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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Nicholas Bracewell
- Sprache: Englisch
Lord Westfield's Men, the most successful troupe in London and a prime target for jealousy and resentment, are plagued by a series of practical jokes. But when one of their actors is murdered, the humour turns distinctly sour. Appalling events continue: Lawrence Firethorn, actor-manager, is stalked by a mysterious lady; the sole copy of 'The Malevolent Comedy'- the company's new play - is stolen, their leading apprentice is abducted and there is an attempt on the life of Lord Westfield, their patron. It's soon clear that someone more vicious than a practical jokester is trying to destroy the troupe and that Nicholas Bracewell, the resourceful book holder, has an almighty struggle to save his beloved company from certain demise.
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Seitenzahl: 383
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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The Malevolent Comedy
An Elizabethan Mystery
EDWARD MARSTON
The Malevolent Comedy
Contents
Chapter One
Nicholas Bracewell had worked in the theatre for many years but he had never known a silence so complete and reverential. The hush that fell on the audience that Sunday afternoon was extraordinary. Those standing in the pit stopped munching their apples or shuffling their feet, spectators in the galleries ceased fidgeting, and pickpockets who operated in every part of the playhouse abandoned their craft momentarily lest the noise of a purse being lifted should cause a disturbance. Some people did not even dare to breathe.
A searing tragedy had reached its climax with the death of its eponymous hero, Lamberto, an Italian potentate. The silence that followed seemed to reach out beyond the walls of the theatre to embrace the whole of Shoreditch. For a full minute, the world itself stood still. Then the final speech took Lamberto to its poignant conclusion.
Our ruler brought great joy unto the state,
A single fault, enough to seal his fate.
His tragedy so stark, unkind and grim,
To love his people more than they loved him.
Before the rhyming couplets ended the play and released the audience from the unbearable tension of the closing scene, tears were flowing freely on all sides. A profoundly moving drama had touched the hearts of all who watched it. Having devoted himself to the care of his subjects, Lamberto, a benevolent monarch, betrayed by some of the very people he had served so well, sacrificed his life for his country. His nobility had been an example to all. To the sound of solemn music, he was borne away by his stricken subjects.
After such a stirring performance, it was almost sacrilegious to break the mood by resorting to something as banal as clapping and there was a collective reluctance to do so. When the first pair of hands did eventually meet in gratitude, however, others soon followed then the torrent burst forth. Everyone in the galleries rose to acclaim a triumph and Nicholas Bracewell was among them. Nobody clapped harder or with more enthusiasm. He had seen a fine play, cleverly staged and beautifully acted. Book holder for Westfield’s Men, one of London’s leading theatre companies, Nicholas was a keen judge of drama and he acknowledged without hesitation that Lamberto was unquestionably the best thing he had seen on a stage all season. It had one glaring defect.
It did not belong to Westfield’s Men, but to their deadly rivals.
‘You went to see Banbury’s Men?’ said Lawrence Firethorn with disgust. ‘How could you, Nick? Nothing on God’s earth would make me sit through a performance by that crew of mountebanks.’
‘London takes a very different view of their work. What I saw this afternoon was the ninth successive staging of Lamberto. Like today, the other performances filled the Curtain till it was fit to burst.’
‘I care not if it was the hundredth time the piece was aired. I’d sooner be stretched on the rack, and have my eyes pecked out by ravens, than watch Giles Randolph strut upon the boards. He and his company are pigmies beside Westfield’s Men.’
‘They were more than a match for us today.’
Firethorn’s anger flared. ‘What!’ he exclaimed with a voice like a wounded buffalo. ‘You dare to compare those ranting buffoons with us? You have the gall to mention the name of that vile toad, Randolph, alongside my own? Shame on you, Nick!’
‘I speak as I find,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘It’s folly to be blinded by naked prejudice. Giles Randolph will never eclipse you as an actor but Banbury’s Men have nevertheless put us in the shade this past week. While our audiences have dwindled, they have unleashed this new tragedy on the capital and won golden opinions from everyone.’
‘Including you, it seems.’
‘I went merely to see if reports of its excellence were true.’
‘Have you no better way of spending the Sabbath?’
‘Yes,’ retorted Nicholas, ‘the best way of all is to be on our stage at the Queen’s Head, competing with our rivals. That’s where I’d love to spend my Sunday afternoons. But we’re kept idle by edicts that prevent us playing on the Lord’s Day because we are within the city limits.’
‘A rank injustice,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘While we sit on our hands, Giles Randolph and his miserable actors can ply their trade out here in Shoreditch, free from city restraints. Both playhouses – the Curtain and the Theatre – flourish at our expense. It’s monstrous, Nick, all the more so for me, living cheek by jowl with our rivals. There’s no more devilish sound for an actor’s ears than that of thunderous applause for others.’
They were in the parlour of Firethorn’s house in Old Street, only minutes away from the theatre where Lamberto had been performed. It was impossible for the actor not to hear the lengthy ovation that it had earned. Each second had been a separate dagger through his heart. He sat down heavily in a chair and turned a melancholy eye on his visitor.
‘Did the play really deserve its plaudits?’ he asked.
