The Malevolent Comedy

Chapter Eight

Margery Firethorn had an iron determination that the passage of time only served to reinforce. Enraged by her husband when he was in the house, she was even more furious with him now that he was absent. While she did her daily chores, she turned over in her mind the many kindnesses that Nicholas Bracewell had shown to her and the countless favours he had done for Westfield’s Men. Money could not repay the efforts and sacrifices he had made on the company’s behalf. And yet Lawrence Firethorn, her once beloved husband, the actor-manager of the troupe and its commanding presence, had humiliated his book holder by making him step down on the whim of a tetchy playwright. In Margery’s eyes, it was a hideous betrayal of someone she cherished. She could not have been more appalled if the cruelty had been meted out to one of her own children.

Sensing her mood, the servants kept out of her way in the house in Shoreditch. When they heard her talking to herself, they knew that Margery was working herself up into frenzy that would be released when her husband dared to return home. As befitted an actor’s wife, she was rehearsing her lines, but they were far too raw and unchristian to be allowed on a public stage without incurring protest. The day wore on and her temper glowed redder with every minute. When she chopped meat in the kitchen, she did so with such force and viciousness that she might have been beheading her spouse. Margery was primed for action.

Expecting her husband to come home late, drunk and with his tail between his legs, she was surprised to hear the familiar gait of his horse, trotting up Old Street early that evening. When she watched him through the window as he dismounted, she saw no sign of remorse in his face. It made her simmer even more. Having stabled his mount, Firethorn came into the house with something of his old swagger and braggadocio.

‘All is well, my dove,’ he announced. ‘I’ve moved mountains.’

‘You can move yourself back out that door if you try to woo me with pet names,’ she warned him. ‘I’m no dove, angel, pigeon, peacock, bear, honeycomb, sweet chuck, little rabbit or light of your life.’

‘No, my dearest darling. You are all of them rolled into one. You are my apple of desire, Margery.’

‘Dare to bite me and I’ll choke you to death.’

Firethorn laughed. ‘You know so well how to court your husband.’

‘No husband of mine would play false with Nick Bracewell.’

‘That’s why I have set all right,’ he boasted. ‘I not only insisted that he be brought back, I put Saul Hibbert in his place and won the applause of the whole company. You see before you a conqueror.’

Margery was suspicious. ‘Is this some trick of yours, Lawrence?’

‘Since when have I descended to trickery?’

‘Whenever it suits the occasion.’

‘Well, this is an occasion for honesty and atonement.’

‘You wish to apologise to me?’ she said, slightly mollified.

‘No,’ he replied with a grand gesture, ‘but I’m prepared to accept your apology.’

‘For what?’

‘Misjudging your husband. Calling me names that should never have been uttered on the Sabbath, and raising your voice to such a pitch that my disgrace was spread far and wide.’

‘You deserved every vile syllable.’

‘Did I deserve to be made a stranger to your bed?’

‘Yes,’ said Margery, ‘and you’ll remain so.’

‘But I’ve made amends. Nick is back and Saul chastised.’

‘So you say.’

Firethorn was dismayed. ‘Do you doubt your husband’s word?’

‘Frankly, I do.’

‘Then you’ll hear it from Nick’s own mouth. He’s on his way here with other members of company. I galloped ahead to warn you, Margery, and to bury our differences.’

‘Coming here?’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Thus it stands. The performance this afternoon was jaded but at least we suffered no setback. Until, that is, we had all moved off to the taproom. George Dart, who acted as Nick’s deputy, did not, alas, have Nick’s common sense. In short,’ he said, ‘he let his attention wander and the book of The Malevolent Comedy was stolen.’

‘By whom?’ she gasped.

‘The villain who has dogged this play from the start.’

‘How can you perform again without the prompt copy?’

‘That’s why they are all heading for Shoreditch. If our memories are good enough, we can recall the words and have them set down by our scrivener. Westfield’s Men will create a new play.’

‘It’s a pity you cannot create a new author as well.’

‘Saul has been duly humbled by me.’

‘Not before time.’

‘When I told him of the theft,’ said Firethorn, ‘he ranted wildly and threatened to set a pack of lawyers on us. But I soon imposed my authority on him when I pointed out that only Nick Bracewell could save us and brought him — by my own cunning, Margery — as close to begging for Nick’s help as could be expected. All is therefore well.’

‘You’ve still got five acts of a play to pluck out of your memories.’

‘We’ll do it somehow.’

‘And this is all due to you, Lawrence?’

‘You would have been proud of your husband.’

‘I always am,’ she said, fondly.

‘Does that mean I’ll not sleep on the floor tonight?’

‘I’ll join you there, if you do.’

‘Come here, my songbird!’ he said, throwing his arms around her and planting a kiss of reconciliation on her lips. ‘As I rode out of the city, I thought so much about this moment.’

‘How much time have we got?’ she asked, wickedly.

‘Enough.’

And sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her swiftly to their bedchamber and flung her down on the pillows like an eager bridegroom.

Nicholas Bracewell had been to Hoode’s lodging so many times that he did not need the landlady to conduct him to the room. Instead, he knocked on the door, waited for the summons then went in. Edmund Hoode was surprised to see him. He stood up from his table.

‘Nick,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to collect you.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘All the way to Old Street,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and we must pick up Matthew Lipton on the way.’

‘Our scrivener?’

‘We’ve work that needs his flowing hand.’

Anxious to get back to his lodging, Hoode had left the Queen’s Head before the theft of the prompt copy had been discovered. Nicholas therefore gave him a brief account of what had taken place. Hoode was dumbfounded. A playwright himself, he knew that nothing could distress an author as much as the theft of his work. Plagiarism was one thing, but the removal of the one complete copy of a drama was a heinous crime. On the occasion when it had happened to him, Hoode had been mortified. Fortunately, he had been able to retrieve the situation with the help of Nicholas and the company’s regular scrivener. Other heads would be used to reconstruct a missing play this time.

