The Vagabond Clown

Chapter Eleven

Owen Elias was still standing beside the window of the upstairs room, gazing down idly at the yard below. The rain had stopped now and a burst of afternoon sunshine was making the cobbles glisten. His interest quickened when an attractive young woman came out of a door and he leant out to catch her attention. His cheerful wave was not returned. After giving him a blank look, she crossed the yard and went into a storeroom. Elias’s first instinct was to follow her but he knew that the rehearsal would soon begin again. He felt thwarted. Nicholas Bracewell joined his friend at the window.

‘Is there no sign of Giddy yet?’ he asked.

‘Not unless he is wearing a green dress and a white bonnet.’

‘He should be here by now. It does not take this long to unsaddle two horses.’ Nicholas was about to move away. ‘I’ll see what keeps him.’

‘No,’ said Elias, detaining him with a hand. ‘That’s my office. You’ve travelled enough for one day. Let me fetch Giddy.’

‘Scold him for keeping us waiting.’

‘I hope that the wretch has not sneaked away,’ said Lawrence Firethorn, coming across to them. ‘We have to stop him hearing that call of nature.’

‘He’s still in the stables,’ Elias assured him. ‘I’d have seen him leave.’

‘Is there no back way out?’

‘None,’ said Nicholas. ‘I checked that before I left him alone.’

‘Then where is he?’

‘I’ll chase him out, Lawrence,’ said Elias, heading for the door. ‘The ride has tired him, I daresay. Giddy is probably asleep in the straw.’

Eager to make amends for his earlier failure, the Welshman clattered down the winding oak staircase and went along a stone-flagged passageway. As he came out into the yard, the young woman he had seen earlier was retracing her steps with a small sack in her arms. He gave her a respectful bow this time and collected a half-smile. It was progress. Since she worked at the Blue Anchor, it would be possible to make her acquaintance in time. It gave Elias something to build on. Mussett’s intimacy with a kitchen maid was now common knowledge. Elias wanted his own conquest.

‘What have you got there?’ he wondered.

‘Vegetables, sir.’

‘Will you save some for me?’

‘If you wish.’

‘When shall I come to collect them?’

He gave her a frank grin and she coloured slightly, but she looked back over her shoulder when she reached the door. Elias was encouraged. He blew her a kiss.

When he got to the stables, he paused at the door and peered into the gloom.

‘Giddy!’ he called. ‘What are you doing in there?’

There was no reply. He took a few steps inside and called again.

‘Where are you, man? Lawrence wants you for the rehearsal.’

All that he got by way of response was a neigh from one of the horses and a rustling in the straw. There was no sign of Mussett. Elias became mildly alarmed, worried that the clown had somehow slipped past him once more. Yet he had never taken his eyes off the yard. Nobody could leave the stables without being seen. Elias decided that Mussett was playing a game, hiding in one of the stalls to fool him. The Welshman began a thorough search, walking along the line of stalls and expecting Mussett to jump out at any moment. But the clown did not appear. If he had found a hiding place, it was a good one. Elias glanced up, wondering if the agile Mussett had climbed up into the roof by way of a jest.

He was still gazing along the beams when a noise from the rear of the stables alerted him. Something fell to the ground with a small thud that was not muffled by straw. Elias became circumspect. Narrowing his eyelids to stare into the shadows, he moved slowly forward.

‘Is that you, Giddy?’ he said. ‘What trick are you up to this time?’

Only the movement of horses could be heard. Elias walked on, heading for the corner from which the noise had seemed to come. A shape was gradually conjured out of the gloom, a large, round lump on the floor against the back wall. Elias swallowed hard.

‘Giddy?’ he cried, hurrying forward. ‘What happened?’

Mussett was in no position to tell him. As soon as he touched his friend, Elias knew that he was dead. His hand brushed against the dagger that was sticking out from Mussett’s back.

‘Iesu Mawr!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who did this to you?’

