The Malevolent Comedy

Chapter Nine

John Vavasor had been visiting his brother in Richmond that day and did not return to the city until early evening. Instead of going home, he rode straight to the Green Man, where he could be certain of finding his co-author. Cyrus Hame was in high spirits. He was carousing at the tavern with two of the actors from the Curtain, sharers with Banbury’s Men, who had enjoyed the success of Lamberto and who looked forward to repeating it with Pompey the Great. Vavasor joined them and revelled in the jollity until the actors took their leave.

‘They cannot stop thanking us for Lamberto,’ said Hame. ‘It was so far above the level of their other plays that it is set to remain a favourite with them for a long while.’

‘Every time it’s performed, our names will be voiced abroad.’

‘John Vavasor and Cyrus Hame.’

‘By rights, it should be Cyrus Hame and John Vavasor.’

‘Why?’

‘You should take first place.’

‘I’d not hear of it.’

‘You made the play acceptable to Banbury’s Men,’ said Vavasor.

‘I’ll own that I do have that knack,’ said Hame, affably. ‘I’ve always been able to improve a play but, first, I need a good play on which to work. In Lamberto, you provided that.’

‘You changed it completely, Cyrus.’

‘I merely brought out its full power. You are the master craftsman, John, and I, a simple journeyman. Your name should take precedence.’

‘You are so gracious.’

‘And you are so generous. Though we toiled side by side on the play, you let me have the lion’s share of the fee.’

‘You could have had it all, Cyrus.’

‘Your benevolence is overwhelming.’

‘I write for fame. All that I wanted was to see my work on a stage.’

‘Whereas I prefer to write for money,’ said Hame, feeling his purse. ‘Fame is simply a dream, a fantasy, an illusion, something that only exists in the minds of others. Money is real. You can hold it in your hands, toss it in the air, bite it with your teeth and, best of all, spend it. That’s where my ambition lies.’ He sipped his drink and became reflective. ‘Yet I sometimes wonder if it could have been played better.’

‘What?’

‘The role of Lamberto.’

‘Giles Randolph surpassed himself.’

‘Yes, but would he have surpassed Lawrence Firethorn?’

‘Do not mention that foul name!’ rasped Vavasor.

‘We are bound to compare the two titans of the stage.’

‘I’d not let Firethorn say a single word that I wrote.’

‘Nor me, John, but I’ll not deny his monstrous talent.’

‘It’s his monstrous character that I object to. He’s a colossus of conceit. But, no, to answer your question, I do not think that he could have matched Giles as Lamberto.’

‘Could Giles have matched him as Lord Loveless?’

‘Matched him and beaten him,’ said Vavasor. ‘On the strength of what I saw at yesterday’s performance of The Malevolent Comedy, many actors could have outdone Firethorn. He simply walked through the part, Cyrus. I’ve never seen him put so little effort into a role, and the rest of them were no better. They were lacklustre.’

‘That does not sound like Westfield’s Men.’

‘They let Saul Hibbert down badly.’

‘He’ll not have liked that.’

‘It will have brought him one step closer to Banbury’s Men.’

‘Our main task is to drive a wedge between him and Firethorn,’ Hame reminded him. ‘That’s all that Giles urged upon us. Saul has written a fine comedy but there’s no certainty that he can do it again. If he fails to fulfil his promise, he’ll fall by the wayside.’

‘I’ll not weep for him. He’s as big a monster as Firethorn.’

‘There’s not room for two of them in Westfield’s Men.’

‘Three — you forget Barnaby Gill.’

Hame laughed. ‘The worst of them, in some respects.’

‘We’ve done what was asked of us,’ said Vavasor. ‘We poured our poison into Saul’s ear. We dangled the prospect of more money in front of him, stroked him, flattered him, fawned upon him and led him to believe that he’ll be welcomed with open arms at the Curtain.’

‘Only if his mind is fertile enough, and I begin to doubt it.’

‘Why?’

‘All that he has to offer is one act of a new play.’

‘Does he work so slowly?’

‘Saul is lazy and too easily distracted.’

‘I’d written six plays before Lamberto,’ recalled Vavasor, ‘and the moment that it was sold, we began work on Pompey the Great.’

‘You are chased by demons, John.’

‘I have this nagging compulsion to write.’

‘Saul’s only compulsion is to boast about what he will write,’ said Hame, ‘but there’s little evidence of any serious labour. He had the nerve to ask for money in advance when the play is still locked in his brain.’

‘Giles Randolph would never countenance that.’

‘I told him so.’

‘Let him sink or swim as a playwright,’ said Vavasor, callously. ‘I care not. All that I wish to do is to drag him away from the Queen’s Head and give Firethorn a slap in the face.’

‘We’ll give him far more than a slap, John.’

‘God willing!’

‘Oh, there’s nothing godly about it. It relies solely on the malevolence that Saul describes so well in his comedy.’

‘I do not follow you, Cyrus.’

‘We have to be malign and merciless,’ said Hame, icily. ‘We have to shake Westfield’s Men to the very core by stealing their new playwright. Let me turn prophet and make this one prediction. By the end of the week, Saul Hibbert will be ours.’ He smirked. ‘Whether we keep him or not, of course, is another matter.’

The disappearance of Richard Honeydew did not come to light for an hour. It was Margery Firethorn who first noticed that he was not there. When she rounded up the other apprentices to take them back home with her, they had no idea where Honeydew had gone. The alarm was raised and Nicholas Bracewell instituted an immediate search. It was fruitless. Nicholas was disturbed. Had it been one of the other boys missing, he would not have worried so much. Inclined to waywardness, they had been known to wander off or play games in odd corners of the inn. Honeydew, by contrast, always stayed close to the adult members of the company. He was far too responsible to get lost.

Leonard was rolling an empty barrel across the yard with practised ease. When he saw his friend, Nicholas rushed over to him.

‘Dick Honeydew has vanished,’ he said.

‘Is he not back, then?’

‘Back from where?’

‘Wherever he went,’ said Leonard. ‘I saw him leave.’

‘When was this?’

‘Earlier on — when I was sweeping the yard.’

‘Was he alone?’

‘Yes, Nicholas.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘Straight out through the gate and into Gracechurch Street.’

