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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Nicholas Bracewell
- Sprache: Englisch
When unexpected disaster strikes Lord Westfield's Men during a packed performance, Nicholas Bracewell, the theatre company's stage manager and all-around performer of miracles, must save the day once again. A melee caused by men in disguise is brought under control, but before the troupe can lament their destroyed set, Nick discovers a body in the stands with a knife sticking out of its back.
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Seitenzahl: 459
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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The Vagabond Clown
An Elizabethan Mystery
EDWARD MARSTON
To Lynn Farleigh and John Woodvine, friends, actors and true Shakespeareans
The grounde work of Commedies is love, cosenedge, flatterie, bawdrie, sly conveighance of whoredom. The persons, cookes, knaves, baudes, parasites, courtezannes, lecherous old men, amorous young men …
STEPHEN GOSSON: Plays Confuted in Five Actions (1582)
Contents
Chapter One
The trouble came when he least expected it. Nicholas Bracewell was, for once, caught completely off guard. Until that moment, the performance had been an unqualified success. A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady was an ideal choice for a hot afternoon in the yard of the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street and the spectators were highly appreciative. What was on offer was a riotous comedy that was played with such skill that it kept the large audience in a state of almost continuous hilarity. Waves of laughter rolled ceaselessly across the yard. In the role of a bumbling suitor, Lackwit, who fails time and again to win the hand of his beloved, Lawrence Firethorn led Westfield’s Men superbly, setting a standard at which the others could aim, if only to fall short. The one actor who rivalled his comic genius was Barnaby Gill, the acknowledged clown of the company, a man whose facial contortions were a delight and whose sprightly jigs were irresistibly funny. Gill was in the middle of one of his famous dances when the shadow of disaster fell across the afternoon.
‘Why do they laugh so, Nick?’ complained Firethorn, who had just quit the stage and was standing beside the book holder. ‘These are stale antics. Barnaby’s jig has as much novelty as the death of Julius Caesar.’
‘He’s a born clown,’ said Nicholas Bracewell admiringly, glancing up from his prompt book to watch Gill at work. ‘He plays upon his audience as upon a pipe.’
‘And produces dull music.’
‘They do not think so.’
Firethorn inflated his chest. ‘I am the true clown,’ he boasted. ‘My touch is altogether lighter than Barnaby’s. I play upon playgoers as upon a church organ.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas with a smile, ‘and produce some very irreverent chords.’
Before he could reply, Firethorn was distracted by a huge roar of laughter from the inn yard. Envy surged through him at once. Annoyed that Gill was getting such a wonderful response onstage, he turned to look at his capering colleague. But it was not the comic jig that was provoking the explosion of joy. Gill, in fact, was standing quite still. Two young men had suddenly leapt up on to the makeshift stage from the audience and were grappling with each other. Assuming that the fight was part of the play, the spectators urged them on, shaking with even more mirth when Gill, outraged that his dance had been interrupted, made the mistake of trying to pull the combatants apart, only to be set on by both of them. The hapless clown was pushed, punched, slapped, tripped up, kicked hard in the ribs then thrown unceremoniously from the stage.
Amused at first, the standees at the front of the pit lost their sense of humour when the flailing arms and legs of Barnaby Gill landed among them. Items of furniture soon followed as the two interlopers began to hurl various properties from the stage. A chair hit one man in the face. A heavy stool knocked another spectator senseless. Flung into the air, a wooden table caused even more damage when it landed simultaneously on three people. This was no trick to catch a chaste lady, still less a device to entertain the onlookers. It was a deliberate attempt to halt the play in its tracks. Protests were loud and angry. In an instant, the atmosphere in the yard was transformed.
Nicholas was the first to react, discarding his book to make an unscheduled appearance on stage and grab one of the miscreants in order to march him off. Firethorn came charging out to deal with the other young man but the latter jumped into the crowd and started to cudgel everyone within reach. A brawl developed immediately and the whole yard was soon involved. Stirred into action, drunken apprentices clambered onto the stage and tried to release the captive from Nicholas’s hands. Other members of the cast came streaming out to assist their book holder, only to be ambushed by a second group of apprentices who had been roused to join in the melee. Violence was lifted to a new and more dangerous level. The noise was deafening. Above the roars of injured parties rose the screams of women and the yells of frightened men. There was a mad dash for the exits, producing such congestion that people began to buffet each other indiscriminately.
Nor was there any safety in the galleries. Viewing the disorder from above, those who had paid extra for a seat and a cushion were forced to duck and dodge as missiles were aimed at them from below. Half-eaten apples scored direct hits. Sticks and stones seemed to come from nowhere. One man scooped up fresh horse manure from the stables and flung it at the gallants and their ladies in the lower gallery. Panic reached the level of hysteria as spectators fought their way to the steps. Private battles broke out on every staircase. All trace of courtesy vanished. Rich apparel was badly torn in the commotion, wounds were readily inflicted. Shrieks, curses, threats and cries for help blended into a single ear-splitting sound. Chaos had come to the Queen’s Head. Its morose landlord, Alexander Marwood, the bane of the theatre troupe, viewed the scene from the uncertain safety of a window, shouting himself hoarse and gesticulating wildly as the fighting intensified.
Nicholas struggled valiantly against unequal odds. Forced to let go of one man, he beat off three others who tried to overpower him then used his strength to dislodge an attacker, clinging unwisely to Firethorn’s back. The actor was already wrestling with two other invaders of their stage before banging their heads together and sending them reeling. Nicholas looked around in despair. The play had been comprehensively ruined. Properties had been tossed into the crowd and the scenery had been smashed to pieces. Barnaby Gill had disappeared under the feet of the fleeing public. It was a black day for Westfield’s Men. They came out to support their fellows in the fight but only added to the general tumult. Dick Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the company’s apprentices, still in his costume, abandoned all pretence of being the beautiful Helen, object of Lackwit’s wooing, and hurled himself into the fray. It was a grave error of judgement. Within seconds, his wig was snatched from his head, his dress was torn from his back and he was shouldered roughly off the stage.