By way of an answer, a cudgel struck him hard on the back of his head. Unable to stop himself, Elias plunged forward, landing on Mussett and forcing the dagger even deeper into his unprotected back.

While appreciating the value of the visit to Canterbury, Firethorn was concerned that valuable rehearsal time had been lost. The Loyal Subject was a complex drama that dealt with a number of themes. Everyone else in the company knew the play well and had mastered their roles. The newcomer who most needed to rehearse was the one actor who had not been there. Firethorn consulted his book holder.

‘Can he learn yet another part in such a short time, Nick?’

‘I am sure that he can.’

‘You will have to feed the lines to him on a spoon.’

‘I’ll be happy to do so,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve already told Giddy the plot of the play and talked about his role. He’s not entirely unprepared.’

‘If only we had not brought Barnaby with us!’ sighed Firethorn.

‘Does he still complain?’

‘Complain, chastise, censure and condemn. Nothing pleases him. He made so many unkind comments during the rehearsal that I had him wheeled away. This room is too small to have both Barnaby and Giddy Mussett inside it.’

‘We have neither at the moment,’ said Nicholas, moving back to the window. ‘What is holding Giddy up? He could have unsaddled half a dozen horses by now.’

‘Owen should have grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.’

‘Why this delay?’

Even as he spoke, Nicholas was given an explanation. Elias came stumbling out of the stables with a hand pressed against the back of his head to stem the blood from his scalp wound. He used his other arm to beckon Nicholas.

‘Come quickly!’ he yelled. ‘All is lost!’

Nicholas did not wait to hear any details. Taking Firethorn with him, he rushed down the stairs and out into the yard. Elias was still dazed from the blow. He swayed on his feet as he pointed to the stables.

‘Giddy is inside,’ he said. ‘Stabbed to death.’

‘Murdered?’ cried Firethorn.

‘See for yourselves.’

Nicholas lent him a supportive arm so that he could take them to the spot where Mussett lay. They crouched beside the body and checked for signs of life. It was the second time that Nicholas had seen the handle of a dagger protruding from a victim’s back. Firethorn was aghast.

‘Who could have done this?’ he gasped. ‘We are done for!’

‘Let’s hear what Owen has to say first,’ suggested Nicholas.

Elias shrugged. ‘I’ve little enough to report. I called out for Giddy when I got here but there was no answer. I thought he was playing one of his tricks on me so I came in search of him.’ He indicated to the body. ‘This is what I found in the shadows. Before I could raise the alarm, someone struck me from behind. My head is splitting. He must have had a powerful arm.’

‘We’ll dress the wound for you.’

‘Forget me, Nick. I still live. Giddy is beyond any help.’

‘And so are we!’ wailed Firethorn.

‘Think back, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘You saw us arrive at the inn. You stood at the window all the time that Giddy was in here. Did you see anyone else come in or out?’

‘I did,’ replied Elias. ‘One of the ostlers, a young lad, came out and went into the kitchen. A little later,’ he recalled, ‘a man came out of the taproom and walked across to the stables. A bearded man, with something of your build. I paid no heed to him.’

‘Did he go into the stables?’

‘Yes. I thought he was going to fetch his horse.’

‘But you never saw him again?’

‘No,’ said Elias, rubbing his head. ‘He saw me.’

‘You were lucky that you were not stabbed as well,’ said Firethorn.

‘Giddy was the only target,’ decided Nicholas. ‘I suspect that the man who killed him was part of that ambush at the ford. They were after Giddy then but we beat them off. One of them came back to finish the task.’

‘And to finish us at the same time. Our clown is dead. That leaves a hole so large that it can never be filled. Westfield’s Men are victims here as well.’

‘It was Giddy who paid the greater penalty. He only joined us to help us out.’

‘True,’ said Elias, gazing down at the body. ‘And we could not have asked for a livelier companion. Giddy had his faults but they were outweighed by his virtues.’

