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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Nicholas Bracewell
- Sprache: Englisch
When fire destroys their London theatre, Lord Westfield's players must seek out humbler venues in the countryside. But company manager Nicholas Bracewell is distracted by a shocking tragedy: a mysterious messenger from his native Devon is murdered by poison. Though the messenger is silenced, Nicholas understands what he must do: return to his birthplace and reconcile some unfinished business of the past. The rest of Westfield's Men, penniless and dejected, ride forth with him on a nightmare tour that will perhaps become their valedictory, dogged as they are by plague, poverty, rogues, and thieves. And among the sinister shadows that glide silently with them toward Devon is one who means Nicholas never to arrive . . .
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Seitenzahl: 526
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
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To my own silent woman without whom my life would have been unbearably quiet
‘How often have forced contracts been made to add land to land, not love to love? And to unite house to house, not hearts to hearts? Which hath been the occasion that men have turned monsters and women devils.’
– THOMAS HEYWOOD: A Curtaine Lecture
Contents
Chapter One
A wind from heaven blew upon the fire of hell and spread damnation. The spectators who were packed into the yard of the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street thought at first that it was all part of the entertainment, some new and carefully rehearsed piece of action that had been woven into the fabric of the play for their benefit. It made them laugh even more. But they soon learnt that their mirth was completely misplaced and that they were caught up in a real crisis. Riotous comedy became stark tragedy. Catastrophe threatened.
What they were watching on that sunlit afternoon was The Devil’s Ride Through London, a staple drama from the repertoire of Westfield’s Men, one of the leading theatrical troupes in the capital. The plot was simple. Deciding to visit the city in order to terrify its inhabitants, the Devil – as played with manic hilarity by Barnaby Gill, the company’s resident clown – found it impossible to make any impact because the pain, misery and wickedness he encountered on earth was far worse than anything he could offer in hell. The man who most embodied the evils of London, and around whom the play revolved with giddy speed, was Sir Henry Whoremonger. Traitor, coward, liar, thief, drunkard, gamester and lecher supreme, he kept the seven deadly sins spinning through the air with the skill of a master juggler. The role of Sir Henry drew yet another masterly performance from Lawrence Firethorn, the actor-manager and unrivalled star of Westfield’s Men, enabling him to amuse, shock, instruct and excite the audience by turns and whip them into an uproar with the crack of a line whenever he chose. Firethorn made villainy attractive and won the hearts and minds of all who watched. It was no wonder the Prince of Darkness concluded that Sir Henry Whoremonger was by far the greater devil.
Instead of frightening the citizens with dire warnings of what lay ahead, His Satanic Majesty was so shaken by the horrors of everyday life in London that he fled back to the nether regions as fast as his cloven feet would take him. Crouched over a brazier at the rear of the stage, he warmed his hands at the flickering coals and mused on the folly of his visitation.
The sulphurous stench of my own estate
Is perfume compared to Billingsgate.
My vilest tortures are petty sores
On putrefying, pox-ridden Eastcheap whores.
Our howls of anguish are happy sighs
When heard alongside Bedlam’s cries.
My foulest poison can never compete
With Marwood’s ale in Gracechurch Street.
In the stews of Southwark they have worse fare
Than those who toil here in the Devil’s lair.
The first gust of wind brought the brazier to life and flames leapt up to lick at Barnaby Gill’s red-gloved hands. He pretended that he had deliberately stoked up the fire and he danced around it with comic despair.
Mortals, behold! You have all witnessed how
London is the truer Purgatory now.
Henceforth I’ll lease out cold and timid hell
And dwell instead in fiery Clerkenwell.
Clothed from head to foot in a blood-red costume, the Devil flung back his flowing red cloak and adopted a pose of utter defeat. He did not hold it for long. As soon as his garment passed over the top of the brazier, a phantom wind blew so hard on its coals that it became a roaring inferno. The cloak was ignited, the Devil became a being of dazzling light and Barnaby Gill charged around the stage in wild agitation as he tried to rid himself of his burning apparel. His plight earned him no sympathy from the audience. They rocked with laughter and cheered with delight. This act of spontaneous combustion was the funniest thing they had ever seen, and they marvelled at Gill’s expertise. When the hapless clown blundered against the backcloth that hung from the gallery above the stage, however, all humour was instantly extinguished. The painted flames of hell were now horrendously real. The playgoers were not, in fact, seeing a remarkable feat by an accomplished comedian. A human being was, literally, on fire in front of them.
Panic descended. Men yelled, women screamed, horses neighed and kicked in their stables. All ceremony was abandoned. The hundreds of patrons jammed shoulder to shoulder in the yard itself fought madly to get to the nearest exit. Gallants and their ladies, who had paid an extra penny or two to sit in the galleries, knocked over their benches in their desperation as yellow sparks flew up at them and offered to turn their fine clothes into balls of fire. Nicholas Bracewell was the first person to burst onto the stage. Having controlled the performance from behind the scenes, the book holder now thrust himself purposefully into the action, darting out with a wooden bucket of water and hurling it over Barnaby Gill’s cloak before tearing the garment from him. Nicholas burnt his fingers slightly, but he undoubtedly saved his colleague’s life. Still shrieking with fear, the Devil went sprinting off into the tiring-house to make his escape. Nicholas took stock of the situation, but it was beyond even his resourcefulness. The fire had gained a purchase on the backcloth and was eating its way hungrily upwards. A wall of flame confronted the hysterical onlookers.
Pandemonium now set in. The whole inn seemed to be ablaze. Wherever people ran, they were engulfed by smoke. The acrid smell filled their noses, the crackling flames attacked their ears, the fear of a hideous death crazed their minds. They were as frantic and helpless as the animals now bucking wildly in their stalls. Preferring to live in poverty than to die rich, pickpockets in the crowd took no advantage of the chaos and used both hands to claw a passage out of the yard. The Devil’s Ride Through London had turned the Queen’s Head into a veritable hell. Survival was all that mattered. Self-interest was deafening.