Honeydew’s cry went unheard in the turmoil but Nicholas had seen the fate of his young friend. Leaping from the stage, he went to his aid, lifting the boy to his feet with one hand while using the other to brush away a leering youth who was trying to molest the play’s heroine. The book holder carried Honeydew quickly back to the tiring-house.
‘Stay here, Dick!’ he ordered. ‘This is not your battle.’
‘I’ll do my share,’ said Honeydew, raising a puny arm. ‘Westfield’s Men ever stick together. We must all protect our property.’
‘It’s beyond redemption. My job is to save our fellows from serious harm.’ He indicated the cowering figure in the corner of the room. ‘You stay here and comfort George. He needs your succour.’
‘Oh, I do, I do,’ wailed George Dart.
Dart was the assistant stagekeeper, a small, slight, timorous creature who all too often took on the role of the company’s scapegoat. Though he had many sterling qualities, bravery was not among them. While others had rushed out to do battle, Dart shrunk back into the tiring-house with his hands over his ears. Honeydew took pity on him and put a consoling arm around the diminutive figure. Nicholas felt able to return to the battlefield. When he went out on stage, he was relieved to see that it had now been reclaimed by the actors. With a concerted effort, they had driven all the interlopers off their precious boards and were patrolling them to make sure that nobody else trespassed on their territory. Firethorn stood in their midst, bellowing at the audience to calm down but only succeeding in driving them into an even greater frenzy.
Nicholas glanced up at the galleries. They were rapidly emptying. Even their patron, Lord Westfield, was beating a retreat from his place of honour with the members of his entourage, scrambling through a door that led to a private room. The affray would do untold damage to the reputation of the company, making even their most loyal playgoers think twice before venturing into the Queen’s Head again. A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady had ended in catastrophe. There was worse to come. As the crowd continued to disperse, a familiar figure was revealed. Trampled in the exodus, Barnaby Gill was lying on the ground, clutching a leg and groaning in agony. Nicholas jumped from the stage and bent over him to protect Gill from any further injury. Firethorn also came to the aid of the stricken clown.
‘What ails you, Barnaby?’ he said, kneeling beside him.
‘My leg,’ replied Gill through gritted teeth. ‘God’s blood, Lawrence! How could you let this happen? They’ve broken my leg.’
‘How do you know?’
‘How do you think I know, man?’
Nicholas turned to the stage. ‘Fetch a doctor!’ he called and one of the actors ran off immediately. There were still many bodies milling about in the yard. ‘Let’s move him to a place of safety,’ he suggested. ‘We can use that table.’
Calling two more actors to assist him, Nicholas righted the upturned table that had been thrown from the stage. The powerful Firethorn, showing an affection for his fallen colleague that surprised them both, lifted Gill as gently as he could and lowered him onto the table. Four of them bore it slowly away with its passenger still writhing in pain. Only when they had manoeuvred the table into the tiring-house did they feel that he was out of danger. Gill was surrounded by the sympathetic faces of his fellows. They saw the implications at once. A clown with a broken leg would not be able to dance for a very long time. It was a bitter blow to a company that relied so much on the talents of the inimitable Barnaby Gill. Everyone tried to soothe him with kind words.
When they least needed him, Alexander Marwood came bursting in. There was no compassion from the landlord. He ignored Gill completely. His gnarled face was puce with fury and the remaining wisps of hair stood up like tufts of grass on his gleaming pate. He pointed an accusatory finger at Firethorn.
‘See the mischief you have done, sir?’ he howled. ‘You’ve brought ruin down upon me. You and your knavish company have turned my yard into the pit of Hell.’
‘Away, you rogue!’ yelled Firethorn, rounding on him. ‘Can you not see that Barnaby lies injured here? What are a few damaged pieces of timber to a broken leg? Take that ugly face of yours out of here before it makes me puke.’
‘I demand recompense, Master Firethorn.’
‘You shall have it with the point of my sword.’
‘I’ll not be browbeaten, sir.’
‘No,’ warned Firethorn, bunching a fist. ‘You’ll be hand-beaten, foot-beaten, cudgel-beaten, stone-beaten and axe-beaten until you look even more hideous than you are now. By heaven, if I were not so fond of dumb animals, I’d beat you into a pulp and feed you to the mangiest curs in London.’ He raised an arm to strike. ‘Begone, you foul wretch! You offend our sight.’
Marwood backed away in fear. ‘Stand off, sir, or I’ll set the law on you.’
‘Not before I set my toe against your vile buttocks.’
Nicholas moved in swiftly to prevent Firethorn from carrying out his threat. Taking the landlord by the shoulder, he ushered him out of the room and onto the stage. He disliked Marwood as much as any of them but he knew the importance of trying to placate the egregious little man who, when all was said and done, provided them with their inn yard theatre. Westfield’s Men enjoyed a precarious relationship with Alexander Marwood at the best of times. That relationship would not be improved by a violent assault upon him.
‘I’ll turn you out,’ said Marwood, still pulsing with impotent rage. ‘I’ll not have Westfield’s Men on my premises a moment longer.’
‘Calm down,’ said Nicholas. ‘You are too hasty.’
‘I was certainly too hasty when I let my yard to your troupe.’
‘We’ve both gained from the arrangement.’
‘I should have expelled you years ago, Master Bracewell.’
‘And what would have happened to all the income that we have brought you?’ asked Nicholas, appealing to his pocket. ‘We not only pay you a rent, we fill the Queen’s Head with happy people who are only too ready to drink your ale and eat your food. Come, sir, you have turned a handsome profit out of the company.’