‘Every one of them,’ replied Nicholas, honestly.
‘What of Randolph?’
‘Inspired. The best I’ve seen from him.’
‘That’s not saying much,’ growled Firethorn, stung by the praise of the one actor in London who could threaten his primacy. ‘The fellow is a raw beginner, still green and untried. It were an achievement for him simply to stand upright and remember his lines.’
Nicholas Bracewell showed his usual tact. His friend had suffered enough. It would be cruel to point out that Giles Randolph had given a towering performance in a remarkable new play. And the actor-manager of Westfield’s Men needed no reminding that his company had hit a difficult patch. Takings were down, audiences cool, morale among the actors low. Unable to offer a new play for several weeks, the troupe had fallen back on its stock of old dramas, many of which now looked tired and stale. Westfield’s Men were no longer leading the way in the theatre. Their supremacy was fading and Firethorn knew it only too well. His head sank to his chest.
‘Who wrote this tragedy of theirs?’ he muttered.
‘John Vavasor and Cyrus Hame.’
‘Why did they not bring it to us first?’
‘Because of the way you dealt with Master Vavasor,’ explained Nicholas. ‘When he offered you his History of Edmund Ironside, you told him your children had written better things on their slates.’
‘And so they had!’
‘That was untrue and ungenerous. The play had faults, and many of them, but there was great promise locked away inside it. Had you seen fit to encourage that promise, instead of condemning it outright, Master Vavasor’s loyalty would have been bought. Instead,’ said Nicholas, pointedly, ‘he found a co-author in Master Hame, who has lifted his art to new heights. On his own, John Vavasor was lacking but, with Cyrus Hame beside him, he’s transformed.’
Firethorn was dismissive. ‘This success of theirs is like a beam of sunlight,’ he said with contempt. ‘It dazzles for a while then vanishes forever behind the clouds. We’ll not hear of Vavasor and Hame again.’
‘Assuredly, we will.’
‘Why so, Nick?’
‘The rumour is that they have already finished a second play,’ said Nicholas, trying to break the news gently, ‘and it goes into rehearsal soon. It’s a tragedy about Pompey the Great.’
‘Never!’ howled Firethorn, leaping to his feet. ‘I am Pompey the Great. It is one of my finest achievements. I’ll not let that vulture, Giles Randolph, pick the bones of my role. I am a greater Pompey the Great than he could ever be. Send for my lawyers, Nick. This must be stopped.’
‘There’s no law to stop an author writing about Ancient Rome,’ said Nicholas, reasonably. ‘The play in which you shone was masterly, I grant you, but there have been others on the same subject. Master Vavasor and Master Hame clearly believe they can conjure a new shape out of this old material.’
‘Theft! Plagiarism! Iniquity!’
Firethorn stormed around the room as if he were Pompey the Great on receipt of bad news about a battle. He roared, cursed and made violent gestures. Pompey was one of his favourite roles. Too possessive to let anyone else take it on, he was appalled by the notion that Randolph would usurp him. It was insupportable. Stopping beside the wooden table, he thumped it so hard with a fist that the manuscript lying on it was tossed inches in the air. The sight of the fluttering pages took all the rage out of him. It was replaced by cold despair.
‘A pox on it!’ he cried, picking up the manuscript. ‘They have this wondrous Lamberto with a new-minted tragedy to follow it and what can we set against them?’ He flung the sheaf of papers down. ‘This dull and feeble comedy about a lovesick milkmaid. Pah!’
‘How to Choose a Good Wife has its merits,’ said Nicholas, defensively.
‘Enough to put before a paying audience?’
‘Edmund has written better plays, it’s true.’
‘Answer my question, Nick.’
‘Barnaby liked it.’
‘Barnaby Gill likes any play that allows him to pull faces at the audience and dance those tedious jigs of his. And what does he know about choosing a good wife?’ he added, raising a meaningful eyebrow. ‘Unless the wife in question is a pretty boy with sweet lips and a compliant body. Don’t fob me off with Barnaby’s opinion,’ he warned. ‘Give me your own. Is this play fit for performance?’
Nicholas took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Not ever. It’s the worst thing that Edmund has ever penned.’
‘It needs a little work, that’s all.’
‘What it needs is another plot, another set of characters and another title. Most of all, Nick,’ he insisted, ‘it needs what every comedy needs and that is comic substance. There’s not a decent laugh in it from start to finish. Worse still – there’s not an indecent laugh.’
‘That’s too harsh an opinion.’
‘It’s the one that Edmund will hear when he arrives, and he’s due here any moment. I’m in no mood to spare his feelings. He’s contracted to supply us with plays of quality – not with this base, brown paper stuff.’ He gave a snort. ‘Edmund Hoode may know how to choose a wife but he’s forgotten how to write a comedy. I’ll tell him so to his face.’
Right on cue, there was a knock at the front door and they heard Firethorn’s wife, Margery, going to answer it. Nicholas glanced down at the fateful manuscript. Edmund Hoode was a close friend of his and he wanted to protect him from the actor-manager’s scorn. A man who had provided so many good plays for the company over the years deserved due consideration. Nicholas stepped forward.