‘How did Saul Hibbert receive the news?’ asked Hoode.

‘Badly.’

‘At least he could not lay the blame on you this time.’

‘He tried hard to do so,’ said Nicholas. ‘From what I can gather, he first pointed the finger at me as the thief. Lawrence spoke up for me.’

‘His show of loyalty is long overdue.’

‘But no less appreciated for that.’

‘And you’re back with us?’

‘Happily, yes. That was the concession that Lawrence demanded of him,’ said Nicholas, ‘though I daresay it was made with reluctance.’

‘Some good has yet come out of this reversal, then.’

‘We still face a problem, Edmund.’

‘Do we?’

‘The man who stole the book thinks that he’s made it impossible for us to perform the play again. When he sees The Malevolent Comedy back onstage tomorrow, he’ll be very angry.’

‘We’ll have confounded him.’

‘Only for a while,’ Nicholas pointed out. ‘He’s still free to maim us in some other way. Next time, his measures may be more desperate.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘Then let’s go to Matthew’s Lipton’s house.’

Nicholas glanced at the table. ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from your work, Edmund,’ he said. ‘Is this the new play you’ve mentioned?’

‘I’d have moved on to that in due course.’

‘What were you penning when I came in?’

Hoode gave a wan smile. ‘A sonnet.’

‘Ah, you’ve felt the warm glow of passion again.’

‘What I feel are the pangs of unrequited love. And the worst of it is, they seem to have dulled my brain. Tell me, Nick,’ he said, opening the door, ‘can you think of a clever rhyme for Ursula?’

Ursula Opie believed in the dictum that practice makes perfect. Seated at the keyboard, she studied the music in front of her and tapped out the notes with care and precision. She was so absorbed in her work that she did not hear the sound of her sister’s footsteps, coming up behind her in the hall. Bernice recognised the solemn music at once.

‘Why are you so attached to William Byrd?’ she asked with a note of complaint. ‘The house is filled with him all day long.’

‘Master Byrd is the finest composer alive,’ said Ursula, serenely.

‘Father tells me that he’s a devout Roman Catholic.’

‘Music is above denomination, Bernice.’

‘How can it be?’

‘You only have to listen.’

‘I’d rather hear something more lively,’ said Bernice, clapping her hands together. ‘Play a galliard so that I may dance.’

‘I’d never do anything so vulgar.’

‘Then let me hear a stately pavane. Anything is better than church music all the time. Oh, if only we had a house in the country!’

‘Why?’

‘Because there is so much more merriment there, Ursula. Country people know how to enjoy themselves. Do you remember that first play we saw at the Queen’s Head?’

‘It was The Faithful Shepherd, written by Edmund Hoode.’

‘It contained a whole host of dances,’ recalled Bernice. ‘The names alone were a delight to hear. There was Mopsy’s Tune, Dusty My Dear and the Bishop of Chester’s Jig.’

‘They were amusing enough in their place,’ said Ursula, primly.

‘When I saw the actors dance and frolic with such gaiety, I wanted to leap onstage and join them.’ Bernice twirled around a few times. ‘The Faithful Shepherd was a delight. I never thought we’d be allowed to meet the author.’

‘Master Hoode was a proper gentleman.’

‘And a handsome at that. Is it not so, Ursula?’

‘I did not notice.’

‘Come, even you must observe if a man is well or ill favoured.’

‘I admire Master Hoode for his intellect, not his appearance.’

‘I take pleasure in both. He looked so fine at the concert.’

‘The concert?’ said Ursula, glancing up. ‘I did not even know that he was here. I hope that he did not think it rude of me to ignore him.’

‘I paid him enough attention for both of us.’

‘As long as he did not feel neglected in our house.’

‘No, Ursula,’ said her sister, dreamily. ‘There was no danger of that. When I could not speak to him, I watched him every moment. Such a noble countenance, such a modest manner.’

‘True enough.’

‘Such a kind and thoughtful being.’

‘I liked him more than Master Firethorn.’

‘Oh, he was too fond of himself — not so Edmund.’

‘I liked him more than Owen Elias as well.’

‘I like him more than any man.’

‘Bernice!’

‘Why try to hide it from you?’ She gave a brittle laugh and hugged her sister. ‘Oh, Ursula, I think that I’m in love!’

And she pirouetted around the hall by way of celebration.

Basking once more in the love of his wife, Lawrence Firethorn was a portrait of contentment. Nobody would have guessed that his company was assailed from within by a demanding playwright and attacked from without by a mysterious enemy. As a result of the latest exigency, he was forced to participate in an act of collective repair. The Malevolent Comedy had to be forged anew. Firethorn sat in the middle of his parlour as if he did not have a care in the world, beaming at his friends and showing excessive courtesy to Matthew Lipton, their scrivener. Twenty minutes in Margery’s capacious arms had transformed him. Reading the telltale signs, the other members of Westfield’s Men were grateful to her.

‘Let’s move on to the second act,’ decided Firethorn.

‘But we haven’t mentioned my jig yet,’ said Barnaby Gill.

‘We can take that for granted.’

‘Indeed, you will not.’

‘Here the Clown dances — that’s all that it said in the play.’

‘Then let that be set down,’ said Gill, nodding to the scrivener. ‘The first act is not complete until I’ve brought it to a conclusion.’