‘But why?’ asked Nicholas. ‘He should have stayed here.’

‘He was in a dream.’

‘A dream?’

‘Yes,’ said Leonard. ‘When I called out to him, he did not even wave back. He could not have heard me. The lad was miles away.’

‘Did you see which way he turned?’

‘Left, towards Bishopsgate.’

‘Bishopsgate? Surely he did not intend to walk back to Shoreditch on his own.’ The answer dawned on Nicholas. ‘The church!’

‘What church?’

‘St Martin Outwich. It’s where Hal Bridger was buried.’

Leonard was relieved. ‘Ah, that’s where he is, then. No need to trouble ourselves any more.’

‘Except that he should have got back by now. Thanks, Leonard,’ said the book holder, moving away. ‘I’ll go in search of him.’

‘Would you like me to come with you?’

‘No, just tell the others where I’ve gone. I’ll not be long.’

Nicholas went out into Gracechurch Street and swung left, striding purposefully through the crowd and keeping his eyes peeled for a sign of Honeydew. Reassured by the thought that he might have gone to pay his respects to his friend, Nicholas was also quietly alarmed that he had not yet returned. London was a dangerous place for anyone. A small, trusting, defenceless boy like Honeydew was especially vulnerable. He could have been the victim of a footpad or been set on for fun by one of the gangs of ragged children who inhabited the area. Nicholas quickened his pace. The boy might be in need of help.

When he approached the churchyard, he caught a glimpse of a figure near one of the graves and thought for a moment that it was Honeydew. It was only when he got closer that he realised it was an old man, standing in silence beside a gravestone with his hat in his hands. There was nobody else in the churchyard. Nicholas went into the church but it, too, was empty. He took the opportunity to drop to his knees before the altar in order to pray for the boy’s safe return.

Going back outside, he intended to speak to the old man but he was no longer there. The churchyard was deserted. He began to wonder if Honeydew had, in fact, been there at all yet he could think of no other destination. It seemed unlikely that he would have gone to Bridger’s home to offer his condolences to the parents. Had he done so, he would have been ejected without ceremony by the leather-seller. If that had been the case, Honeydew would have been back at the Queen’s Head a half an hour ago.

Nicholas was distressed. The apprentice was a special friend of his, looking to the book holder for protection against the repeated teasing of the other boys. Because he was the most talented of them, Honeydew was always given the leading female roles and this aroused great envy. The others invariably tried to play tricks on him and, most of the time, they were thwarted by Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder took the disappearance personally. It hurt him almost as much as the death of Hal Bridger. He had a duty of care to both boys and he had failed them.

Richard Honeydew, hopefully, was still alive and it was imperative that he was found quickly. The problem for Nicholas was that he had no idea where to start. Vexed and preoccupied, he walked slowly towards the gate. Before he got there, he saw Alice Bridger enter the churchyard. She blinked in surprise.

‘What are you doing here again?’ she asked.

‘Looking for one of the apprentices.’

‘Why?’

‘I believe that he came here to say a last farewell to Hal.’

‘When was this?’

‘Within the last hour.’

‘A small, slight, fair-haired boy with a red cap?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, eagerly. ‘Did you see him?’

‘I think so.’

‘When, Mrs Bridger? What did he do? Where did he go?’

‘I cannot say where they took him.’

‘They?’

‘There were two of them,’ she replied. ‘I was in the porch when the boy walked towards the church with the young lady. Then suddenly, a gentleman came up behind them. He threw a cloak over the boy and carried him off.’

‘Where?’ demanded Nicholas, anxiously. ‘In which direction?’

‘I did not see.’

‘Could you not have come and warned us?’

‘How did I know that the boy belonged to you?’ she said.

‘No,’ he conceded, ‘you could not have done. I see that now.’

‘In truth, even if I had realised who he was, I could never have entered that abominable tavern of yours.’

‘Why not?’

‘I would have felt unclean.’

‘You could have sent someone in for me.’

‘No, sir. I could not.’

‘A boy’s life may be at stake. Does that mean nothing to you?’

‘It means everything,’ she replied, looking helplessly towards her son’s grave. ‘Our son’s life was at stake in that dreadful place where you put on those plays. I hope that there’s not a second tragedy but evil must be punished, as it was in Hal’s case.’ She reached into her pocket and drew out a handkerchief. Turning back to Nicholas, she offered it to him. ‘The young lady dropped this.’

Saul Hibbert was in a more cheerful mood. The afternoon performance had been a revelation to him, showing just what the company could do when they were fully committed and reinforcing his belief in the supreme quality of his play. Congratulations flooded in from all sides. When the spectators had gone, he could still hear their paeans of praise and feel the endless pats of approval on his back. His self-esteem burgeoned even more. After a celebratory drink with Lawrence Firethorn in the taproom, he made his way back to his chamber to luxuriate in his increasing renown and to change his attire before he went out that evening.

He was on the point of departing when there was a knock on the door. Expecting it to be one of the servants, he opened the door and was instead confronted by a glowering Alexander Marwood. The landlord had a determined glint in his eye and a sheaf of bills in his hand.

‘What do you want?’ asked Hibbert, haughtily.

‘Payment, sir.’

‘I paid you last week.’

‘There have been several other charges since,’ said Marwood, holding up the bills. ‘On Sunday, for instance, you dined in your room with a young lady.’ He read from the first piece of paper. ‘Item, a dish of anchovies. Item, a bottle of Canary wine. Item-’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Hibbert, nastily. ‘I know what we ate and drank.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll settle the bill.’

‘All in good time, my man.’

‘No more credit can be extended to you.’

Hibbert stiffened. ‘Are you deaf as well as demented?’ he said. ‘Surely, the applause out there reached even your ears. It went on for an eternity. Anyone who was in the yard today will tell you that I’m the finest playwright in the whole of London. I bring fame and honour to the Queen’s Head. You should be paying me to stay here.’

‘That’s what I am doing.’

‘Be off with you!’

‘Not until this business is resolved.’

‘Do you dare to hound me with these petty amounts?’

‘In total, the bills amount to almost two pounds.’

‘Then I’ve been ruinously overcharged.’

‘Every item has been recorded with care,’ said Marwood, wounded by the accusation of fraud. ‘My wife keeps the accounts and Sybil does not make mistakes.’

