‘We’ve not had good fortune with new playwrights, have we?’
‘No, Owen. I thought we’d found a gem in Michael Grammaticus, but he turned out to be passing off his friend’s plays as his own. And since that friend was no longer alive, we could hope for nothing more from his cunning brain. Nor from dear Jonas Applegarth,’ said Firethorn with deep regret. ‘The poor fellow was hanged by the neck in this very building – though how they found a rope strong enough to bear his weight, I’ll never know.’
‘Then there was Lucius Kindell, full of promise, seduced away from us by Havelock’s Men. And was there not one Ralph Willoughby, before my time with the company?’
‘Burnt alive during the performance of
The Merry Devils
.’
‘Do all our dramatists have a death wish?’
‘One of them does, Owen,’ said Firethorn, seriously, ‘and he’s the man we must discuss. Forget the new and cleave to the old. I’ll do my utmost to keep Saul Hibbert alive to write more plays for us, but my chief concern is for Edmund. He has abdicated his position.’
‘Tie him back on his throne and force a pen into his hand.’
‘It’s not as easy as that. Edmund has lost all appetite.’
‘He’s a creature of moods, Lawrence, as you well know. When his juices flow,’ said Elias, ‘he’ll write all day and night without a break. There’s not a playwright in London who has produced so much work of such high quality.’
‘You’d not say that if you read
How to Choose a Good Wife
.’
‘I did read it – the first act, anyway. I lacked the courage to go any further. It made my toes curl with embarrassment.’
‘I could not believe Edmund had put his name to it.’
‘Nor me,’ said Elias, pursing his lips. ‘It was not a new work at all but a collection of everything cut out of his earlier plays, strung untidily together like washing on a line.’
‘It contained a frightening message for me, Owen.’
‘Yes. Edmund is unwell.’
‘Worse – he’s fallen out of love with the theatre.’
‘You’ve hit the mark there. Except that it is not only the theatre that has made him jaded. Edmund is out of love. It’s as simple as that. Only when he’s pining for a pretty maid can he write from the heart. We’ve seen it before, Lawrence.’
‘Too many times.’
‘Edmund is happy in his work when he’s unhappy in love.’
‘Then there’s our solution,’ announced Firethorn, snapping his fingers. ‘We must find him a good woman.’
‘A bad one would have more chance of exciting his interest,’ said Elias with a grin. ‘She must have enough respectability to lure him and a touch of wickedness to close the trap.’
‘Let’s draw a portrait of her in our minds.’
‘She must be tall and slim.’
‘But not too tall,’ said Firethorn, warming to the task, ‘for she must appeal to Edmund’s protective instinct. And not too slim, either. He likes the bold curve of a breast as much as any of us.’
‘And a pair of shapely hips.’
‘What of her hair?’
‘Raven-black with eyebrows to match.’
‘He’s always had a weakness for fair-haired ladies before.’
‘Then we must wean him off it with a darker siren. Black hair, white cheeks, red lips and a pair of eyes to tempt a saint.’
‘I want her for myself!’ cried Firethorn, rubbing his hands gleefully together. ‘By all, this is wonderful! I see the lovely lady, forming before my eyes as we speak, Owen. We are co-authors, bringing her to life as readily as Edmund creates a beauty on the page.’
‘Is she rich or poor?’
‘Neither. We’ll have no wealthy widows or menial
servants. Our lady must be young, of middling sort and independent.’
‘Yet not too forward. She must be schooled in that.’
‘How much shall we need to pay her?
‘Not a penny, Lawrence. This is no work for a hired enchantress.’
‘Then how do we find her?’
‘London is full of such comely creatures.’
‘And just as full of rampant satyrs to chase them.’
‘She is here somewhere,’ said Elias, thoughtfully, ‘and I believe I know the very woman. Yes,
she
would be ideal for Edmund Hoode. Pert, fetching and full of accomplishments.’
‘Not one of your discarded mistresses, I hope.’
‘No, no, this lady is not for me. She’s too refined and intelligent. I like redder meat in my bed. Edmund has subtler tastes. He’ll adore her.’
‘Who is this paragon?’
‘Buy me some more ale,’ said Elias, ‘and I’ll tell you her name. Just wait, Lawrence. Our worries will soon be over. One glance at her and Edmund will start writing as if his life depended on it.’