Gill’s argumentative streak was slowing them up. Everyone else was resolved to bring the play back to life as quickly and painlessly as possible, but Gill’s pedantry hampered them. Not content with recalling his own lines, he was disputing the accuracy of those remembered by others. There were seven co-authors. Firethorn had invited Edmund Hoode, Frank Quilter, Owen Elias, Barnaby Gill, Richard Honeydew and the book holder to join him. While their host was nominally in charge, it was, in fact, Nicholas Bracewell who controlled the exercise. The actors knew their own lines and cues, but he was the only one who was familiar with the play in its totality and his prodigious memory came into its own.

‘What do I say next?’ asked Quilter, groping for his line.

‘Nothing,’ said Elias, ‘for the speech is mine.’

‘Mine, surely,’ contended Hoode, ‘for the priest must speak first.’

‘Wait your turn, Edmund.’

‘I could say the same to you.’

‘Nick,’ invited Firethorn with a smile, ‘give us instruction here.’

‘You are all wrong,’ said Nicholas, patiently. ‘The speech falls to Mistress Malevole.’

‘I thought so,’ agreed Richard Honeydew.

‘Why did you not say so?’ asked Gill, irritably.

‘I was not given the chance.’

Honeydew was the only one of the boy apprentices there but the other three were in the kitchen, being fed and mothered by Margery. From time to time, she brought drink and refreshment into the parlour, always pausing to give Nicholas a warm hug and her husband a kiss. The busiest person there was Matthew Lipton, a rangy individual of middle years with a habit of sucking his few remaining teeth. Copying out the words as they were dictated to him, he had difficulty in keeping up with Firethorn, who insisted on giving a performance rather than a simple, slow recitation.

What simplified the whole business and gave it a firm structure was the fact that Nicholas had brought the plot of the play. He had drawn it up as a guide to the cast, dividing each act up into its scenes and listing who and what was needed in them. In a comedy that relied on its pace, it was vital to have such a detailed record of entrances and exits. Changes of scenery were also marked as were the cues for the musicians. During a pause for refreshment, Nicholas studied the plot.

‘Our thief was a stranger to a tiring-house,’ he said, ‘or he would have taken the plot as well. Without that, our task would have been ten times more laborious.’

‘I find it laborious enough as it is,’ opined Quilter.

‘So do I,’ said Lipton, flexing his hand. ‘I begin to feel cramp.’

‘Fight it off,’ ordered Firethorn. ‘We need that neat calligraphy of yours until the bitter end.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘So the villain we seek is not a man of the theatre.’

‘He may not be a man at all,’ replied Nicholas.

‘An eunuch, then? Or a half-man like Barnaby?’

‘I’m no half-man!’ protested Gill. ‘Nor an eunuch either.’

‘The thief may well have been a woman,’ said Nicholas. ‘A young and beautiful one at that, according to Leonard. She asked him about the work of the book holder.’

‘What does that lumbering oaf know about it?’ said Firethorn.

‘Enough to understand the importance of the prompt book.’

‘And you think this woman may have taken it?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Would she have committed the other outrages?’

‘No,’ said Elias. ‘What woman would stoop to using poison?’

‘Margery, for one,’ replied Firethorn with a hearty cackle. ‘Had there been any in the house yesterday, she’d have poured it down my throat then danced on my dead body.’

‘So much for the joys of marriage!’ remarked Gill.

‘They’ll be forever beyond your reach, Barnaby. You’ll have to get your pleasure from being bitten on the bum by a rabid dog. Yes,’ he went on, looking at the scrivener. ‘Set that down as well. The Clown is bitten.’

‘Do not listen to him Matthew!’

‘And you may add — on the right buttock.’

‘No!’

‘Change that, Matthew. Barnaby prefers the left.’

‘To come back to the matter in hand,’ said Nicholas when Gill’s protests had died down, ‘I believe that the man we seek may have a confederate. He certainly bought the poison from the apothecary and paid that lad to set Rascal on us. But I fancy that this woman is part of the conspiracy,’ he went on, ‘and I wonder if the reason may not be right in front of us.’

‘How so?’ asked Hoode.

‘While we have been going over every single line of the play, I’ve seen things that did not strike me so much in performance. Look at the three women whom Lord Loveless sets up as rivals for his hand.’

‘Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor.’

‘The characters are excellently well drawn.’

‘That’s so throughout the play, Nick.’

‘Not always,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s real flesh and bone on all three ladies, and it brings them to life.’ He glanced at Honeydew. ‘The same goes for Mistress Malevole. There’s a depth and definition to her that several of the men lack.’

‘What do you read into that?’

‘I’m not sure, Edmund. But I do begin to wonder if Saul Hibbert’s women may be based on real people. They behave as if they do. And if that’s the case,’ Nicholas speculated, ‘none of them would be pleased to see the play for it pillories all four unmercifully.’

‘That’s where the comedy lies,’ said Gill, fussily.

‘Would you want to be shown as a cat, an owl or a monkey? For that’s what happens to the three women. Nor does Mistress Malevole come out of it with any credit. She’s portrayed as a malevolent snake, who schemes her way into Lord Loveless’s affections. No,’ Nicholas concluded, ‘Saul Hibbert has little affection for his ladies.’

‘Then the play does not have the ring of truth at all,’ said Firethorn, ‘for Saul has far too much affection for the fairer sex. When I spoke to him earlier, I had to prise him from a hot bed of passion. The fellow adores women.’

‘He uses them, surely,’ said Hoode, ‘but I sense no adoration in the man except for himself. Passion, once past, can leave only scorn in some men. I side with Nick. The ladies in the play are poorly treated.’

‘Everyone takes a knock in The Malevolent Comedy,’ said Gill.

‘But those most hurt are Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor. They are swinged soundly throughout. I wonder what their real names are.’

‘What does it matter? Let’s get back to our work.’

‘All in good time,’ said Firethorn, musing on what he had heard. ‘Nick may have seen something that eluded our gaze. Women can become frothing demons in an instant, as I learnt to my cost only yesterday. If one of them was turned into a laughing stock onstage, she’d seek revenge. Could that be the reason our prompt book was stolen?’