‘Well, she made one when she married you! I’ve never seen such an ugly visage. How can your wife bear to look at someone who belongs in a menagerie with the other animals?’

Marwood was indignant. ‘I’ll stand for no insults, Master Hibbert.’

‘Then you’d best get out of my way or you’ll hear a hundred of them. Begone, you pestilence!’ shouted Hibbert. ‘Go back to your kennel before I reach for my sword.’

‘What about these bills?’

‘A pox on them!’

Grabbing the bills from Marwood, he tossed them into the air to create a minor blizzard. He picked up his hat then walked out of the room. The landlord dropped to his knees and gathered up the bills before pursuing Hibbert quickly down the steps. At the bottom of the staircase, Lawrence Firethorn was talking to Nicholas Bracewell. They looked up as the two men descended, guessing at once why Marwood was on the heels of his guest. Hibbert adopted a lofty tone.

‘Ah, Lawrence,’ he said, ‘I crave a boon. Remove this leech of a landlord from me before he sucks my blood.’

‘I’ve more important concerns than that,’ said Firethorn.

‘What’s more important than indulging me? I’ve brought laughter back to the Queen’s Head with my play. That deserves a reward.’

‘It would if laughter was all that you brought,’ said Nicholas, trenchantly. ‘But disaster has come in its wake.’

‘Yes,’ retorted Hibbert, indicating the landlord. ‘Here he is.’

‘I’m no disaster,’ protested Marwood.

‘You’re a sly, wrangling, squirrel-faced, cheese-eating knave!’

‘Do you hear that, sirs?’

‘You’re a green-sickness carrion!’

‘Enough of this, Master Hibbert!’ said Nicholas, forcefully. ‘You’ve no cause to abuse the landlord. Before he speaks to you, we must have private conference.’

‘You will have to wait,’ said Hibbert, ‘for I’m going out.’

‘Not until we’ve said our piece,’ warned Firethorn.

‘What about these bills?’ said Marwood, waving them in the air.

‘They’ll be paid in time,’ Nicholas told him, moving the landlord gently aside. ‘There’s another account to be settled first.’ He fixed his eye on Hibbert. ‘Shall we return to your room?’

‘No,’ retorted Hibbert, trying to leave.

‘Then we’ll have to insist,’ said Firethorn, blocking his way.

‘I’ll not be treated like this, Lawrence.’

‘You’ll be treated as you deserve.’

‘Do you not recognise me?’ demanded Hibbert. ‘I’m your saviour. I’m the difference between success and failure. Thanks to my play, the yard was filled and Westfield’s Men have been made famous.’

‘We were famous long before you came, Saul, and will be so long after you leave us. Before that happens,’ said Firethorn with quiet menace, ‘we need a word alone with you.’

‘It’s not a convenient time.’

‘Then we’ll make it convenient,’ said Nicholas, taking him by the scruff of his neck and pushing him back upstairs. ‘You’ll not leave this inn until we’ve heard the truth.’

Spluttering with rage, Hibbert tried to break free but Nicholas had the superior strength. The playwright was forced back into his room and pushed towards the bed. Following them in, Firethorn closed the door behind him. Saul Hibbert’s face was red and the veins on his temples were standing out like whipcord.

‘What is going on?’ he yelled at Firethorn.

‘We are hoping that you’ll tell us,’ said Nicholas.

‘I was talking to Lawrence.’

‘Then I’ll give you the same reply,’ said Firethorn. ‘We are hoping that you’ll tell us, Saul. In fact, we’ll not leave this room until you do.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’d best beware,’ said Hibbert. ‘Bear in mind that I have the power to withdraw The Malevolent Comedy. Browbeat me and you’ll not put on my play tomorrow or any other day.’

‘It’s already been cancelled,’ said Nicholas.

‘And may never be performed by us again,’ added Firethorn.

Hibbert was shaken. ‘Why not?’

‘Because we have no Mistress Malevole, and the play is impossible without her. Dick Honeydew has been kidnapped.’

‘Kidnapped?’

‘Earlier on,’ explained Nicholas. ‘When he was visiting a churchyard to pay his respects at the grave of Hal Bridger — another victim of your play, Master Hibbert. One murder, one dog, one stolen prompt book, a lost apprentice. You may be proud of your play but it’s brought us nothing but misery.’

‘That’s not my fault.’

‘We believe that it is.’

‘And we want to know why,’ said Firethorn, clenching his fists. ‘The Malevolent Comedy is nothing more than a malevolent tragedy to us. It’s aroused someone’s ire and we’ve suffered badly as a result. Tell us why or — by Jupiter — we’ll beat the truth out of you.’

Instead of staying at the Queen’s Head with the others, Edmund Hoode had left early so that he could pay a visit to the home of Ursula Opie. She had not been out of his thoughts since he had first met her, and, as time had passed, she had assumed an even greater magnitude in his life. In his hand was the scroll on which his sonnet was written. The moment had come to deliver it to the woman to whom it was dedicated, but Hoode could not be seen to do that himself. Anonymity had to be preserved.

When he got to the house, therefore, he lurked in a lane opposite and kept watch on the building, hoping against hope that Ursula might make a providential appearance. Since she did not, he looked around for someone to carry his poem to her, confident that its honeyed lines and uninhibited passion would find a positive response. A stringy youth strolled towards the lane. Hoode stepped out to intercept him and offered him money to deliver the scroll to the house. The youth was only too ready to accept the commission.

‘Shall I say who it’s from, sir?’ he asked.

‘No, no,’ replied Hoode. ‘Simply give it to the servant who answers the door and ask him to set it on the keyboard of the virginals.’

The youth sniggered. ‘Virginals?’

‘Do as I tell you or I’ll find someone else.’

‘I’ll do it, sir, if you pay me.’

‘Here, then.’ Hoode slipped some coins into his palm.

‘Thank you.’

‘Obey my instructions and the young lady will receive it.’

‘Does she have a name?’

‘The most beautiful name in Creation. Away with you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The youth nodded and ran off. Concealing himself in the lane once more, Hoode watched until he saw that his orders had been carried out then he headed for his lodging. The sonnet had been safely delivered. It would soon be winging its way into Ursula’s heart. He felt elated. Keen to resume work on the new play that she had unwittingly spurred him to write, he broke into a trot and laughed all the way back to his lodging.

