‘You do not like Orlando, I think?’
‘He is a fat fool.’
‘Even so, yet he can play like an angel.’
‘I hate those fawning musicians.’
‘He has his uses,’ said Avenell, moving to stand in front of the ornamental chimney-piece which climbed halfway up the wall. ‘We have had proof of that this very day. That fat fool was cunning enough to insinuate himself into the counsels of Westfield’s Men and we must be grateful to him for that. It has enabled us to nip disturbance in the bud.’ His smile faded. ‘At least, I trust that this is so.’
‘Have no fears on that account.’
‘Then reassure me straight.’
‘Everything went according to plan.’
‘I seem to have heard that boast before.’
‘The best men were chosen.’
‘That, too,’ said Avenell with hissing sarcasm. ‘The best men come at the highest price. When you saved a few pence on the hiring last time, you bought us unlooked-for trouble. I do not wish to encounter further unpleasantness in this matter. It puts me to choler. Convince me that it is over and done with.’
‘You have my word on it.’
‘The play has been destroyed?’
‘To all intents.’
‘Explain.’
‘A member of the company was beaten senseless.’
‘Will they heed the warning?’
‘They must,’ insisted Tarker. ‘My men know their trade. Their orders were clear. The intercessory was to be all but killed. No sane creature would proceed in a business that is fraught with such danger.’
‘Sanity is not a normal property of the theatre.’
‘We struck at their chief prop.’
‘Lawrence Firethorn?’
‘A man called Nicholas Bracewell. He is but the book holder with the company but carries the whole enterprise on his shoulders. Without his strength and resource, they would be in a sorry state. Maim him and they all limp. There is no question but that we seized the right prey.’
‘And left him for dead, you say?’
Sir John Tarker nodded and gave a grim smile.
‘We will hear no more of Westfield’s Men.’
***
Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode travelled to Greenwich by means of the river. Since no performance was being given by Westfield’s Men that afternoon, they were released for the whole day. The long journey from London Bridge gave them ample time to rehearse the many pertinent questions that needed to be put. The promised meeting with Emilia Brinklow had been arranged by Simon Chaloner on the condition that he himself would be present to advise and assist her. For their part, the book holder and the playwright agreed to be tactful and considerate in their enquiries. Evidently, Chaloner felt that his betrothed required protection even from putative friends.
It was a fine morning with a stiff breeze blowing upstream. Craft of all sizes were gliding along on the broad back of the Thames. Seated in the stern of their boat, the two friends felt the refreshing tug of the wind and conversed to the creak of oars and the plash of blades dipping into the dark water. The watermen were too immersed in their strenuous work to pay any attention to their passengers. It was a few days since Nicholas had been attacked at the Eagle and Serpent but he still bore the marks of the assault. His face was covered in bruises and the head wound beneath his cap still had a dressing. Appraising him now, Hoode began to have second thoughts.
‘It is not too late to abandon this folly,’ he said.
‘I have given my word, Edmund.’
‘What if there is another beating?’
‘Then I will administer it instead of receiving it. They will not take me unawares a second time. Besides,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘I have a bodyguard. Now that you have moved into my lodging to watch over me, I am quite safe.’
Hoode blenched. ‘But I thought you were looking after me! That is why Lawrence wanted me out of Silver Street. So that I might have your strong arm to shield me.’
‘A wise precaution. When they realise that we are determined to press on with this venture, they may try to wreck the play itself.’
‘Along with its author!’
‘His identity, alas, remains concealed.’
‘Mine does not,’ said Hoode. ‘Everyone in London knows that I hold the pen for Westfield’s Men, whether in the writing of new dramas, the cobbling of old ones or the wet-nursing of novice playwrights. The Roaring Boy may be the work of another hand but the signature of Edmund Hoode is also scrawled across it.’
‘You should be proud of that fact.’
‘Indeed, I am, Nick. Very proud-but very fearful.’
‘Stay close by me and banish all apprehension.’
‘I will try.’