Marwood looked balefully around the yard. ‘Do you call this profit, sir? My benches damaged, my balustrades cracked, my shutters torn off their hinges. I dare not think what horrors that mob visited on my stables. This is a calamity!’ he cried. ‘I am surprised that my inn is still standing.’
‘We regret what happened as much as you.’
‘But you and your fellows are to blame, Master Bracewell.’
‘Not so,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are victims of this affray, not progenitors.’
‘Westfield’s Men attract rogues and vagabonds into my yard.’
‘We appeal to anyone who wishes to enjoy a play. Our spectators were filled with your ale, remember. Hot weather and strong drink worked against us this afternoon. Think how rarely it has done that,’ argued Nicholas. ‘No matter how rough and unruly an audience, our plays usually please them so much that their behaviour is above reproach. A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady has always found favour before. Set this one bad experience against the hundreds of good ones that have taken place at the Queen’s Head.’
‘My mind is resolved, sir. We must part forthwith.’
‘You forget our contract.’
‘Its terms stipulate that my yard may be hired for the sole purpose of presenting a play. Not for encouraging the sweepings of the city to run riot. The contract is revoked.’
‘Would you lose the income that it gives you?’
‘I’d rather lose that than the inn itself.’
‘The damage may not be as great as you fear.’
‘No,’ moaned Marwood, running his eye over the debris. ‘It’s likely to be far worse. Get your fellows off my property, Master Bracewell.’
‘Not until we help to clear up the mess.’
‘Westfield’s Men will be the death of me!’
Clutching his head in despair, the landlord turned on his heel and scurried off to the taproom. Nicholas let him go. There was no reasoning with Marwood in a crisis. A confirmed pessimist, he preferred to luxuriate in misery. Nicholas took a quick inventory of the yard. Most of the spectators had fled now, leaving only the stragglers and the wounded behind. They limped out of the Queen’s Head as best they could, glad to get away from the scene of devastation. Items from the play lay scattered on the ground alongside food, vomit, discarded tankards and a selection of hats that had been plucked from their owners’ heads. Dick Honeydew’s stolen wig floated in a pool of blood. Doors, shutters and balustrades had all been damaged. Some of the benches in the galleries had been upended and snapped in two during the headlong flight. It was a depressing sight.
Nicholas was about to call the others to help him clear up the yard when he noticed someone still up in the gallery. Slumped in his seat, the man was young, well-built and exquisitely well-dressed. What interested Nicholas was the fact that the last surviving member of the audience had been part of Lord Westfield’s entourage, the exclusive coterie that occupied a privileged position in the gallery. The man’s eyes were closed as if he had drifted off to sleep. Nicholas wondered if he had somehow been knocked unconscious as the spectators struggled to escape. Crossing to the nearest staircase, he went up the steps and made his way along the gallery to the lone figure. He shook him by the shoulder to see if he could rouse him. The man suddenly fell forward and the book holder grabbed him before he hit his head on the balustrade. It was only then that Nicholas saw the handle of a dagger protruding from his back. The man’s days as a playgoer were over.
Chapter Two
It was almost an hour before Nicholas Bracewell was able to rejoin the others. Having summoned constables to report the murder of the anonymous playgoer, he helped them to carry the body to the waiting cart that would take it to the morgue. Nicholas then went off to give a sworn statement to a magistrate, describing the circumstances in which he had found the dead man but having, at this stage, no clue as to his identity beyond the fact that he was a friend of Lord Westfield’s. Word of the riot at the inn alarmed the magistrate and he hoped that culprits could be found and arraigned, but Nicholas had doubts. Once they had started the affray, none of the youths lingered in the yard for too long. They escaped while they could. Nicholas feared that their crime might well go unpunished.
When he returned to the Queen’s Head, he found that almost the entire company was helping to dismantle their stage and clear up the wreckage in the yard. There was a pervading air of sadness as they sifted through the remains of their property, acutely conscious of the severe blow dealt to their livelihood. Only two actors were missing. One of them, Lawrence Firethorn, soon came clattering into the yard on his horse. Reining in the animal, he dismounted and went over to Nicholas.
‘This is the worst day in our history, Nick,’ he decided. ‘It will take us an eternity to recover from this. Barnaby injured, our scenery destroyed, our performance ruined and our audience put to flight. Truly, this is our Armageddon.’
‘Did the doctor arrive?’ asked Nicholas.
‘He came and went. As soon as he set the leg in splints, I helped him to convey Barnaby to his lodging. We had to move him with great care.’
‘How is he now?’
‘Cursing his fate and trying to dull the pain with some Canary wine.’
‘What did the doctor say?’
‘The break was clean and it should heal in time.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘Months and months.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Nicholas, ‘we have lost his services.’
Firethorn heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, Nick,’ he agreed. ‘I never thought to hear myself admitting this but we shall miss him mightily. Lawrence Firethorn may be the shooting star of Westfield’s Men but Barnaby Gill can light up the heavens as well.’ His gaze shifted to the litter-strewn yard. ‘Why did this have to happen? What on earth was it about A TrickTo Catch A Chaste Lady that set them off?’
‘The play was not to blame.’
‘Then what was? Did Barnaby’s jig cause such offence?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Whatever play we performed today was already doomed. This was no random act of malice. The brawl was planned.’
Firethorn blinked. ‘You think that someone set out to spoil the performance?’
‘I’m certain of it. Only two of them jumped up onto the stage at first but I fancy they had confederates in various parts of the yard. That’s why the fighting spread so quickly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think they were paid to bring us down.’
‘By whom?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘But for what possible reason?’
‘That’s what we have to find out.’ Nicholas cocked an eye upward to the gallery. ‘We also have to determine why someone was stabbed to death here this afternoon.’
‘That creeping insect of a landlord would have been killed as well if I could have got my hands on him!’
‘Forget Alexander Marwood. We have worries enough to vex us.’