Saul Hibbert’s protests were long and loud but they did not convince his visitors. Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn stood either side of him, eyes never leaving his face. Their presence was intimidating.

‘For the last time,’ said Hibbert, vehemently, ‘I’m not responsible for what’s happened. I regret it, naturally, but I’ll not take the blame on my shoulders. Nobody I know could have inflicted all this on us. I have no enemies.’

‘You’ll have two standing before you, if you do not tell the truth,’ said Firethorn. ‘Somebody bears a grudge against you or the play.’

‘Or both at once,’ added Nicholas. ‘What’s his name?’

Hibbert shrugged. ‘I cannot even hazard a guess.’

‘Then what’s her name?’

‘Her name?’ The playwright was suddenly uneasy. ‘Whose name do you mean?’

‘Two people took Dick away from that churchyard. One was a man but the other was a young lady. A witness saw them. She picked up this when the lady left it behind her.’ He held up the handkerchief. ‘So it seems that you do have enemies after all, Master Hibbert. Who is she?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Because your play has clearly upset her or her companion.’

‘Not with intent.’

‘I wonder,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick believes that some of the characters in The Malevolent Comedy may have been inspired by real people, put on stage so that they can be reviled and ridiculed.’

‘Is that what you did with Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor?’ pressed Nicholas. ‘And was Mistress Malevole a real woman?’

‘Every author draws from life,’ said Hibbert, evasively.

‘But he does not always turn his acquaintances into victims.’

‘I had a little, gentle, harmless fun at someone’s expense, that is all. The ladies concerned live far away from London so there’s no chance that any of them would see the play and be offended.’

‘Then why was a young woman involved in the kidnap of Dick Honeydew?’ said Firethorn. ‘And it’s not the first time we’ve heard of her, is it, Nick?’

‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘One of the servants here, Leonard, was accosted in the yard by a young lady who showed a great interest in the work of the book holder. That same afternoon, our prompt book was stolen. It was no coincidence. I believe that the same person was in that churchyard earlier on. She was there to distract Dick so that he could be set upon by her accomplice.’

‘What sort of woman is capable of that, Saul?’

‘None that I know,’ said Hibbert.

‘Well, she appears to know you,’ accused Firethorn, angrily. ‘So does the man. Who are they?’

‘Truly, I can put no names to them.’

‘Perhaps a description of the man may help,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had it from the apothecary who sold the poison that killed Hal Bridger. What he told me tallies with what Leonard said. He, too, as I believe, met him. The fellow had more than a passing interest in your play.’

‘Go on’

‘He was tall, slim, fair-haired, bearded and well-dressed. He was also well spoken but he was not a Londoner. The apothecary said that the fellow had a country accent yet a townsman’s look to him.’

Hibbert shook his head. ‘I do not recognise him at all.’

‘Think, man,’ urged Firethorn.

‘I know nobody who fits that description.’

‘No creditor, perhaps? No vengeful landlord whom you bilked?’

‘No, Lawrence.’

‘Could he be some irate husband you once cuckolded?’

‘There are one or two of those in my past,’ admitted Hibbert with a smile, ‘but none with courage enough to pursue me. Besides, how would they know where to find me? I’ve kept constantly on the move.’

‘To escape from your enemies?’ said Nicholas.

‘I told you. I have none to speak of.’

‘You’ve just confessed to a couple of them. A man whose wife has been seduced could well hire people to come after you.’

‘Only if they knew where I was.’

‘Perhaps they picked up your trail,’ said Firethorn.

‘I’ve been careful to leave none.’

‘What about your family?’

‘They live in York,’ said Hibbert. ‘I’ve not seen them for years.’

‘Do you not let them know where you are?’

‘No, Lawrence. I’m a rolling stone.’

‘One who gathers no enemies, according to you,’ said Nicholas, tiring of his prevarication. ‘We are being misled, Master Hibbert, and we do not like it. Dick Honeydew may mean nothing to you but we love him dearly. Lawrence has brought the boy up under his own roof.’

‘Dick is like a son to me,’ said Firethorn, sorrowfully. ‘You’ll not find a more likeable lad, nor one with more talent on a stage. Margery and I are shocked that anyone should even consider snatching him away from us. That being so,’ he went on, putting a growl into his voice, ‘we’ll be very upset if anyone hampers our search for Dick, if anyone — like you, for instance — holds back information that could save his life.’

‘So tell us the truth,’ insisted Nicholas, taking a step forward.

Hibbert backed away. ‘That’s what I have done.’

‘You are hiding something from us.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Because your only concern is yourself,’ said Nicholas. ‘It does not matter to you if people are hurt because of your play. All you can think of is the applause it will bring you. We do no trust a word you’ve told us.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘It’s your version of the truth and that’s not quite the same. You are a man who keeps on the move, hides his tracks, ignores his parents and refuses to honour his debts but who nevertheless expects people to respect him.’

‘Every time we perform your play,’ said Firethorn, ‘catastrophe follows. Yet you claim that Saul Hibbert has no enemies.’

‘I swear it!’ attested Hibbert.

‘Then the puzzled is solved,’ said Nicholas, ‘because that may not be your name. Nobody hates Saul Hibbert because he did not exist until you came to London. The name is just another mask for you to wear, is it not?’ He seized him by the doublet. ‘Who exactly are you?’

For the first time, the playwright looked genuinely afraid.

Bernice Opie was bored. Her father was out of the house on business, her mother was visiting a friend and Ursula was so engrossed in her book that she refused to put it aside. Bernice was on her own. Wanting to return to the Queen’s Head that afternoon, she had been balked by the fact that she could not go unaccompanied. She was desperate to see Edmund Hoode once more but was unable to do so. The only way that she might meet him again was at the next music concert to be held at the house but that was weeks away, and, in any case, Bernice could not be certain that he would be there. She missed him badly.

Irked and frustrated, she wandered around the house in search of something to distract her but nothing could hold her attention for more than a few minutes. At length, she went into the hall and stood on the dais, recalling that it was from that particular spot that she had seen Hoode the previous Sunday. Pretending that he was still there, seated at the back of the room, Bernice waved to him then blew him a fond kiss. In her imagination, he returned the kiss. She giggled.