Nicholas Bracewell wasted no time. He knew that the real danger lay in the overhanging thatch on the topmost gallery. Dried by the sun and crumbling with age, it would go up like tinder, if set alight, and the entire establishment would be destroyed along with several of the adjoining buildings. It was vital to contain the fire as quickly as possible and to stop its upward climb. Nicholas pulled out his dagger and raced to the rear of the stage to hack at the rope that held the backcloth aloft. Cut free from its moorings, it was blown up into the air for a second before coming down like a huge hand of doom to clutch at the fleeing multitude with scorching fingers. This was no longer a merry romp. It was the Last Judgement.
The book holder grabbed another bucket of water from the tiring-house and rushed back onstage to douse the burning backcloth. He then jumped bravely into the flames and tried to stamp them out. Others now followed his example and brought fresh supplies of water. Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, emptied his bucket over the brazier then yelled at his assistants to throw their water over the backcloth. While these lowly members of the company hurried off to refill their buckets from the waiting barrels, the actors themselves came out to fight the common enemy. Fire was a great social leveller. Position and dignity were forgotten in the swirling calamity. Westfield’s Men were not just helping to save their patrons. They wanted to preserve their theatre and their livelihood.
Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling back onstage with a sodden blanket in his hands. Deprived of his curtain call and of what he saw as the due reward for his towering performance as Sir Henry Whoremonger, he yelled with fury and beat vengefully at the flames. Edmund Hoode was anguished by the sudden termination of one of his best plays, and he came out with a bucket of water dangling from each hand. Barnaby Gill had recovered his composure enough to reappear with a fire shovel and smack away at the smouldering timbers. The burly figure of Owen Elias emerged from the mouth of hell that was the tiring-house and heaved out one of the large water barrels. Nicholas leapt across to help him, and the two of them strained to tip it over. The flaming backcloth became a hissing river of smoke that all but obliterated the inn yard. Commotion now reached fever pitch.
And there in the middle of it all, adding to the clamour and hindering the rescue operation, dancing on his toes and flailing his arms like a windmill in a gale, was Alexander Marwood, the embattled landlord of the Queen’s Head, a man whose whole life had been a continuous rehearsal for this one final moment of truth. The prophet of disaster had lived to see his prophecy fulfilled and he announced it with almost gleeful terror.
‘God is punishing me!’ he wailed.
‘Help with the buckets,’ urged Nicholas.
‘This play was sinful!’ continued Marwood, leaping around the stage and colliding with each member of the company in turn. ‘We are being called to account!’
‘Stamp out those rushes!’
But the landlord was too absorbed in his personal conflagration. Flaming guilt shot through his body. Smoking remorse filled his mind. He was being roasted to death like a Protestant martyr at the stake. Searing perspiration burst out of every pore. Yet deep in the great black horror of his nightmare was one tiny consolation. His prediction had been correct. Alexander Marwood had always believed that his association with Westfield’s Men would one day end in ruin. Armageddon had finally come to Gracechurch Street. There was a fleeting satisfaction in being a messenger of doom who had delivered his missive to the correct address.
Lawrence Firethorn cannoned into the landlord.
‘Out of my way!’ he boomed.
‘Look what you did to my inn!’ screeched Marwood.
‘It may yet be saved.’
‘You are to blame, Master Firethorn. You and your devilish play. You and your gibes about my ale. You and your crew of madmen. I tell you, sir—’
But Firethorn had heard enough and decided that a bucket of water over the landlord would do far more good than over the fire. He discharged his load with angry precision then ran away to refill his bucket. Drenched to the skin, Marwood went off into an even wilder set of imprecations, but nobody had time or inclination to listen. The short, thin, spindly creature was utterly alone amid the heaving sea of bodies, delivering his soliloquy to a deaf audience and grabbing at his remaining tufts of hair like a demented gardener uprooting weeds. Alexander Marwood was burning with indignation while soaking wet.
Then the miracle happened. The wind that had created the fire and comprehensively wrecked the performance now repented, vanishing as swiftly as it had come and sending in its place a gentle shower of rain. Embers lost their fierce glow. Flames climbed with less force and conviction. Smoke slowly began to clear. There was still much to do, but the fear of total devastation was past. Those struggling to subdue the fire swarmed across the stage and up into the galleries with increased vigour. They sensed victory.
Nicholas Bracewell was everywhere, giving orders to one group while leading others by example, directing the efforts of his fellows to the crucial areas and ensuring that the flames did not reach any adjacent properties. The risk of fire was a constant threat to theatre companies, and careless pipe smokers could cause appalling damage with their discarded ash. Nicholas knew only too well what an uncontrolled blaze could do, and he therefore took thorough precautions before every performance. An abundant supply of water was kept in all parts of the building and dozens of buckets were at hand. He even gave the company’s hired men some basic training in how to cope with an emergency. That training had been nullified by the size and suddenness of the fire, but it now began to show through. People started to work together instead of at random. Water continuously hit its target instead of being wasted by prodigal hands. Method replaced instinct. Confidence grew. They were winning.
‘Look to my thatch!’
Everyone heard Alexander Marwood this time. He pointed a skeletal finger up at the topmost gallery and hopped about with renewed trepidation. Burning splinters of wood had been blown up to lodge in the thatch, and it was now starting to smoke and crackle. Nicholas needed only one glance. Instant response was their only hope. Running to the side of the stage, he shinned up the timber support and hauled himself over the balustrade of the first gallery. The others all stopped to watch and exhort him on as he went up his charred route like a sailor going up the rigging. The thatch was now seething with crimson rage and threatening to explode. As soon as Nicholas reached it, therefore, he hacked out its glowing centre and a cascade of burning reeds scattered those below. Feet balancing on the balustrade, he then stretched right up to fling the upper half of his body down onto the still-burning thatch.
It was an act of such folly and bravery that it drew applause from the onlookers, but their apprehension was not stilled. High above them, glimpsed through the curling smoke of fifty dying fires, a man was risking his life to save the roof of the inn. His feet rested precariously on blackened timber, his chest was pressed down hard on smouldering thatch and his dagger was sunk deep into the reeds to give him some support. Eyes closed tight, muscles taut, he retched violently and felt the hot sweat course down his face. Only a buff jerkin and the power of his broad chest separated him from a hideous death. Nicholas Bracewell’s courage now began to look like a perverse act of suicide.
