A tall figure came out of the shadows.
‘Welcome to Shoreditch!’ said Giles Randolph.
He gave a quiet smile of triumph.
Chapter Eight
When he reached the site with his little band of helpers, Nicholas Bracewell was pleased to see that work had continued throughout the day. Overcoming the shock of finding a murder victim underneath their timbers, Thomas Bradd and his men had cleared the site, burnt most of the debris and begun to dig the foundations. The builder was delighted to have fresh labour at his disposal and he set them to work at once. They included Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, George Dart, the puniest but most willing of them, and Owen Elias, who did not think his position as a sharer with the company absolved him from hard work and who handled his spade with muscular assurance.
Nicholas watched them with a mixture of pride and affection. He had intended to put his own considerable strength at Bradd’s service but another priority now existed. Their benefactor had to be traced, informed of Sylvester Pryde’s death and persuaded to leave the loan intact. It was an onerous assignment, made all the more difficult by the veil of secrecy which was drawn across the whole transaction. He was not quite sure where to begin. Waving a farewell to his friends, he walked swiftly back in the direction of London Bridge, considering all the possibilities and wondering why Pryde had gone to such lengths to shield his own privacy.
He was halfway across the bridge when he was met by an extraordinary sight. Mounted on a horse, and having the greatest trouble in controlling the animal, was Leonard, sweating profusely and trying to find a way through the milling crowd and trundling carts which blocked the narrow thoroughfare between the shops and stalls. A poor rider, he looked profoundly embarrassed to be in the saddle of such a fine horse, feeling unworthy of the status it conferred on him. When he saw Nicholas, his face lit up with relief and he tugged at the reins before dismounting clumsily.
It was only when Nicholas reached him that he realised that his friend was not alone. Leonard’s bulk had masked a second rider, a dignified man in a livery which seemed vaguely familiar. Nicholas also saw that the spirited animal which Leonard had been unable to master was Lawrence Firethorn’s stallion. His friend ran the back of his hand across his forehead then gabbled his message.
‘This gentleman came in search of you,’ he explained with a gesture towards the other rider. ‘He says that it is a matter of the greatest urgency. Master Firethorn knew where you had gone and loaned me his horse so that we could get to you fast.’ He thrust the reins at Nicholas. ‘You are to take him now to speed your own travel.’
‘Where must I go?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Follow me,’ said the other rider.
‘Who are you, sir?’
‘The steward of a household where a mutual friend of ours was known. Your presence is requested there immediately. I am not empowered to say any more.’
Nicholas had heard enough. When a steward was sent to deliver a message which could easily have been entrusted to a mere servant, then a matter of some importance was involved. The reference to a mutual friend was conclusive. Leonard was too obtuse to understand it but Nicholas knew at once to whom it pertained. It was his first piece of good fortune. Instead of having to follow a tortuous trail to their benefactor, he sensed that he might get to meet their guardian angel by a more direct route.
‘Shall we go?’ said the steward curtly.
‘Lead on.’
Nicholas mounted the horse, thanked Leonard, then followed his guide over the bridge. His companion rode in silence and shrugged off every question that was put to him. Nicholas soon abandoned his interrogation. He was grateful for the loan of the horse and controlled it without effort as they headed up Gracechurch Street before turning left into Eastcheap. His guide towed him at a brisk trot along Watling Street, past the daunting grandeur of St Paul’s Cathedral and on out through Ludgate. Fleet Street allowed them to break into a gentle canter and they were soon passing Temple Bar.
Stretching along the Strand was a row of some of the finest houses in London, stately mansions belonging to peers, bishops and men of wealth, coveted properties which gave their owners great kudos and an uninterrupted view of the Thames. Glad to be free of the city’s stench, Nicholas inhaled fresh air into his lungs. The steward raised an arm to warn him that they would soon be leaving the road. Nicholas rode beside him down a wide track towards their destination.
The house was situated just beyond the Savoy Palace, now converted into a hospital but still possessing a degree of splendour. It was a smaller property than most in the Strand but it lacked nothing in elegance. Studying the impressive facade, Nicholas surmised that only a rich man could afford to buy such a home. Servants were waiting to take charge of their horses and the front door was opened for them. The steward conducted his visitor across the hall and into a large, low room with oak-panelled walls and exquisitely carved oak furniture.