‘This man you saw,’ said Nicholas. ‘Was he wearing a leather apron and a cap?’

‘No, Nick. Doublet and hose. Why do you ask?’

‘I thought he might have been the one who set Barnaby adrift in the creek.’

‘We are all adrift now,’ moaned Firethorn.

‘I am looking for similarities,’ explained Nicholas. ‘The company has been attacked by means of its clowns. Barnaby was set upon at the Queen’s Head and here in Faversham. Giddy was murdered at the second attempt.’

‘What does this tell us, Nick? Do we search for a man with no sense of humour?’

‘I think not. Yet there is one thing we do know about him.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Elias.

‘He has a ready supply of daggers,’ said Nicholas, pulling the weapon from Mussett’s back. ‘This matches the one I found lodged in the body of Fortunatus Hope. I believe that we are dealing with the same assassin. What worries me is this,’ he went on, turning to the others. ‘How many more daggers does he possess and where are they destined to end up?’

News of the murder caused fear and consternation at the Blue Anchor. Those who worked there were horrified, those staying there were shocked and local people who came into the taproom were so nervous that they kept looking over their shoulders with apprehension. The crime was reported and constables took charge of the dead body. When his scalp wound had been bathed, Owen Elias gave a statement to a magistrate about the circumstances in which he had found Mussett. Nicholas Bracewell, meanwhile, turned his attention to the landlord of the inn. Without realising that he might be looking at an assassin, Elias had seen a man leave the taproom and go into the stables at a time when Mussett was inside. Nicholas hoped that the landlord could give a better description of the man but he added little to what the Welshman said. All that he could remember about the customer was that he sat with a tankard of ale beside a window that looked out on to the yard. There had been other people there at the time but, when Nicholas questioned them, they could only echo the landlord. The bearded man was a stranger to whom they paid scant attention.

The rehearsal had been abandoned and most of the actors chose to subdue their grief in the taproom. Now that he was dead, they came to see just how much they had liked Giddy. His fall from grace in Maidstone was completely forgotten. What remained in the mind was an image of an affable, vigorous, gleeful man who was a natural clown. Even Barnaby Gill, his old enemy, was moved to admiration.

‘Giddy was truly gifted,’ he admitted. ‘I envied his talent far more than I hated the man himself. He was a vagabond clown and I’ll miss him.’

‘Not as much as we do, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn, downing another cup of wine.

‘Yes,’ agreed Edmund Hoode. ‘The Loyal Subject is impossible without him. You were right to call off the rehearsal, Lawrence. There is no point in working on a play that we cannot present. Giddy would have given it his own particular glow.’

‘I, too, can impart a glow, Edmund.’

‘We know, Lawrence,’ said Gill. ‘You can blaze like a beacon. But you are no clown. Giddy Mussett was. We are a rare breed, you see.’

‘You sound like a species of sheep,’ said Firethorn.

‘If I am, then I mourn the black member of our flock.’

Gill lifted a cup of wine in honour of the dead man. The three of them were sitting at a table in the taproom, still stunned by the blow that had befallen them and having little idea what to do best. When Nicholas joined them, they were almost maudlin.

‘You must speak to the mayor, Nick,’ said Firethorn.

‘He’ll have caught wind of the murder by now,’ said Nicholas.

‘But he will not understand its effects. Tell him our play must be abandoned. It’s out of the question to perform The Loyal Subject. The town of Faversham will have to forego the delight of seeing Westfield’s Men on stage.’

‘Why?’

‘Why else, man? We have lost our clown.’

‘Then we have to replace him.’

‘In the space of a day or so?’ asked Firethorn. ‘It would take a miracle.’

‘Common sense will suffice,’ argued Nicholas. ‘The Loyal Subject may be beyond us because Giddy would have danced his way through it, but we’ve other plays to offer an audience.’

‘Not if we lack a clown, Nick.’

‘But we have one. He sits beside you.’

Gill was astounded. ‘Do you look at me?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.

