The Nine Giants

Chapter Three

Abel Strudwick passed a troubled night in restless contemplation of the incident. Not even the sonorous snoring of the wife who lay beside him could lull him into slumber and this was unusual. As a rule, the waterman enjoyed his sleep to the full, wearied by the physical strains of his working day and by the consumption of ample quantities of bottle ale. He would be dead to the world within minutes and spend a restorative night in dreams of being plucked from the toil of his occupation to become a revered poet. A corpse in the Thames had changed all that. Strudwick had hauled bodies out of the water before now but none had been so gruesome as this one and even his strong stomach had rebelled. Memory turned night into one long, lacerating ordeal.

The next day found him tired and fractious, more ready than ever to burn the ears off his customers with a positive inferno of vituperation. Unlike most watermen, Strudwick plied his trade on his own. The bulk of his fellows took their passengers across the river in six-or eight-oared wherries that enabled them to cope with large parties. Strudwick had only a small rowing boat. He and his son had operated very successfully in it until the latter was press-ganged during the panic that preceded the news of the approach of the Spanish Armada. The loss of their apprentices to the navy was a source of great pain in the watermen’s community but their protests went unheard and unregarded. It was not surprising that they therefore resorted to all kinds of stratagems to protect their young men from such a dire fate.

Strudwick paid a young lad to help him from time to time and to sleep in the boat at night to prevent it from being stolen, but the aspiring poet mostly worked alone. The others mocked him cruelly for his ambitions but none dared do so to his face. In contests of verbal abuse and in wharfside brawls, he was a fearsome opponent who could see off the best. Abel Strudwick’s black tongue and bulging biceps created the space in which his verse could thrive unhampered. Drink lubricated his creative powers and it was in a tavern that most of his inspiration came.

So it was that afternoon as he sat in the corner of the taproom at the Jolly Sailor and gave his fertile mind free rein. The verse came haltingly at first, then more fluently and, finally, in a torrent that had him leaping up from his stool. Keen to oblige a regular customer, the landlord had pen and ink at the ready for the waterman and Strudwick pulled out the scrap of parchment that he always carried with him for such precious moments. He scratched away happily for half an hour before he felt it was time to return to work. The Bankside theatres would be emptying soon and there would be passengers for every boatman who was moored on the Surrey side of the river.

As Abel Strudwick came tumbling out of the inn, it was another playhouse that caught his attention. Stuck to a post nearby was something which he felt had been put there by the hand of God. It was a playbill advertising the performance of Double Deceit by Westfield’s Men on the following day and it crystallised a plan which had been forming in his mind for several months. His days as a fumbling amateur in the world of words were numbered. He wanted to see and hear how a professional pen could write verse in a dramatic vein and get the encouragement to fulfil his vaulting ambition. Nicholas Bracewell was a good friend who had never let him down in the past.

It was time to put that friendship to the test.

Margery Firethorn was kept as busy as ever. In addition to her normal household complement of souls, she had to cater for the three actors who were staying with them in Shoreditch and whom she had packed into the attic room to keep them out of the way of the other inhabitants. She ran a tight ship and nobody was allowed to flout her captaincy. When one of the actors dared to ogle a servant girl, Margery gave him a fierce sermon on self-restraint and warned him that his voice would rise by two octaves if ever she caught him fraternising again. Since she was carrying the kitchen knife at the time, he understood her meaning all too well and withdrew hastily to the attic to acquaint his fellows with what had passed. All females in the house were treated with excessive respect from that time on and even the she-cats earned more consideration.

Caught up as she was in feeding and caring for her extended family, Margery yet found time to keep an alert eye on her husband. Lawrence Firethorn had swept her off her feet with one of the most sublime performances of his career then borne her off down the aisle before she could even begin to resist. It had been a magical experience that could still flicker in the memory on rare occasions but it was dulled beneath the accumulated debris that a marriage inevitably builds up. One thing she had learnt at an early stage: her husband had the defects of his virtues. His overwhelming talent as an actor had indeed seduced her but she was realistic enough to see that it had a powerful effect on other women as well. Temptation was ever-present and Firethorn was not always able to resist it. Without her vigilance, he would be led astray by every red lip and arched eyebrow. She sensed that he was beginning to look elsewhere and decided to fire a warning shot across his bows.