‘It all comes back to one question,’ said Nicholas.

‘Go on.’

‘What do we really know of Saul Hibbert?’

‘We know him for a playwright of exceptional talent.’

‘And exceptional vanity,’ added Quilter. ‘We also know him for his spite and malice. Nick was the victim of that. Master Hibbert will never be a true member of a company because he despises us.’

Gill preened himself. ‘He does not despise me or my work.’

‘But where did he come from?’ asked Nicholas. ‘How did he get here and what did he do before he came? Where did he learn to turn a line and shape a scene? In brief — who is Saul Hibbert?’

Cyrus Hame was just about to leave when his landlady showed in the visitor. He was taken aback to see Saul Hibbert standing there. The newcomer had lost some of his overweening confidence.

‘I hope that I’m not intruding on your time, Cyrus,’ he said.

‘No, no. Come in.’

‘You said that I might call upon you.’

‘Upon me or upon John. Though should you go to the Vavasor residence,’ said Hame, indicating his untidy little room, ‘you’ll find it more commodious than my humble lodging.’

‘I’d rather talk to you.’

‘Then take a seat and let’s converse.’

‘Not if I’m holding you up, Cyrus.’

‘The lady will wait,’ said Hame with a confiding grin. They sat either side of a little table. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I wished to ask about contracts.’

‘That’s something you’ll have to discuss with Giles Randolph. Only he can sign on behalf of Banbury’s Men.’

‘But is he a fair man? Do his terms favour the playwright?’

‘We made sure that they did.’

‘You have control over your work?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Lawrence Firethorn slipped terms into the contract that I barely noticed in my readiness to sign. I’ve lived to regret that.’

‘Other authors have said the same of him. Master Firethorn is slippery. Does he want another play?’

‘More than one.’

‘But you’ve not committed yourself?’

‘No,’ said Hibbert, ‘I wanted to speak to you or John first. You claim that Banbury’s Men will pay me more and treat me better.’

‘We can only talk from our own experience.’

‘It’s much happier than mine.’

‘A playwright should go where he’s most esteemed,’ said Hame. ‘Look at John Vavasor. He was reviled by one company and welcomed by another. Lawrence Firethorn was brutal to him.’

‘I’m less than satisfied with Master Firethorn myself.’

‘Then you have a remedy within your grasp.’

‘Do I?’

‘John and I have told you as much.’

‘But the power of decision lies with Master Randolph.’

‘Naturally,’ said the other, ‘but we came to you with his authority. He trusts our judgement and knows that we would not offer praise lightly. For reasons too obvious to relate, Giles is unable to attend a performance at the Queen’s Head. Even if he were not onstage every afternoon,’ he went on with a sly grin, ‘I doubt that he’d ever find his way to Gracechurch Street, any more than Lawrence Firethorn would go to the Curtain.’

‘So you’ve delivered good reports of me to Banbury’s Men?’

‘Giles cannot wait to embrace you.’

‘How much would he give me in advance?’

‘In advance?’

‘Against my next play,’ said Hibbert. ‘The truth is that I’ve spent too freely since I’ve been here, and need the funds to keep me while I work on my new play.’

‘Giles will not buy a pig in a poke,’ cautioned Hame.

‘That’s not what he’ll be doing. I’ll be able to show him a first act and tell him the plot of the whole play. The Malevolent Comedy has attested my merit. Its successor will have even tastier pork on it.’

‘Let me talk to Giles.’

‘Soon, please. My purse grows slacker by the day.’

‘Then we are two of a kind,’ said Hame, companionably. ‘We sail before the wind of our creditors. John had the good fortune to marry money. I can only seem to spend it.’

‘I share that fault, Cyrus. I’m a man of extravagant tastes.’

‘There’s no disgrace in that. But what of Westfield’s Men?’

‘What of them?’

‘No ties of loyalty to bind you?’

‘None,’ said Hibbert, bitterly. ‘After all that’s happened, I’d break with them at the drop of a hat.’

Cyrus Hame lifted his hat in the air and let it fall to the floor. Saul Hibbert laughed. Having come for help and advice, he was going away reassured. A profitable future seemed to open up before him. They left the room and stepped out into the street. Hibbert went his way. His spirits were lifted and his arrogant strut restored but, long after the two of them had parted, it was Cyrus Hame who was still laughing.

Midnight bells were chiming when Nicholas Bracewell finally got back to Bankside. Forsaking the bridge, he had been rowed across the river by a talkative waterman with an interest in the stars. Nicholas was given a lecture on astrology that owed more to the ale the man had drunk than to any serious study of the subject. Arriving back at his lodging, he was pleased to see a light burning in Anne’s bedchamber. He let himself into the house and tiptoed upstairs, opening her door as silently as possible.

‘I’m still awake,’ she said, drowsily.

‘Did you get my message?’

‘Yes, Nick. It was kind of you to send it.’

‘George Dart blamed himself for the loss of the book,’ he said. ‘He was so keen to atone in some way that I took advantage of him. I felt that you ought to know what was afoot.’

‘Was the play reconstructed?’

‘To the last letter.’

‘You’ve always had an amazing memory.’

‘It does not compare with Lawrence’s. He holds over thirty parts in his head. When we go on tour,’ said Nicholas, ‘he can play any one of them after a mere glance at the prompt book.’

‘And where is the book for The Malevolent Comedy?’

‘Right here, Anne.’ He patted the manuscript under his arm. ‘I’ll lock it away before I come into bed. May I get you anything?’

‘Yes, please,’ she whispered. ‘Nick Bracewell.’

