The Wanton Angel

Chapter Seven

Nicholas Bracewell set off early next morning on the long walk to the Queen’s Head. Instead of following his customary route to London Bridge, however, he took the opportunity to visit the site of The Angel to speak with the builder. Thomas Bradd was already there when Nicholas arrived, supervising some men who were clearing the site of its accumulated debris. Bradd was a short, sturdy man in his forties with a sense of power in his compact frame and the kind of weather-beaten face which suggested some years at sea. He gave Nicholas a lop-sided grin of welcome.

‘We should make more progress today,’ he said gruffly.

‘Good.’

‘There is no wind to worry about so we can burn all this rubbish without danger. By this afternoon, we will be able to start digging the foundations.’

‘Some of us will join you when our play is done.’

‘It will be hard work,’ warned Bradd. ‘It is not like standing on a scaffold and spouting fine words into the air.’

‘We know that. We expect to sweat.’

‘Sweat, bleed and swear oaths aplenty.’

‘Whatever it takes,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘This playhouse means everything to us. We will put strong arms and willing hearts at your disposal.’

‘I will use them mercilessly.’ Bradd gave a dark chuckle then pointed at the pile of timbers which lay on the site. ‘It is a pity that your actors are not here now. We could do with some of those strong arms to shift that timber. It stood upright yesterday but somehow it has tumbled in the night.’

‘That seems strange.’

‘It does. We stacked it with great care. A howling gale could not have blown it over.’

‘Then why does it now lie on the ground?’

Nicholas watched two of the men begin to move the fallen timbers, slipping a rope around the end of the first one before dragging it clear of the pile then using a shorter plank to lever the timber back into an upright position. He could see the effort that it was costing them. Nicholas was no stranger to physical labour but some of his fellows had led a softer life. They would have a rude shock when they worked for Thomas Bradd on the site of The Angel.

‘I wish that we did not have to build so close to the bank,’ observed Nicholas. ‘The water runs high at this point.’

‘We will take account of that,’ said Bradd.

‘This would not be the only property to be flooded.’

The builder tensed. ‘Do not tell me how to build, sir. I have had twenty years in the trade and know what precautions to take against flood and other perils. Besides,’ he said, waving an arm, ‘we have no choice. The site is not big enough for us to set the playhouse back from the river.’

‘You are right and we have faith in your judgement.’

‘I would not continue otherwise.’

Nicholas soothed him before taking his leave. He did not get far. When he was less than a dozen yards away, a cry of fear made him turn back again. One of the men who had been shifting the timbers was now pointing at something which protruded from the base of the pile. It was a human hand. Nicholas broke into a run and overtook the builder as the latter waddled towards the gruesome discovery. Only a man’s left hand was visible but it bore a distinctive ring which Nicholas had seen many times before. His temples pounded and his mouth went dry as he identified Sylvester Pryde.

‘Get him out of there!’ he ordered.

Then he grabbed one of the timbers and began to heave.

It was strenuous work and they were soon perspiring but Nicholas drove them on. Thomas Bradd did his share, handling the rough timbers with seasoned hands and helping to toss them aside. Any hope that the prone figure might still be alive soon vanished. The sheer weight of the timber would have crushed him to death. One leg was uncovered, then a second, then part of his chest. Nicholas was horrified to see that his friend’s bright apparel was now soaked with blood and caked with filth.

The last and heaviest timber obscured the face of the victim. All four of them lifted it clear and dropped it on the ground. The sight which confronted them made one of the men turn away in disgust and another vomit. Bradd was transfixed. Nicholas was overcome with anguish. Sylvester Pryde was unrecognisable. The handsome face was smashed out of shape, the long hair and beard were glistening with gore. A huge gash in the forehead indicated that it had taken the full force of the timber as it fell. Nicholas fought to master his grief.

‘Poor devil!’ muttered Bradd. ‘Who is he?’

‘A member of the company.’

‘This is a fearful accident.’

‘It was no accident,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was murdered.’

Rose Marwood lay in bed and drifted in and out of sleep as the doctor examined her. The fever seemed to have taken a hold on her. For the first few days after her visit to Clerkenwell, nothing had happened. All that she felt was the lingering aftertaste of the strange brew prepared for her by Mary Hogg. Irritating minor symptoms then began to appear before developing overnight into a raging fever. Rose’s strength ebbed away. The only prayers that were said in her bedchamber now were the frantic entreaties of her mother, begging for forgiveness and pleading for her daughter’s recovery.