Yet somehow it worked. The rain intensified, the smoke thinned and his agony gradually subsided. Denied any licence, the fire was being choked out of existence inch by painful inch. The vast parallelogram of thatch that topped the building had been rescued. Buckets now reached the upper gallery and waves of water surged up at Nicholas. The danger was over and he dared to relax. He was not, after all, being broiled to death on the roof of the Queen’s Head. Cheers from below told him that he was the hero of the hour. It had cost him his jerkin and gained him several more minor burns, but they were a small price to pay. Effectively, he had just rendered the greatest possible service to Westfield’s Men. He had saved their theatre from certain annihilation.
Ten minutes later, the last glimmering remnants of the fire had been put out, and Nicholas stood in the middle of the yard, panting from his exertions and offering up a silent prayer of thanks. There were bruises and burns galore among his fellows, and a few broken bones among the fleeing patrons, but nobody had died and none of the horses had been injured. God had been truly merciful. Nicholas could now receive the congratulations of the others. Lawrence Firethorn was the first to wrap him in a warm and affectionate embrace.
‘Nick, dear heart! We are ever in your debt!’
‘You are our Deliverer,’ added Edmund Hoode.
‘I will never act with a brazier again,’ said Barnaby Gill testily. ‘My performance was ruined.’
Firethorn bristled. ‘The fate of the company is more important than the quality of your performance. It was your idiocy that is to blame, Barnaby. Thanks to you, our theatre was almost razed to the ground. Thanks to Nicholas, we still have a future at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Not for some time,’ said Nicholas with a sigh.
The smoke had now cleared enough for him to appraise the extent of the damage. It was far less than it might have been and was largely confined to the tiring-house and to the galleries directly above, but substantial rebuilding would still be necessary. Main beams had burnt through or been severely weakened. Floors had collapsed. Nicholas could see that it would be several weeks – if not months – before the Queen’s Head was able to host a theatre company once more.
Alexander Marwood set an even longer time limit on their return. When the fire was eventually brought under control, he did not know whether to be happy that his inn survived or feel hurt because his prophecy did not, and so he opted for a relieved misery by way of compromise. He hated plays, he loathed players and he was revolted by the sight of the debris all around him. This was his reward for the lunacy of permitting irresponsible actors to hire his property. He twitched his way across to Lawrence Firethorn and issued his death sentence.
‘Westfield’s Men will never play here again!’
‘But we have an agreement,’ said Firethorn.
‘It has been revoked.’
‘Silence, you gibbering nonentity!’
‘That is my final word, sir.’
‘And so it shall be!’ snarled Firethorn, pulling out his dagger and raising it to strike. ‘Die, you venomous little toad! Perish, you vermin!’
‘Hold!’ shouted Nicholas, interposing himself between the two men and easing Marwood away. ‘Do not be too hasty here,’ he said in soothing tones. ‘This has been highly unfortunate and we regret it as much as you, but the Queen’s Head still stands. It can be restored to its former glory. And we have been spared to continue our work.’
‘Not in my inn, Master Bracewell.’
Firethorn’s dagger glinted. ‘Remember our contract.’
‘It was the bane of my life.’
‘A contract is a contract.’
‘No, Master Firethorn!’ The landlord was adamant. ‘You were entitled to stage your plays in my yard, not to burn down my premises. Behold your accursed work, sir!’ Marwood made a histrionic gesture with his arm that was worthy of the actor-manager himself. ‘The Devil has no need to ride through London when Westfield’s Men may do his work for him. Talk not to me of our contract. It has gone up in smoke!’
London was a rapidly expanding community that had long since pushed out beyond the high city walls that had defined and defended it since Roman times. Suburbs thickened both north and south of the Thames to make the capital ten times larger than Norwich, its nearest English rival. In size and importance, it was the equal of any city in Europe with a bustle and energy that were beyond compare. The sounds and smells of London spread for miles in every direction. It was much more than a geographical phenomenon. Whether serving as a home, market, port or seat of government, the city was wholly and triumphantly alive.
There was no better place to observe the variety and vitality of the place than at Ludgate, one of the mighty portals that pierced the wall and allowed citizens and visitors alike to stream in and out beneath the raised portcullis. The gate had recently been rebuilt and the decorative statues of Queen Elizabeth, King Lud and his two sons now looked down from renovated perches upon the scene of activity below. Carts, coaches and drays rumbled into the city. The clack of hooves was never ending. Children played recklessly amid the traffic. Dogs sniffed and fought and yelped. Beggars lurked to solicit newcomers or to importune those taking their leave. Friends met to converse. A knot of spectators gathered to watch a malefactor being whipped by a beadle. Darker punishments were being endured by those who were incarcerated in Ludgate prison and who thrust their imploring arms through barred windows in search of food and drink. Birds flapped and swooped.
The man who sat astride his horse just outside the gate observed it all with a shrewd eye. His build and bearing suggested a yeoman but his doublet and hose were closer to those worn by a city gentleman. There was fur trim around his hat. He was of medium height and his craggy face bore the imprint of at least thirty eventful years. His raven-black beard was well barbered enough to hint at vanity and he stroked it with ruminative care. The faint air of a countryman seemed to linger only to be dispelled by the knowing sophistication of a Londoner.
He had been there since dawn, when the market traders streamed into the city with their produce to set up their stalls. Nobody who passed through Ludgate during a long morning escaped his scrutiny, and the man hardly moved from his position of vantage, except to dismount from time to time in order to stretch his legs. Even when he relieved himself against a wall in a sheltered corner, he did not relax his surveillance. As noon was proclaimed by a jangling choir of bells, he was back in the saddle, raking the latest batch of arrivals with a stern gaze, then clicking his tongue in irritation when he did not find the face he so earnestly sought.