‘I am an invalid. My leg is broken.’

‘Your talent is still in good repair.’

‘This is folly, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘How can Barnaby perform with his leg in a splint? He is unable to walk, let alone dance a jig.’

‘Then we make a virtue of necessity, Edmund. You’ll see to that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Change a play to suit our circumstance,’ said Nicholas. ‘The wheelbarrow comes to our aid here. Our clown may not caper, but he can be moved at will about the stage. Much comedy can be gleaned from that.’

‘Why, yes,’ said Firethorn, latching on to the idea at once. ‘This may be the answer, Barnaby. When we first offered you the wheelbarrow, you turned up your nose at it because it would make you a figure of fun. That is what we wish you to be. A figure of fun upon the stage.’

Gill sniffed. ‘The notion offends my dignity.’

‘Think of your purse, man. Would you rather leave Faversham unpaid?’

‘Nick has hit the mark,’ said Hoode, seeing the possibilities. ‘I can easily write scenes that turn the broken leg into a source of rich comedy. Where Barnaby cannot dance, he shall sing instead. It could be done.’

‘But it will not be,’ said Gill, folding his arms defiantly.

‘With you in the cast, we could even play The Loyal Subject.’

‘I have another suggestion,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s put a tragedy aside and give them homespun humour instead. After the dark deed in the stables, our fellows need a comedy to lift their spirits. The Foolish Friar meets all objections. It’s a light piece on a serious subject. Our friar will look even more foolish if the only way that he can move about is in a wheelbarrow.’

‘The perfect play,’ said Hoode. ‘It lends itself to change and variation.’

‘Not on my account,’ affirmed Gill. ‘I am too unwell to act.’

‘Then we harp on that,’ said Nicholas. ‘Give the foolish friar a whole array of ailments, Edmund. To his broken leg, add a bad back, a diseased liver, a sore throat, a high fever and a choleric disposition.’

Firethorn laughed. ‘Barnaby already has that!’

‘I’ll not be a foolish friar,’ said Gill.

‘You’ll be a foolish friar, a wise virgin or a statue of Venus, if we ask it. You have a contract with us,’ said Firethorn, ‘and it obliges you to act what we decide. There is no mention of a broken leg anywhere in its terms. Were you stricken down with sleeping sickness, we could still enforce the contract.’

‘Besides,’ said Hoode, adopting a softer approach, ‘you would not let us suffer the humiliation of having to cancel a performance. Think how your fellows would welcome your return, Barnaby? They’d be eternally grateful to the man who came to our rescue. Our reputation is in your hands.’

‘One thing more,’ said Nicholas. ‘Giddy must be borne in mind. Though he was with us such a short time, he left his imprint on the company. For his sake, we must not abandon a performance. Giddy would have expected us to go on. It would be a way to honour his memory.’

Gill was weakening. ‘The Foolish Friar is a good play. I like it.’

‘Share that pleasure with an audience.’

‘Who would push me in the wheelbarrow?’

‘Anyone you choose. George Dart, perhaps?’

‘No, not on stage,’ said Gill. ‘He’s too weak and clumsy for that. I need someone strong enough to move me around without bumping into the scenery.’

‘Owen Elias, it shall be,’ said Nicholas. ‘Strong and sensible.’

Hoode’s mind was racing. ‘We’ll have a song that the pair of you can sing together,’ he said, ‘for Owen has the best voice of us all. And in place of your dance, he can spin you around the stage to music. That wheelbarrow is a godsend.’

‘Well, Barnaby,’ asked Firethorn. ‘What do you say now?’

‘It might work,’ said Gill pensively.

‘You’d become our hero.’

‘Which would you rather do?’ said Nicholas. ‘Sit on a bench to watch a play or ride in a wheelbarrow and take part in it?’

Gill smacked the table. ‘I’ll do it!’