He kissed her gently on the forehead then went along the passageway to the room that he had rented when he first moved in. Since he now shared a bed with Anne, he used the room for storage. The most important item there was a large oaken chest, ribbed with iron and fitted with two locks. When he used his keys to unlock the chest, he opened the lid to reveal the history of Westfield’s Men, a collection of prompt books that went back over the years and that had been carefully annotated by the man in charge of them. It was a theatrical treasure trove. After adding the new play to the collection, he closed the lid and locked the chest again. Shortly afterwards, he was blowing out the candle beside the bed and snuggling up to Anne.

‘Will you be in danger tomorrow?’ she said.

‘I hope not.’

‘Every time you’ve played the piece, there’s been misfortune.’

‘The actors are all too aware of that, Anne. Most of them would love to see the back of The Malevolent Comedy. They think it brings bad luck. Frank Quilter said that it has the mark of the devil upon it.’

‘What do you think?’

‘That the mark is more likely to be upon the author.’

‘Then more trouble lies ahead.’

‘We’ll be ready for it.’

‘Good.’ She pulled him close. ‘At least, you’ll be back where you belong. What brought Lawrence to his senses?’

‘Necessity.’

‘He deserved to be severely scolded for what he did.’

‘Margery took on that task,’ he said, smiling. ‘She’s more skilled in the black arts of torture than Master Topcliffe at the Tower. I’ve her to thank for putting her husband on the rack. Margery defended me.’

‘She should not have needed to do so.’

‘I’ll waste no sleep, worrying on that score,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long day. Tomorrow, we face another trial.’

‘Would you like my eyes in the gallery again?’

‘No thank you. I can spare you this time. Besides, it would be cruelty to make Preben sit through a second performance.’

‘He’s not recovered from the first visit yet.’

‘Are all Dutchman so gloomy and severe?’

‘Jacob was not,’ she replied, ‘or I’d never have married him. He could be very jolly at times. Preben is more serious. He’s been in England for years yet still bears the stigma of being a stranger. But,’ she added, ‘I did not stay awake simply to talk about him. I want to hear the gossip.’

‘There’s little enough of that, Anne.’

‘No quarrels, no scandal among the actors?’

‘All I can tell you is that Edmund is in love.’

‘That’s to say the Thames is full of water. Give me news.’

‘This is news,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had it from Owen. He brought two sisters to sup with Edmund and one of them enchanted him. Our lovelorn poet is already writing a sonnet to her.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Good for us but bad for Edmund.’

‘Bad for him?’

‘According to Owen, he’s fallen in love with the wrong sister. Her name is Ursula and she’s no interest in men unless they compose religious music. Edmund is doomed to worship from afar.’

‘You said that it was good for Westfield’s Men.’

‘Very good, Anne.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s made him start writing again.’

Edmund Hoode lay on his bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling. Enough moonlight was spilling in through the shutters to dapple the walls. Tired but unable to sleep, he wrestled with the fourteen lines he hoped would win the heart of Ursula Opie, arranging and rearranging them constantly in his mind until he reached a degree of satisfaction. There was a secondary problem to be addressed. Did he send the poem to her anonymously or disclose his identity? If she was touched by it, then she should be told the name of its author. If, on the other hand, she was offended in some way, it was better that she should not know its origin or grave embarrassment could ensue.

After long cogitation, he settled on a compromise. Hoode decided to append the letter ‘E’ to his sonnet, both admitting and denying that it was his work. ‘E’ could just as well stand for Edward, Eustace, Edgar or a number of other names, allowing him to disclaim authorship if any discomfort threatened. To a woman susceptible to noble sentiments expressed in high-flown language, however, it could represent only one poet and she would respond accordingly. Hoode had recovered from the disappointment of the concert. Shy in public, Ursula had not lingered in the hall. Like him, she was a private person, a creature of thought and deep feeling, a young woman, as the concert had shown, with a strong spiritual dimension to her life. Bernice had sung her songs prettily but Ursula had played with a commitment that revealed how much more the music meant to her. Hoode yearned for her.

With the sonnet bursting to come out of him, he leapt off the bed, lit a candle and reached for his quill. There was no hesitation. The words over which he had pondered so long now came streaming out of his brain in the perfect order. After reading the poem through, he felt a surge of creative power. It needed no correction. Instead, he set it aside, pulled another sheet of parchment in front of him and started to work again on his play. Sustained by the knowledge that it had been inspired by Ursula Opie, he laboured long into the night. When the first cock began to crow, Hoode, impervious to fatigue, was still crouched low over his table.

Nicholas Bracewell set out very early the next morning with the prompt copy of The Malevolent Comedy in a satchel slung over his shoulder. By the time he had crossed the bridge and entered Gracechurch Street, the market was already under way, its booths, stalls and carts narrowing the thoroughfare, its customers thronging noisily, its vendors extolling the virtues of their produce aloud and its poultry squawking rebelliously in their wooden cages. Nicholas’s broad shoulders soon found a way through the press but he did not turn in to the Queen’s Head. Walking past it, he went on to the parish church of St Martin Outwich on the corner of Bishopsgate and Threadneedle Street. Built over a century earlier, the church stood beside a well that was served in earlier times by a device that allowed one bucket to descend the shaft as the other was pulled up. A pump had now been installed and, when Nicholas went past, housewives were queuing with buckets to draw water.

The funeral of Hal Bridger had taken place the previous day. Out of deference to the wishes of the parents, Nicholas and the others had stayed away but he wanted to pay his respects to his young friend. It did not take him long to find the grave in the churchyard. A fresh mound of earth rose up through the grass, a simple cross was standing over it. Nicholas came forward and removed his cap. Looking down at the grave, he tried to recall happier times in the boy’s short life. He remembered the smile of astonished joy on Bridger’s face when he first hired him to work for Westfield’s Men, and the fierce pride he took in performing even the most menial duties for them.