Could he have been mistaken? It was impossible to think that his vigilance had been at fault, but the sharpest eyes were useless if trained on the wrong location. Supposing his quarry had come along Holborn in order to enter the city through Newgate? Supposing he had struck even farther north and passed beneath the crenellations of Aldersgate or even Cripplegate? He discounted these alternatives almost as soon as he considered them. Someone who had ridden so far already would not needlessly add to the length of his journey. Most travellers approaching from the south-west would come by way of Westminster to Charing Cross then continue along the Strand until it merged into Fleet Street. That made Ludgate the only logical point of access.
So where was he? Had some accident detained or diverted him? The man’s information came from a reliable source and it had placed his quarry at Colnbrook on the previous night. Could it take so long to cover a distance of fifteen miles? Someone who was so eager to reach London would surely not be delayed. Unless he had some forewarning of what lay ahead. Was his absence due to a timely premonition? Did he sense what awaited him in the shadow of Ludgate? Had fear sent him by a more anonymous route into the city?
The anxious sentry was still trying to assimilate this new possibility when his long wait came to an end. Another bevy of travellers, some twenty or so, came trotting towards him. They were hot and dusty from a long ride but their discomfort was forgotten in the excitement of their arrival. For most of them, it was clear, this was a first and overwhelming visit to the capital. These were provincial gapers. Eyes that had bulged at the myriad wonders of Westminster now widened in awe as the cathedral of St Paul’s rose up above the wall ahead of them like a mountain. The experience was at once exhilarating and intimidating.
He spotted his prey at once. The youth was in the middle of the cavalcade, using his companions as a protective ring, transfixed by what he saw and riding along in a kind of reverential daze. Short, plump and pale, he had plain features that were centred on a snub nose. His skin was soft, his face clean-shaven, his eyebrows thick and unsightly. He wore buff jerkin and hose with a cap pulled down over his close-cropped hair. The man put him around seventeen and knew that this was his designated target. Everyone else in the company was much older and the youth fitted in every detail the description he had been sent.
As the leaders went in through Ludgate, the man turned his own horse to join the rear of the group. There were fresh cries of astonishment as the travellers came face-to-face with the true heart of the city, with its mad jumble of houses, inns, churches and civic buildings, and with the happy turmoil of its streets. Voices lost in the din, they picked their way through the seething mass of bodies that converged on St Paul’s churchyard. By the time they reached Watling Street, they started to disperse to their destinations, some heading up towards Cheapside, others cutting down towards the river, a few turning off into Cordwainer Street to make a first purchase from the shoemakers.
The youth stayed with the rump of the party as it bore due east into Candlewick Street. Riding alongside him was a big, well-dressed man of middle years on a chestnut mare. Unlike the others, he was evidently a seasoned traveller who had only joined the company for the safety it offered. Patently at ease in London, he showed an avuncular concern for the youth and pointed out each new item of interest. As further members of the group peeled away, only a handful were left to turn at last into Gracechurch Street. Still trailing at a discreet distance, the man with the black beard watched the youth and his obliging friend swing into the yard of the Queen’s Head. Though the fire on the previous day had closed part of the building down, the taproom was as busy and noisy as ever.
‘Come, lad. A drop of ale will revive you.’
‘No, sir. I will not tarry.’
‘A dusty ride leaves a dry throat. Swill away the taste of the journey before you go your way.’
‘There is no need, sir.’
‘I’ll not be denied. You’ll share a pint with me in the name of friendship. It is the least you can do.’
‘Indeed it is,’ conceded the youth. ‘I thank you for your help and I will drink to you but I may not stay long.’ He glanced nervously around the taproom. ‘I must be about my business.’
They were seated on stools beside a low wooden table. The youth was distinctly uncomfortable but his companion was very much at home in such surroundings. A waved hand brought a serving wench over and two tankards of ale were soon set in front of them. Pewter struck pewter in a toast then the man quaffed half of his pint in one thirsty gulp. The youth merely sipped at his drink. Having left his horse with an ostler, their shadow now stole into the taproom and sidled up so that he was within earshot. He took something from the pouch at his belt, waited for the youth to speak again then moved quickly in with an ingratiating smile.
‘I know that voice!’ he said with a soft West Country burr. ‘It has a Tiverton ring to it, I’ll be bound!’
‘Not Tiverton, sir,’ said the youth. ‘But from that part of the country, it is true.’
‘Well met, lad!’ The black beard came close to the young face as the man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Devon is a sweeter place than London. What brings you here?’
An embarrassed stutter. ‘An … an errand, sir.’
The youth was quite unable to cope with this sudden acquaintance thrust upon him and his travelling companion rose to come to his defence but his help was superfluous.
‘Welcome, young friend!’ said the newcomer, backing away with a farewell grin. ‘Enjoy your stay here.’
As he moved swiftly away they lost sight of him among the shifting patterns of humanity beneath the low beams. Both had resented the intrusion and were glad that they were now alone again. Neither had noticed that something was slipped deftly into the boy’s ale as his fellow Devonian leant across to him. The older man now raised his tankard once more.
‘Drink up, lad!’ he insisted.
‘Very well, sir.’
The youth supped more deeply this time. To please his kind friend, he even pretended to enjoy the bitter taste. The man finished his own ale and licked his lips while beaming across at his companion. There was no better way to mark the end of a long journey than to celebrate good fellowship in a hostelry. He chuckled happily. It never occurred to him that he had just become an accomplice in a murder.
Chapter Two
The meeting was held at Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch because it was imperative to keep well clear of the fulminating landlord at the Queen’s Head. On that point, at least, there was general agreement. On a more pressing issue, however, there was deep dissension, and it came from a most unlikely person.
‘No, no, no!’ said Edmund Hoode firmly. ‘I will not.’
‘Leave off these jests,’ cooed his host.
‘I speak in earnest, Lawrence. I will not quit London.’
‘Stay here and we starve,’ said Barnaby Gill with utter distaste for the notion. ‘Westfield’s Men must tour. I quiver at the thought of wasting my God-given genius on the heathen swine of the provinces, but there is no help for it. Actors who lose a theatre must seek elsewhere for another.’
‘Edmund will join us in that quest,’ said Firethorn with assurance. ‘He would never desert us in our hour of need. Betrayal is foreign to his nature. He would sooner die than see his company struggle off into the wilderness. The name of Hoode is a seal of loyalty and comradeship.’