The landlord of the inn was saddened by what had happened. Murder on his premises would leave its taint for a long time. Like the people he employed, he went about his chores with far less enthusiasm that evening. Most of them did not know Giddy Mussett well enough to grieve for him, but they felt the effects of his death. Some customers were drawn to the Blue Anchor by ghoulish curiosity but the murder frightened many regular patrons away. It was the actors who kept the cooks and the servingmen busy, eating to assuage their appetites and drinking to relieve their sorrow.

There was one person who knew the deceased well. Kate Humble had a special place in her heart for Mussett. A friendship that had begun on his previous visit to the town had been revived instantly when she saw him, even though his face had been battered in a brawl. In their brief moments together, he had given her more pleasure and amusement than she had enjoyed in a whole year. Unlike the other kitchen maids, Kate could not simply work on as if nothing had happened. Pleading sickness, she withdrew to the tiny attic room that she shared at night with three others. There she could give free reign to her emotions, remembering the times she had enjoyed with Mussett and savouring some of the things he had said to her. Treasured memories made her smile through her tears. It pained her to think that she would never see him again.

Kate was still weeping copiously when there was a knock on the door. Fearing that it might be the landlord, she dried her tears with her apron. There was a second tap.

‘Come in,’ she said, biting her lip to hold back another fit of weeping.

The door opened and Nicholas Bracewell put his head around it.

‘I was told that you were ill,’ he said. ‘I came to see how you were.’

She was touched. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’

‘Giddy was a friend of mine. I know that you loved him, too.’

‘He was the best man in the world,’ she said as fresh tears flowed. ‘Forgive me, sir. I cannot help it. The thought of how he died distresses me so much.’

‘And me, Kate.’

‘Who but a madman could want to kill Giddy?’

‘I mean to find out,’ he assured her.

‘He spoke well of you,’ she said, wiping away her tears once more. ‘Nick Bracewell let me out of prison — that’s what he told me. I know that he did bad things sometimes, sir, but think well of him.’

‘I always will.’

She studied him through moist eyes as if trying to decide if she could trust him. Nicholas caught a whiff of guilt that was mingled with fear. He sensed that she had something to tell him but he did not rush her. He gave her a consoling smile.

‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ he asked.

‘Oh, sir, You do not have to bother about me. I am just a kitchen maid.’

‘Giddy thought you much more than that.’

Her face brightened. ‘Yes, he did. That’s why I loved him.’

‘Were you surprised to see him back in Faversham again?’

‘No,’ she said proudly. ‘He promised me he’d come back to see me one day. Though he did not tell me that his face would be quite so bruised.’

‘Did he say how he came about his injuries?’

‘By falling down some steps when he was drunk.’ She laughed merrily. ‘Giddy was always too fond of his ale but I did not hold that against him.’ Kate brushed away a last tear with a knuckle then met his gaze. ‘Can I trust you, sir?’ she asked.

‘I hope so, Kate.’

‘If I tell you something, will you promise me I will not get into trouble?’

‘That depends what it is.’

‘Giddy made me do it.’

‘Do what, Kate?’

There was an awkward pause. ‘Lie for him,’ she confessed.

‘What sort of lie did you tell?’

‘You will be angry when you know, sir.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘If it concerns Giddy, I’ll not be angry. I know he had his vices, Kate, but they made him what he was. I’ll bear him no ill will.’ He took a step closer to her. ‘Tell me about this lie.’

‘He did do it, sir,’ she said, blurting the words out. ‘He did put a sack over that man’s head and wheeled him to the creek. I found him the sack in the kitchen. I also got him an apron and a cap so that Giddy looked like a servingman. There was no intent to harm the man,’ she insisted. ‘All that Giddy wanted to do was to frighten him. There were people about and he was sure that someone would rescue him. In the end, you were the one who did it. Giddy was glad of that.’

‘Did he say why he put Master Gill in that boat?’

‘It was but a jest, sir, like the others.’

‘Others?’ repeated Nicholas.