Apart from Nicholas, the lad’s closest friends in the company had been George Dart and Richard Honeydew. They had spent many pleasant hours together. Cast adrift by his father, it had meant so much to Bridger to be accepted by his new family. He had repaid them with his love and dedication. Nicholas felt the sharp stab of bereavement. It made him even more determined to find the killer. Until that happened, Hal Bridger could never fully rest in peace. Closing his eyes, Nicholas offered up a prayer. He then put on his cap and turned to walk away, realising, for the first time, that he had been watched. A woman was standing by the church porch, so still and silent that she might have been a marble statue. It was Alice Bridger.

There was a long and very awkward pause. Nicholas was made to feel like an interloper, guilty of trespass, intruding upon private grief. He did not know whether to stay or leave. In the event, it was the woman who made the first move, walking slowly towards him and looking much more frail and vulnerable than at their first meeting. Clearing his throat, Nicholas held his ground and prepared his apology. Alice Bridger needed a moment to find her voice.

‘Thank you,’ she said, softly.

‘For what?’

‘Showing that you cared.’

‘We all cared about Hal.’

‘Yes, but yours was the name he mentioned most.’

He glanced down at the grave. ‘We kept away from the funeral.’

‘I was grateful for that.’

‘What about Mr Bridger?’

‘My husband will give you no thanks, sir,’ she said, brusquely. ‘He believes that we lost our son twice. Hal died when he left us, then he was murdered because of you.’

‘Simply because he joined a theatre troupe?’

‘It’s an ungodly profession.’

‘Then why are we not all struck down, Mrs Bridger?’ asked Nicholas, gently. ‘If our sin is so unforgivable, how have we and the other theatre companies in the city escaped retribution?’

‘You are trying to mock me again.’

‘No, I respect anyone who lives by the tenets of their faith.’

‘Even though you do not have a faith yourself?’

Nicholas hunched his shoulders. ‘It was wrong of me to come so soon,’ he said, ‘and I apologise for that. I should have let more time elapse so that feelings were not so fresh and raw. Think what you wish of us, Mrs Bridger, but be sure of one thing. The prayer I said over Hal’s grave came with Christian humility. God save his soul!’

‘Wait!’ she said, touching his arm as he turned to go.

‘Yes?’

‘You told me how Hal died but you did not tell me in what pain he must have been. The coroner was more honest.’

‘I wanted to spare you such details.’

‘I understand that now. It was a kindness on your part.’ Her lips began to quiver. ‘Will they catch the man who poisoned him?’

‘That’s a task we’ve set ourselves, Mrs Bridger.’

‘What can you do?’

‘Much more than any officers,’ he replied. ‘I’ve already found the apothecary who sold the poison. The customer he described was seen at the Queen’s Head, talking to one of the servants. If he dares to come again, he’s certain to be recognised.’

‘He’ll not return, surely.’

‘He already has, I fear.’

‘When?’

‘On Saturday last. He paid a boy to set loose his dog during our performance so that it would harry the actors. And yesterday,’ said Nicholas, patting his satchel, ‘the same man — or his confederate — stole our prompt book.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘To stop the play being staged.’

‘I do not understand how.’

‘That’s because you’ve never ventured into a playhouse, Mrs Bridger. There’s only one complete copy of any play and it’s used to prompt the actors if they lose their lines. It’s also the only way that the book holder can follow the progress of a performance.’ He patted his satchel again. ‘I’ve a new copy of our play right here.’

‘Which one?’

‘The Malevolent Comedy.’

‘Was that not the play that cost Hal his life?’

‘Unhappily, it was.’

She was rueful. ‘So his murder was part of a comedy?’

‘His murder was part of an attempt to stop this play from being seen. It’s happened three times in a row now. Someone had such a violent grudge against the piece that he’s determined to sweep it forever from the stage.’

‘Oh dear!’ she cried, tears coursing down her cheeks.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bridger. I did not mean to upset you.’

‘It’s so cruel, so very cruel!’

‘What is?’

‘You say that this man wants to wipe a play from the stage?’

‘By any means.’

‘Then I find myself in sympathy with him, for I’d stop every play from being performed and spreading its corruption. Can you not see the awful cruelty of that?’ she went on, tears still flowing. ‘I am at one with the man who murdered my only child?’

There was no rehearsal that morning. After three recent performances, it was felt that the cast were sufficiently confident to need no extra time spent on their lines. In any case, the hasty conference that had taken place at Lawrence Firethorn’s house the previous day had involved all the leading actors and been in the nature of an intensive rehearsal. They now knew The Malevolent Comedy better than ever before. Instead of working on the play again, therefore, they were deployed to search the premises to make sure that no danger was lurking at the Queen’s Head. Keeping the satchel with him, Nicholas Bracewell took care that he never once lost sight of the prompt book.

Richard Honeydew was curious. When the actors were starting to gather in the tiring-house that afternoon, he went over to Nicholas.

‘Where did you keep the book last night?’ he asked.

‘Under lock and key.’

‘How many plays do you have in your chest?’

‘Fifty or sixty at least, Dick.’

‘What would happen if they were all stolen?’

‘Do not even conceive of such a tragedy,’ said Nicholas. ‘We would be bereft. There’s no way that we could rebuild each play, brick by brick, as we did with Master Hibbert’s comedy. Most would be lost forever. The company would wither for lack of anything to play.’

‘I’d hate to lose The Loyal Subject.’

‘Is that your favourite?’

‘Along with The Merchant of Calais.’

‘Both plays by Edmund Hoode.’

‘Hal Bridger thought our best play was Cupid’s Folly.’

‘That will please Barnaby for he steals all the laughs in it.’

‘Hal giggled whenever he thought of the play.’ Honeydew’s face darkened. ‘He’ll not see it ever again, Nick.’