‘Let me speak to him,’ he volunteered.
‘I commissioned the play,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’ll hurl it back at him.’
‘That’s what you did to Master Vavasor.’
Sobered by the reminder, the actor retreated into a sullen silence. When his wife conducted Edmund Hoode into the room, Firethorn spared him no more than a curt nod. Nicholas, by contrast, gave him a warm greeting. Margery looked on with a hospitable smile. She was a handsome woman in her thirties, still vivacious and blossoming in male company. The tall, pale, moon-faced, ever-anxious Hoode always aroused her maternal instincts. She touched his arm.
‘Can I get you anything, Edmund?’ she enquired.
‘You can get us all something strong to drink,’ said Firethorn. ‘I have a feeling that we’ll need it.’
‘Yes, Lawrence.’
‘Open that bottle of Canary wine.’
‘I will.’
Margery lifted the hem of her dress and tripped out of the room. Hoode’s eye went straight to the play that lay on the table. Before Firethorn could speak, Nicholas interrupted him.
‘Why don’t we all sit down?’ he suggested, lowering himself into a chair. The others sat opposite him. ‘How are you, Edmund?’
‘Keen to hear your opinion of the play,’ replied Hoode. ‘I know that you went to the Curtain today. How did Lamberto fare?’
‘Very well indeed.’
‘Enough of this turgid tragedy!’ protested Firethorn. ‘I’ll not have Banbury’s Men praised under my roof. The only play that concerns me is the one that lies on that table.’
‘That’s what I came to discuss,’ said Hoode. ‘I worked long and hard on How to Choose a Good Wife. When will it go into rehearsal?’
‘Never!’
‘What Lawrence means,’ said Nicholas, trying to soften the blow, ‘is that the play is not yet entirely ready to be put before an audience. It lacks your usual deft touch, Edmund.’
‘It lacks anything that might commend it,’ announced Firethorn.
Hoode was distressed. ‘You thought it that poor?’
‘Poverty itself.’
‘But not without its finer points,’ said Nicholas, keen to offer his friend some solace. ‘Barnaby was delighted with his role and I believe the scene at the fair was a small masterpiece. Taken as a whole, however, the piece does not hang together.’
‘Then it is rejected?’ said Hoode, shaken to the core.
‘For the time being, perhaps.’
‘That’s all eternity in my book,’ declared Firethorn. ‘I’d not dare to feed an audience on such a half-baked matter as that. It would stick in their throats.’ Margery came into the room with a tray. ‘This is the way to choose a good wife,’ he went on, cheerfully. ‘Follow my example. Pick a comely creature who knows when and how to satisfy your appetites.’ He patted Margery on the rump. ‘Thank you, my love.’
‘We’ve company,’ she scolded, gently. ‘Behave yourself, Lawrence.’
‘Why? Nick and Edmund know how much I adore you.’
‘Tell me about your adoration at a more seemly time.’
After handing each man a cup of wine, she went back to the kitchen. Firethorn took a long sip of his drink while Nicholas set his cup down on the table. Hoode stared bleakly into his own wine as if seeing the dregs of his career as a playwright. A pessimist at the best of times, he now sank into complete despondency. Seeing his gloom, Firethorn repented of his bluntness and felt sorry for him. Nicholas, for once, was unable to find words of comfort for his friend. It was Hoode who finally broke the awkward silence.
‘You are both right,’ he conceded, sadly. ‘You tell me nothing that I didn’t know myself when I laboured on it. How to Choose a Good Wife is a case of How to Write a Bad Play. Barnaby was pleased with his role because I gave the Clown several scenes and let him dance in each one. All that he bothered to look at were the parts in which he appeared. You, on the other hand, read the whole play and saw how shapeless it was.’
‘That can be remedied,’ said Nicholas.
‘Not by me, Nick.’
‘You have a gift for construction.’
‘Then it’s left me,’ said Hoode. ‘I’m not the man I was. My wit no longer sparks, my pen no longer flows. The well of creation has dried up.’
‘How oft have we heard you say that?’
‘This time, I mean it.’
‘You meant it when you spoke the very same words about your last play,’ Nicholas reminded him, ‘and with some justice. When you were writing A Way to Content All Women, you were struck down with such a pernicious disease that you never thought to recover. Yet, when you did, you finished the play within a week and it turned out to be the sprightliest comedy of the season. Your well has not gone dry, Edmund. You simply have to lower the bucket a little further in it.’
‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, showing some sympathy at last. ‘We love you and respect your work, Edmund. It would be cruel to offer this new play under your name and undo all your credit. Nick speaks true.’ He inflated his chest. ‘A Way to Content All Women was a triumph for me – and a sparkling comedy to boot. That was the real Edmund Hoode at work.’
‘I am merely his ghost,’ said the playwright with a sigh.
‘We put too much upon you,’ argued Nicholas. ‘You are not only obliged to provide us with a steady flow of new plays, but to keep old ones in repair, and to lend your guidance to novice authors. And if that were not enough, you also hold your own as an actor.’
‘My duties wore me down. I am posthumous.’
‘Drink up, man,’ said Firethorn. ‘Enough of this nonsense about the death of your art. All you need is a good rest. If your pen has molted, give it time to grow its feathers again.’