‘You’ll not persuade me, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘I merely remind you of your reputation and honour.’
‘They are needed here at home.’
‘Home is where the company is,’ chanted Gill with a petulant flick of his hand. ‘It is your duty to come.’
‘Duty and obligation,’ reinforced Firethorn.
‘I do not give a fig for either.’
‘Edmund!’
‘Pray excuse me, gentlemen. I am wanted elsewhere.’
‘Stay!’
Firethorn barked a command that would have stopped a cavalry charge in its tracks then he placed his ample frame in the doorway to block his friend’s departure. Hoode met his steely gaze with equanimity. They stood there for some minutes, locked in a trial of brute strength. Firethorn went through his full repertoire of glaring, eyebrow raising, lip curling and teeth grinding, but all to no avail. Barnaby Gill threw in an occasional flaring of the nostril and stamping of the foot but even this additional parade of displeasure failed to bring the miscreant to his senses.
The three men were all sharers with the company, ranked players who were listed in the royal patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus among the privileged few in the profession to be accorded legal recognition. Being sharers entitled them to first choice of the major parts in all plays that were performed as well as a portion of any profits made by the company. There were a number of other sharers but policy was effectively controlled by this trio. To be more exact, it was devised by Lawrence Firethorn and then placed before his two colleagues for their comment and approval. Barnaby Gill, conceited and temperamental, always challenged Firethorn’s authority as a matter of course, and the house in Shoreditch had frequently echoed with the sound of their acrimonious exchanges. Edmund Hoode’s accustomed role was that of peacemaker and he had reconciled the squabbling rivals more times than he chose to recall, yet here was this same gentle, inoffensive man, this moon-faced romantic, this poet and dreamer, this voice of calm and moderation, this apostle of friendship, daring to abandon his fellows at a time of acute crisis. It was unthinkable.
Firethorn shattered the tense silence with a bellow.
‘Obey me, man! Or, by this hand, I’ll tie you to a hurdle and drag you along with us.’
Hoode was unmoved by the threat. ‘I will not go.’
‘You will.’
‘Take another in my place.’
‘God’s tits, Edmund! You must come!’
He attacked the renegade with a burst of expletives that turned the air blue and dislodged clouds of dust from the overhead beams. Hoode winced but he did not weaken. It was time for Barnaby Gill to take over and to replace apoplectic bluster with cool reasoning. Edmund Hoode was the resident actor-playwright, the creative source of the company, the only true begetter of that gallery of characters immortalised on the stage by the sheer flair of Firethorn and Gill. The way to appeal to him was through his work.
‘We will perform your new play, Edmund,’ he said.
‘It is not yet finished.’
‘Use the time out of London to complete it.’ Gill took his arm and guided him across the parlour to the bow window. ‘The Merchant of Calais will be your masterpiece. We may try it out on tour and polish it until it dazzles like the sun. Anything penned by Edmund Hoode commands attention but this play will lift you high above your peers.’ Personal interest intruded. ‘Is my part written yet? Does it have true passion? Are there songs for me? And I must have a dance.’ He squeezed Hoode’s arm as he offered further flattery. ‘The Merchant of Calais will take the stage by storm. Does that prospect not entice you?’
‘No,’ said the playwright angrily. ‘I do not wish to take the stage by storm in front of farting country bumpkins in some draughty village hall. Is that the only carrot you can dangle, Barnaby?’ He turned to face his colleague and brushed away his hand. ‘The Merchant of Calais was to have been performed at The Rose in Bankside before the cream of London. I’ll not let it be played in a barn to please the vulgar taste of rustics with a piece of straw in their mouths. Find some other argument. This one falters.’
‘Mine will not,’ said Firethorn, seizing the initiative once more and striding across the room to confront him. ‘You have no choice but to travel with us, Edmund. Loyalty demands it. Friendship compels it. Legal process enforces it.’
‘I am deaf to all entreaty.’
‘Hell and damnation! You are a sharer!’
‘Then I will share in the joys of London.’
‘You are contracted to serve us.’
‘I do that best by resting from the company.’
‘You have no choice, man!’
‘My decision is final.’
‘This wrings my heart,’ said Gill, striking a pose.
‘It rots my innards!’ howled Firethorn. ‘No more evasion. We are sworn fellows in a sacred brotherhood. Deny us and you deny God himself. Look me in the face, Edmund.’ His voice took on an eerie stillness. ‘Now hear me plain. Cease this nonsense and pledge yourself to this tour. Or never call me friend again.’
The warning had the power of a blow and Hoode recoiled from it. His eyes moistened, his cheeks coloured and his Adam’s apple grew restless. His resolve had finally cracked and he was visibly squirming in pain as he wrestled with his dilemma. Westfield’s Men were his family. To foresake them now would be an act of malign cruelty, but as contrition began to flood through him and make his lower lip tremble, an even louder prompting filled his ears. Edmund Hoode could simply not leave London. With a supreme effort of will, he mastered all his misgivings then made a swift but dignified exit. The ultimate plea had failed.
Torn between rage and sadness, Firethorn gesticulated impotently, shocked that the most reliable member of his company should dare to reject him. Hoode’s behaviour was quite baffling until Barnaby Gill snorted with contempt and provided the explanation.
‘This is woman’s work, Lawrence,’ he sneered.
‘Edmund? Never!’
‘The fool is in love.’
‘He is always in love, Barnaby. Suffering is the badge of his existence. There is no surer way to wallow in anguish than to scatter the seed of your affections on stony ground, and he does that every time. Edmund Hoode is a martyr to unrequited love. When he dies, they will make him the patron saint of pining hearts.’
‘He is not pining now.’
‘How say you?’
‘Some woman has at last returned his love and bewitched his legs. They will not stir from London lest he lose her. Our amorous poet is being led by the pizzle.’
‘Can this be so?’
‘Have you seen him so happy before? It is unnatural!’
Firethorn was astonished. ‘What simpleton of her sex would choose Edmund as her swain? He would sooner stroke her body with his verses than lay lascivious hands upon her. I will not believe it. Westfield’s Men are in dire need of him. Who is stupid enough to put the charms of a woman before the fate of his fellows?’