‘Good morning to you, sir!’

‘Good morning, my dove,’ he said expansively. ‘The sun is streaming down from the heavens to gild the marital couch.’

‘You may well say that from where you lie,’ she observed tartly, ‘but I have been up these two hours to make all ready downstairs. Besides,’ she added, ‘if our marital couch is so special to you, why did you return to it so late last night?’

‘Work and worry kept me away.’

‘Does she have a name?’

‘Margery! How can you even suggest such a thing?’

He sat up in the four-poster with rumpled dignity and scratched at his beard. His wife stood over him with folded arms and snarled her next question.

‘Do you love me, sir?’

‘I dote on you, my treasure.’

‘But do you dote on me enough?’

‘My devotion is without human limit.’

‘That is my complaint, Lawrence,’ she said. ‘I would that your devotion was limited to me but it flies away like a bird on the wing.’

‘Only to return with joy. I am your homing pigeon.’

‘You are an eagle, sir, who searches out new prey.’

‘These suspicions are unfair and unfounded.’

‘Prove it!’

He struck a pose. ‘My conscience is clear.’

‘You do not possess such a thing.’

‘Sweetness,’ he said. ‘What means this discord so early in the day? What crime have I committed?’

‘It still lies festering in your brain.’

‘That brain is occupied with fond thoughts of you.’

‘Only when I stand before you.’

‘And lie beneath me, my little pomegranate.’

He spoke with such tender lechery that even her resolve weakened. A big, buxom, bustling woman in a simple working dress, she let herself be flattered by his words and by the admiring glances he now directed at her. With all its faults, the marriage had never lacked excitement or pleasure. Another episode now beckoned.

‘You left my side too soon,’ he cooed.

‘There was much to be done below.’

‘Come back to me for a moment of wild madness.’

‘It would be madness indeed at this hour.’

‘Let me show you how much I love you, Margery.’

Her doubts were temporarily wiped away and she moved in close to be gathered into whirling embrace. She was lifted bodily into the bed and let out a girlish laugh as he rolled on top of her but their joy was short-lived. Before he could plant the first whiskery kiss on her eager lips, pandemonium broke out. A pan boiled over in the kitchen and set off an argument between the two servant girls. The children began a noisy fight and the four apprentices went thundering down the stairs for their breakfast. Worst of all, there was a loud knock on the door of the bedchamber and one of the actors put a decisive end to the snatched happiness.

‘I must speak with you at once, sir,’ he said.

Firethorn’s howl of rage deafened all of Shoreditch.

The Theatre was the first purpose-built public playhouse in London. Situated just north of Holywell Lane, at the angle of Curtain Road and New Inn Yard, it was outside the city boundaries and thus free of its niggling regulations yet close enough to attract the large audiences that came streaming out through Bishopsgate to enjoy its facilities and view its productions. It had been constructed in 1576 under the supervision of James Burbage, a determined man who had begun life as a joiner only to renounce his trade in favour of the theatre. Talent and application helped him to become the leading actor with Leicester’s Men but he had a fondness for security and a flair for management that led him to erect The Theatre at an estimated cost of some £666. Even though he bickered thereafter with his partner, John Brayne, a litigious grocer who also happened to be his brother-in-law, the importance of his pioneering work could not be denied. The first permanent home for actors gave their art a new lustre and status. They were at last taken seriously.

Animals influenced humans. For it was the bear-and bull-baiting arenas of Bankside which provided the basic principles of construction. The Theatre was a polygonal building made of stout timber and a modicum of ironwork. Where it differed from the animal-baiting houses was in its imaginative detail. The ring itself was covered with brick and stone, thus turning it into a paved yard with efficient drainage. A stage thrust out boldly into the yard, supported by solid posts rather than by the trestles and barrels used at places like the Queen’s Head. At the rear of the stage was a tiring-house which gave the company easy access to the playing area. Above the back section of this area was a cover known as the heavens. Held aloft by tall pillars, it was in turn surmounted by a small hut that could be used to house any suspension gear that was needed for a particular play or, indeed, as a tiny acting area in itself.