Nicholas Bracewell had been to the house in Knightrider Street many times. It was a rambling edifice, whose half-timbered frontage bulged sharply outwards as if trying to break free of its foundations. Sagging heavily to the right as well, it was supported by the adjacent building, like a hopeless drunk being helped home by a considerate friend. With all its structural faults, it was an amiable place and Nicholas always enjoyed his visits there. He was not shown much amity on arrival. Had he not glanced upward in time, he would have been drenched by the pot of urine that was emptied through an open window into the street. As it was, he jumped nimbly out of the way of the downpour.
At least, he knew that Doctor John Mordrake was at home.
‘Come in, come in, Nicholas.’
‘I hope that I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Oh, no. Now that I’ve emptied my bladder, I’m at your service.’
‘Thank you, Doctor Mordrake.’
Nicholas was pleased to see him again. Mordrake was a big man whose contours had been cruelly reshaped by age so that he was bent almost double. Skeletal hands poked out from the sleeves of his shabby black gown. Out of the mass of wrinkles that was his face, two eyes shone with astonishing clarity, separated by an aquiline nose. Silver-grey hair fell to his shoulders and merged with his long, straggly beard. Around his neck, as usual, he wore a chain fit for a Lord Mayor of London, though no holder of that august office could ever equal his extraordinary range of achievements.
Detractors accused him of sorcery, but Doctor John Mordrake was a philosopher, mathematician, alchemist and astrologer of note and, on occasion, physician to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. He shuffled across to a chair and lifted a dead squirrel from it so that his guest could sit down. Filled with a compound of rich odours, the room was his laboratory and the huge, dust-covered, leather-bound tomes that lined the walls spoke of a lifetime’s study. Jars of herbs stood everywhere and on one table, in a series of large bottles, a number of small animals had been preserved in green liquid. In the fireplace, something was being heated in a small cauldron and giving off an acrid blue steam.
‘How can I help you, Nicholas?’ he asked.
‘I want a poison identified.’
‘That’s easily done.’
‘I’ll pay you for your time,’ said Nicholas.
Mordrake flapped a hand. ‘Keep your money in your purse, dear fellow. I would never charge a friend like you. My services are expensive to others but free to Nicholas Bracewell. I’ve not forgotten the favour you once did me when Westfield’s Men travelled to Bohemia to play before a Holy Roman Emperor.’
Nicholas remembered the visit to Prague only too well but had so many misgivings about the venture that he did not wish to revive any memories of it. Instead, he launched into a concise and lucid account of the tragic death of Hal Bridger. Listening intently throughout, Mordrake took especial interest in the symptoms displayed by the victim. He then asked to see the vessels that had contained the poison. Nicholas handed over the cup and phial, hoping that they retained at least some of the smell of the poison. Mordrake put both to his nose in turn. With so many competing aromas in the room, Nicholas feared that the old man would be unable to detect anything at all but he had reckoned without the sensitivity of the beak-like nose. It inhaled deeply through both nostrils.
‘Well?’ asked Nicholas.
‘It’s a fiendish compound.’
‘What can you detect?’
‘Monkshood, belladonna, henbane, even a hint of foxglove. And something more besides that I cannot quite name. A lethal dose for any man, however strong his constitution.’
‘Hal was young and delicate.’
‘Then the poison worked more swiftly on him.’
‘Could anyone mix the compound?’
‘No, Nicholas,’ said Mordrake, taking a last sniff of the phial. ‘This is the work of some corrupt apothecary, paid
to dishonour his calling. You must check the phials more carefully if you stage the play again.’
‘We’ll not use any liquid at all next time,’ resolved Nicholas. ‘If the phial is held right inside the cup, nobody in the audience will be any the wiser. It was the author who insisted that the potion should be seen.’
The old man raised a shaggy eyebrow in surprise. ‘Since when has Lawrence Firethorn taken much note of authors?’
‘A good question, Doctor Mordrake.’
‘He has a reputation of being a law unto himself.’
‘A well-earned reputation,’ said Nicholas, fondly, ‘but he paid the playwright more attention in this case and abided by his every request. What the audience saw is what Saul Hibbert asked for and received.’
‘So
he
is indirectly responsible for the murder.’