‘You are, Lawrence, to name but one.’
‘What!’
‘Have you so soon forgotten Beatrice Capaldi?’
‘Hold your serpent’s tongue!’
‘Then there was Mistress Par—’
‘Enough!’ roared Firethorn, glancing around with apprehension in case his wife should hear them from the kitchen. ‘I am not on trial here. It is Edmund Hoode who stands accused of corruption.’
‘He caught the disease from you,’ said Gill with a vindictive leer. ‘The infection is called the Itching Codpiece. It is compounded of naked folly and throbbing inflammation.’
‘Your own codpiece has itched enough when it caught the scent of a male varlet,’ retorted Firethorn vehemently. ‘At least – thanks be to heaven! – Edmund does not suffer from your contagion. He would never sell his soul for pouting lips and a pair of boyish buttocks.’
‘Enough! I’ll not endure this!’
Barnaby Gill stamped his foot so hard this time that it jarred his body and made his teeth rattle. He and Firethorn knew how to rub salt in each other’s wounds then add vinegar for full measure. They smarted together for a long time before common sense finally deprived them of their weapons and imposed a truce. Another brawl between them would not bring their errant poet back into the fold. Joint action had to be taken and swiftly. They shook hands on it.
‘We must find out who this woman is, Barnaby.’
‘Then pluck him from between her lusty thighs.’
Firethorn grinned. ‘That will be my office …’
Nicholas Bracewell removed another garment from its hook and folded it carefully before placing it in the basket. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, a conscientious soul with responsibility for making, altering and taking care of the costumes worn by the company, identified each one as it was packed away by the book holder, and he ticked it off on the list before him.
‘Item, one scarlet cloak faced with green velvet and silver lace,’ he intoned. ‘Item, one woman’s gown of cloth of gold. Item, one black velvet pea with gold lace and blue satin sleeves. Item, Charlemagne’s cloak with fur. Item, a hermit’s grey gown. Item, one white satin doublet. Item, one pair of embroidered paned hose scaled with black taffeta …’
Nicholas was about to fold the next garment when he noticed the scorch marks and set it aside. The antic coat had been used during The Devil’s Ride Through London and was one of many casualties. All the costumes worn by actors who fought the blaze were damaged, and many of those hanging in the tire-house had perished when the flames penetrated to that area. What fire had not destroyed, smoke had blackened. The foul smell still lingered in the material. It was the day after the tragedy and Nicholas had slipped unseen into the Queen’s Head with Hugh Wegges to salvage what they could from the tiring-house and add it to the larger stock of costumes, which was kept in a private room at the inn. It was important to make a proper inventory before the whole collection was moved to safer lodgings in the attic of Firethorn’s house. The list that the tireman would present to his employer would help to determine the plays that could be performed on tour.
‘The Devil will ride no more,’ said Wegges feelingly. ‘Not unless the whole cast goes naked for penance. The costumes are ruined, and I’ve no time to make new ones.’ A resigned note sounded. ‘Master Firethorn will not have room for me when the company moves on. I am like that antic coat you hold there – burnt out of my occupation.’
‘We shall return to London ere long,’ said Nicholas.
‘When we have no theatre?’
‘Our landlord may relent.’
‘And it may rain sovereigns!’ came the sarcastic reply. ‘Those of us set aside may never work with a company again.’
‘Take heart, Hugh. Bear up.’
But Nicholas did not feel as optimistic as he sounded. In order to tour, Westfield’s Men would have to reduce the size of the party to its bare essentials. The sharers would go along with the apprentices, but many of the hired men would be discarded. A tireman and his assistant were luxuries that could not be afforded when the troupe took to the road. Nicholas would be given the unhappy job of telling several actors, musicians and other members of the company that their services were no longer required. For men like Thomas Skillen, stagekeeper with Westfield’s Men since its creation, the parting could be final because he might conceivably have died before they returned. The defects of age, which debarred him from the multiple rigours of a long tour, were only kept at bay by the daily exercise of his functions behind the scenes. Without chores to do and underlings to berate, the venerable figure would soon go into decline.
It all served to increase the sense of guilt that Nicholas felt about the fire itself. Though he could not have foreseen the freak gust of wind that turned the glowing coals into a lethal inferno, it had been his idea to place the lighted brazier onstage in the final scene, and none of the praise that was afterwards heaped upon him for his bravery could hide the fact that he was somehow obscurely responsible for the disaster. Since he had inadvertently brought about the loss of the company’s venue, he vowed that he would restore it to them when the renovations were complete. That would entail more delicate restoration, the careful rebuilding of a relationship with the irascible landlord, and such work could not be rushed. In the short term, therefore, everything must be done to appease Alexander Marwood and all trace of his despised tenants removed from the premises.
When Nicholas and Hugh Wegges finished, they loaded their baskets on to a waiting cart to make a stealthy exit, but their secret visit to the inn did not go unnoticed.
‘Master Bracewell!’
‘Good day, sir,’ said Nicholas, throwing the words over his shoulder and eager to leave. ‘We must hurry.’
‘But I have news for you.’
The amiable voice made him turn and he saw a welcome face approaching. It belonged to Leonard, a huge, waddling barrel of a man with a beard still flecked with the foam of his last draught of ale. They were good friends, who had been drawn together while imprisoned in the Counter, and it was Nicholas who had secured Leonard’s employment at the Queen’s Head. The erstwhile brewer’s drayman had much to thank him for and did so on a regular basis with touching sincerity.
‘I did not know you were here,’ said Leonard.
‘It is but a brief visit,’ explained Nicholas, ‘and we would keep all knowledge of it from a certain landlord.’
‘He shall hear nothing from me.’
‘Thank you, Leonard.’
‘I have shielded your good name once already today.’
‘How so?’
‘By speaking to the youth.’
‘What youth?’
‘The one enquiring after Master Nicholas Bracewell. He came into the taproom this very hour, worn out by travel and by the weight of the message he bore.’
‘Message?’
‘It was for you, sir, and needed instant delivery.’