Edmund Hoode and Lawrence Firethorn had been highly alarmed to learn of the beating taken by their book holder but their reaction had been positive. Both had their faith in the play reaffirmed, believing that the violence proved its veracity. Indeed, the actor-manager announced that they now had a mission as well as a duty to stage The Roaring Boy and Hoode was momentarily carried along by Firethorn’s rhetoric. As the playwright was rowed ever closer to the scene of the crime, however, his resolve began to vaccilate.
‘We take the most dreadful risks, Nick.’
‘That is why we work in the theatre.’
‘This is a matter of life and death.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The life of Emilia Brinklow and the cruel death of her brother. If we can sweeten the one by uncovering the truth about the other, we will have done noble service. We may also have cleared the names of two innocent people wrongly convicted of the murder.’
‘But we are up against such powerful men.’
‘All the more reason to bring them down.’
‘That is a task for the law, not for mere players.’
‘When the law fails, we must seek retribution ourselves.’ He put a comforting arm around his sagging colleague. ‘Take heart, Edmund. This will be one of the most fateful pieces that ever issued from your teeming brain. You will give pleasure to your audience and dispense justice at one and the same time. Hold fast to that thought and the dangers that haunt you will fade to distant shadows.’
‘You are right,’ decided Hoode. ‘I must be brave.’
‘We are too far in to turn back now.’
Nicholas spent the next ten minutes in bolstering his friend’s sense of purpose. Hoode’s commitment was pivotal. They could expect wild protest from Barnaby Gill but he could usually be overruled by Lawrence Firethorn. If the comedian persevered with his objections, they could even present the play without him. Edmund Hoode, however, was quite indispensable. It was for this reason that Nicholas had been appointed as his keeper. He sensed that it would be a difficult assignment.
When he next looked out across the water, Nicholas saw that they were approaching the royal dockyards at Deptford. The jumble of storehouses, slipways, sawpits, masthouses and cranes brought a mixture of nostalgia and regret. It was a long time since he sailed with Drake on the circumnavigation of the globe but the experience was tattooed on his soul. A first glimpse of The Golden Hind provoked a flurry of memories. It stood on the foreshore in a dry dock for people to gape at, its hull now hacked by a thousand knives in search of a piece of history. Looking at the vessel-still trim and well fitted out-Nicholas found it impossible to believe that so many men had been crammed into such a small space for such an interminable period of time.
Reflection on his past brought a surge of confidence in the future. Drake and his mariners had met with recurring horrors during their three years at sea yet they somehow survived. What kept them going was an indomitable spirit. So it must be with The Roaring Boy. It involved a much shorter voyage, albeit over uncharted water, but it would bring its share of tempests. They had to be withstood at all costs. Nicholas must regard the attack at the Eagle and Serpent as simply the first squall. It was vital for Westfield’s Men to combat h
ostile elements and keep the ship on course until they could bring it into port.
Simon Chaloner was waiting at Greenwich to escort them to the house and to prepare them for their meeting with Emilia Brinklow. They walked together along the main street.
‘I beg you to show all due care,’ he said.
‘Is the lady unwell?’ asked Hoode.
‘In mind but not in body. She grieves. Be gentle.’
‘We shall,’ said Nicholas. ‘But there are some personal matters which we must broach with her. Issues on which even you have been unable to satisfy us.’
‘All I ask is that you proceed with caution.’
Nicholas Bracewell wondered what sort of fragile woman Emilia Brinklow must be to require such delicate handling. Simon Chaloner was patently a robust young man with an extrovert streak in his nature. Could he really be drawn to the frail being that his description of Emilia had conjured up? Had she been told of the perils that attended The Roaring Boy? Or was he deliberately keeping her ignorant of them?
When they reached the house, they paused to look up at its facade. Edmund Hoode was frankly impressed.
‘It is beautiful,’ he said. ‘So neat, so symmetrical.’
‘Thomas took a hand in its design,’ explained Chaloner. ‘First and foremost, he was a mathematician. All that you see around you will be geometrically exact.’
‘A remarkable building,’ said Hoode, marvelling at the size and scope of the place. ‘I had no idea that there was so much money in mathematics.’