‘I know.’

‘When they buried him yesterday, I wanted to be there.’

‘So did we all,’ said Nicholas. ‘Hal’s stay with us was short but he made many friends among Westfield’s Men. The pity of it is that his parents bear us such ill will.’

‘He rarely spoke of them. They cast him out.’

‘Yet they grieve for him now, Dick — at least, his mother does.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I met her in the churchyard this morning when I went to pay my respects at the grave. Mrs Bridger was there.’

‘Does she still blame us for what happened?’

‘She blames the whole notion of theatre. It’s abhorrent to her.’

‘We do no harm,’ said Honeydew, innocently.

‘We do, in her eyes, Dick, and you are one of the chief culprits.’

‘Me?’

‘Boys dressing up as women, painting their faces, flaunting themselves on stage. Making lewd gestures and exciting improper feelings in the spectators. That’s how Hal’s parents view us,’ said Nicholas, sadly. ‘We are purveyors of sin.’

‘All that we strive to do is to entertain people.’

‘Puritans do not believe in entertainment, Dick.’

‘Then I’m glad we do not have any of them in our audiences,’ said the boy. ‘But, since the church is so close, I’ll try to say a prayer for Hal myself as I go past.’

‘Do that.’

Honeydew went off to put on his costume and Nicholas cajoled two of the other apprentices who had arrived late. There was a distinct tension in the tiring-house. Superstition had taken its hold. About to embark on a fourth performance of a play, the actors all felt in their hearts that it would be prey to some mishap again. The general unease was even shared by Lawrence Firethorn.

‘Is all well, Nick?’ he asked.

‘I think so. We’ve taken every precaution.’

‘We did that last time.’

‘The book will not go astray this afternoon, I warrant you.’

‘There are other ways to damage us.’

‘We’ll be ready for them, whatever they are,’ said Nicholas.

‘I hope so. Margery is in the audience today.’

‘After last night, I’d have thought she’d heard enough of The Malevolent Comedy. It invaded your house for hours.’

‘That only served to increase her interest,’ said Firethorn. ‘For her sake, I want the performance to go well. If we get safely through the play today, it may even cheer Saul up.’

‘Is he still surly?’

‘Surly and critical. He’s not forgiven me for making him accept you as book holder again. That festers with him.’

‘Did he thank you for our efforts to rewrite his play?’

‘No, Nick. He still wants George Dart dismissed for losing it.’

‘Since when can a playwright pick and choose hired men?’

‘I made that point to him.’

‘Good. Master Hibbert is still very new to the playhouse.’

‘His novelty is wearing off for me,’ confided Firethorn. ‘When he first appeared, I thought he’d come to lead us to the Promised Land. I did not realise that it would be beset with cups of poison and renegade dogs. I’m not so ready to commission a second play from Saul Hibbert now.’

Nicholas was relieved but he said nothing. Time was running out and, from the commotion he could hear in the yard, it sounded as if another large audience was waiting for them. The flag had been hoisted above the Queen’s Head to show that a play would be performed and the musicians had taken up their places in the gallery above the stage. Owen Elias, in a black cloak, was running a tongue over his lips as he rehearsed the opening lines of the Prologue. Everything was ready. The strain on the actors was almost tangible. Nicholas tried to lift it.

After warning everyone in the tiring-house with a wave, he sent a signal up to the musicians. When the trumpets blared and the drum boomed, an anticipatory hush fell on the audience. On a cue from the book holder, Owen Elias strode out onstage to deliver the Prologue.

Malevolence, my friends, is here to stay.

It works with spite and cunning every day

And night to gain its ends. Employ it well

When you would seek to wed and only sell

Your precious freedom at the highest price,

Or live in sad regret. Take my advice.

A man can marry anyone he choose

But women know a marriage bed can bruise.

So, ladies, stalk your prey behind a smile,

And bring him down with malice and with guile.

It was not so much the lines as his vivid gestures that garnered the first laughs. The Welshman gesticulated to such comic effect that he received a round of applause at the end of his speech. It was all that the other actors needed. Approval was their life-blood. They went in search of it with a confidence that had seemed impossible minutes ago. No sooner did Lord Loveless appear in his ridiculously garish apparel than he got a rousing cheer and the Clown, too, was given a special welcome. Firethorn and Gill were known and admired by all. Moved by the warmth of their reception, the two of them blossomed and gave performances that were somehow enhanced in every particular. The loveless lord was more absurd than ever and the Clown’s antics were more hilarious. In one short opening scene, the audience was conquered.

Nicholas was enthralled. It was a new play. With everyone bringing an extra vigour and subtlety to their performance, the nuances and shades of colour in The Malevolent Comedy were brought out clearly for the first time. Richard Honeydew was renowned for his portrayal of noble queens and beautiful princesses, but he revelled in a different role now, finding a deeper malevolence in his character than had ever been there before. It was almost as if he were trying to prove what Nicholas had observed when they met to recreate the play from memory.

Mistress Malevole was a cunning serpent, subjecting the other three women to repeated humiliation so that she could entwine herself around Lord Loveless and lick him with her forked tongue. Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor were not mere characters in a play. They sounded like real women, voicing real complaints, stripped of any dignity and derided in public to satisfy the author’s malice. All that the audience saw was a riotous comedy that bowled along with effortless speed. What the book holder heard, however, was a wicked satire on the weaker sex. In front of howling spectators, the women were really suffering.

While not losing his concentration, Nicholas kept one ear pricked for the sound of any impending attack. The rest of the company had clearly forgotten that the piece was synonymous with misfortune, and that it had taken the life of Hal Bridger less than a week earlier. Shaking off their fears, they played with a zest that gave a sharper edge to the comedy. The laughter and applause throughout was so generous that it added several minutes to the performance. When they saw that the play was over, there was a massive sigh of disappointment, followed by an explosion of clapping hands, stamping feet and deafening cheers.

