ‘Even then, I’ll have to use all the persuasion at my command. Which is it to be?’ he asked, adjusting his position so that he got a tantalising glimpse of the naked woman on the bed. ‘Will you swallow your pride and call Nick back? Or would you rather watch your star fall down from the sky after only three performances?’

Hibbert pondered. ‘Seek his help,’ he said at length.

‘Wisdom at last.’

‘Be sure to put The Malevolent Comedy back onstage tomorrow, but do something else for me. Find me the man who stole it in the first place,’ he demanded. ‘Who on earth can the rogue be?’

John Vavasor let himself into his house and received a token kiss from his wife. He went straight to the room where Cyrus Hame was poring over a manuscript on the table. His co-author looked up.

‘I’ve been working on that Prologue you requested,’ he said.

‘Does it roast Lawrence Firethorn?’

‘Like a chestnut in hot coals.’

‘I long to see it,’ said Vavasor, taking the sheet of parchment from him. ‘The more poniards it inserts into his carcass, the more I’ll like it.’

‘How did you fare at the Queen’s Head?’

‘The play was good, the performance rather tepid.’

‘Saul Hibbert would not have liked that.’

‘He’ll soon be ripe for more conference with us.’

Hame smirked. ‘Have we so soon won him over?’

‘No, Cyrus,’ said the other, complacently. ‘Our silver tongues have helped but I fancy the real damage was done at the Queen’s Head. Saul will not be running towards Banbury’s Men as much as running away from the troupe that let him down.’ He burst out laughing. ‘Oh, my word!’ he said, waving the Prologue in the air. ‘This is worth its weight in rubies. First, we rob him of his playwright. Then we steal his vaunted role as Pompey the Great and finally — best of all — we take away his reputation with this buzzing swarm of rhyming couplets. We are made, Cyrus,’ he exclaimed, ‘and Westfield’s Men are doomed at last.’