She then noticed something lying on the keyboard of the virginals. Crossing over to the object, she saw that it was a scroll, tied up with pink ribbon. It did not appear to be addressed to anyone. Bernice unrolled it with curiosity and scanned the opening lines with heady excitement.

I spied an opal in the Opie hall,

Hope’s jewel, fit to lie against my heart,

An opiate opal, glittering yet small,

To lull me in love’s sleep with loving art.

She was so profoundly moved that she had to sit down before she could read any more. It was extraordinary. Couched in the sonnet was a clear message to her and she did not have the slightest doubt about the identity of its author. Appended to the poem was the letter ‘E’. It simply had to stand for Edmund Hoode. The clues were too numerous to be ignored. Hoode had visited the hall only days earlier and watched Bernice while she took part in the concert. One of the songs she had sung was called Hope of Heaven. Her father had commissioned it. The song had been written for her by a young composer named Reginald Jewell. The reference to ‘Hope’s jewel’ could not be more explicit.

It never crossed her mind for a second that the sonnet had actually been intended for her sister. Nobody could ever describe Ursula Opie as ‘glittering yet small’. It was Bernice who had glittered in the candlelight and outshone every other woman in the room. And how had Edmund Hoode ever guessed that an opal was her favourite gemstone? It was the decisive piece of evidence and proved that they were true soul mates. His declaration of love filled her with joy. At the very moment when she was on the edge of despair, Edmund Hoode had come to her rescue and changed her whole life with fourteen lines of poetry. It was heaven-sent.

Bernice glowed with delight. His love for her had to be requited.

Saul Hibbert was cornered. Had he been up against the book holder alone, he would have reached for his dagger and struck back, but there was Lawrence Firethorn to contend with as well. Though not as tall and broad-shouldered as Nicholas Bracewell, the actor-manager was the son of a blacksmith with a blacksmith’s solid build. Together, the two men posed a daunting physical threat and they stood between Hibbert and the door. It was time to make a few concessions.

‘My real name is Paul Hatfield,’ he admitted, ‘but I changed it for reasons that are private.’

‘I think that we can guess what they are,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then you would be right. Paul Hatfield did have enemies. There were certain ladies in my life with a grudge against me that made it necessary for Paul Hatfield to disappear.’

‘And where did this change from Paul to Saul occur?’ asked Firethorn, sarcastically. ‘On the road back from Damascus?’

‘It was on the road to Norwich, as it happens.’

‘Where had you been before that?’

‘Oxford.’

And before that?’

‘I’d need to give you a geography of England to tell you that.’

‘You say that certain ladies might bear a grudge,’ observed Nicholas. ‘What about gentlemen?’

‘No,’ said the other, firmly.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I prefer the company of ladies.’

‘Who does not?’ said Firethorn. ‘Yet a man and a woman are in league against you here. Who are they?’

‘I wish I knew, Lawrence.’

‘You must have some notion.’

‘None at all. Nicholas was right about the play,’ he went on. ‘The ladies were real enough. I even kept their names — Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor. That was perhaps unwise.’

‘What about Mistress Malevole?’ asked Nicholas.

‘She, too, was plucked from my memory.’

‘Then she would find your portrait of her offensive.’

‘Only if she saw it and that’s impossible. The lady is two hundred miles away and has never been to a playhouse in her life. Let me be frank,’ said Hibbert. ‘When the first attacks were made, I could not believe they were against me. I thought that Westfield’s Men had upset someone and that you were the target.’

‘We are,’ said Nicholas, ‘but only because of you.’

‘We need to find Dick Honeydew fast,’ said Firethorn. ‘Help us.’

‘I wish that I could,’ replied Hibbert. ‘I can give you the names of Rosamund Fletcher, Chloe Blackstock and Eleanor Dyce, but what use would they be to you? None of them would do this to me. When I knew them, they were dear, sweet, kind young ladies.’

‘So you repay them with cruel satires,’ said Nicholas.

‘They’ll not be hurt by something they’ll never see.’

‘Someone has seen the play and raised the strongest objection.’

‘I’m as anxious as you to find out who it is.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Someone in your past is prepared to kill to get their revenge. What terrible thing did you do to provoke such anger? What crime did you commit against someone?’

‘No crime at all.’

‘Running away,’ said Nicholas. ‘Changing your name. Hiding in the capital city. That’s not the action of an honest man.’

‘I’ll confess to the crime of dishonesty but no more.’

‘Your dishonesty is obvious enough,’ said Firethorn. ‘It’s brought fearsome retribution down upon us. If it was an assault on your person, I could understand it but it’s The Malevolent Comedy that’s under attack and we pay a heavy toll as a result.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘Because of your play, Hal Bridger is already dead and buried. And now, Dick Honeydew has been kidnapped. Be warned of this,’ he went on, fire pulsing in his veins, ‘if anything happens to Dick, I’ll come looking for you with a sword.’

Richard Honeydew was terrified. Bound and gagged, he was locked in a disused stable, lying on the vestigial remains of straw and watching a rat emerge inquisitively from a drain. The place was dank and fetid. Fingers of light poked in through the holes in the timber. Cobwebs abounded. The irony was that he was so close to a main thoroughfare. He could hear many people nearby and pick out the sound of passing horses and the occasional cart. Yet it was impossible for him to cry for help. When he had been attacked in the churchyard, he had been taken completely by surprise. All that he could do was to wriggle and protest. Honeydew’s resistance had been short-lived. The man carrying him had let the boy feel the point of his dagger, threatening to stab him if he struggled or shouted any more. Honeydew had obeyed so his kidnap aroused no suspicion in the street. It looked as if the man were carrying a bundle of clothing over his shoulder.

They had not gone far so were still within the city walls. But their location was a mystery because Honeydew had no idea in which direction he had been taken. Covered by the cloak, he had seen nothing and heard very little. All that he knew for certain was the beautiful young lady with the warm smile had deceived him, and that his kidnapper was strong and determined. He also suspected that he was the man responsible for Hal Bridger’s death during the play. That added an extra dimension of horror to his predicament.