Sybil was overwhelmed by remorse. The wild urge to get rid of an unwanted child was now replaced with true maternal concern. As she looked at the flushed face of her daughter, she was shocked by the thought that she might have been responsible for the girl’s illness. In trying to dispose of a child, the wise woman of Clerkenwell, it seemed, might also have brought about the death of its mother.

‘How is she?’ murmured Sybil.

‘Let me examine her properly and I will tell you.’

‘I have never seen Rose so sick.’

‘Stand back, please,’ said the doctor crisply. ‘You are in my light. It might be better if you waited outside.’

‘Do let me stay!’ she implored. ‘Rose is my daughter.’

‘Then let me attend to her.’

Mouthing apologies, Sybil retreated to the other side of the room and watched with trepidation. The doctor was a small, wiry man in his fifties with a white beard and a wizened face. His instruments stood beside him in a leather case. After feeling his patient’s pulse, he opened her mouth gently so that he could peer into it. Then he placed a cool hand on the fevered brow. Rose’s eyes opened again but they lacked any expression. She dozed off within a minute.

The doctor was thorough. When his examination was over, he turned to question Sybil, sensing that she might in some way be responsible for the girl’s sickness.

‘What have you done to her?’ he challenged.

‘Nothing,’ she murmured.

‘She is grievously sick.’

‘That is why we sent for you, doctor.’

‘When your daughter came to visit me, she was strong and healthy. Rose thought she was ailing but I told her that she was with child. That produces changes in the body. I explained that such changes were quite normal and tried to still her fears.’ He glanced back at the bed. ‘But look at her now. These symptoms have nothing to do with motherhood. What has happened to her?’

‘I do not know, doctor.’

‘Has she eaten rancid food? Drunk foul water?’

‘She is well-cared for,’ bleated Sybil defensively.

‘Then why is she locked away like this?’ he said sternly.

‘You used a key to let us in here and I see that bolt upon the window. It should be wide open to admit fresh air not shut tight like that.’

‘It will be opened,’ she promised. ‘It will, it will.’

The doctor put his head to one side and studied her for a moment. Guilt made her shift her feet and rub her hands nervously together. He clicked his tongue in disapproval.

‘What has been going on here?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, nothing.’

‘Why has the girl declined so?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Let me give you a warning,’ he said, fixing her with a cold stare. ‘Do not try to meddle with nature. Rose is unwed and she was shocked to learn that she was with child. You and your husband must also have been shaken by the tidings. That is nothing new. I see it happen all the time to the parents of young girls who give birth out of wedlock. They are hurt,’ he continued, ‘they feel ashamed and desperate. They blame their daughters and make them suffer bitterly. In some cases, they are even driven to extremities.’

‘Extremities?’ croaked Sybil.

‘I think that you know what I mean.’

‘No, doctor.’

‘Unwanted children are conceived all the time,’ he said with a glance at the bed. ‘London is full of quacks and charlatans who will offer to get rid of those children at a price. They are not only tricksters. Such people can cause great damage.’

‘Can they?’

‘What they do is to slaughter innocent babes in the womb. That is not only a heinous crime, it is a sin against nature and an offence before God.’

‘I know that now,’ she gabbled.

‘Never expose your daughter to such witchcraft,’ he insisted. ‘Or you may put her own life in jeopardy.’

‘Will she die, doctor? Will Rose die?’

‘I hope not.’

‘What must we do? Tell us and it will be done.’

‘The first thing you must do is to love and cherish your daughter. Nurse her tenderly. It is always the best medicine.’

‘I will sit beside her day and night.’

He crossed to open his case. ‘I will leave a potion for her,’ he said, taking out a little flask and handing it to her. ‘Give her two drops of it in a small amount of clean water twice a day and make sure that she swallows it. Use a damp cloth to wipe her brow and keep it cool. And open that window to clear away this smell of sickness.’

‘I will, I will, doctor. What else must I do?’

His instructions were long and specific. Sybil made a careful note of them but avoided his piercing gaze because it made her sense of guilt almost unbearable. She plied him with questions of her own and stored up each answer in her memory. Before he left, the doctor casually slipped a hand under the pillow and extracted a battered Roman Catholic Prayer book. Sybil backed away and shuddered violently.