‘Nobody would ever be able to convince him of that.’
‘Have I been of any use?’ asked Mordrake, handing the cup and phial back to him. ‘I like to feel that I’ve earned the exorbitant fee I might have asked from you.’
‘The names of renegade apothecaries would not come amiss.’
‘There are not many. Most are proud to uphold their standards.’
‘What of those who do not? There are villains in every profession.’
‘One moment, my friend.’
Mordrake sat on a stool at one of the tables and reached for a piece of parchment that was already half-covered with abstruse drawings. After chewing meditatively on the end
of his quill, he dipped it into the inkwell and wrote down some names. Without bothering to dry the ink, he handed the list to Nicholas.
‘The first man has a shop in Trigg Alley,’ he said. ‘Find him and you’ll find the others, for he’ll direct you to them. They are all of them men who have sadly fallen from grace in their time.’
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Nicholas, studying the list.
‘Preparing a fatal poison does not make a man a killer. Bear that in mind. If it did, I’d have been hanged long ago, for I’ve made up some venomous concoctions to rid a house of vermin. At least,’ he went on, ‘that was what I was told when it was purchased from me. How would I know if the potion was instead used to remove a shrewish wife or send a troublesome husband to his Maker?’
‘I’m only after the person who
bought
the poison.’
‘Take great care. He’s an evil man.’
‘He must be called to account,’ said Nicholas, gravely. ‘I’ll track him down somehow. I owe it to Hal Bridger to do that.’
Sobbing quietly, George Dart and Richard Honeydew sat side by side on the bottom step of a staircase at the Queen’s Head and hugged each other for comfort. They looked so small and insignificant that most of those who went in and out of the taproom did not even notice them. Edmund Hoode saw them at once as he was leaving. Taking pity on them he sat between the pair and enfolded them gently in his arms.
‘What’s this, what’s this?’ he said, softly. ‘Crying will not bring Hal Bridger back to us. You must bear his loss with courage.’
‘But we
killed
him,’ whined Dart.
‘Away with that silly thought!’
‘We did,’ said Honeydew. ‘George made up that potion and I handed it to Hal in the cup. We are accomplices in a murder.’
‘You are nothing of the kind,’ said Hoode, ‘and, were he here now, Hal would be the first to tell you that. George did not put the poison in the phial any more than you, Dick, knowingly poured it into the cup. You loved Hal and would not harm him for the world.’
‘That’s true,’ said Dart, offering evidence in his defence. ‘I was his friend. I taught him how to duck under Thomas’s blows and keep out of Master Firethorn’s way when his temper was up. I tried to save Hal from any pain and not inflict it.’
‘You’d never hurt anyone, George,’ soothed Honeydew.
‘The same is true of you, Dick.’
‘You’re the kindest two lads in the company,’ said Hoode, giving them an encouraging squeeze. ‘George is a martyr to endure all the teasing that he gets, and Dick is the one apprentice who never stoops to silly mischief. I’d trust my life with either of you.’
‘That’s what Hal thought,’ said Dart, tears forming again.
Honeydew sniffled. ‘And he paid dearly for his mistake.’
‘We’ll never be able to forgive ourselves.’
‘Hal Bridger will haunt me in my dreams.’
‘And so will I, if we have any more of this,’ said Hoode, adopting a sterner tone. ‘Neither of you bears any blame. You
might just as well blame Saul Hibbert for writing the play, or Lawrence for deciding to commission it, or the landlord for allowing it to be staged here. If you want to find a culprit, there’s a great long line of them to choose from and it includes me.’
‘
You
?’ they said in unison.
‘Yes.
The Malevolent Comedy
was only bought because I was unable to supply a new play myself. Had my rustic tale been deemed worthy enough, then
that
would have been staged here today, and Hal would still be alive. No, lads,’ Hoode continued. ‘There’s only one true culprit and we must all help to find him.’
‘How can we do that?’ asked Dart.
‘By keeping your eyes and ears open. If he’s struck once, he may do so again. We must be on our guard.’ The others began to shiver. ‘The search for the villain has already begun. I’ve just spoken with Nick Bracewell, who managed to get the poison identified. We know exactly what killed Hal now. Tomorrow, Nick will try to find the apothecary who mixed the lethal potion.’