The last major difference that separated The Theatre from the standard arena was its use of a third gallery. The Bankside baiting houses were all two-storey buildings that were roughly similar in design. James Burbage did not make his playhouse tower above Shoreditch simply in order to attest its presence. An extra gallery meant an increase in the number of patrons and a corresponding rise in the income that any company could expect. And though the place was an outdoor venue, its cylindrical shape was a form of umbrella against inclement weather and the thatched roofs above the galleries added a great measure of comfort and protection. Much care and thought had gone into the whole venture. It was the brainchild of a true man of the theatre.

Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive. His visit to the Queen’s Head had only served to deepen his fears that their days at the inn were numbered. With all his appalling faults, Alexander Marwood did actually allow the company to flourish on his premises and the makeshift stage had witnessed some of their finest achievements. If Rowland Ashway acquired the property, he would have no qualms in turning Westfield’s Men out into the street. Fresh anxieties surfaced about the likely fate of his fellows. A huge black cloud hung over the future of the company and Nicholas was the only person who knew about it. How long he could keep the fact to himself remained to be seen but it was already causing him profound disquiet.

Thomas Skillen was the next to turn up at The Theatre. The venerable stagekeeper had been with Westfield’s Men since their formation but his roots in the drama went much deeper than that. For over forty years now, he had survived in a ruinous profession that had hurled so many people into oblivion, and he had done so by virtue of his quick wits and total reliability. What hope would there be for him if he was driven out of his job now? Advancing age and creaking joints had slowed him down but he could still assert his authority. George Dart found this out when he came running out onto the stage to be given a clip across the ear by the senior man.

‘You struck me, Thomas!’ he said in alarm.

‘Aye, sirrah, I did.’

‘For what reason?’

‘For none at all, George. The blow was on account.’

‘But I have done nothing amiss.’

‘You will, sirrah. You will.’

Nicholas stepped in to rescue the injured party and to assign jobs to both men. Double Deceit was a highly complicated play which made heavy demands on those behind the scenes. It was an amiable comedy about two pairs of identical twins who get caught up in an escalating series of mistakes and misapprehensions. Inspired by one of the plays of Plautus, it was a glorious romp that never failed to delight its audiences but it called for several scene changes and required an interminable list of properties.

By the time that others began to appear, Thomas Skillen and George Dart had set the stage so that the rehearsal could begin and were attending to a myriad other duties.

Lawrence Firethorn waited until the full company was assembled before he strode out onto the stage with his characteristic swagger. A raised hand compelled silence.

‘Gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘Let me rid your minds of one abiding error. This is not a rehearsal of an old and ailing text whose sparkle has been dimmed by the passage of time. Double Deceit is no plodding nag who asks no more of us than to sit back lazily in the saddle and guide her in the right direction. She is a mettlesome filly whom we take out on her first full gallop today. Wear your spurs, my friends, and do not be shy of using them. We must ride hell for leather into glory!’

Younger members of the cast were stirred by his speech but older hands were more cynical. Barnaby Gill leant over to whisper to Edmund Hoode.

‘As I foretold, she is coming to the performance.’

‘Who?’

‘The latest sacrificial victim for his bed,’ said Gill sardonically. ‘That is why we would put some ginger into Double Deceit. He wants to warm the lady up so that she is glowing strongly when he boards her. Westfield’s Men are being used as his pimps.’

‘Lawrence does not always meet with success.’

‘Nor shall he this time, Edmund. This ignoble plot shall be nipped in the bud. I’ll act him off the stage and end the matter there.’

The boast was stillborn. It was easier to perform triple somersaults through the eye of a needle than to out-act Lawrence Firethorn when he turned on his full power. For that is what he did at the rehearsal. There was no holding back, no harbouring of his resources for the afternoon. In the twin roles of Argos of Rome and Argos of Florence, he was a soaring comet who dazzled all around him. Barnaby Gill doubled manfully in the parallel roles of the comic servants, Silvio of Rome and Silvio of Florence, but it took all his energy to keep pace with his two masters, let alone try to overtake either.