‘That’s sound advice,’ said Nicholas, sampling his wine.
‘Watch and pray.’
‘But what do we do meanwhile?’ asked Hoode, taking a welcome sip of his own drink. ‘Novelty is ever the life-blood of theatre. While our rivals can assuage the demand for new plays, our offerings are bent with age and covered with dust.’
‘I may have the answer to that,’ said Firethorn, reflectively.
‘Oh?’ Nicholas was very surprised. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Are you talking about a new play?’
‘A new playwright. Since we were in such straits, I took it upon myself to commission a comedy from him. Yes, yes,’ he went on, quickly, before Hoode could interrupt, ‘I know that I exceeded my powers. Before a new play is accepted, it must be read by you and Barnaby as well.’
‘And by Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘He may not be a sharer but there’s no shrewder judge of a play in the whole company. Why did you not at least take him into your confidence?’
Nicholas was disconcerted. ‘I could ask the same thing,’ he said. ‘You made no mention of this new playwright before Edmund arrived.’
‘I wanted you both to hear the news together,’ claimed Firethorn. ‘And I look to one of you to pass it on to Barnaby because I know he’ll have a tantrum when he realises that he was kept in the dark.’
‘Like the rest of us.’
‘Do not censure me, Nick. Nobody is better placed than you to know what a parlous state our finances are in. To reduce our commitments, we had to part with three hired men last week and manage without them. Desperate situations call for desperate measures.’
‘So what have you done?’ asked Hoode with unaccustomed sarcasm. ‘Written a play yourself?’
‘No,’ returned Firethorn, ‘I relied on my instinct. I met a fellow, lately come to London with an ambition to be a dramatist. Most who entertain that dream will never have it fulfilled but Hibbert is different.’
‘Hibbert?’
‘That’s his name, Edmund. Mark it well. Saul Hibbert.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Nicholas.
‘You soon will,’ prophesied Firethorn, ‘and so will all of London. He has a rare talent and we must harness it. All that he was able to show me were three acts of his comedy but they were enough to make me offer him a contract. Saul Hibbert is our man.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘He wrote to me and asked if we would consider his work.’
‘And we would have done so,’ said Hoode, peevishly, ‘had you had the grace to ask us. This is most irregular, Lawrence. We’ve always discussed new work before and not proceeded with a commission until all three of us – Nick, too, of course – were thoroughly satisfied.’
‘I think I can guarantee satisfaction in this case.’
‘Yet you only saw three acts of the play?’ said Nicholas, worried.
‘One was enough to tell me that he is a true dramatist.’
‘And when will his comedy be finished?’
‘By the end of next week,’ said Firethorn. ‘Why these long faces?’ he went on as the others exchanged an apprehensive glance. ‘You should be rejoicing with me. I’ve found a second Edmund Hoode.’
‘The first one has not departed yet!’ yelled Hoode, indignantly.
‘A moment ago, you were talking from the grave.’
‘I’ve climbed out again.’
‘Be still, Edmund,’ said Nicholas with a calming gesture. ‘These tidings may yet lead to our salvation. If this fellow can furnish us with a new play, we should bid him welcome to the company. He’s no threat to your position,’ he emphasised. ‘There’s only one Edmund Hoode.’
‘Lawrence would do well to remember that.’
‘It’s graven on my heart,’ said Firethorn, a hand on his chest.
‘I’ve a play or two left in me yet.’
‘A dozen, at least,’ said Nicholas, delighted to hear the pride in Hoode’s voice. ‘Rest awhile and the words will come teeming out of you. In the meantime,’ he added, turning to Firethorn, ‘it seems that we have to take Saul Hibbert on trust. What is his comedy called?’
Firethorn opened his mouth to reply but, before he could speak, there was a pounding on the front door that made all three of them look in the direction of it. The knocking continued until Margery opened the door. After a brief conversation, she ushered the visitor into the parlour.
‘This is Master Hibbert,’ she said, clearly impressed by the newcomer. ‘He claims that he has urgent business with you, Lawrence.’
Firethorn was on his feet. ‘Why, so he has!’ he confirmed. ‘Come in, Saul. Come in, come in.’
Though he gave a smile of thanks, Saul Hibbert preferred to stay framed in the doorway where he had struck a pose. Tall, slim and flamboyantly attired, he had a natural elegance that would make him stand out in a crowd. He also had an actor’s assurance and charm. Seeing that Margery wished to leave, he stood back and gave her an elaborate bow. With a little giggle, she went past him. Hibbert came into the room to be introduced to the others.
Hoode was slightly unnerved to see that the man who had been compared to him was ten years younger and twenty times more good-looking. Nicholas’s first impression was that Hibbert was too fond of outward show but he reserved his judgement on his character. Beaming at Firethorn, the newcomer thrust a sheaf of papers into his hand.
‘Finished at last!’ he boasted.
‘But your play was not due for another week,’ said Firethorn.
‘I was enjoying the act of creation so much that I could not break off. I’ve worked night and day to complete it.’
‘That’s heartening news!’