‘Too true, Nick,’ said Firethorn, running a hand through his beard. ‘Murder takes priority here. It behoves me to give the poor man the tribute of a passing sigh. Do we know who the victim was?’
‘Not yet. But I trust that our patron will furnish us with a name.’
‘It’s a pity that he cannot furnish us with some money for we shall certainly need it. Much of what was damaged is beyond repair. And our reputation is badly besmirched. Come,’ he urged, walking into the middle of the yard, ‘let’s help our fellows move the rest of this trash. The sooner we get away from this accursed inn, the better.’
‘We need to stay away for a time until tempers cool.’
‘Why so?’
‘The landlord is upset.’
‘That ghoul is always upset.’
‘He’s resolved to terminate our contract.’
Firethorn glowered. ‘Let him try. I’ll terminate the villain’s miserable life!’
‘He owns the Queen’s Head,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘If we are ever to play here again, we must win him over somehow.’
‘Then that’s an embassy I leave to you, Nick. I can’t treat with the rogue.’
‘He needs time apart from us.’
‘But this is our playhouse.’
‘We’ll not perform here again for some while.’
‘But we must or our occupation dies.’
‘I’ve a notion that might solve that problem.’
‘Then let’s hear it, man.’
‘All in good time.’
Nicholas scooped up the chair that had been hurled into the audience from the stage. Its back had been cracked and one of its legs was missing. He held it up to examine it. Firethorn shook his head sadly.
‘We can soon have a new leg put on that,’ he observed with bitterness. ‘It will not be quite so easy to repair Barnaby.’
The injury not only caused Barnaby Gill extreme pain. It had inflicted a deep wound on his pride. During his long career on the stage, he had never failed to captivate an audience with one of his jigs and invariably earned an ovation at their conclusion. This time, it was different. His art had been insulted, his dance interrupted and his humiliation completed by a vicious attack. As he lay on the bed in his lodging with a half-empty cup of wine in his hand, he was in despair.
‘I am done for, Edmund!’ he groaned. ‘Barnaby Gill is no more.’
‘That’s foolish talk,’ said Edmund Hoode, the resident playwright with the company. ‘You’re invincible, Barnaby. This is but a small mishap. A short and well-deserved rest from your labours on the boards.’
Gill snorted. ‘Rest, do you say? How on earth do I rest when I am in agony?’ he asked, pointing to the leg that was in splints. ‘And well-deserved? Since when did I deserve to be set upon by two rogues who beat me black and blue?’
‘I was merely trying to make a virtue of necessity.’
‘Where’s the virtue in losing my one source of income?’
‘Your leg will heal in time.’
‘Not for ages.’
‘The doctor was full of optimism.’
‘I’d be full of optimism if he’d broken his leg,’ said Gill testily. ‘The old fool had no idea how long it would take to mend or whether I’d ever be able to dance on it again.’
‘Be patient, Barnaby.’
‘When I’m in such torment?’
Gill drained his cup and tossed it aside. Hoode felt sorry for his friend. He could see the quiet terror in Gill’s eyes. It was as if the clown’s whole future had been broken in two along with his leg. There was no guarantee that his nimbleness would not be permanently impaired. He feared that he might go through life thereafter with a limp. Hoode felt a deep personal loss. Every play he had ever written contained a part that was tailored to Gill’s unique comic gifts. Performances of those works without him would be gravely weakened. Hoode was a kind man with a moon-shaped face that was now creased with concern. He bent solicitously over the bed.
‘Is there anything I can get you, Barnaby?’
‘Only a gravedigger to bury me.’
‘You are still very much alive.’
‘My art is dead and, without it, so am I.’
‘Away with such thoughts!’
‘Look at me, man,’ said Gill, grimacing. ‘You see a corpse before you.’
‘I see the finest clown in London,’ replied Hoode loyally. ‘You are a trifle battered by life at the moment, that is all.’
It was true. In addition to the broken leg, Gill had sustained other injuries. His face was heavily bruised and one eye had been blackened. Having been trampled on by dozens of feet, his whole body was a mass of aches and twinges. He had aged visibly. Hoode had never seen him looking so haggard and miserable. It was very worrying. He did his best to cheer up his friend.
‘In a month’s time, all this will be forgotten,’ he said.
‘Never! This day is graven on my heart in perpetuity.’
‘New triumphs lie ahead of you, Barnaby.’
‘What use is a one-legged dancer?’
‘I foresee a complete recovery.’
‘Then you are a poor prophet, Edmund. How can I recover from such ignominy?’ he cried, tears beginning to roll. ‘It was torture out there on that stage today. I was in the middle of my jig when the rogues set upon me. In front of all those people, I was torn to shreds. When they had finished their sport, they tossed me into the pit like a child’s doll. The wonder is that I’ve lived to tell the tale.’
‘Nothing can keep you down, Barnaby.’
‘It can, it has, it will.’
Gill wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and went off into a reverie. Hoode felt a surge of sympathy for him. The broken leg would not simply interrupt a brilliant career on stage. It would have a disastrous effect on Gill’s private life. Most of the actors in the company seized their opportunity to impress and attract female admiration among the spectators. Following the example of Lawrence Firethorn, seasoned in that particular art, they learnt how to catch the eye and set a heart aflame. Gill, too, relied on his performances to excite an audience but, in his case, young men were the intended target. Alone among Westfield’s Men, he preferred male company and his performances were his chief means of winning new friends and gaining new conquests. Exiled from the stage while his broken leg slowly mended, he would hardly be in a fit state to seek consolation in certain discreet London taverns. He was also inordinately proud of his appearance, dressing in flamboyant attire and continuously preening himself. Such vanity was now superfluous. Gill would not dare even to look in a mirror.
Hoode did not approve of his friend’s private life but that did not stop him from understanding how deprived he must feel. At a stroke, Gill had lost the two sources of pleasure in his life. He was cruelly separated both from his profession and his recreation. Hoode made one last attempt to offer him comfort.