He schooled himself to stay calm so that he could think clearly. The disappearance of the rat was a relief. Unable to defend himself, the boy had been in fear of an attack but the animal had merely sniffed at his feet before scurrying off. Westfield’s Men would look for him. He knew that. As soon as they became aware of his absence, Nicholas Bracewell would organise a thorough search but Honeydew did not have much hope of being found. His kidnappers had chosen his prison with care. He could be kept there indefinitely.

Honeydew began to tremble all over. Fear for his own safety was uppermost in his mind but he was also worried about the company. He was letting them down. Without him, The Malevolent Comedy could not possibly be performed at the Queen’s Head and he felt sure that that was why he had been seized. It meant that they intended to hold him there all night and all of the following day. Why release him then, if they wanted to keep the play off the stage? Honeydew could be there all week.

There was one way to ensure that Saul Hibbert’s play was never again presented, and that was to kill the boy apprentice who played the part of Mistress Malevole. A replacement could be found but Firethorn would not even consider it. The taint of a second murder would be too much for him and the superstitious actors. The play would vanish from the stage. Honeydew wondered if his kidnappers realised that. He trembled more violently. The rat poked its head out of the drain again. The boy closed his eyes in prayer.

Every available man was involved in the search. Nicholas Bracewell took control and sent them off in small groups. The first quartet was dispatched to the churchyard itself and told to stop passers-by, asking them if they had seen someone being carried away earlier on. Others combed all the side streets in the vicinity of the church, looking for clues, questioning anybody they met. George Dart was sent off to fetch Edmund Hoode, who would be deeply upset if he was excluded from the hunt. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Francis Quilter all had horses so they could conduct their search from the saddle.

At his own insistence, Leonard was also involved, risking the landlord’s wrath to help in tracking down the missing boy. Nicholas went with him because Leonard was the only person who had met the man and woman presumed to have been the kidnappers. He could identify them. Owen Elias made up the trio, wearing his sword and yearning for a chance to use it against the kidnappers.

‘Saul Hibbert should be here as well,’ said Elias.

‘Hatfield,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘His name is Paul Hatfield.’

‘I don’t care if his name is Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon. He should be here to help.’

‘He’d be more of a hindrance, Owen.’

‘Do you think he told you the truth?’

‘Part of it.’

‘What did he leave out?’

‘Far too much.’

‘He has sworn enemies, after all,’ said the Welshman, ‘that’s clear. What puzzles me is why they attack his play and not him. If they’ll go to the lengths of poisoning someone, why not pour it down his throat?’

‘Because that would let him escape too easily.’

‘Easily? I’d hardly call Hal’s death throes easy.’

‘They want to keep him alive to suffer,’ said Nicholas. ‘We know how much this play means to its author. He’s pinned everything on its success. Somebody is set on taking that success away from him.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know and I’m not sure that he knows.’

‘In his position, I’d know at once who the culprits were.’

‘That’s because you have many friends and few enemies, Owen. It’s the other way round with Master Hibbert, or Hatfield, or whatever his real name is. Few friends and so many enemies to choose from that it’s impossible to know where to start.’

‘I’d start with Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor.’

‘He swears it must be someone else.’

‘A woman scorned can become a wild virago,’ said Elias, soulfully. ‘I can tell you that. Even the softest of them can turn termagant in a second. Last year, one such meek and mild lady tried to deprive me of something I hold most dear and send my singing voice much higher.’

‘Lead a more wholesome life.’

‘And lose all the excitement? That I’ll never do, Nick.’

They walked on up Gracechurch Street until they saw Edmund Hoode, running towards them with George Dart beside him. The two newcomers were panting for breath.

‘Have you found him yet?’ asked Hoode.

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s no sign.’

‘This play will be the death of us.’

‘As long as it’s not the death of Dick Honeydew.’

‘I think we should burn the prompt book,’ Elias put in. ‘The sooner The Malevolent Comedy goes up in smoke, the better.’

‘I’d rather put the torch to its author,’ said Hoode. ‘I hate to say it of a fellow playwright but he must go. He’s like the seven plagues of Egypt all in one.’

‘Forget him for the time being,’ urged Nicholas. ‘The only person we need to think about now is Dick Honeydew. He’s the youngest of us and the one least able to look after himself.’

Elias nodded. ‘We’ve been hit at our weakest point,’ he said. Putting back his head, he roared his question to the bustling street. ‘Where are you, Dick?’

Richard Honeydew did not hear him. There were so many competing noises filling his ears and he was, in any case, too far away from Owen Elias to catch the slightest sound of his question. The gag around his mouth prevented him from giving an answer to anyone and the ropes were starting to dig into his wrists, arms and legs. Honeydew was in great discomfort. Propped up against a wall, he was aching in every limb. When he heard footsteps approaching, he tensed himself, afraid that his kidnapper was returning to kill him.

A rusty bolt was drawn back on the top half of the door and it was opened a few inches. Someone looked in to check that he was still there. Minutes seemed to pass before the lower half of the stable door was unbolted. Honeydew swallowed hard and tried not to show the dread that was gnawing away at his stomach. The door opened and the young woman he had met in the churchyard stepped inside with a cup of water. She looked sternly down at him.

‘If I give you this to drink,’ she cautioned, ‘you must promise not to cry out. Do you understand?’ He nodded obediently. ‘Nobody would hear you but we’d have to punish you hard. Do you want to be punished?’ He shook his head. ‘Sit still while I undo this.’

Putting the cup down, she used both hands to untie the gag and remove it. Honeydew gave a gasp of relief and coughed. She held the cup to his mouth. The water was cold and refreshing. He sipped it greedily. When he had drunk it all, she used the gag to wipe away the moisture around his mouth. It was a gesture of almost maternal kindness. Yet the woman seemed far from kind. He could not believe that someone so beautiful could also look so hard-faced and forbidding.

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘Where your friends cannot find you.’

‘How long will you keep me here?’

‘We shall see.’

‘Who are you?’

‘The important thing is who you are,’ she said, coldly. ‘Mistress Malevole. You do not look so cruel and cunning now, do you?’

‘Why do you hate me so?’

‘I only hate what you represent, Richard.’

He was surprised. ‘You know my name?’

‘Your name and your significance to Westfield’s Men.’

‘They’ll come after you for this,’ he said, bravely. ‘Let me go or Nick Bracewell and the others will follow you to the ends of the earth until they catch you.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of this book holder of yours.’