‘It is, indeed,’ said Nicholas. ‘Tell me, Master Hibbert, is this the first play you have written?’
‘No, Nick,’ replied the other, familiarly, ‘it’s the third. One was performed at Norwich and the second at Oxford.’
Hoode was suspicious. ‘Oxford. You’re a University man, then?’
‘I am, Edmund. I started my learning in the gutter and took my degree in the university of life. Oxford?’ he said with a sneer. ‘Why waste time in a cap and gown that could be better spent elsewhere?’
‘Quite so,’ said Firethorn, starting to read the first page.
‘I have enough Latin to get by and enough Greek to show that I have a gift for languages. On my travels, I’ve also picked up a tidy amount of German, French and Italian. The necessities of courtship, you might say.’ Firethorn let out a guffaw. ‘Ah, you’re reading the scene in the apothecary’s shop?’
‘Reading it and loving it,’ said Firethorn, turning to a new page.
‘Welcome to the company, Master Hibbert,’ said Nicholas.
‘We’re delighted to have you,’ added Hoode, guardedly.
‘You certainly need me,’ said Hibbert, tossing back his long, wavy black hair. ‘When I saw you perform last week, I could not believe how much Westfield’s Men had declined since my last visit to London. The play was billed as a comedy but it did not raise a smile from me. Whoever thought that such a tame piece could be offered as entertainment?’
‘Which play did you see?’
‘A Way to Content All Women.’
Hoode gurgled as he realised that his own work was being vilified. His discomfort was intensified by another burst of laughter from Firethorn. While Hoode was being ridiculed, Hibbert was being lauded. Nicholas came to his friend’s defence.
‘You may not have smiled, Master Hibbert,’ he said, ‘but the rest of the audience was shaking with mirth for the whole two hours.’
‘It shows how easily pleased the fools were.’
‘Include me in their folly. I admire the play immensely.’
‘Thank you, Nick,’ said Hoode.
Firethorn waved the manuscript. ‘Wait until you read this,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘It’s the very essence of wit.’
‘I’ll leave you to relish it,’ decided Hibbert, putting his hat on at a rakish angle. ‘When you have read it through, I’ll hold you to your contract. Send my fee to the Queen’s Head. I lodge there at the moment.’ He gave another bow. ‘Gentlemen, it was a pleasure to meet you. Together, I am sure, we can lift Westfield’s Men above the mundane.’
He swept from the room and let himself out of the house.
‘Above the mundane!’ echoed Hoode, puce with anger. ‘Did you hear what he said about A Way to Content All Women? It was insulting.’
‘He’s entitled to his opinion,’ said Firethorn, tolerantly.
‘But not to express it so rudely before the author,’ said Nicholas.
‘Saul meant no harm.’
‘It was felt, nevertheless,’ said Hoode.
‘Read his play and you’ll forgive him everything.’
‘I doubt that, Lawrence. I found him boorish and arrogant.’
‘He has the confidence of his genius, that’s all.’
‘And what has that genius actually produced?’ asked Hoode, waspishly. ‘Does this hilarious new play of his have a name?’
‘Of course. It’s called The Malevolent Comedy.’
‘An apt title for such an author,’ observed Nicholas, drily.
Chapter Two
Opinion about the company’s new playwright was sharply divided. When the actors adjourned to the taproom of the Queen’s Head after the first rehearsal of Saul Hibbert’s comedy, they had all reached a very firm conclusion about the author and his work. The taproom was filled with noise and tobacco smoke as Barnaby Gill joined Owen Elias and Francis Quilter at their table. Gill was a walking paradox, a morose, brooding, self-centred man offstage, he turned into a comic delight in front of an audience, genial, outgoing and full of energy. Some of that energy had been put to good use during the rehearsal.
‘It’s a fine play,’ he said, reaching for his Canary wine, ‘and it enables me to be at my finest. I’m grateful to Master Hibbert for that.’
‘He’ll not get my gratitude,’ warned Quilter. ‘I think that Saul Hibbert is an arrant popinjay and that his comedy, like him, is neat and trimly dressed without any real essence. A hollow piece of work.’
‘I fill the void with my dances.’
‘They are mere distractions, Barnaby. Every time our author runs short of ideas, he brings the Clown on to perform a jig. You are simply there to conceal the fact that the play lacks substance.’
‘I disagree, Frank,’ said Elias, keen to take part in the argument. ‘The Malevolent Comedy is the best new offering we’ve had for months. Where I do side with you, however, is in the matter of Saul Hibbert’s character. I found the fellow haughty and irritating.’
‘I like him,’ said Gill.
‘I hate the jackanapes,’ asserted Quilter.
‘Saul has a sharp eye for talent.’
‘You only say that because he applauded you today.’
‘And you only decry him because he said your performance was too shallow and weak-willed. And I’m bound to confess,’ added Gill, waspishly, ‘that I felt the very same. You struggled badly, Frank.’
Quilter was hurt. ‘No, I did not!’
‘We were all floundering at a first rehearsal,’ said Elias, quaffing his ale. ‘I know that I was. Even Lawrence lost his footing in the role a few times. You were better than most, Frank.’
‘I was as good as the play allowed me to be, Owen.’