Honeydew was frightened. ‘And you think the killer is still here?’
‘It’s a possibility that we must consider.’
‘Then none of us is safe!’
‘We are, if we stay together, Dick – and take care what we drink.’
‘I’ll be afraid to touch a drop of anything.’
‘So will I,’ said Dart, querulously.
Hoode smiled. ‘You’ll drink when you get thirsty enough,’ he said. ‘The main thing is that you absolve
yourselves of any blame. Nobody is pointing the finger at you. We understand your fears and want to help you overcome them. The worst is over, lads. Bear up.’
‘But the worst is
not
over yet,’ said Honeydew.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hal has a family and they will want to know how he died. They are bound to come looking for George and me.
You
may say that we were not at fault,’ he went on, biting his lip, ‘but his parents may think that we are the murderers. I’m terrified to face them, Edmund.’
‘We both are,’ said Dart.
‘Then let me put your minds at rest,’ said Hoode, discreetly. ‘Nick spoke to Hal’s father and told him of the tragedy. For personal reasons, the parents will not come anywhere near the Queen’s Head. Shed that anxiety as well, lads. You are safe.’
‘Disowned his own son?’ asked Anne in a tone of disbelief. ‘Surely not.’
‘It is sad but true.’
‘Sad and reprehensible, I’d say. What sort of father turns his back on a boy who has been murdered? It’s bad enough if a child dies by natural means, but a calamity when he’s poisoned to death. Do the parents have no hearts?’
‘I only spoke with the father,’ said Nicholas, ‘and his heart was made of stone, hewn, I suspect, from some Puritan quarry. Theatre is anathema to him. Left to himself, he’d tear down every playhouse in London. Hal was very brave to defy such a man, braver still to join Westfield’s Men.’
‘Why?’
‘He left a secure trade as a saddler to trust his luck with the most precarious profession in the city. His bravery verges on heroism, Anne. And it cost him his young life.’
After the rigors of the day, Nicholas was glad to get back to the haven of his lodging in Bankside, and to relax in its welcoming parlour. Anne Hendrik, the English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, was a handsome woman in her thirties with skills she did not even know that she possessed until she was forced to run her late husband’s business in the adjoining premises. During the early months of struggle and financial restraint, she took in a lodger to defray expenses and found, in Nicholas Bracewell, a man who became her friend, confidante and, in time, her lover. Married in all but name, they shared a closeness that was a source of continual solace during times of strife. Nicholas could always rely on her support and sympathy.
‘Why did
you
have to take on this duty?’ she said, touching his arm. ‘It should have fallen to Lawrence, as manager of the company. This is so typical of him, Nick. He always shuffles off his own responsibilities onto you.’
‘I was happy to accept in this case,’ explained Nicholas. ‘I liked Hal and worked more closely with him than anyone. The lad did all that we asked of him, willingly and without complaint. In view of what happened,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘it’s perhaps just as well that Lawrence did not bear the bad news to the father.’
‘Why not?’
‘Puritanism brings out the worst in him. He’d have started an argument with Hal’s father and that would have
been very unseemly in the circumstances. The boy deserves to be mourned, not haggled over. If Lawrence had gone to the leather-seller’s shop,’ he said, ‘he would have been seen as the Prince of Darkness.’
‘Would he and the father have come to blows?’
‘Most likely.’
‘I’m sure that you behaved more peaceably.’
‘I was far from peaceable this afternoon, Anne,’ he admitted. ‘As a result, I may have to fight a duel.’
‘A
duel
?’ she repeated, eyes widening in distress.
‘Unless the matter can be settled amicably.’
‘And can it?’
‘We shall see.’
Nicholas told her about his altercation with Saul Hibbert, conceding that he had been unduly robust with the man yet showing no regret. He felt that he was repaying him for the disdainful conduct they had all endured for weeks. Having already heard some bad reports about the playwright, Anne was not surprised that he had behaved so selfishly, but she was dismayed to learn that he had dismissed the murder of Hal Bridger with such scorn.
‘Did he show no sign of sorrow at all?’ she asked.
‘Only at the way that Hal’s death interrupted his play.’
‘Master Hibbert is a monster.’
‘You might change your mind if you met him, Anne.’
‘Why?’