‘He’ll find you somehow.’

‘He will not get the chance.’

‘Will you hurt me?’

‘Not if you do as we tell you.’

‘Must I stay here all night?’ he bleated.

‘You’ll do what we decide.’

‘Who was that man in the churchyard?’

‘You ask too many questions, Richard Honeydew.’

‘Why did he say that he’d kill me?’

She gave no reply. Instead, she tied the gag back in position and picked up the cup. After glancing round, she went out again and bolted both halves of the door after her. Honeydew was alone again. He was to be imprisoned all night, far away from the house he knew and the friends he loved. It was getting colder. He fought back tears.

Bernice Opie was unable to keep the news to herself. After reading the sonnet dozens of times, she felt such an upsurge of love inside her that it could not be contained. Her joy had to be shared. She found her sister in the parlour, still reading a book and lost in a world of contemplation. Bernice came up behind her and snatched the book from her hands. Ursula was outraged. She jumped up from her chair.

‘Give that back to me, Bernice,’ she demanded.

‘Not until you hear what I’ve been reading.’

‘That book is mine.’

‘You shall have it in a moment,’ said Bernice. ‘First, listen to my tidings. I’ve received a declaration of love, Ursula.’

‘What?’

‘A poem was delivered to the house earlier. It’s a sonnet in praise of me and it has made my head spin.’

‘I can see that,’ said Ursula. ‘Who wrote this poem?’

‘Master Hoode. There’s no name given but it has to be him.’

‘Are you sure of this, Bernice?’

‘Who else could it be?’ She handed the scroll to her sister. ‘Read it for yourself. He calls me his opal and plays upon my name.’

Frowning with concentration, Ursula read the sonnet, taking more notice of its artful construction than of anything else. There were clear hints that it was, in fact, addressed to her but she discerned none of them, thinking it inconceivable that any man would dedicate such a poem to her. The depth of feeling that was revealed brought a tinge of colour to her cheeks. She gave the scroll back to her sister.

‘Is it not the most wonderful thing you ever read?’ asked Bernice.

‘I do not care for some of the rhymes.’

‘Ursula!’

‘And the final couplet is a trifle clumsy.’

‘I’ll not have a word said against it.’ She handed back the book. ‘Be happy for me. Your sister is loved and loves the man in return. Does that not please you?’

‘It might if I could be sure that Master Hoode was the poet.’

‘Look to “Hope’s jewel” and you’ll see it must be him.’

‘It could equally well be Master Jewell,’ warned Ursula. ‘You saw from his song that he has a gift for language.’

‘Master Jewell is far too religious,’ said Bernice with mild disgust. ‘His breast could never harbour such love and devotion. Besides, I gave him no encouragement. “E” must stand for Edmund.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘I’ve written a letter to him.’

‘Is that wise, Bernice?’

‘It’s only polite.’

‘You must not be too impulsive. That’s ever your failing.’

‘What would you do, then, in my position?’

‘Nothing at all. I’d simply wait and watch.’

‘Edmund has declared himself. He deserves an answer.’

‘You must at all costs preserve your dignity,’ said Ursula. ‘Our parents brought us up to be honest and open in all our dealings. You should not have a secret correspondence with a man.’

‘Why not? It makes my blood race.’

‘Bernice!’

‘I could never show this poem to Mother or Father. They would both disapprove strongly. I’d not be allowed to see Edmund again.’

‘That would only be for your own good.’

‘How can you say that?’ protested Bernice. ‘I love him.’

‘You hardly know the man.’

‘I know enough to realise that I adore him. When he wrote this,’ she said, holding up the poem, ‘he was reaching out to me. I felt that I had to respond.’

‘No,’ said Ursula. ‘You are too hasty and unguarded. I can see how much this has affected you, but you must restrain yourself. Whatever happens, Bernice, do not send that letter.’

‘That advice comes too late.’

‘Why?’

Her sister smiled dreamily. ‘It’s already on its way.’

The search for the missing apprentice went on for hours but to no avail. Nicholas Bracewell adjourned to the Queen’s Head with Edmund Hoode and Owen Elias so that they could review the situation. They sat around a table in the taproom with a jug of ale to help their deliberations. Their concern for Richard Honeydew was growing.

‘I pray that Dick is still alive,’ sighed Hoode.

‘I feel sure that he is,’ said Nicholas.

‘They did not stop short of murder before, Nick.’

‘No,’ said Elias, anxiously. ‘Look what happened to Hal Bridger. If the same people kidnapped Dick, then he’s in mortal danger.’

‘I prefer to think not, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Had they meant to kill him, they could have done so in the churchyard. The young woman must have won his confidence so that he could be seized unawares by her accomplice. Mrs Bridger saw it happen. Why carry the boy off like that if murder was their intention?’

‘They’d not have struck him there on consecrated ground.’

‘Then we’d have found the body in some alley by now.’

‘How did they know he would visit Hal’s grave?’

‘I think he was followed from here, Owen. The street was far too crowded for them to pounce on him there. They bided their time until he turned into the graveyard.’

‘Villains!’ cried Hoode. ‘And one of them, a young lady.’

‘The two of them deserve hanging.’

‘The three of them,’ said Elias, sourly. ‘Add the name of our new playwright to the list. But for him, none of this would have happened.’

‘They’ve finally found a way to keep his play off the stage,’ said Nicholas. ‘My fear is that they’ll try to take Dick far away from London to make sure that The Malevolent Comedy is truly finished. That’s why I’ve posted someone at every gate out of the city. If we keep them there, we’ve a chance of finding the boy.’

‘We’ve not had much luck so far, Nick.’

‘No, but we’ve only searched the streets. Now we turn to the inns.’

‘Why?’ asked Hoode.

‘Because that’s where they might be, Edmund. These are strangers to London, remember. Leonard spoke to them both and each had a voice that came a long way from the city. That means they would have found somewhere to stay.’

‘Then it’s probably somewhere close enough to the Queen’s Head to keep an eye on us. ‘

‘Yet no common tavern,’ decided Nicholas. ‘They were well dressed and educated. I fancy that they’ll be used to comfort. They’ll have chosen their accommodation with care.’

‘Then let’s visit every inn that might attract them.’