‘This has no place in a Protestant household,’ he chided. ‘You know the law. We have put aside the old religion. How did this forbidden book come to be in the girl’s bed?’

‘I do not know,’ she lied, snatching it from him. ‘But I will throw it away at once, doctor. I give you my word.’

‘Honour it,’ he said sharply. ‘Or I will have to report this to your parish priest. You will not save your daughter with Romish incantations or with concoctions sold by quacks. Medicine is the only cure.’

‘Yes, yes.’

He looked at Rose. ‘Call me if her condition worsens.’

‘We will, doctor.’

‘And remember that you are a mother.’

The words were a stinging rebuke and Sybil felt the full force of them. When the doctor scurried out of the room, she sat down on a stool and wept contritely. Rose seemed peaceful now, eyes closed and breathing regular. But the fever was clearly still upon her and Sybil suspected that it had originated in a Clerkenwell backstreet.

She was still sobbing when her husband eventually arrived.

Alexander Marwood was even more appalled than usual.

‘The doctor asked for his fee,’ he moaned. ‘Do you know how much the man charged me?’

‘It does not matter,’ she said.

‘It matters to me, Sybil. The fee was exorbitant.’

‘If he can save Rose, I would give him every penny we have,’ she said, crossing to the bed. ‘We have wronged her, Alexander. We treated her like a criminal instead of a daughter. I feel so ashamed of what you made me do.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes,’ she said, trying to shift some of the blame. ‘You badgered me, sir. You forced me to punish Rose.’

Marwood was dumbfounded. No husband was less capable of forcing a wife to do anything than him. Obsequious requests were his only means of influencing Sybil. He peered over her shoulder at the slumbering girl. He was sorry that Rose was so ill but his first thought was still of his own humiliation.

‘Has she lost the child?’ he said hopefully.

‘No, Alexander.’

‘But you told me that she would.’

Sybil’s words burnt into him like a branding iron.

‘I told you nothing of the kind. Do you understand?’

When Nicholas Bracewell finally reached the Queen’s Head, he found the company in a buoyant mood. The stage had been erected, properties had been set out and the actors were chatting happily in groups. Nicholas was given a mocking cheer when he appeared. Usually the first to arrive, he was now the straggler in the party. Lawrence Firethorn sought to rub the message home.

‘Ah, Nick!’ he said good-humouredly, ‘so you have risen from your bed at last, have you? You are unconscionably late, dear heart. It is not like you to put the caresses of a lady before the needs of your company. Why the delay?’

‘I will tell you in private.’

‘Secrets, eh? I long to hear them.’

Nicholas drew him aside to break the sad tidings. He explained that the delay was forced upon him. When the body of Sylvester Pryde was uncovered, constables were summoned and the crime reported. Nicholas supervised the transfer of the corpse to the morgue before giving a sworn statement to the coroner. It was only then that he was able to hurry to the Queen’s Head.

Firethorn was thunderstruck by the news.

‘God in heaven!’ he murmured. ‘This is a tragedy!’

‘We must decide what to do,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘My advice would be to cancel this morning’s rehearsal so that we may appraise the situation. Black Antonio needs little enough attention. We have performed the play so often that we could do so at a moment’s notice without any rehearsal.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘We need time to think.’

‘Let me speak to the company. They will have to be told sooner or later and I would rather they heard it from my lips. In any case,’ he added, ‘they will be able to help me.’

‘In what way?’

‘Someone must have seen Sylvester leave here last night. They can give me some idea of what time that was. I had already returned to Bankside so I have no knowledge of his movements. Sylvester Pryde was a good friend to us. I will track down his killer,’ he vowed, ‘and the trail starts here.’

‘We will all want to follow that trail, Nick,’ said the other vehemently. ‘The culprit must be made to pay for this hideous crime. He has not only murdered Sylvester. He has killed our new playhouse stone dead.’

‘That may not be so.’

‘But Sylvester was our intermediary.’

‘The loan is secured and the terms agreed.’

‘Might not our benefactor wish to withdraw the money?’ said Firethorn anxiously. ‘His only reason for helping us was his friendship with Sylvester. That can no longer exist.’