‘All is not lost, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘Though you may no longer prance about a stage, you can still earn money with your songs. You can still raise a laugh.’
Gill was sour. ‘Yes, everyone will laugh at me now.’
‘You have given song recitals before.’
‘Only when I wanted to sing, Edmund. The case is altered. All that I wish to do now is to curl up in a corner and die of shame. How do you think I will feel when the rest of you strut boldly at the Queen’s Head while I suffer here?’
‘We shall never know.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’ll be no strutting at the Queen’s Head for a long while,’ explained Hoode. ‘It was badly damaged during the affray and renovations will be needed. But our main enemy, as ever, is that morose landlord of ours. Alexander Marwood vows that we’ll never set foot across his threshold again.’
‘Hold him to his contract.’
‘He claims that it was revoked by what happened today.’
‘What does Lawrence say?’ asked Gill.
Hoode gave a wry smile. ‘If it was left to Lawrence, the landlord would be hanged from the roof of his inn and set alight until he burnt to a cinder. Fortunately, wiser counsels have prevailed. Nick Bracewell has come to our rescue yet again.’
‘Oh?’
‘As you know,’ Hoode went on, ‘we were due to quit the city in ten days’ time on a tour of Kent. Nick has suggested that we leave almost immediately. It will have the virtue of keeping us employed and putting distance between us and the landlord of the Queen’s Head. The hope is that he will soften towards us while we are away and be more subject to reason by the time that we return.’ Hoode saw the other’s face darken. ‘Is this not the solution to our predicament?’
‘No,’ growled Gill.
‘But it’s our salvation.’
‘And what about me? At a time when I most need my fellows, they will be cavorting around Kent without me. How can you desert a friend like this?’
‘It’s not desertion, Barnaby. It’s a means of survival.’
‘Your survival – not mine.’
‘The company takes precedence over any individual.’
‘Even when I suffered grievously on its behalf?’ urged Gill. ‘I was the one who was attacked. I was the one who was flung to the ground and stamped on. It was an ordeal. Show me one person who endured more than I did.’
‘I will,’ said Hoode softly, ‘though I have no name to put to him.’
‘No name?’
‘In the heat of the affray this afternoon, a man was stabbed to death in the gallery. He came to see a play and forfeited his life. We all regret your injuries, Barnaby, but we must reserve some sympathy for a murder victim.’
Gill was cowed. ‘Who was the man?’ he murmured.
‘That remains to be seen.’
Nicholas Bracewell finally tracked down Lord Westfield early that evening. Their patron was about to leave his house on his way to visit friends. Nicholas caught him as he was in the act of stepping into his carriage. Lord Westfield was still shaken by the events of the afternoon and he was even more disturbed when he heard of the murder that had taken place at the Queen’s Head. He gave an involuntary shiver.
‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed. ‘And he was sitting so close to me. That dagger could have finished up in any of our backs. Even mine!’
‘Happily, my lord,’ said Nicholas, ‘that was not the case.’
‘This is disgraceful. A play is supposed to provide pleasure, not endanger life.’
‘It was a most unusual occurrence.’
‘So I should hope.’
‘But I’m surprised that this is the first you heard of it, my lord,’ said Nicholas. ‘The man was in your party. Were you not aware of his absence when you fled?’
‘No,’ replied the other with irritation. ‘We were trying to escape an affray. In those circumstances, you do not pause to count heads. Once outside the inn, we went our several ways. I assumed that Fortunatus was safe.’
‘Fortunatus?’
‘That is his name. Fortunatus Hope. An ill-favoured christening, if ever there was one, for the fellow had appalling fortune and but little hope.’ He stepped down from his carriage. ‘Yes, from what you tell me about his appearance, it has to be Fortunatus.’
‘Did you know him well, Lord Westfield?’
‘No,’ said the patron. ‘He was a newcomer to my circle, a lively fellow with a turn of phrase that amused me. I looked to become better acquainted with him but that, alas, it will not now be possible.’
‘Is there anything you can tell me about him?’ asked Nicholas.
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Did this Master Hope have any enemies?’
Lord Westfield became pensive. He was a short, plump, red-faced man of middle years in a doublet of peach-coloured satin that was trimmed with gold lace. His tall green hat sported an ostrich feather that curled down mischievously over his right temple. Though Nicholas was unfailingly polite to their patron, he was more than aware of his shortcomings. Lord Westfield was an epicurean, a man whose whole life was devoted to idle pleasures, usually at someone else’s expense. His love of the theatre encouraged him to retain his own troupe but it existed as much to add lustre to his name as to achieve any success on its own account. Lord Westfield liked nothing better than to loll in his chair in the lower gallery at the Queen’s Head and bask in the praise of his hangers-on as he showed off his company to them. That joy had been taken summarily from him during the afternoon’s performance and the memory of it still made him bristle with disapproval.
‘It was an appalling scene,’ he recalled. ‘Utterly appalling!’
‘I agree, my lord.’
‘There were ladies in my party. They might have been injured.’
‘Luckily, they were not,’ said Nicholas. ‘Others did not escape, I fear. There were a number of casualties, Barnaby Gill among them.’
‘Master Gill was grossly abused. How does he fare?’
‘Not well, my lord. He suffered a broken leg.’
‘Poor fellow!’
‘It may be months before he is fully recovered. He’ll be unable to join us on our tour of Kent. That is the other thing I came to tell you, my lord,’ he added. ‘Since we have worn out our welcome in Gracechurch Street, we mean to leave London sooner than planned. I believe that you intended to be in Dover when we played there.’