‘Giddy told me what he did. In one place, he paid an ostler to lock Master Gill in the privy. In Maidstone, he bribed a lad to throw a black cat in through the window where his enemy slept. Giddy had an excuse each time.’

‘You were his excuse here at the Blue Anchor.’

‘And I was glad to be it,’ she said. ‘Until now. Are you angry, sir?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’m not angry, Kate.’

‘But I lied to you and the others.’

‘You were protecting a man you loved, that is all. The important thing is that the truth has now come out. To be honest, I am relieved.’

‘Because Giddy played a trick on Master Gill?’

‘In a sense, yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I thought it might be the work of another man and that alarmed me. It was a cruel jest that could have led to serious harm. Giddy was wrong to do such a thing. But I do not hold it against you, Kate.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, clutching at him. ‘You are so kind.’

‘I just wish to find the man who killed him. That’s why I’m grateful for any information that helps me to do that. What you’ve just said has been very useful. It explains things that puzzled me.’ He squeezed her hands in gratitude. ‘Giddy was not a rich man, as you know. He leaves a poor bundle of things behind.’

‘He was rich in the things that mattered, sir.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have no use for his belongings but there may be something there that you could have as a keepsake.’ Her face lit up again. ‘Would you like to take something of your choice?’

‘Yes, please!’ she said with alacrity.

Bursting into tears again, she flung herself into his arms.

Sebastian Frant sat in the parlour of the cottage with his brother. Supper was over and both Thomasina and her aunt had retired early to bed. The two men were alone. David Frant lit a pipe and puffed away at it before speaking.

‘It is so good to see you both, Sebastian,’ he said.

‘We should have come to Faversham long before now.’

‘You must visit us, brother, for I am not able to travel to Dover.’

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘That I’m afflicted with an incurable disease. It is called old age.’

‘You are not that much older than me, David.’

‘I never enjoyed your rude health.’

‘You did,’ said Frant, trying to cheer him up. ‘And whatever the doctor says, you’ll last many years yet.’

‘I doubt that, Sebastian.’

Privately, so did Frant. He had been distressed to see how much his brother had declined since his last visit. His condition could not be ascribed solely to the passage of time. Some malady was slowly eating him away. David Frant had hollow cheeks, lacklustre eyes and a body that seemed to have shrunk in upon itself. When he had a sudden fit of coughing, it was minutes before he was able to speak again.

‘Forgive me, Sebastian,’ he said at length. ‘This tobacco will ruin me.’

‘It gives you pleasure and that is all that matters.’

‘I get little of it elsewhere, I know that.’

A knock on the door made both men sit up. The servant girl went to see who it was and voices were heard in the passageway. A visitor was then shown into the parlour. Nicholas Bracewell was profuse in his apologies for intruding at that time of the evening but both men were pleased to see him. Frant pumped his arm in greeting. His brother indicated a chair and Nicholas sat down.

‘Do you wish to hear more about the history of Faversham?’ he asked.

‘Another time,’ said Nicholas. ‘I come on an errand to see Sebastian.’

‘What kind of errand?’ asked Frant.

‘A sad one, I fear.’

Nicholas lowered his voice and told them about the murder of Giddy Mussett. David Frant was dismayed but his brother, who had seen Mussett on stage, was quick to gauge the loss involved.

‘But the fellow was a genius, Nick,’ he said. ‘Thomasina and I laughed at him until we were in pain. This is a terrible blow for Westfield’s Men.’

‘We are still dazed by it, Sebastian.’

‘What will you do?’

‘That is what I’ve come to tell you. We need your help.’

‘How can I be of any assistance?’ said Frant. ‘I can be a fool at times, as David here will tell you, but I’m no clown. Do not look to me to replace Giddy Mussett. I doubt if any man in England could do that.’

‘Happily, there is such a person.’

‘Who?’

‘Barnaby Gill.’

Frant was amazed. ‘But he has a broken leg.’

‘That will not hold him back in our hour of need.’