‘What did you tell this youth?’
‘Well,’ said Leonard, putting his hands on his broad hips to relate his tale, ‘my first task was to drag him away from Master Marwood, for when the young man spoke of you, my employer began to curse you and your company with such an uncivil tongue that you might have ravished his wife and run off with his daughter, Rose.’ Leonard chortled then he grew serious. ‘I took the youth aside and assured him of your worth, then – seeing his honesty – I gave him the address of your lodging in Bankside. I hope I did right, master.’
‘You did, Leonard. You say there was a message?’
‘I judged it to be important because it had come on such a long journey. It was his way of speaking, you see.’
‘Way of speaking?’
‘The youth. His voice was just like yours.’
Leonard tried to mimic his friend’s West Country accent, but his unskilled tongue mangled the consonants and tripped over the vowels. He shrugged an apology but he had made his point. Someone from North Devon had come in search of his friend. Nicholas sensed trouble. He thanked Leonard for his news, told Hugh Wegges to drive the cart and its cargo out to Shoreditch then took his leave of them both. He went out into Gracechurch Street and headed towards the river, dodging his way along the crowded thoroughfare and wondering what bad tidings were now pursuing him from the home that he had decisively turned his back on so many years ago.
Anne Hendrik was alarmed when her servant brought the youth in to her. The boy was bent almost double as he clutched at his midriff and yet he would not hear of any relief for his distress. His one concern was to deliver a message to her lodger. When Anne suggested that she might take charge of the missive until Nicholas returned, the youth explained that he had no letter to hand over. His was a verbal message, but he went off into such a fit of coughing that Anne doubted if he would be in a condition to utter it. She and her servant guided the visitor up to Nicholas’s chamber and made him rest on the bed. The servant was then dispatched to fetch a surgeon to the Bankside house. Anne was a compassionate woman who hated to see anyone in such pain, but when she tried to nurse the stricken messenger, she was once more waved away. Desperately ill as he clearly was, the youth still refused to be touched and begged to be left alone until Nicholas Bracewell came home.
Bankside was notorious for its haunts of pleasure and vice, but Anne Hendrik represented one of the pockets of respectability in the area. The English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she had inherited his house, his thriving little business in the adjacent premises and his positive attitude towards life. Instead of mourning his demise, therefore, she took over the management of the business and worked hard to improve its fortunes. She also took in a lodger – largely to provide a modicum of male company – but the relationship between them had developed well beyond the accepted one. In Nicholas Bracewell, she found an upright, caring and sensitive man, and he saw in her a handsome, intelligent and remarkable woman. They were kindred spirits and occasional lovers.
Nicholas had been enormously helpful to her and his solid presence had been a convenient refuge from the unwanted attentions of other admirers. Anne had never felt more in need of him than now. A sick youth was babbling his name as if he were some kind of saviour. She wanted Nicholas there to take control of the situation, to give succour to the ailing visitor and to calm the unsettling thoughts that were beginning to flit through her own mind. Even in their most intimate moments, Nicholas never talked about his life in his native Devon. It was a closed book to Anne. This youth had staggered in to open the pages of that book and she was not at all sure that she would enjoy reading them.
There was a dull thud from upstairs that made her jump then start towards the stairs. At the same time, however, the latch was lifted and Nicholas Bracewell came hurrying in. Anne had an impulse to fling herself gratefully into his arms but she was somehow held back. The expression of mingled anxiety and remorse was one she had never seen on his countenance before. He was both lover and stranger now.
‘Did anyone call here for me?’ he said.
‘A young man. He is still here and failing fast.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In your chamber. I have sent for the surgeon.’
‘What has the youth said?’
‘He will speak to none but you, Nick.’
She stood aside as he dashed up the staircase then she hurried after him, but they were far too late. When they went into the bedchamber, the youthful caller lay twisted on the floor at an unnatural angle, the face pallid and contorted with agony. Nicholas felt for signs of life but there were none. He caught a whiff of something from the lips and bent low to inhale the sour odour more carefully.
‘Poison!’ he whispered.
‘May God have mercy on his soul!’
He stood to comfort her. ‘Come away, Anne.’
‘Leave me be.’
‘You should not dwell on such a sight.’
‘It is my house, Nick.’
‘This is villainous work.’
‘But the issue of it lies dead under my roof.’
‘There is nothing you may do here. Turn away.’
‘No!’
Wanting his embrace, she yet held up her palms to keep him away. Intuition overcame need. Anne Hendrik knew at that precise moment in time that a trusting relationship that had flowered over some years had changed irrevocably. He was no longer the man she thought she knew. Nicholas Bracewell inhabited another world and part of it lay sprawled out on the floor of the bedchamber like some dreadful accusation. He saw her consternation but could find no words of apology or explanation. Instead, he bent down again to make a closer examination of the corpse.
A rush of sympathy brought tears to Anne’s eyes.
‘Poor wretch! What a hideous way to die!’
‘Someone will pay dearly for this,’ he murmured.
‘He came all that way to see you.’
‘No, Anne.’
‘And this is his reward.’
‘Look more closely.’
‘Can anyone deserve such a miserable death?’
‘There is something you have missed.’
‘He was but a youth on the threshold of life.’
‘I fear not,’ he said, rising to his feet once more and speaking with quiet outrage. ‘This is no youth, Anne. The killer is more callous than we imagined. He has poisoned a young woman.’
Edmund Hoode was racked with doubt and tortured with regret. The surge of power that had enabled him to defy his colleagues and walk out of the house in Shoreditch had now spent itself. He was left feeling weak and helpless. As he ambled through the streets of Bishopsgate Ward, his heart was pounding and his feet encased in boots of lead. The impossible had happened. In a rare burst of single-minded action, a modest and highly unselfish man had behaved with brutal selfishness. Edmund Hoode put his own needs and desires before those of the company he had served so faithfully for so long. A series of interlinked betrayals – of Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and the other sharers – was exacerbated by the wilful negation of his own creative role. In spurning Westfield’s Men, he was helping to suffocate his own career as a playwright.