‘Thomas was a genius.’
‘A renowned engineer, too, I believe,’ said Nicholas. ‘Did he not design naval equipment for the royal dockyards?’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner. ‘There was no limit to his abilities. He worked with distinction in many fields. You will catch something of his personality here. The imprint of Thomas Brinklow is on every part of the house and garden.’ He remembered something and became brisk. ‘Come, gentlemen. Emilia is waiting in the arbour to meet you. Please bear in mind what I told you.’
They followed him to a side-gate and went around the house to the long, rectangular garden at the rear. It was laid out with mathematical precision and kept in immaculate condition. Straight paths bisected well-groomed lawns. Flowers and shrubs grew in orderly beds. Every tree seemed to have been put in the perfect location. Wide stone steps led up to an arbour at the far end of the garden that was screened off from the house by a series of concentric hedges. The pattern envisaged by Thomas Brinklow had been brought scrupulously to life.
Emilia was seated on a bench in the arbour, talking to the maidservant. As soon as she heard the visitors, Agnes turned to give them a polite curtsey before hurrying back in the direction of the house. Simon Chaloner placed a gentle kiss on Emilia’s hand, then raised her to her feet to perform the introductions. She was poised but taciturn, bestowing wan smiles of welcome on the two men before resuming her seat. Chaloner indicated that the visitors should sit down before lowering himself on to the bench beside Emilia. Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode had no choice but to take up a position diametrically opposite. Mathematics quashed even the slightest rebellion against order.
‘It is kind of you to invite us here,’ said Nicholas politely, ‘and we do appreciate it. We will not take up any more of your time than is necessary.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
Hoode tried to speak but his lips betrayed him. So struck was he by the pallid loveliness of Emilia Brinklow that he was bereft of words. The playwright was no stranger to beauty. Having dedicated much of his life to the futile pursuit of feminine charms, he felt that it was a subject in which he had acquired some painful expertise but here was someone who broke through the boundaries even of his wide experience. Emilia Brinklow was wholly enchanting. Dressed in a dark green satin that blended with the lawns, she wore blue hat and gloves to complement the tiny blue shoes that peeped out below the hem of her skirt. A single piece of jewellery-a pendant ruby-sparkled against the divine whiteness of her neck. Edmund Hoode was instantly vanquished.
Nicholas Bracewell was as much interested in her manner as her appearance. She was composed and watchful. Though her fiance sat beside her by way of defence, she did not look as if she was in need of his assistance. Hoode might find her demure but Nicholas detected a quiet self-possession. Emilia Brinklow was by no means the shrinking violet of report.
She weighed the two of them up for a few moments, then spoke with soft urgency.
‘The play will be performed, will it not?’
‘They have sworn that it will, my dear,’ said Chaloner.
‘Let me hear it from them.’
‘Westfield’s Men will present it,’ croaked Hoode.
‘When it is ready for the stage,’ said Nicholas. ‘And that can only be when we have plumbed its full depth. There is still much that we do not understand.’
She met his gaze. ‘I will help you in any way I can.’
‘Within reason,’ said Chaloner. ‘Let us begin.’
Nicholas turned to Hoode. ‘Edmund is our playwright. He it is who must put words into the mouths of the characters and flesh on the bones of the plot. Hear him speak first.’
Hoode’s voice faltered as he gazed on Emilia Brinklow.
‘The Roaring Boy is an uncommonly good play.’
‘Your high opinion is very gratifying,’ she said.
‘Who wrote the piece?’
‘A friend.’
‘May we know his name?’
‘He prefers to hand over his work to Westfield’s Men.’
‘And take no credit?’
‘None, sir.’
‘Then he is a most peculiar author.’
‘These are most peculiar circumstances.’
‘In what way?’
‘I have explained all this to Nicholas,’ said Chaloner with some asperity. ‘We do not have to go over old ground again. I gathered the material from which the playwright wove the fabric of The Roaring Boy. Neither of us seeks public acknowledgement. Take the piece and make it work.’