Nicholas explained how they proposed to overcome Gill’s disability and drew approving comments from both men. David Frant was so amused by the notion of a foolish friar in a wheelbarrow that he resolved to see the play himself. His younger brother was still bewildered.

‘What must I do, Nick?’ he said. ‘Push the wheelbarrow?’

‘A pen is all that we ask you to push, Sebastian. Thus it stands,’ said Nicholas, taking some sheets of paper from inside his jerkin. ‘Edmund has written a new scene for the play and a couple of new songs. His hand still shakes with grief at the loss of Giddy. You’ll see how he scribbles. We’d prefer a scrivener to make the words legible.’

‘But I do not know this play. What is it called?’

‘The Foolish Friar. A harmless comedy.’

‘One of Edmund’s pieces?’

‘No, Sebastian. It’s the work of another playwright but he is not here to make the changes that we require. Edmund will do that. He is a master cobbler.’ He held up the sheets of paper. ‘It has taken him only a few hours to produce these.’

‘You must help them, Sebastian,’ urged his brother. ‘They need you.’

‘And we’ll gladly pay you for the work,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’d not dream of charging you a penny,’ replied Frant, taking the papers from him to glance through them. ‘It will take me far less to copy these songs than it took Edmund to create them. Thank you for calling on me. I’m delighted to aid you.’

‘That’s what I told the others.’

‘It would have been impossible for me to refuse.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I have a daughter to answer to,’ said Frant. ‘When we heard that Westfield’s Men were in Maidstone, I promised Thomasina that she would see the finest clown who ever appeared on a stage. She was disappointed to learn that Barnaby Gill was unable to take part even though he had a worthy substitute.’

‘Barnaby will now substitute his own substitute,’ said Nicholas.

‘Quite so. What would Thomasina say if I did not assist him willingly?’ He held up the papers. ‘I’ll deliver these to the Blue Anchor tomorrow morning with a set so crystal clear that even a blind man could read them.’

The rehearsal that morning went badly. Conway’s Men were never less than competent on stage but never more than entertaining. They seemed to lack commitment and went about their work with a sense of obligation rather than dedication. As they rehearsed the play that they would perform in Canterbury that afternoon, they fell short of even their own modest standards. Tobias Fitzgeoffrey was sarcastic.

‘Do you dare to call yourselves actors?’ he said, addressing his whole company. ‘A herd of cattle would give a better account of themselves on stage. And, at least, they would provide the audience with something to drink. All that you will do is to send them to sleep. It is shameful.’

He berated them for several minutes then sent them off in disgrace, confident that his scathing comments would sting them into giving a better performance. Martin Ling, the book holder, was not impressed by the actor-manager’s tirade.

‘You are as much to blame as anyone, Tobias,’ he said.

‘How can you say that when I was the only one to remember my lines?’

‘The play needed more rehearsal.’

‘That’s my decision, Martin.’

‘I only tell you what the others feel,’ said Ling. ‘You disappeared for the whole day yesterday when you should have been here to work on the piece.’

‘I had important matters to attend to,’ said Fitzgeoffrey.

‘What is more important than offering decent fare to our spectators?’

The actor-manager rounded on him. Tobias Fitzgeoffrey was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties with handsome features and a commanding presence. Towering over his book holder, he looked down at him with utter contempt.

‘If you do not like the way I run this company, Martin,’ he said with scorn, ‘you are welcome to leave. We’ll happily spare you.’

‘That thought has crossed my mind,’ admitted Ling. ‘But I’ll not go until you pay me the money that you owe. I’m not the only member of Conway’s Men who is waiting for a debt to be settled.’

‘All in good time.’

‘How often have I heard you say that, Tobias?’

‘Listen, you idiot,’ said Fitzgeoffrey vehemently. ‘When I went off yesterday, it was for the benefit of everyone. I had to perform a service for our patron and was duly rewarded. That money goes straight into our coffers.’

‘When will it come out again to pay us?’