Dejection turned an already bloodless face into a white mask of sorrow. Hoode was a traitor. He felt like a convicted felon in Newgate prison, who, given the choice between the summary horror of hanging and the languid misery of being pressed to death, opted for the latter because it permitted his heirs still to inherit his estate. Great weights were indeed loaded onto him, but they were not all made of steel and stone. One of them was Nicholas Bracewell, his closest friend in the company, stunned by Hoode’s treachery and pressing down hard in the way he had done on the burning roof of the Queen’s Head. Firethorn was there, too, along with Gill, the one stamping unceremoniously on him and the other dancing one of the famous jigs that adorned so many of Hoode’s plays. Both left deep footprints on his wayward heart. As for his own last will and testament, what did he have to bequeath except his work for Westfield’s Men? As an author and an actor, he existed only in performance. Piracy was rife in the theatre. Those same plays of his – staged with unvarying distinction by the company – were guarded by the book holder with his life. Could Edmund Hoode really put his private urges before the public good? Could he hold Westfield’s Men to ransom?
The weight of guilt and indecision was so excruciating that it brought him to a halt. If he went on, he lost the respect of his dearest friends: if he turned back, he missed his one real opportunity for true happiness. He had walked aimlessly for a long time but his feet had known their duty for they had brought him to the very place where the first glimpse of Elysium had been vouchsafed to him. He was in her street, standing opposite her house and looking up at her chamber window. An invisible hand must have guided him there to resuscitate his drooping spirits. No sooner did he realise where he was than the sweet face of his beloved rose up before him. A hundred friends would not separate him from her. A thousand theatre companies could not induce him to leave London so long as she graced it with her angelic presence. A million spectators could not deflect him.
She was called Mistress Jane Diamond and her beauty sparkled as preciously as her name. Edmund Hoode was entranced from the moment he set bulbous eyes on her. Poised, graceful and vivacious, she was brimming with a delightful wit. Jane Diamond was a veritable queen among women, and the fact that she was already encumbered with a king – her husband was a dull but prosperous vintner – did not diminish his readiness to pay court to her. Hoode’s romantic involvements always verged on calamity and he had characterised them, in a moment of savage introspection, as examples of the unlovable in pursuit of the unattainable. Jane Diamond was different. Not only did she encourage his interest, she actually returned his affection. She admired his plays, she doted on the verses he sent her and she loved his many sterling qualities. It was only a matter of time before consummation followed.
As he remembered that, he realised why he had walked insensibly in the direction of her house. Jane Diamond had agreed to be the jewel in his bed when time would serve, and she had promised to signal the fateful night by putting a lighted candle in her bedchamber on the same afternoon. For the past fortnight, Hoode had found reason to go back and forth to her house ten times a day but the darkness of his desire was not illumined with the flickering flame of hope. Until – did his eyes deceive him? – this moment. Even as he looked up at the casement, a slim figure appeared in it and set a tallow candle on the ledge. There was a pause, a tiny explosion of light and then a shimmering invitation that warmed his whole being. On the previous day, a spark of fire had ruined his play and destroyed part of their theatre, but this new flame was benign and joyful. It told him that an undeserving husband would be away for the night and that a gorgeous wife would be his.
Every trace of recrimination left him and he now felt as light as air. Westfield’s Men could no longer impinge on his consciousness. The assignation had been made and that was all that mattered. London was paradise.
Events moved swiftly in the house at Bankside. The surgeon arrived to find the girl beyond his help and to confirm the likely cause of her death. There was nothing about her person to indicate her identity, and whatever momentous news she carried had expired with her. Constables were summoned and the body was taken off to a slab in the morgue. Nicholas Bracewell, Anne Hendrik, the servant and the surgeon all made sworn statements to the coroner but there was no question of any rigorous pursuit of the killer by the forces of law and order. The coroner’s rolls contained countless murders by person or persons unknown, and it was possible to investigate only a tiny fraction of them. Priority was based firmly on the importance of the victim. Resources would never stretch to a full inquiry into the fate of a nameless girl from a distant county. Innocents were always at risk in a crime-infested city where a ragged army of predators waited to pounce on the unwise and the unwary. There was hardly a day when some battered corpse was not discovered in some dark corner or lugged out of the stews or dragged from the river. This hapless young woman, decided the coroner with a world-weary sigh and threadbare sympathy, was just one more fatality to enter in his records with her death unexplained and unavenged.
Nicholas Bracewell craved retribution. Since he could expect none from official quarters, he would have to find a means to deal it out himself. The girl had been poisoned, but she still had a small amount of money about her person and her clothing was of value. Theft had not been the motive. The murderer had even left her horse untouched, so he was not one of the cunning priggers of prancers who roamed the capital to steal horses wherever opportunity appeared. It was with the animal that Nicholas would start his search. He was convinced that the girl had been struck down in order to stop her passing on some news of vital import to him. Reluctant even to consider the idea of returning home, he yet knew that the only way to find out who she was and what tidings she bore was to go back once more to Devon. If that mystery were unravelled, he would have a clearer idea of why the young messenger was murdered and by whose fell hand.
Anne Hendrik had been on edge since the unheralded visitor first tottered across her threshold, and nothing that had occurred since had relieved her disquiet or eased the growing tension between her and Nicholas. Indeed, she was so upset that she pointedly ignored her lodger and asked the surgeon to escort her and her servant back to her house. When the man went off with the two women, Nicholas gave the coroner a fuller account of the circumstances and of his own involvement in the case. He made application for custody of the victim’s horse so that he could take it back to its rightful owner in Devon and explain what had befallen its rider. The girl would have anxious parents or a concerned employer with the right to know of her misfortune.
After close questioning of his witness, the coroner judged him to be a man of good reputation and sound character. Nicholas gave stern undertakings and signed a document that bound him to his stated purpose on the penalty of arrest. He then took charge of the horse and mounted it at once to ride straight back to the Queen’s Head. When he trotted into the yard, he questioned all the ostlers to see if any of them remembered having seen the roan before. They handled too many horses in the course of a day to be sure, but one of them vaguely recalled stabling the animal along with another around noon. A young man had dismounted from the roan. His companion had been much bigger, older and in the attire of a merchant.