‘Indeed, I do,’ said the other. ‘Lord Cobham is a friend of mine. I’ve promised him a stirring performance from Westfield’s Men. Let me know the dates of your stay in Dover and I’ll contrive to be there at the same time.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ replied Nicholas, trying to guide him back to the more important matter. ‘Before I do that, however, I would like whatever information you can give me about Master Hope. I asked if he had enemies.’
‘None that I know of. Fortunatus was such an amiable character.’
‘Someone had a grudge against him.’
‘Evidently.’
‘Where did he live in the city?’
‘I told you. He only recently befriended me.’
‘He must have a family. They need to be informed of this tragedy.’
‘Fortunatus hailed from Oxfordshire,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘It will take a louder voice than yours to reach the ears of his family. I doubt that even Lawrence Firethorn’s lungs would be equal to that task.’
‘Perhaps another member of your circle could give me an address,’ suggested Nicholas, annoyed that he was getting so little help and wishing that Lord Westfield would take the murder more seriously. ‘I need urgent assistance, my lord.’
‘Why? This is a matter for the law.’
‘It also concerns us. And I fancy that we may be able to make more headway than some local constables who were not present at the time. We were there, my lord.’
‘Do not remind me!’
‘There has to be a reason why Fortunatus Hope was killed at the Queen’s Head.’
‘More than one person drew a weapon to defend himself,’ remembered the older man. ‘Could not Fortunatus have been the victim of a chance dagger?’
Nicholas was firm. ‘No question of that, my lord.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I used my eyes.’
‘But the place was in uproar.’
‘That was the intention. The affray was started with the express purpose of distracting attention so that a man could be murdered. Cunning was at work, my lord,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Someone set out to strike against you, your company and your friend.’
‘Saints preserve us!’ gasped Lord Westfield, a flabby hand at his throat. ‘Do you tell me that I am in mortal danger as well?’
‘We have a common enemy, my lord,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we need to unmask him with all speed. Every detail I can glean about Fortunatus Hope is vital. Otherwise, the person or persons who have shown such ill will towards Westfield’s Men may soon strike again.’
Chapter Three
The meeting took place in Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch, a sprawling, half-timbered dwelling with a thatched roof in need of repair. Situated in Old Street, the house was presided over by Firethorn’s wife, Margery, a formidable woman with a homely appearance that belied her strength of character and her iron determination. Not only did she cope with a husband whose roving instincts were a continual threat to marital harmony, she brought the children up on true Christian principles, provided bed and board for the company’s apprentices and ruled the roost over her servants. The place was never less than clean, the food never less than delicious and the hospitality never less than warm. When the first guest, Edmund Hoode, arrived, Margery gave him a cordial welcome and wanted to hear all about his visit to the ailing Barnaby Gill. The second person to knock on her door was Owen Elias, the spirited Welsh actor, and she accepted his kiss with a girlish laugh. But it was for Nicholas Bracewell that she reserved her most affectionate reception, wrapping him in a tight embrace and chortling happily. Firethorn had to call his wife to order.
‘Let the fellow in, Margery,’ he scolded, ‘before you squeeze all the breath out of him. You have three thirsty guests in the house and your husband’s throat is also dry.’
‘Say no more, Lawrence,’ she replied, bustling off to the kitchen.
Nicholas went into the parlour to be greeted by the others. Ordinarily, Barnaby Gill would have been present at such a gathering. There were other sharers in the company but he, Firethorn and Hoode made all the major decisions, assisted usually by Nicholas, who, as the book holder, was only a hired man but who was included in discussions about future policy because of his cool head and resourcefulness. Gill always objected strongly to his presence at such meetings but he was overruled each time by Firethorn, the leading actor and manager of Westfield’s Men. Nicholas was pleased to see that Elias had replaced Gill at the table. Unlike the troupe’s clown, the Welshman was a firm friend. He was also a person with firm opinions that were expressed with characteristic honesty. There would be none of the petty bickering that Gill invariably brought to any exchange of views.
Taking the seat to which Firethorn waved him, Nicholas turned to Hoode.
‘How is he, Edmund?’ he asked.
‘Barnaby is wallowing in self-pity,’ said Hoode.
‘No novelty there,’ observed Firethorn tartly.
‘Show some sympathy, Lawrence,’ chided Hoode, shooting him a look of reproof. ‘He’s in great discomfort. The doctor gave him some medicine to ease his pain but it has no effect. Barnaby suffers dreadfully. The pain is not confined to his leg, I fear. It is seated in his heart and his brain as well.’
‘He does not have a heart.’
‘Shame on you! At such a time as this, Barnaby needs our support.’
‘Then let us drink to his health,’ said Firethorn as Margery entered with a tray that bore four cups of wine and a platter of cakes on it. ‘Thank you, my angel,’ he added, patting her on the rump as she passed. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Find someone else to wait on you, hand, foot and finger,’ she retorted before handing out the refreshments. ‘Is there anything else you need, Lawrence?’
‘Only peace and quiet, my dove.’
‘I’ll make sure that the children don’t interrupt you.’
After distributing a smile among the three guests, she sailed out again and left the men to raise their cups to the absent Gill. Firethorn was anxious to begin the discussion.
‘Well, Nick,’ he said, taking a first sip of wine, ‘did you see Lord Westfield?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘Eventually.’
‘What did he say about this afternoon’s disorder?’
‘He was shocked and disgusted. Fearing injury to himself and his friends, he hustled them out so quickly that he was quite unaware of the fact that one of them was in no position to leave.’
‘Did he identify the dead man?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name was Fortunatus Hope.’
‘I think he should have been called Misfortunatus,’ said Elias with a grim chuckle, ‘for he chanced on no luck at the Queen’s Head. Who could have wanted to kill the fellow?’
‘Lord Westfield could throw no light on that, Owen. Nor could he even tell me where the man lived. Master Hope, it seems, only recently came into his circle and was still much of an unknown quantity. What our patron has promised to do,’ said Nicholas, ‘is to make enquiry among his other friends to see if any of them were better acquainted with the fellow. At the very least, we should write to his family to tell them of the tragedy that has befallen them.’