Nicholas was calm. ‘Let us not race to meet a problem that may not exist,’ he said. ‘Two things must be done as soon as possible. We must find this guardian angel of ours and acquaint him with this terrible event. My hope is that he will want the playhouse to be as much a theatre as a memorial to Sylvester Pryde. Our loan may still be safe.’

‘You spoke of two things, Nick.’

‘I did.’

‘What is the other?’

‘We must keep up the spirits of the company,’ said Nicholas. ‘These heavy tidings will tear at their hearts but we must not let them despair. Westfield’s Men are under surveillance. If our work suffers, our chances of survival grow small. The company must strive to its utmost.’

‘We will, Nick. For Sylvester’s sake as much as for our own. He would not want us to betray our art.’

‘I will impress that upon them.’

When they were herded into the tiring-house, Westfield’s Men knew that something was seriously amiss. The lateness of Nicholas Bracewell and the absence of Sylvester Pryde were worrying signs but none of them suspected how the two were conjoined. Nicholas broke the news to them as gently as he could but there was no way that he could lessen its impact. The whole company was rocked. Richard Honeydew fainted, two of the other apprentices burst into tears and George Dart had a fit of uncontrollable shivering. Edmund Hoode offered up a silent prayer for the soul of the departed. Owen Elias pulled out his dagger and swore to avenge the murder. Barnaby Gill retreated into a watchful silence.

‘We will not rehearse this morning,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We need time to make certain decisions and some of you, I know, will prefer to be alone with your thoughts. But remember this,’ he said over the murmur of agreement. ‘Black Antonio must not suffer. Though we have lost a fellow, we still have a duty to our audience, our patron and ourselves. Mourn for Sylvester in your hearts. Do not take that sorrow onto the stage this afternoon.’

‘You will answer to me if you do,’ cautioned Firethorn. ‘Black Antonio is a fine play which must be well-acted. Let us dedicate the performance to Sylvester Pryde and make it worthy of his name. Are we agreed?’

A rousing shout of affirmation went up. Firethorn tried to lift their morale before dismissing them. He and Nicholas stayed behind with Hoode and Gill. Seated on benches in the tiring-house, they attempted to evaluate the full effect of their colleague’s untimely death. Gill was despondent.

‘This has destroyed us,’ he concluded morosely.

‘Only if we let it do so,’ said Nicholas.

‘Sylvester was the moving spirit behind The Angel.’

‘He has gone to join the angels himself now, Barnaby,’ mused Hoode. ‘He may be looking down on us at this minute.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘looking down and urging us to go on with the building. One of our rivals is behind this murder. I feel it in my bones. If they cannot beat us by fair means, they will resort to foul deeds. Do we leave the field and let Banbury’s Men and Havelock’s Men strut in triumph? Never!’

Nicholas was circumspect. ‘We do not know that Sylvester was killed by one of our rivals,’ he said softly, ‘and we should not allot blame until we have learnt the true facts of the situation. The first thing I would like to know is what Sylvester was doing on that site.’

‘Dreaming,’ said Hoode. ‘What else?’

‘But when did he go there? Last night? This morning?’

‘Was he taken there by force?’ wondered Firethorn. ‘Or did he go of his own accord?’

‘And why kill him in such a brutal manner?’ asked Hoode. ‘Is there some significance in the manner of his death?’

‘Yes,’ decided Gill. ‘It put a curse on the site. But you are wasting your time asking all these questions about Sylvester when the most important one remains unanswered. He came out of nowhere to join us and bought his way into our affections. We do not know from whom he raised this loan or how to make contact with our benefactor. When Sylvester quit his lodging, he told nobody where he went. In short, he went out of his way to cover his tracks.’ He looked searchingly around the faces of the others. ‘What we should be asking ourselves is this. Who was Sylvester Pryde?’

Lucius Kindell was learning what a handicap his diffidence could be. When he worked alongside the mild-mannered Edmund Hoode, he had no problems. Hoode treated him like an equal and encouraged him to express himself freely. Rupert Kitely came from a very different mould. Though he could be quiet and persuasive when the need arose, he could also be stern and authoritative and the young playwright found it difficult to talk to him, still less to contradict him. Consumed with anxieties, he was too shy even to voice them in Kiteley’s hearing. It was a situation which had to change.