It was a bold decision to tackle two roles each and it necessitated great concentration and perfect timing to maintain the illusion for the audience. Argos of Rome and his much-maligned companion, Silvio, were a jaded pair who dressed in mean apparel. Argos of Florence, however, and his chirpy servant, Silvio, were bubbling extroverts with vivid attire. As one pair left the stage, the other would step out onto it almost immediately. Lightning changes of cloak, hat and manner worked wonders.

Firethorn’s urgency dragged the rest of the cast along behind it. The major technical problem came in Act Five when the two pairs of twins, separated since birth and totally unaware of each other’s existence, finally learn the truth and unite in love and laughter. To effect this climactic moment when all four meet together, two other actors had to stand in as one of the duos. The fleeting appearance as Argos of Rome was made by Owen Elias, a sturdy Welshman whose height and build matched those of Firethorn himself. Dressed in the costume of Silvio of Rome, padded out to give him more substance, was none other than George Dart. The substitute twins were a complete contrast. While the Welshman took the stage with overweening confidence, the assistant stagekeeper crept onto it with all the enthusiasm of a snail crawling into a fiery furnace. The latter was mortified when he knocked over a chair in his nervousness and then accidentally pulled the cloak off Silvio of Florence during an embrace with his putative twin. As the play came to an end, Dart waited in trepidation for the acid comments of Firethorn.

But none came. Delighted with his own account of the two roles, and certain that his company would rise to the occasion in front of a large audience, the actor-manager dismissed them all with a few kind words then swept off into the tiring-house. Nicholas Bracewell was not so uncritical of what he had seen and he had many notes to give to erring performers before they slipped away. He had just administered a gentle reprimand to George Dart when Edmund Hoode sidled up to him.

‘Tell me her name, Nick.’

‘Who?’

‘This enchantress who has bewitched Lawrence.’

‘That is his business alone.’

‘It is ours as well if it affects his conduct here among his fellows. Why, man, he was grinning at us like some lovesick youth just now. If this lady’s magic is so potent, we must lure her into the company and pay her to keep the old bear sweet. It would be money well spent.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘We all would benefit.’

‘So who is this paragon?’

‘I may not say, Edmund.’

‘But it was you who tracked her down.’

‘Master Firethorn has sworn me to secrecy.’

‘Can you not divulge the name to me?’

‘Neither to you nor to any living soul.’

‘But I am your friend, Nick.’

‘It is my friendship that holds me back,’ said the other seriously. ‘You would not thank me for breaking my oath. Better it is that you do not know who the lady is.’

Hoode’s eyes widened. ‘Do I spy danger here?’

‘Acute danger.’

‘For Lawrence?’

‘For all of us.’

Sir Lucas Pugsley, fishmonger, philanthropist and incumbent Lord Mayor of London, finished another gargantuan meal and washed it down with a glass of French brandy. His guest was still guzzling away at his lunch and taking frequent swigs of beer from the two-pint tankard that stood before him. The Mayor was dining in private for once and sharing confidences with an old friend. Pugsley was as thin as a rake and as pale as a spectre. No matter how much food he ate — and his appetite was gross — he never seemed to put on any weight. The narrow face with its tight lips, its high cheekbones and its tiny black eyes resembled nothing so much as the head of a conger eel. Even in his full regalia, he looked as if he were lying on a slab.

Rowland Ashway was a completely different man. His gormandising had left its mark all too flagrantly upon him. The wealthy brewer had been turned into a human barrel to advertise his way of life. Regular consumption of his own best beer had given the puffed cheeks and the blob of nose such a florid hue that he appeared to be cultivating tomatoes. The two men had a political as well as a personal connection. As Alderman for Bridge Ward Within, the wily Ashway had promoted Pugsley’s candidacy for the ultimate civic honour. The fishmonger did not forget such loyalty and it had been rewarded by more than the occasional free meal. Ashway pushed the last mouthful down his throat then emptied his tankard after it. He gave a monstrous belch, laughed merrily and broke wind. It was time for them to sit back in their carved chairs and preen themselves at will.