‘It is not as simple as that,’ observed Hoode. ‘I can match the style of any author when I am acquainted with him. If he is anonymous, my task is far more difficult. Tell me at least something about my co-author. Is this, for instance, a first play or has he written others for the stage?’
‘A first play,’ said Emilia crisply.
‘A worthy effort indeed for any novice.’
‘He has always loved the theatre,’ said Chaloner, ‘and has sat on the benches at the Queen’s Head many a time.’
‘Then why miss the performance of his own play?’
‘He has his reasons.’
Hoode turned back to Emilia. ‘He knew your brother?’
‘As well as anyone alive,’ she said.
‘That play was written by someone who admired him.’
‘Admired and loved him.’
‘Everyone loved Thomas Brinklow,’ said Chaloner, cutting in once more. ‘He was the most civilised and personable man on God’s earth. Kindness itself to those fortunate enough to be his friends. It was impossible not to love him.’ His face darkened. ‘Yet he inspired hatred in someone and it cost him his life. That is what has brought all of us here today.’
Nicholas Bracewell disagreed. The murder had bonded them together but it was Simon Chaloner himself who had organised the interview with Emilia Brinklow in Greenwich and who was presiding over it with such vigilance. Nicholas waited patiently as Edmund Hoode tried to prise further information out of her but the interrogation was woefully half-hearted. The playwright was so manifestly in awe of Emilia that he was quite unable to pursue any line of questioning with the polite tenacity required. Whenever Hoode did ask something of real importance, Simon Chaloner jumped in to deflect him.
It was a skillful performance but it did not deceive Nicholas Bracewell. He recognised stage management. As long as Chaloner was at her side, there was no hope of gaining vital new facts from Em
ilia Brinklow. Nicholas somehow had to speak with her alone. He, too, was acutely aware of her charms, noting with surprise how the deep sadness in her eyes only served to enhance her beauty. Though Chaloner’s love for her was open, she was too locked up in her distress to show him any real affection. Behind her quiet dignity, however, Nicholas saw flashes of a keen intelligence.
Conscious of his scrutiny, she responded with a smile.
‘You are strangely silent, sir.’
‘Edmund speaks for both of us.’
‘Do you have nothing to say for yourself?’
‘Nicholas has already questioned me a dozen times,’ said Chaloner with a laugh. ‘Do not unleash him on us again, Emilia. He is a terrier for the truth.’
‘What does he wish to ask?’ she wondered.
‘How word of this play leaked out to others,’ said Nicholas. ‘You and Master Chaloner are patently discreet and we have been careful to divulge nothing of our association with The Roaring Boy. Yet the secrecy has been breached. How?’
Her face clouded. ‘In all honesty, we do not know.’
‘But it is one of the reasons that we have met out here in this arbour,’ said Chaloner. ‘Walls have ears. The house itself listens to all that we say.’
‘You have a spy in the camp?’ said Nicholas.
‘No!’ denied Emilia hotly. ‘I will not conceive of such an idea. The entire household is loyal. Thomas engaged most of the staff himself. They would not betray us.’
‘Someone did,’ noted Chaloner, ‘and that enforces the utmost caution on our part. At least, we are safe out here. Nobody will be able to eavesdrop on us in this isolated part of the garden.’
A mere six yards away, Valentine laughed silently to himself. He had merged his ugliness with floral abundance to become part of nature itself. Deep in his lair, the gardener could hear every word that they spoke. He was intrigued.
Chapter Five
After lying dormant for some days the, raging toothache awoke to turn breakfast at the Firethorn household into an ordeal for everyone concerned. Apart from his wife and children, the four apprentices from Westfield’s Men also lived with the actor-manager so they, too, sat around the table as mute witnesses to his suffering, deprived of any appetite themselves by his blood-curdling howls of anguish. Lawrence Firethorn’s bad tooth was a burden that they all shared. Margery once again advocated extraction but her husband would not even countenance the notion, preferring to endure intermittent torture rather than submit himself to the pincers of a surgeon. When she pressed him hard on the matter, he insisted that he suddenly felt much better and that his mouth would even permit the introduction of a little moistened food. The first bite had him roaring louder than ever.
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