‘You go with Owen. I’ll partner Leonard. He, at least, has seen the pair. If we divide our strength, we can cover more establishments. Drink up,’ he said. ‘It will grow dark soon.’

‘Teach us the way to go, Nick.’

‘We’ll search all night, if need be,’ vowed Elias.

‘So will I,’ said Nicholas.

‘When Anne is waiting for you in a warm bed?’

‘I’ve sent George Dart to tell her I’ll not be home tonight, and to explain why. Dick Honeydew’s safety obliterates all else.’

‘Then let’s get out there,’ said Elias, rising to his feet.

‘Yes,’ said Hoode, getting up and stroking the hilt of his sword. ‘I’m armed and ready for action. We’ve many crimes to avenge.’

‘We have to find the malefactors first,’ Nicholas told them, ‘and I’ll not rest until that’s done. Dick is here in London somewhere — I feel it. And he’s relying on us to rescue him.’

He got up and glanced across the taproom. Leonard was talking by the counter to one of the servingmen, who handed him a letter. Leonard brought it across to them.

‘It’s for you, Master Hoode,’ he said.

‘Me?’ asked Hoode, taking the letter.

‘It has the sweetest smell. I think it’s from a lady.’

‘An answer already?’

Nicholas was crisp. ‘Read it later, Edmund, whoever she may be. This is no time for letters,’ he said, leading them out into the street. ‘We have something far more important to do. Dick Honeydew needs us.’

He had never watched the evening shadows fall with such attention before. Still locked in the stable, Richard Honeydew saw the fingers of light grow paler and paler until they vanished altogether. In their place came a darkness that crept slowly under the door before searching out every corner of the stable. He was at length enveloped in a blackness that was deep and impenetrable. Honeydew could still hear voices in the street but they were far fewer in number. The crowds had gone. Horses passed with less frequency. The breeze had stiffened, making him shiver and blowing wisps of straw across the floor. Though he could no longer see the rat, he could still hear him, scampering to and fro.

Fear kept him awake but fatigue nibbled steadily away at him. Sleep eventually came as a blessed release. He slumped to the floor. No sooner had he dozed off, however, than he was awakened again. The sound of the bolts and the creaking of the doors brought him out of his slumber. A candle glowed in the dark. It was set down beside Honeydew then blown out. Firm hands grabbed the boy.

‘Hold still,’ ordered a man, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’

Richard Honeydew had heard the voice before in the churchyard. For the second time that day, he was lifted up and thrown uncaringly over the man’s shoulder.

London was full of inns but some were so ramshackle, or catered for such low company, that they could be discounted at once. Nicholas Bracewell was looking for a place where a lady and gentleman might stay in some degree of comfort. Accompanied by Leonard, he was searching the area to the south of the Queen’s Head while Hoode and Elias went off in the opposite direction. It was painstaking work. Some landlords were helpful, others loath to give away any information about their guests. They encountered several people who were visiting London from the country but none that looked remotely like those they sought. Leonard began to lose heart. Pessimism set in.

‘They are not here, Nick,’ he said.

‘They must be.’

‘Then perhaps they went over the bridge to Bankside.’

‘They’d be less likely to find a good lodging there,’ said Nicholas, ‘and they would not have carried Dick Honeydew all that way.’

‘What if they had a coach?’

‘They followed the boy on foot. That much we can guess.’

‘Then where did they take him?’

‘Where would you take him?’

‘Down to the river,’ said Leonard after a moment’s thought. ‘Put him in a boat moored away from the bank and we’d never find him.’

‘These people are newcomers. They do not know the city.’

‘Then they’d find a room at a respectable inn.’

‘That’s where we have to run them to earth.’

They went into more inns and talked to more landlords. Another hour slipped past but it yielded no result. As they came out of yet another tavern, Leonard’s hopes had virtually disappeared.

‘This will take an age, Nicholas. What can two of us do?’

‘Edmund and Owen take part in the search as well.’

‘It needs a small army,’ said Leonard. ‘One of them should be Master Hibbert. It’s his bounden duty to be of help.’

‘He’s not inclined to discharge such a duty,’ said Nicholas.

‘He should be. Dick was only kidnapped because of his play.’

‘Our author had somewhere else to go.’

Leonard was worried. ‘You do not think he has fled, do you?’ he asked. ‘That’s what the landlord fears. He thinks that Master Hibbert will run up huge bills then steal away without paying them.’

‘He’ll not leave,’ said Nicholas, confidently. ‘He came to London to make his name and will not quit so easily. In any case, Leonard, I’ve made sure that he stays.’

‘How?’

‘By bringing this.’ He tapped his satchel. ‘I have the only copy of The Malevolent Comedy here with me. He’d never leave without that. It’s worth its weight in gold to him because it proves his worth as an author. As long as I have it, our spendthrift playwright is bound to us.’

They were in Tower Street and the night was dark. Though their eyes were used to the gloom, they could not see far ahead of them. Leonard had drunk his share of ale earlier in the evening and needed to relieve himself. When they came to an alleyway, he stepped into it.

‘Go on ahead, Nicholas. I’ll catch you up.’

‘Meet me in the White Hart.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘On the left, no more than a minute away.’

‘I’ll see you there,’ said Leonard, vanishing into the dark.

Nicholas walked on alone, glad of his friend’s company but pleased to be alone, if only briefly, so that he could reflect on what had happened. He felt partly to blame for Honeydew’s disappearance, recalling that it was he who told the boy where Hal Bridger was buried. If he had made no mention of the fact, the apprentice might not have left the Queen’s Head. Another worry lay at the back of his mind. Honeydew’s performance that afternoon had been remarkable for its bite and savagery. It did not sound like Dick Honeydew at all. It was almost as if the boy had been in someone’s grip, forced to take on a personality that was so at odds with his natural tenderness. Honeydew could be regal and even peremptory onstage, but, in Mistress Malevole, he had revealed a spitting hatred and rancour that had always been beyond him before. It was yet another charge to bring against the author. His play was having a corrupting effect on its leading lady.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted. Nicholas had gone no more than twenty or thirty yards when he heard quick footsteps behind him. Before he could even turn round, he received a sharp blow on the back of the head from a cudgel. It sent him pitching forward onto the ground.