‘My mayoralty has been a triumph,’ said Pugsley with easy pomposity. ‘I have grown into the role.’

‘It fits you like a glove.’

‘This city has cause to be grateful to me.’

‘Your bounty is in evidence on all sides,’ noted the other. ‘You have founded schools, built almshouses and donated generously to the Church.’

‘Nor have I been slack in my love of country,’ said the fishmonger piously. ‘Queen Elizabeth herself — God bless her — has been ready to borrow Pugsley money for the defence of the realm. English soldiers are the salt of the earth. I feel honoured that I was able to put uniforms onto their backs and weapons into their hands.’

‘A knighthood was a fitting reward, Luke.’

‘Sir Lucas, if you please.’

‘Sir Lucas.’ Ashway fawned obligingly. ‘The pity of it is that you cannot remain in place as Lord Mayor.’

‘Nothing would please me more, Rowland.’

‘We have all been beneficiaries of your term of office and are like to remember it well.’

‘There is more still to come. I value friendship above all else and set a true value on it. Aubrey and I were discussing the matter only this morning.’

‘Aubrey Kenyon is an upright man,’ said the brewer. ‘His opinions are to be taken seriously.’

‘That is why I always seek them out. My Chamberlain is always the first person I consult on any subject. He is a complete master of the intricacies of municipal affairs and I could not survive for a second without him.’

‘You are in safe hands, Sir Lucas.’

‘None safer than those of Aubrey Kenyon.’

‘Indeed not.’ Ashway did some fishing of his own. ‘And you say there is something in the wind for me?’

‘A small reward for your unfailing loyalty.’

‘You are too kind.’

‘A trifling matter to a man of your wealth but it may bring some pleasure. You will acquire the control and rent of certain properties in your ward. My Chamberlain advised me on the form of it and he is drawing up the necessary documents.’

‘I must thank Master Aubrey Kenyon once again.’

‘Where I command, he takes action.’

‘Your Chamberlain is truly a paragon.’

‘I would trust him like my own brother.’ Pugsley took another sip of brandy then appraised his companion. ‘Does your business still thrive, Rowland?’

‘Assuredly. We go from strength to strength.’

‘Feeding off the drunkenness of London!’

‘Stout men need strong ale. I simply answer their demand.’

They shared a chuckle then Pugsley fingered his chain with offhand affection. ‘I have felt happy and fulfilled as never before in this office,’ he said. ‘Would that I might stay in it for ever!’ A wistful sigh. ‘Alas, that is not to be. Election has already been made.’

‘I did not vote for him, that I swear.’

‘Others did.’ Pugsley’s sadness turned into cold fury. ‘It is painful enough to have to retire from office but to be forced to hand over to Walter Stanford is truly galling. I detest the man and all that he represents.’

‘You are not alone in that, Sir Lucas.’

‘He is unworthy to follow in my footsteps.’

‘As for that young wife of his …’

‘It ought not to be allowed,’ said the other in a fit of moral indignation. ‘A man should pay for his pleasures in private, not flaunt them before the whole city of London!’

‘She is a pretty creature, though, I grant him that.’

‘Stanford is bestial!’

‘He is not Lord Mayor yet.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.’

Sir Lucas Pugsley sat upright in his chair and spat out his words like a snake expelling its venom.

‘I would do anything to stop him!’

Fine weather and high expectation saw large crowds of playgoers surging north out of the city. Many of them converged on The Curtain, the other public playhouse in Shoreditch, a circular structure that stood on land that had once been part of Holywell Priory. Banbury’s Men were in residence there and the audience flocked to see Giles Randolph as the evil King John. His reputation was overshadowed by that of Lawrence Firethorn, who brought even more spectators hurrying through the doors of The Theatre. Once again, Westfield’s Men had the critical edge over its hated rivals.

Abel Strudwick had never been to a play before and he was bewildered by the whole experience. Having paid his penny to one of the gatherers, he went through into the yard and stood as close to the stage as he could. He was soon part of a jostling throng with a carnival spirit and he succumbed willingly to the prevailing atmosphere of mirth. His poems were a source of immense pride to him but he had only so far recited them to his wife and to Nicholas Bracewell. The thought of standing up on that scaffold and entertaining a huge crowd with the work of his creative imagination was quite exhilarating. Long before Double Deceit began, he had got his penny’s worth.