As he sat in the lower gallery of The Rose and watched Havelock’s Men in rehearsal, he was afflicted yet again with guilt. Westfield’s Men had launched his writing career at a time when their rivals viewed his work with less enthusiasm. Under the aegis of Hoode, he could feel his talent developing but his confidence in that talent was now waning. Had he been engaged by Rupert Kitely because the latter really believed that he would write wonderful dramas or was he simply being used as a stick with which to beat Westfield’s Men? Kindell decided that it was time to find out and he screwed up his courage to do so.

His opportunity came during a break in rehearsal. Rupert Kitely beckoned him down with a lordly wave. There was an air of condescension about the actor now. When Kindell joined him, he was deliberately kept waiting for few minutes. His resolve began to melt away. Kitely eventually turned to him.

‘Well, Lucius?’ he said. ‘Do you like what you see?’

‘Very much, sir.’

‘A competent piece but we will make it look a much more accomplished drama. That is our art, Lucius. To take base metal and turn it into gold.’ He saw the distress on the other’s face and laughed. ‘That was no reflection on your work, my young friend. Lucius Kindell will give us gold which we will merely have to burnish. How fares the new play?’

‘Slowly.’

‘Why so?’

‘I find it difficult to work alone.’

‘You will soon grow accustomed to that.’

‘Will I?’ said Kindell meekly. ‘I am not so certain. I have been deprived of my master and I miss him.’

‘You have outgrown Edmund Hoode,’ said Kitely with a reassuring smile. ‘He has taught you all he can, Lucius. From now on, you will not have to work in his shadow. You will forge a play of your own and take full praise for its excellence.’

‘That excellence has eluded me so far.’

‘I will help you. Have no fear.’

Kitely broke off to distribute some orders among other members of the company. His authority was unquestioned and they treated him with the utmost respect. That only served to put Kindell even more in awe of him. That same awe had also been engendered by Lawrence Firethorn but it had been less of a problem. Though a much more flamboyant character, Firethorn was somehow approachable in a way that Kitely was not. The playwright found it hard to believe that he was with the man who had shown him such warm friendship at the Devil tavern.

After a few more commands, Kitely came back to him.

‘You catch me at a busy time, Lucius.’

‘I did not mean to disturb you.’

‘No, no,’ exhorted the other. ‘Come as often as you like. Actors are the tools with which you work. The more you come to know about us, the better you will deploy us. Besides, you are one of Havelock’s Men now.’

‘Am I?’

‘We have commissioned a new play, have we not?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Kindell, ‘and I am grateful.’

‘Then no more regrets about the Queen’s Head. In this profession, survival is everything. We will still be here at The Rose when Westfield’s Men are no more than a dim memory.’

‘I will always remember them.’

‘And so you should, Lucius. But they head for extinction.’

‘Do they?’

‘I told you what the Privy Council intends.’

‘Yet I heard a rumour that they are building their own playhouse here in Bankside.’

Kitely was dismissive. ‘Pay no attention to that.’

‘Is it not true?’

‘It is true that they hope to build a playhouse. They have even had the gall to christen it. But their Angel Theatre will be torn down before it is ever used.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because the Privy Council has decreed that there will only be one playhouse south of the river. And I am in a position to tell you, Lucius,’ he said with conviction, ‘that you are at present standing in it.’

Nicholas Bracewell spent the rest of the morning trying to establish some details about Sylvester Pryde’s movements. Several members of the company remembered his leaving the Queen’s Head on the previous night and there was rough agreement on the approximate time of his departure. Assuming that he had headed for the river, Nicholas retraced his steps and pushed his way through the crowded Gracechurch Street. He followed his instincts and swung right into Thames Street then sharp left. He was soon standing on the riverbank, listening to the gulls and watching the dark water lapping at the wharves.

Boats were coming and going all the time as watermen delivered or collected passengers. Those who gave a tip to their ferrymen were rewarded with courteous thanks while those who failed to reward them suffered a torrent of abuse from the vociferous watermen. Nicholas began a painstaking search for a boat which might have taken Sylvester Pryde across the river. Since he often used that mode of transport himself, he was well known to the boatmen and called many by name but none was able to help him. Most had gone off to a tavern or home to bed at the time when Nicholas’s friend might have wished to be rowed across the river. The book holder gradually came round to the conclusion that Sylvester must have walked over London Bridge.