Quilter was a tall, lean, sharp-featured young man of considerable talent. Proud of belonging to Westfield’s Men, he was dedicated to the troupe. He was also fond of reaping the benefits of appearing in major roles with such an important company, and was never short of female admirers. Elias realised that Quilter’s dislike of Saul Hibbert was partly based on jealousy. No sooner had the handsome playwright moved into the Queen’s Head than he began to capture the attention that formerly went to actors like Francis Quilter. Elias did not feel the threat in quite the same way. A stocky Welshman with a natural ebullience, he was inclined to take people on trust. Hibbert was an exception to the rule. From the moment that they met, Elias knew that he could never befriend the conceited newcomer.
‘He showed no respect for Edmund,’ he complained.
Gill was sour. ‘Edmund does not deserve any at the moment.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’
‘Truth is often painful.’
‘So is a punch on the nose,’ said Elias, roused by the insult to his friend, ‘and that is what you’ll get if you disparage Edmund Hoode. Have you so soon forgot all the wondrous plays that he has given us over the years? More than any of us, you have cause to get down on your knees to thank him. His comedies made you.’
‘I’ll bear witness to that,’ said Quilter. ‘Without Edmund, there would never have been a Barnaby Gill.’
‘Calumny!’ howled Gill.
‘Truth is often painful,’ goaded Elias.
‘My art is unique and irreplaceable, a jewel that would shine in any setting. I bow to no playwright. It is I who make their reputations by enhancing their work with my very presence.’
‘No wonder you like Saul Hibbert,’ said Quilter. ‘The two of you are blood-brothers to Narcissus. Each of you has fallen in love with his own image. You spend so much time courting a looking glass that you can no longer see anyone but yourselves.’
‘I recognise bad acting when I see it,’ replied Gill, loftily, ‘and that is what you inflicted on us today, Frank. Learn from my example. Study your part with more diligence and play it with more spirit.’
‘If the role were in any way worthy of me, I’d do so.’
‘Follow in my stead and rise above your role.’
‘You malign Frank unfairly,’ said Elias with truculence, ‘and you were equally unkind about Edmund. Who else will feel the lash of that wicked tongue of yours?’ He bunched a fist. ‘Take care, Barnaby. I’ll not suffer any of your reproaches. Carp and cavil at me and I’ll make that ugly face of yours even uglier.’
Gill was unruffled. ‘Why are the Welsh always so needlessly bellicose?’ he asked with a sigh.
‘Pour scorn on my nation and you’ll answer for it!’
‘Leave off, Owen,’ advised Quilter. ‘Unless he is boasting about himself, Barnaby is ever full of slights and slurs. The wonder is that he has such words of praise for Saul Hibbert.’
‘He has written an excellent play,’ said Gill.
‘Yet when you first caught wind of The Malevolent Comedy, you shrieked like a turkey with a butcher’s hand around its neck.’
‘With good cause. Lawrence chose the play entirely on his own, in direct violation of our policy. Neither Edmund nor I was asked for an opinion.’
‘Nor was Nick Bracewell.’
‘An even more serious omission,’ Elias put in.
‘Nick is only a hired man with the company,’ said Gill, petulantly, ‘and not a sharer like us. His approval does not count.’
‘It does with me.’
‘The point is that Lawrence – not for the first time – exceeded his authority. He went over our heads and I rightly chastised him for doing so, especially as there was another instance of his tyrannical behaviour. He rejected Edmund’s new comedy without even raising the possibility with me. The one person in whom he did confide on that occasion,’ he went on, bitterly, ‘was our book holder.’
‘I have no quibble with that,’ affirmed Elias.
‘Nor me,’ said Quilter. ‘Nick Bracewell can see the defects in a play more acutely than any of us.’
‘You value his judgement, then?’ asked Gill.
‘Above that of anyone else in the company.’
‘Then you’ve surely betrayed him. Where you censure The Malevolent Comedy, Nicholas commends it highly. So do I, won over by its biting wit and merriment. Everyone admires it save Frank Quilter.’
‘I told you, Barnaby. I find the play empty.’
‘Not as empty as Edmund’s How to Choose a Good Wife. That was so full of cavities that we were in danger of falling through them.’
‘Yet you liked it at first,’ challenged Elias. ‘I remember you telling us so. You said that it gave you the chance to dominate the stage.’
‘Every play does that,’ said Gill, grandly. ‘Were I to take on the humblest role in any drama, I would still steal all the glory. And, yes, I did smile upon Edmund’s new comedy but only out of friendship. In all honesty, it really is a barren construction. Place it beside The Malevolent Comedy and it pales into invisibility.’
‘Edmund Hoode is still the better playwright,’ said Elias, loyally.
‘And a truly loveable man,’ said Quilter.
‘You talk of the past but I look only to the future. Edmund was supreme at one time, I grant you,’ conceded Gill, ‘but that time is gone. His star is in decline. We have been carrying him this last year.’
‘That’s unjust,’ protested Elias.
‘Mark my words, Owen. The days when Edmund Hoode wore the laurel wreath are behind us. Westfield’s Men need a sparkling new talent. I believe that we have it in Saul Hibbert.’