Matilda Stanford was ushered into the second gallery by her stepson. A friend of his had helped to escort her at the Queen’s Head but the young man felt able to look after her alone at The Theatre. William Stanford had opted for a black doublet with a wide-shouldered look and for matching hose. Silver flashes relieved the impression of total darkness and silver feathers adorned his hat. His stepmother had chosen a blend of subtle greens in a dress that displayed all her best features to advantage. Her hair and clothing were perfumed and she carried a pomander to ward off any unpleasant smells that might arise in a packed auditorium. The mask which dangled from her other hand could be used to hide the blushes that were already threatening to come as her presence was noted by the gallants who surrounded her. Compliments and comments ambushed her from all sides.

The keenest attention she received, however, was from Argos of Rome. Costumed for his first entrance, Lawrence Firethorn peered through a chink in the curtain at the rear of the stage to pick out his beloved. She looked even more alluring than before, with those blue eyes and red lips lighting up her porcelain skin. Matilda Stanford had true radiance and he prostrated himself before it.

Nicholas Bracewell came quietly up behind him.

‘Stand by, sir.’

‘She had my invitation, Nick. She is here.’

‘So is the hour of two.’

‘I knew that she would not disappoint me!’

‘Stand by, Argos of Rome!’

‘This is earthly paradise.’

‘We begin!’

The book holder was firmly in control of the whole operation once the performance started and not even the company’s star was allowed to forget that. Firethorn moved quickly across to join Barnaby Gill in readiness for their entrance. The signal was given by Nicholas, the trumpet sounded and the Prologue stepped out in a black cloak to receive a virgin ripple of applause and to outline the plot of Double Deceit in rhyming couplets. Argos and Silvio then burst onto the stage in a flurry of arms and legs as the master upbraided his servant and beat him black and blue. Firethorn’s voice was hoarse with outrage as he listed his complaints and Gill made the audience collapse with laughter at the hilarious way he fell to the ground each time he was struck. The comic timing and the physical dexterity of the two men was breathtaking. They had won everyone over by the time they made their exit then they reappeared instantly in other guises to win the spectators over even more completely.

Double Deceit had never been played with such panache.

There was only one dissentient voice.

‘I am wasted in this verminous comedy.’

‘Your hour will come, Owen.’

‘It is a crime to subdue such talent as mine.’

‘Do but wait awhile and it will shine forth.’

‘I have waited too long already, Nick.’

‘So have many others, I fear.’

‘Who cares about those wretches? I am better.’

Owen Elias was no shrinking violet. While other hired men took what they could get and were profoundly grateful, he was forever trying to plead his cause. He was without question a far more skilful performer than most of his fellows and his lilting voice was a joy to hear when it was given blank verse to declaim. But his talent as an actor was not matched by his tact as a diplomat. In thrusting himself forward so openly, he jeopardised his already slim chances of advancement. Nicholas liked him immensely for his Celtic charm and forthrightness but he recognised the fatal flaw in his friend. The runaway arrogance made Owen Elias into his own worst enemy.

‘Do you see what I mean, Nick?’

‘Tell me later, sir.’

‘I can do all that Master Firethorn can.’

‘You distract me, Owen.’

‘They loved me.’

‘Stand aside, I pray.’

Nicholas was too busy at his post to listen to the actor at that moment but there was a degree of truth in what the Welshman said. In his brief appearance as Argos of Rome, he not only looked and moved remarkably like Lawrence Firethorn, he even sounded like him. Indeed, the audience was so stunned by the similarity between the two men that they really believed they were looking at a pair of identical twins. It was, literally, a double deceit.

Firethorn was left alone to deliver the Epilogue.

He was leaving the audience in no doubt about the fact that he had played the two parts. He changed cloaks on the line about the brooding Argos and put on his other hat when he referred to a dome. Then he went on to repeat the process throughout the remainder of the Epilogue, thus confirming his genius as a theatrical chameleon. It was a play in itself and the spectators were spellbound.