He was just about to leave the riverbank when another boat pulled into the wharf. Two passengers paid their fare and alighted. Nicholas strolled over to the boatmen and put to them the questions he had already put to dozens of their colleagues. The two men in the boat traded a glance. There was such a close resemblance between them that they had to be father and son. The older one acted as spokesman.

‘How much is it worth?’ he asked.

‘The fare across the river,’ offered Nicholas.

‘Why do you want to know about this man?’

‘He was a good friend of mine.’

‘Any other reason?’

‘Someone murdered him.’

‘Then we will help you all we can, sir,’ said the boatman apologetically, ‘and we do so at no cost. We did pick up a gentleman last night. Around the time you say and looking much as you describe. We saw him clear by the light of the torch. Apparelled in red and black with a black hat that bore an ostrich feather. Is that him, sir?’

‘Yes!’ said Nicholas. ‘What happened?’

‘We rowed him across and dropped him by the old boathouse. He was very generous, as my son will confirm. When we went ashore, we drank to his health at a tavern.’

‘Did he speak to you as you rowed across?’

‘Not a word, sir.’

‘Did you see where he went?’

‘To that old boatyard. It was burnt down.’

‘Was there anyone else there?’

‘We saw nobody, sir, but it was growing dark. There may have been someone in the shadows.’

‘Did anyone follow you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Follow us?’

‘Across the river.’

‘Two or three boats, sir. We paid no heed to them.’

‘Did any of them land near the boatyard?’

‘Who knows? We left as soon as we were paid.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘Nothing beyond the fact that he was a gentleman, sir,’ said the other. ‘But you know that. A fine, well-spoken man. When we picked him up here, he was staring across the river at something over by the boatyard. Is that any help?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas gratefully.

He thrust a coin into the man’s hand then hurried away. Progress had been made, albeit small. He now had a clear idea of the time when Sylvester Pryde must have reached the site of The Angel theatre and, most probably, was killed there. He could also guess what had impelled his friend to go there in the first place. Pryde was a romantic, deeply in love with the whole notion of theatre and fired by the thought that he would be involved in the construction of a new playhouse. Nicholas could imagine how completely caught up in the emotion of the moment he would have been as he walked around the site of The Angel. It would have left him off guard.

When he got back to the Queen’s Head, the first person he met was Leonard, rolling an empty barrel across the yard before hoisting it without effort onto a waiting cart. Leonard’s big, round face split into a grin when he saw his friend approaching. It was Nicholas who found him the job at the Queen’s Head and he was eternally grateful to him, happily enduring the strictures of Alexander Marwood in return for a regular wage and a place to live.

‘Well-met, Leonard!’

‘It is good to see you again, Nicholas.’

‘I am here almost every day.’

‘That is still never enough for me.’ The grin widened. ‘But I thought to watch you at rehearsal this morning.’

‘Evidently, you have not heard the news.’

‘News?’

‘Sad tidings, Leonard. We have lost Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Lost him?’ He blinked in surprise. ‘He has gone?’

‘For ever, I fear. Sylvester is dead.’

When he heard the details, Leonard’s face crumpled and his eyes grew moist. Pryde was a popular figure in the taproom and always had a kind word for those who worked there. Leonard was stunned by the notion that he would never see him again.

‘Why,’ he said, running a hand across his chin, ‘I bade him farewell less than twelve hours ago. Had I known I was sending him off to his grave, Nicholas, I would have held him back with both hands. Dear Lord! What a case is this!’

Nicholas was curious. ‘You bade him farewell, you say?’

‘Yes. Last night.’

‘As he left the Queen’s Head?’

Leonard nodded. ‘I was here in the yard and called out to him as he passed. But I do not think he heard me for he made no reply and that was strange. I remarked on it to Martin.’

‘Who is Martin?’

‘You remember him,’ said the other. ‘He worked here as a drawer some months ago. As friendly a soul as you could meet. But Martin could not take the sharp edge of our landlord’s tongue and he left.’

‘What was he doing back here?’

‘He drops in from time to time if he is passing. I think he lodges nearby. I told him how odd it was that Sylvester did not return my farewell.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘Right, into Gracechurch Street.’

‘That confirms what I have already found out.’

Leonard frowned in dismay. ‘Could I have been the last person to see him alive, Nicholas? I would hate to think that.’