‘When I am good and ready.’

Ling turned away to hide a sneer and began to gather up the properties that had been used during the rehearsal. Fitzgeoffrey remembered something. He crossed the room to block the other man’s path.

‘I heard a rumour that Giddy Mussett was in Canterbury yesterday,’ he said.

‘Did you?’ replied Ling.

‘What did he want?’

‘Who knows?’

‘You’d be the person he’d first seek out. Is that what he did, Martin?’

‘He may’ve done.’

‘Was he alone or did he bring someone else?’

‘I cannot remember.’

‘Did he tell you that he’d joined Westfield’s Men?’ asked Fitzgeoffrey. ‘They must’ve been mad to engage someone like him.’

‘You thought him worth his wage at one time, Tobias.’

‘That was before I knew his true character. No matter. All that is past now. Well,’ he went on with a knowing smile. ‘I hope that you enjoyed your talk with him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t think that you’ll ever see Giddy Mussett again.’

The Foolish Friar was a happy choice. It made few demands on a company that was still in a state of dejection after the murder of their clown. The two actors who had to work hardest were Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias, learning new lines and practicing endlessly with the wheelbarrow. It became a weapon as well as a means of transport. Elias was able to sweep people off their feet by pushing the wheelbarrow into them, or leave it in places where they would trip inadvertently over it. Gill’s early doubts were soon removed. Confined to his moveable couch, he could still extract the full comedy from his role. If anything, the wheelbarrow enhanced the humour by its originality. No friar had ever rolled on stage quite like that before.

Pleased with the way that the rehearsal had gone, Nicholas Bracewell was nevertheless anxious to get away. He took Firethorn aside to state his case.

‘Let me go back to Canterbury again,’ he said.

‘We need you here, Nick.’

‘But that’s where we’ll solve the murder of Giddy Mussett.’

‘That will have to wait,’ insisted Firethorn. ‘Your duty is to stay here with us. The company is uneasy when you are away. George Dart can hold the book at a rehearsal but he will never be a Nick Bracewell. In any case, it’s too dangerous for you to ride off alone and I can hardly spare anyone else to go with you.’

‘I’ll take my chances on the road.’

‘It’s a risk I’m not prepared to share. What happens if you are waylaid? It is bad enough to lose Giddy. If you went, we would be crippled indeed.’

Nicholas was earnest. ‘We owe it to Giddy to catch his killer.’

‘We owe it to our audience to serve them up a tasty dish.’

‘What is to stop us solving a hideous crime as well?’

‘Lack of time, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Lack of time and shortage of people. Ride off to Canterbury and the rehearsal will slow to a halt. You were the one who made that wheelbarrow. Who else but you would have thought of using it on stage and coaxing Barnaby back into work? Westfield’s Men need you here.’

‘I have obligations to Giddy as well.’

‘So do we all.’

‘Then let me discharge them.’

‘In due course.’

Nicholas gave up. Torn between duty to the company and an urge to avenge a crime, he had become increasingly frustrated. But he knew that Firethorn was right. The book holder’s presence was crucial. As well as advising Edmund Hoode how The Foolish Friar could be amended to their advantage, he had engaged Sebastian Frant as their scrivener, made further important adjustments to the wheelbarrow, and inspected the place where they would perform so that he could take dimensions and decide where best to set the stage. Nicholas had also been a calming influence on the apprentices, all of whom had been overwhelmed by the murder of their clown.

‘Take heart, Nick,’ said Firethorn, reading his mind. ‘I, too, would like to saddle up and gallop to Canterbury but we must discharge our obligations here first. Besides, I think that you are forgetting something.’

‘What’s that?’ said Nicholas.

‘The villain has struck twice and may do so again. It behoves us all to stay close together for our own protection. If you leave, you weaken our defence badly. Do you hear what I’m saying?’ he asked, slipping an arm around the book holder. ‘We may not need to go in search of the killer. He will come to us.’