Abel Strudwick had been hypnotised by it all for two hours and this final piece of bravura left him totally awestruck. The furious pace and the freewheeling humour gave him an experience that altered his whole view of himself. He wanted somehow to be part of it all, to shed the onerous burdens of being a waterman and join the marvellous world of theatre. What had aroused most wonder in him was the quality of the verse. Double Deceit was written largely in prose but it did contain a number of speeches in rhyming couplets that struck him as superb. Delivered by the masterful Firethorn, their shortcomings were cunningly concealed. Strudwick longed to write such lines for such an actor, even to become a performer himself. It was a more honourable existence than rowing incessantly across the River Thames. Receiving the plaudits of such a delirious auditorium was infinitely better than dragging dead bodies out of dark water.

Matilda Stanford was also entranced by the whole experience. Deeply moved at the Queen’s Head, she had been dizzied by the sheer extravagance of today’s frolic. A simple playbill had brought her to The Theatre with a curiosity that was soon satisfied. Lawrence Firethorn himself had sent the invitation and he had left her in no doubt of that. Whether he was playing Argos of Rome or Argos of Florence, he found a way to direct certain lines straight at her by way of tribute. Matilda was utterly enraptured. With his scintillating display in the twin roles, the actor-manager had even surpassed his sublime performance as Count Orlando — and this was the man who had deigned to notice her. Concluding the Epilogue, he blew her a kiss and bowed in acknowledgement of her smile. Even in the thunder of the curtain call, Firethorn found time to speak to her with his eyes.

A faithful young wife forgot about her husband.

Walter Stanford was indefatigable. He rose early each day and worked late into the night, attending to his business affairs with jovial energy and pushing out the frontiers of his operations all the time. Sunday was his only day of rest and even then stray thoughts of his latest enterprises mingled with his prayers. The Master of the Mercers’ Company did not believe in resting on his many laurels. Expansion was his watchword.

Other men would have been daunted by the additional amount of work entailed in being Lord Mayor Elect but Stanford welcomed it. He simply got up even earlier and laboured longer into the darkness. If fatigue ever laid a hand upon him, he never showed it. If obstacles fell across his path, he leapt nimbly over them. If anything even began to depress his spirits, he invoked the memory of his mentor, Dick Whittington, and carried on with restored vigour. It was impossible to compete with Walter Stanford. He was invincible.

That afternoon found him sitting at the table in his study leafing through some contracts pertaining to the coal mines that he owned up in Newcastle. He checked the figures carefully before entering them into a large account book then he turned to consider another part of his burgeoning empire. It did not worry him in the least that his wife was watching a play at The Theatre while he was slaving on at Stanford Place. He worked so that she might enjoy her leisure and he was content with that arrangement. Rocked by the loss of one wife, he could not believe his luck in being given a second chance of happiness and he did not spurn it. His wife and family were all to him and his industry was at their service.

A knock on the door interrupted his concentration. He looked up as Simon Pendleton sidled into the room carrying a long flat box that was tied with string. A faint whiff in the air made Stanford’s nose wrinkle.

‘I am sorry to intrude, master,’ said the steward.

‘What have you brought me?’

‘This has just been delivered, sir.’

‘By whom?’

‘He did not stay to declare himself,’ said the other with mild disapproval. ‘When I opened the front door, I found this box upon the step. It is addressed to you.’

‘What is that strange odour?’

‘I am not sure, sir, but it made the dogs sniff their fill. That is why I brought the box straight to you. They would have torn it open else.’

‘Thank you, Simon. Put it on the table.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Pendleton laid the box down as if he was glad to part with it then stood back so that its pungency did not invade his nostrils any more. Stanford used a knife to cut through the string then lifted the lid with interest. His eyebrows shot up in amazement when he saw what lay inside. It was almost two feet long and weighed several pounds. The silver scales glittered in the light. He took the item out and held it on the palms of both hands to feel its substance and wonder at its meaning. Gifts from friends or debtors were quite common but he had never received an anonymous present of this nature before. Master and steward stared in complete bafflement.

They were looking at a dead fish.