‘God forbid!’ cried Quilter.
‘He’s a proven master of comedy.’
‘But that’s not what we crave, Barnaby. Comedy will cheer the ignorant in the pit, and spread some cheap laughter among the gallants, but it will not stir their souls. Only tragedy can do that yet we have abjured it and are set to dwindle into mere comedians. Look to the Curtain,’ urged Quilter. ‘See what great success Banbury’s Men have had with Lamberto. Nick Bracewell says that it outweighed anything that we have presented this year. Tragedy is in demand and we should strive to provide it.’
‘Not when we have something as priceless as The Malevolent Comedy. It will be the envy of our rivals. Saul Hibbert is not just a playwright of rare promise,’ insisted Gill, wagging a finger, ‘he is a saviour in our hour of need.’ The others exchanged a sceptical glance. ‘Laudable as his achievements have been, talk no more of Edmund Hoode. He will soon fade into oblivion. The man we should toast,’ he said, raising his cup of wine, ‘is our redeemer – Saul Hibbert.’
Saul Hibbert stood in the middle of the empty inn yard and gazed at the makeshift stage that was being dismantled. What he saw in his mind’s eye were actors, strutting to and fro in his play, provoking laughter at every turn and winning spontaneous applause. After the modest success of his plays in Norwich and in Oxford, he was ready to test his mettle in the more demanding arena of the capital. Hibbert had no fear of failure. Convinced of his prodigious abilities, he felt that it was only a matter of time before he conquered London audiences. When he closed his eyes, he could hear an ovation filling the dusty inn yard where Westfield’s Men performed. Saul Hibbert’s name was on everyone’s lips.
‘Master Hibbert! Master Hibbert!’
It was also on the thin, down-turned, ulcerous lips of Alexander Marwood, the landlord of the Queen’s Head, a gaunt, wasted man of middle years with sparse hair and a nervous twitch that animated his face. The twitch was currently located at the tip of his nose.
‘Master Hibbert – a word with you, sir!’
Hibbert came out of his reverie to find that he was looking at the unsightly visage of the landlord, nose twitching violently as if not quite sure in which direction to settle. Alexander Marwood loathed actors, detested plays and despised those who wrote them. Though he regarded Westfield’s Men as a form of pestilence, he relied on the income that they brought in. As a consequence, he felt as if he were being crushed between the millstones of revulsion and need. In his codex, theatre was an abomination. Saul Hibbert was as disreputable and unwelcome as the rest of the company. Marwood was characteristically blunt.
‘You are slippery, sir,’ he said with open resentment. ‘Every time I try to speak with you, you wriggle out of my grasp like a fish.’
Hibbert was dismissive. ‘We have nothing to say to each other,’ he replied, flicking a wrist. ‘I am a guest here. You are at my beck and call.’
‘Guests are expected to pay for their rooms.’
‘Did I not give you money on account?’
‘Ten days ago. More rent is now due.’
‘In time, in time.’
‘Now,’ said Marwood, firmly. ‘If you want the best room that the Queen’s Head can offer, you must render up fair payment.’
‘Best room!’ echoed Hibbert with disgust. ‘If that is the finest you have, I would hate to see the others. My chamber is too small, too dirty and too poorly furnished. The linen is soiled and the place stinks almost as much as its disagreeable landlord.’
‘I’ll not hear any complaint against my inn.’
‘Then put your fingers in those hairy ears of yours or I’ll give you a whole catalogue of complaints. The room is unfit for human habitation.’
‘That should not trouble a rutting animal like you.’
Hibbert rounded on him. ‘Do you dare to abuse me?’
‘I state the facts,’ said Marwood, taking a precautionary step backwards. ‘If the room is dirty, then you have brought in the filth, for it is cleaned from top to bottom every day. As for the linen being soiled,’ he added, knowingly, ‘you and your visitors are responsible for that.’
‘Away with you!’
‘Not until I get my money.’
‘You’ll feel the point of my sword up your scrawny arse.’
‘Then I’ll send for officers to arrest you.’
‘I dignify the Queen’s Head by staying here.’
‘You’ve done nothing but drag it down to your own base level.’
‘I’ll not haggle with a mere underling like you,’ said Hibbert as he saw Nicholas Bracewell approaching them. ‘Talk to this fellow instead. He’ll vouch for me.’ He raised his voice. ‘Is that not so, Nick?’
‘What say you?’ asked Nicholas.
‘This cringing knave has the effrontery to demand money from me. Tell him that my credit is good. Rescue me from this hideous face of his.’
‘The landlord is entitled to be paid,’ said Nicholas, reasonably.
‘There!’ shouted Marwood. ‘There’s one honest man among you.’
‘Then you can discuss the matter honestly with him,’ decided Hibbert with a supercilious smile. ‘I’ll not speak another word to you. Nick,’ he said with a lordly gesture, ‘see to this rogue, will you?’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Get the whoreson dog off my back.’
‘This sounds like a matter between you and the landlord.’
‘Resolve it, man. That’s what you’re here for, is it not?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, stoutly.
‘You’re a book holder, paid to fetch and carry for the rest of us. So let’s have no more hesitation. Do as I tell you or there’ll be trouble.’