It was by far their best performance of the play and it augured well for any revival. Nicholas was relieved. All the precautions that he had set in place seemed to have worked. While the actors took their bows in the reverberating cauldron of noise, he was simply grateful that they had come through without assault or interruption. The play’s curse had been lifted. They had finally been spared.

Even the sceptical Francis Quilter was impressed. Coming off stage with the others, he tapped the prompt book in Nicholas’s hands.

‘It’s a better play than I thought,’ he admitted.

‘You were always too censorious, Frank.’

‘I let my dislike of the author obscure my judgement.’

‘So you admire the play now?’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, but I hate Saul Hibbert even more.’

‘Why?’

‘His work exceeded all expectations today,’ replied Quilter. ‘That means Lawrence will bind him hand and foot by contract, and we’ll have him writing more comedies for us.’

‘Why, so I will!’ said Firethorn, joining them. ‘Did you hear that happy pandemonium out there, Nick? We were supreme. And as for Saul, I’ll chain him to a desk and make him write for us forever.’

‘Make no hurried decisions,’ urged Nicholas.

‘We need him.’

‘It’s what he needs that concerns me.’

‘Your place is safe, Nick. He’ll not shift you again.’

‘I care not for myself. My anxiety is for others.’

‘Why?’

‘Master Hibbert treats most of them as if they were mere servants to his genius. After this afternoon, I fear that he’ll be worse than ever.’

‘He’ll learn to love us all in time.’

‘Not unless he has the power he craves,’ said Nicholas.

‘Leave off,’ said Firethorn, genially. ‘This is a time for celebration rather than anxiety. We’ve set fire to an audience as never before this year and we should warm our hands at the blaze. Be happy for us, Nick.’

‘I am — truly delighted.’

‘Then come and join us in the taproom. I was worried, I confess. In view of what happened before with this play, I was as nervous as a kitten when I was waiting to go onstage. Once there, I knew that my fears were groundless. I felt the triumph coming,’ said Firethorn, putting a hand to his heart. ‘Nothing can take the pleasure of it away, Nick. We gave them a magnificent play this afternoon and nobody tried to stop us.’

Richard Honeydew was troubled. Old enough to play the part of Mistress Malevole extremely well, he was still too young to appreciate the full import of the character. Though the performance had been his best yet, it had left him confused and apprehensive. There were times when he lost all control, when he felt that Mistress Malevole took him over and made him explore aspects of her character that he did not even know were there. He had been forced to be more savage, more ruthless, more calculating. The audience might have loved his portrayal but it almost frightened him. When he came to take off his wig and dress, his fingers were trembling.

Amid the swirl of bodies and the noise of banter, nobody paid any attention to him in the tiring-house. That suited Honeydew. He had a sudden desire to be alone. Living at Firethorn’s house, he would be returning there with the other apprentices in time but there was no hurry. They would have to wait for Margery, who would surely want to celebrate with her husband before she took them back home. Honeydew had plenty of leeway. Changing quickly into his own clothing, therefore, he gave his costume to the tireman and darted out of the room.

His footsteps took him in the direction of Bishopsgate. When he reached the corner of Threadneedle Street, he realised why. Something was impelling him to visit Hal Bridger’s grave. He was humbled. Instead of thinking of himself, he should be paying his respects to someone who was no longer able to act upon a stage. Honeydew had to make his own small act of remembrance. He went into the churchyard and searched for the grave. Like Nicholas, he soon found it and smacked his palms together to scare away the two ravens who had perched on the mound of earth. Richard Honeydew removed his cap and stood in silence.

His own cares seem to float away and he went into a kind of trance. He felt close to Hal Bridger. He could almost hear his laughter and see the excitement in his face. Honeydew tried to talk to him but got no reply. When he reached out to touch him, the boy was not there. Yet he was still nearby and grateful for the visit of a friend. Honeydew could sense his gratitude. There was contact.

The rustle of light feet through grass made him turn round. Walking towards him was an attractive young woman, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. She stopped a yard away from him.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘My name is Dick Honeydew.’

‘I see.’

‘I was Hal’s friend.’

She lowered her head. ‘Then you’ll know how he died.’

‘I was there at the time,’ he said. ‘It was dreadful.’

‘Yes. Yes, it must have been.’

‘I … came to bid farewell to him.’

‘So did I,’ she said, dabbing her eyes as she looked at him. ‘Hal was my nephew. I loved him so much.’

‘Were you at the funeral yesterday?’

‘No, we only arrived in London this afternoon. I’ve just come from his parents. They told me where to find the grave so that I could pay my respects. I’m honoured to share the moment with you, Dick.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Will you step into the church with me and say a prayer for him?’

‘Gladly.’

Honeydew was unguarded. It never occurred to him that the beautiful, elegant woman in front of him might have worn something more suitable to a churchyard than the striking red and green dress with a matching hat. From the little that Hal Bridger had told him about them, Honeydew had gathered the impression that his parents were earnest, austere, dedicated Puritans. When he had joined Westfield’s Men, they had disowned him, behaviour that Honeydew simply could not understand. In his trusting way, the apprentice was pleased that at least one member of Hal’s family seemed to show genuine grief.

They did not even reach the porch. As soon as the boy’s back was turned, a man came around the angle of the church and crept up behind him. When the moment was ripe, the sobbing aunt tossed away her handkerchief and used both hands to grab Honeydew by the shoulders and push him towards her accomplice. Before he knew what was happening, a cloak had been thrown over him and strong arms lifted him from the ground. Honeydew was terrified. He was unable to struggle free and his cries for help went unheard beneath the thick woollen cloak.

There was no escape. He had been kidnapped.