‘That office should surely fall to Lord Westfield,’ said Firethorn.
‘I fancy that we might perform it more readily.’
‘Are our patron’s feathers so completely ruffled, Nick?’
‘His plumage is in danger of falling out. Because of what happened today, he thinks that his own life may now be in jeopardy. By the time I left him, he was shaking like a leaf.’
‘Did you apprise him of that fact that we mean to quit the city forthwith?’
‘I did. He thought it a sensible move.’
‘What of our visit to Dover?’ asked Hoode.
‘Lord Westfield still intends to be there when we play at the castle. He’ll send word to Lord Cobham that we’ll reach Dover earlier than expected.’ Nicholas tasted his own wine. ‘When he has to advise a distinguished friend of a change of date, our patron will reach willingly for his pen. But he is less ready to pass on news of a murder to the family of Fortunatus Hope. I’d have thought it simple courtesy.’
‘Lord Westfield lends us his name, Nick,’ said Firethorn briskly. ‘Do not look for much else from him. He’s a man of strict limitations. But enough of him,’ he went on, slapping his thigh. ‘The decision is made. We take to the road the day after tomorrow. All that we need to debate is whom we take with us.’
‘As large a company as we may,’ said Elias.
‘A number of the hired men will have to be released, Owen.’
‘It seems an act of cruelty to discard them.’
Firethorn shrugged. ‘Cruel but necessary. Some of the musicians will have to stand down as well. We can only take musicians who can also carry parts, or actors who can play an instrument.’
Hoode finished eating his cake. ‘Our main concern is how to replace Barnaby,’ he said, brushing a few crumbs from his arm. ‘Nobody can match his talent but we must find a substitute who will not let us down.’
‘Is there nobody within the company?’ wondered Elias.
‘None, Owen. You can sing as well as Barnaby but I mean no disrespect when I say that you could never emulate his other skills. We must perforce look outside Westfield’s Men.’
‘What is the point?’ asked Firethorn. ‘The best clowns are already employed elsewhere. We could hardly lure one away from Banbury’s Men. Giles Randolph would not oblige us with the time of day, still less with one of his comedians. We’d meet the same rebuff from Havelock’s Men. They’d sooner part with their teeth than help us.’
Elias frowned. ‘There must be someone who meets our needs.’
‘There is,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he is not attached to any company.’
‘Who is this paragon?’
‘Gideon Mussett.’
‘Why, of course!’ said Elias, jumping to his feet. ‘The very man. Giddy Mussett can make an audience laugh until they sue for relief. He is the one clown who could fully disguise the absence of Barnaby Gill.’ His face clouded. ‘Yet, wait awhile. I thought that Giddy was contracted to Conway’s Men.’
‘He was,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but it seems that he fell out with them.’
‘Giddy Mussett falls out with everyone,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘Nobody can doubt his talent but it’s allied to every vice in the calendar.’
‘Barnaby is not exactly a saint,’ Elias noted, resuming his seat.
‘Perhaps not, Owen, but neither does he drink himself into a stupor, pick a fight on the slightest provocation and frequent the stews of Bankside.’
‘If all who love fine ale and fine women are to be excluded, then half of us will stay in London. On those two accounts,’ admitted the Welshman, ‘Giddy Mussett is no worse than Owen Elias. I, too, am cursed with hot blood and find it difficult to walk away from a quarrel.’
‘Mussett incites quarrels for the sake of it.’
‘Not if he is kept under control,’ argued Nicholas.
‘No theatre company has so far managed that feat.’
‘I believe it to be within our compass.’
Hoode was curious. ‘Why do you say that, Nick?’
‘For two main reasons. The first is simple gratitude. Every actor would rather be working than kicking his heels. Giddy Mussett is no exception. He would make an effort to show his gratitude to us. The second reason,’ said Nicholas, ‘is that we would be much more vigilant than some of our rivals. Let him out of our sight and he would surely go astray. Bind him to a contract of good behaviour and we may have a different result.’
‘It sounds as if it is at least worth trying.’
‘I believe so, Edmund.’
‘So do I,’ added Elias. ‘Giddy is our man.’
Firethorn was sceptical. ‘Something tells me that we are courting disaster here.’
‘Not if we lay down strict rules,’ said Nicholas.
‘Mussett would not recognise a rule if it recited the Catechism at him. Besides, you are forgetting something, Nick. We seek a substitute for Barnaby and he would never allow Giddy Mussett to take his place. They are sworn enemies.’
‘Need we tell Barnaby?’ asked Elias.
‘He would never forgive us if we did not.’
‘True.’
‘In any case,’ said Firethorn, ‘we might stay silent but the truth would surely get back to him by some means. Giddy Mussett would make certain that it did. Nothing would content him more than to profit at Barnaby’s expense. He’d crow like chanticleer and do his best to oust him altogether.’
‘That would never happen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mussett would only be engaged as a hired man for as long as we required. It would be made clear at the start.’
‘I side with Nick,’ decided Hoode. ‘Giddy Mussett is our only hope.’
‘He gets my vote as well,’ said Elias.
‘Give him your blessing, Lawrence.’
Firethorn downed the remainder of his wine in one loud gulp and pondered. Nicholas exchanged glances with the other two then waited for a response from the man with the real power in the company. Unless Firethorn could be persuaded, they would have to look elsewhere for a clown.
‘I do not like the idea,’ said Firethorn at length.
Nicholas was blunt. ‘Suggest a better one and we’ll gladly accept it.’
‘Mussett is too troublesome a bedfellow.’
‘Do not be misled by his reputation.’
‘And what of Barnaby? He’ll be mortified.’
‘He’ll come to see that we made the only choice possible,’ said Nicholas. ‘Granted, the two men share an intense hatred but only because they are keen rivals. Beneath their hatred is a deep respect for each other’s skills.’