‘Sylvester took a boat across the river. I talked with the watermen who rowed him across. Besides,’ sighed Nicholas, ‘the last person who saw him alive was his killer.’

‘Who would want to murder such a kind gentleman?’

‘That is what I intend to find out.’

‘There is so much villainy in this world!’ said Leonard. His eye travelled to the upper storey of the inn and his voice became a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Some of it has been taking place under this roof, Nicholas.’

‘Here?’

‘Mistress Rose. They have treated her wickedly.’

‘Her parents?’

‘Yes, and now she lies sick of a fever.’

‘What have they done to the poor girl?’

‘Locked her away like the vilest criminal. They even bolted her window so that she could not talk to anyone out of it. That was my fault, I fear.’

‘Yours, Leonard?’

‘I took her food and meant to toss it up to her. But someone caught her with the window open when I was below. One of the servingmen was ordered to fix a bolt on it.’

‘This is harsh behaviour for a parent.’

‘It is cruelty, Nicholas,’ he said, ‘and the saddest thing is that I cannot help Rose. She has been so good to me.’

‘And now she has a fever?’

‘I was sent to fetch a doctor.’

‘Then it must be serious.’

‘That is my fear.’ He became sombre. ‘The Queen’s Head is changing. I said so to Martin. It is not the place I have so enjoyed working in. Friends have drifted away. Rose is hidden from me. Master Marwood has grown bitter. And now,’ he said with a nod towards the makeshift stage, ‘I hear that we are to lose Westfield’s Men as well.’

‘Not through choice.’

‘I will miss you, Nicholas.’

‘We will be sorry to leave.’

‘Is there no hope that you will stay?’

‘None.’

Leonard’s head dropped to his chest and he emitted a long sigh of resignation. Nicholas was about to move away when a stray thought nudged him.

‘Where does he work now?’

‘Who?’ said Leonard.

‘Your friend, Martin?’

‘At the Brown Bear in Eastcheap. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Nicholas pensively.

Given the circumstances in which it took place, the performance of Black Antonio that afternoon was a small miracle. It was taut and dramatic, full of fire and deep meaning, and it kept the audience completely ensnared for the two and half hours of its duration. Since it was expressly dedicated to Sylvester Pryde, everyone in the company wanted to make an important personal contribution and it was left to Lawrence Firethorn, in the title role, to bring them all together into a unified whole. Such was their commitment that nobody would have guessed that it was a demoralised company in mourning for a dear friend.

Barnaby Gill was outstanding. In a play as dark and relentless as Black Antonio, the comic scenes took on an extra significance and Gill made the most of each one of them. He was as spry as ever during his jigs and his clownish antics brought welcome relief to an audience in the grip of high tension. When the company left the stage at the end of the play, Firethorn paid him the rare compliment of embracing him and showering him with congratulations.

‘You were magnificent, Barnaby!’

‘I always am, Lawrence,’ said Gill tartly. ‘But you have only just noticed me.’

‘Sylvester would have delighted in your performance.’

‘He appreciated true art.’

‘So did our audience.’

Elation soon gave way to dejection again as the company remembered how Sylvester Pryde had been killed. They tumbled off to the taproom to celebrate the performance and to drown their sorrows. Drink was taken too quickly and a maudlin note soon dominated. Westfield’s Men began to exchange fond stories about their murdered colleague and to speculate on the identity of his killer.

Gill stayed with his colleagues until the majority of them were too drunk even to notice if he was there. When Owen Elias fell asleep beside him, he slipped surreptitiously away from the table and made for the door. Only Nicholas Bracewell saw him go. Once outside, Gill made sure that he was not followed, then set off. It was a long walk but his brisk stride ate up the distance and he reached his destination when there was still enough light for him to see the tavern clearly.

As he looked up at the building and heard the sounds of revelry from within, he wondered if it was wise to keep this particular tryst. He hesitated at the threshold until self-interest got the better of loyalty. When he entered the taproom, he saw Henry Quine sitting alone at a table. Quine beckoned Gill over.

‘Hello, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘I hoped that you would come.’ He gestured for Gill to sit beside him. ‘There is someone who is very anxious to meet you.’

A tall figure came out of the shadows.

‘Welcome to Shoreditch!’ said Giles Randolph.

He gave a quiet smile of triumph.