‘I take no orders from you, Master Hibbert.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Marwood, emboldened by the presence of Nicholas. ‘Settle your bill or I must ask you to quit your room.’
‘I’d have more comfort in a pig sty,’ returned Hibbert with a sneer. ‘Now keep out of my way, you apparition, or you’ll live to regret it.’ He pointed to Nicholas. ‘Badger this fellow in my stead. He’ll tell you who and what I am. Nick will solve this petty business in a trice.’
‘Why should I do that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Because I tell you.’
Saul Hibbert turned on his heel and strode off towards the door to the taproom. Nicholas contained his anger. Upset by the playwright’s cavalier attitude towards him, he resolved to take it up with Hibbert at a latter date. Meanwhile, he had to placate Alexander Marwood, a task he had been forced to undertake many times on behalf of the company.
‘Master Hibbert treats me like a cur,’ wailed the landlord.
‘His manner is indeed unfortunate.’
‘He has brought nothing but trouble since he has been here. If I am not showing a tailor up to his room, I am telling a succession of women – I dare not call them ladies – where they might find him. It’s more than a decent Christian like me can stand.’
‘If he has rented a room, he can surely entertain friends there.’
‘That depends on how he entertains them,’ said Marwood, darkly. ‘When she happened to be passing his chamber last night, my wife heard sounds that brought a blush to her cheek.’
Nicholas doubted very much if Sybil Marwood had passed the room by accident. Knowing the landlady of old, he suspected that she had an ear glued to Saul Hibbert’s door every time he had female company. Marwood’s wife was a flinty harridan, a formidable creature of blood and stone, who had never blushed in her life. Politeness, however, required Nicholas to show a degree of sympathy for her.
‘I’m sorry that your wife has suffered embarrassment,’ he said.
‘She was too ashamed to give me the full details.’
‘I’m surprised that either of you is shocked, however. This is an inn, after all, not a church. You must surely be accustomed to the sound of your guests taking their pleasures in private.’
Marwood gave a visible shudder and the twitch abandoned his nose to move to his right eyebrow, making it flutter wildly like a moth caught in a cobweb. The landlord had not enjoyed any pleasure with his wife since the night their only child had been conceived, a fact that accounted for his deep melancholy. Deprived of any fleshly enjoyment himself, he begrudged it to others. Those with obvious sexual charm, like Saul Hibbert, earned his particular rancour.
‘The man should be gelded,’ he argued.
‘From what you tell me,’ said Nicholas, ‘that would cause upset to number of ladies, and would, in any case, be too harsh a penalty for someone who has not paid his bill. How much does he owe?’
‘Five shillings.’
‘A paltry amount to Master Hibbert.’
‘Then why does he not hand it over?’
‘He will,’ promised Nicholas, ‘when I speak to him. He can well afford it. Master Hibbert was paid handsomely for his new play.’
‘That is another thing. I do not like the title.’
‘Why? What is wrong with The Malevolent Comedy?’
‘It unsettles me.’
‘It may come to reassure you.’
‘In what way?’
‘Audiences have been thin of late,’ said Nicholas, sadly, ‘because we’ve been guilty of putting on meagre fare. Our gatherers took less money at performances while you sold far less beer and food.’
‘It was a matter I meant to take up with you, Master Bracewell.’
‘Our new play may put everything right.’
‘I am more worried about the new playwright.’
‘Give him time to settle in. He is still something of a novice and needs to learn his place. I’ll endeavour to instruct him.’
‘Make him treat me with respect,’ said Marwood. ‘When he talks to my wife, he is all smiles and flattery. I get nought but insults and threats from him. And ask him to change the title of his play.’
‘It is too late to do that. Playbills have already been printed.’
‘Then I fear for the safety of my inn.’
‘You need have no qualms,’ Nicholas told him. ‘You have my word that this is one of the most cunning and spirited comedies we have ever staged here. It will fill the yard time and again.’
‘You said that about The Misfortunes of Marriage.’
‘Another work that was touched with genius.’
‘And what happened to its author, Master Applegarth?’ asked the landlord, ruefully. ‘He was murdered at the Queen’s Head under our very noses. Think of the trouble that caused me.’
‘We all suffered together.’
‘It drove me to despair, Master Bracewell.’
‘Jonas Applegarth did not get himself hanged in order to torment you,’ said Nicholas, sharply. ‘It was a most cruel way to die and we should mourn him accordingly.’
‘I mourn the damage that it did to the reputation of my inn.’
‘The Queen’s Head survived.’
‘But for how long?’ demanded Marwood, anxiously. ‘Master Applegarth was a load of mischief from the start and this prancing peacock, Saul Hibbert, is cut from the same cloth. He is dangerous. I feel it in my water. Your clever playwright is a harbinger of disaster.’
‘I’ll take pains to ensure that he’s not hanged on your property,’ said Nicholas with light sarcasm.
‘Do not jest about it, Master Bracewell. If he continues to put on airs and graces at the Queen’s Head, your Master Hibbert may well finish up at the end of a rope,’ said the landlord, ‘and I’ll be the hangman!’