‘That will only make Barnaby green with envy.’
‘Which would you rather have, Lawrence?’ asked Hoode. ‘A green and resentful Barnaby or a pallid clown who makes a mockery of every comedy that we stage?’
‘Edmund is right,’ said Elias. ‘We are in a quandary and there is but one way out of it. Bear this in mind. We make the decision – not Barnaby.’
Firethorn stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Mussett is certainly a fine singer,’ he conceded, ‘and he is as vigorous as any man in a dance. Of his comic skills, there is no doubt. My worries concern his private habits.’
The Welshman chuckled. ‘We all have those, Lawrence.’
‘Employ the fellow and we may imperil the whole company.’
‘That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’
‘There’s no risk if we keep Mussett on a tight rein,’ asserted Nicholas, wishing to bring the discussion to a close. ‘That will be my task. I’ll answer for our new clown.’
Firethorn was still unconvinced. ‘I have grave reservations,’ he confessed. ‘Besides, we do not even know that he will accept a place with us.’
‘Oh, I assure you that he’ll accept anything that’s offered to him.’
‘How can you be so confident of that, Nick?’
‘Because I took the liberty of finding out where he dwells at present,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’ll be more than ready to leave his present abode. I’d stake my life on it. Giddy Mussett is languishing in prison.’
King’s Bench Prison stood on the main road south out of London, close to the Marshalsea, another of the city’s many jails. Stretching down through Southwark, the thoroughfare was noted for the number and size of its inns. There seemed to be a continuous line of hostelries with barely a few shops and houses to separate them. It meant that wretched prisoners were living cheek by jowl with places where pleasure and entertainment were in good supply. While they endured squalid conditions and meagre rations, customers nearby were celebrating their freedom by enjoying the comforts of the Bear, the George, the White Hart and all the other happy taverns that lined the route. Throughout the whole day, sounds of merriment drifted into the ears of the condemned and the convicted, reminding them of what they had lost and making their ordeal all the more difficult to bear.
King’s Bench Prison, however, was not entirely lacking in jollity. Since he had been incarcerated there, Gideon Mussett had done his best to brighten up the lives of his fellow prisoners. He was not impelled by any unselfish concern for their welfare. His songs and dances were never offered freely in order to distract people from the misery of their situation. Mussett was engaged in a battle for survival. He performed for reward. The money that he earned from grateful spectators was spent on drink, tobacco and edible food. Imprisonment for someone as poor as him would otherwise have been a species of torture. Only those with something in their purse could stave off the hunger and despair that claimed so many victims.
Whenever he raised the spirits of his companions with some rousing songs or with a comical dance, he had an appreciative audience.
‘More, Giddy. Please give us more.’
‘Sing to us of Wild Meg again.’
‘Aye, or of the Sweet Maid of Romsey.’
‘Dance, Giddy. We’ve not had a jig today.’
‘Up on the table and dance!’
Giddy Mussett raised both palms to still the outburst of requests. He was a short, angular man in his early forties with an ease of movement that made light of his age. His exaggerated features gave him a striking appearance. His cheeks were gaunt, his hooked nose unusually large and his chin pronounced. With the shock of red hair on his head, he looked in profile like a giant cockerel and he certainly had something of the bird’s arrogant strut. Mussett bared his uneven teeth in a grin.
‘My legs are tired today, my friends,’ he said. ‘If you would have them dance, they will need to be revived with a drink of ale or a pipe of tobacco.’
‘You’ve taken every penny we have,’ complained one man.
‘Then there’ll be no jigs this morning.’
‘We’ll not be cheated out of our entertainment,’ said another man, tossing a coin to the clown. ‘There, Giddy. That will buy us your legs again.’
Mussett winked. ‘It’ll buy you no other part of my body, Ned, I tell you that.’
Raucous laughter filled the cell. There were ten of them, crammed together in a narrow cell with a long table at its centre. Sleeping arrangements were primitive and the only ones who managed anything approaching a peaceful night were those strong enough to fight for the best places in the filthy straw. A compound of revolting smells filled the room. Sun streamed in through a window high in the wall to illumine a scene of utter degradation. Most of the men were in rags and the two ancient women wore equally tattered garments. The stench of poverty intensified the pervading reek. The only thing that helped them to forget their dire predicament was a performance by their very own clown. But they were to be deprived of even that today.
A key scraped in the lock and the iron door groaned on its hinges. Putting his head into the cell, a brawny man with a greying beard fixed Mussett with a stare.
‘Follow me!’ he ordered.
‘But we want our jig,’ protested the man who had parted with the coin.
‘Then we’ll let you dance at the end of a rope,’ said the jailer with a snarl. ‘Did you hear me, Giddy? Follow me.’
‘I’ll not be long, my friends,’ promised Mussett, waving cheerily to the others. ‘I charge you all to stay where you are until I get back.’
He followed the jailer out of the room then waited while the door was locked again. A minute later, he was conducted into the prison sergeant’s office and left alone with a tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man in his thirties. Wearing a leather jerkin, the visitor had fair hair and beard. Mussett studied him for a moment.
‘I believe I know you, sir,’ he said.
‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ returned the other, ‘and I’m the book holder with Westfield’s Men.’
‘Ha!’ sneered Mussett, spitting on the floor with disgust. ‘Then you are a friend of that vile toad called Barnaby Gill.’
‘I’m pleased to number him among my fellows.’
Mussett was combative. ‘Then we have nothing to say to each other. I despise him. Has he sent you here to mock my condition? Is that your purpose, sir? Do you treat the King’s Bench Prison like another Bedlam where you may gain your pleasure by viewing the mad and the unfortunate? I am neither, Master Bracewell,’ he went on, pulling himself up to his full height. ‘Tell that to your crawling worm of a friend.’