Nicholas was left alone for a few minutes and occupied the time in looking at the portraits which were ranged around the room. The largest of them captured his attention. Against a background of leather-bound books, the face of an old, proud, resolute, white-haired man stared out from the canvas. There was nobility in his features and a hint of defiance in his expression. Notwithstanding the library setting, Nicholas felt that he was looking at a military man. He also thought that he detected a faint resemblance to a certain Sylvester Pryde.
The door opened and the steward came into the room.
‘The Countess of Dartford,’ he announced solemnly.
The woman who swept in had such striking beauty and wore such costly attire that Nicholas blinked in astonishment. Removing his cap, he held it before him and gave a courteous bow. The steward withdrew and closed the door behind him. While Nicholas stood in the middle of the room, the lady of the house walked around him in a circle to take a full inventory of him, giving off a fragrance that was quite bewitching. A faint smile of admiration touched her lips but she took care not to let her visitor see it. Lowering herself onto a chair, she adjusted her dress then looked up at him.
‘You are Nicholas Bracewell?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Thank you for answering the summons.’
Now that he could study her properly, he could see a slight puffiness around her eyes as if she had been crying but it did not detract from the sculptured loveliness of her features. It was difficult to put a precise age on her. Her clear skin was that of a young woman but there was an air of maturity about her which hinted at more years than were apparent.
‘Can you be trusted, Nicholas?’ she asked.
‘Trusted, my lady?’
‘Sylvester told me that you could. He said that you were honest and reliable. A good friend who knew how to respect a confidence. Is that true?’
‘I believe so, my lady.’
‘He also told me how modest you are.’
‘Did he?’ said Nicholas.
‘Modest men have no need to boast. They can hold their tongues.’ She appraised him again. ‘I begin to think that he may have been right about you. Sylvester was a sound judge of character. He will be sorely missed.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
There was a long pause as she gathered her strength for what might be an ordeal. The Countess of Dartford folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she whispered.
‘Happened?’
‘To Sylvester. How was he killed?’
Nicholas was astounded. ‘You know, my lady?’
‘Alas, yes.’
‘But how?’
‘Just tell me what happened,’ she said, hands tightening their grasp on each other. ‘You were there when he was found, Nicholas. You saw the body. Tell me about it.’
‘I will, my lady.’
‘Tell me everything.’
Edmund Hoode was racked with self-disgust. Having honoured a friend with his fine performance in Bl
ack Antonio, he had dishonoured himself by following his colleagues eagerly into the taproom in search of the oblivion of drink. Hoode had wallowed freely in sentimentality with the rest of them, recalling fond memories of Sylvester Pryde for the general ear then sighing afresh as others produced their own stories about him. It was only when he was about to drift off into a haze that he realised how disgracefully he was behaving. Others were praying for their dear departed friend or making practical efforts to build the theatre which Pryde had helped to initiate whereas Hoode was simply taking refuge in a drunken stupor.
Before it was too late, he stopped himself abruptly. While the others continued with their meandering recollections, he hauled himself up from the table and staggered out of the Queen’s Head, anxious to make amends, to mark the passing of a good friend in a more seemly way. He was in no fit state to help on the site alongside the others and work on The Angel would in any case soon be abandoned for the day, but there was something which he could to do commemorate a fallen colleague. He could compose some verses in praise of Sylvester Pryde or write an epitaph for him.
Having made the decision, Hoode walked slowly towards his lodging through the evening air. By sheer force of will, he began to clear his mind of its wooliness and to frame the opening lines of his poetry. He was still deep in the throes of creation when he came to the street where he lived and did not even see the figure who stood outside his lodging.
Lucius Kindell came tentatively forward to meet him.
‘Good even to you, Edmund,’ he said.
Hoode gaped at him. ‘Lucius!’
‘I was hoping to catch you.’
‘Why?’ snapped Hoode, trying to pass him. ‘We have nothing to say to each other.’
Kindell blocked his path. ‘But I have something to say to you,’ he murmured. ‘I have come to apologise.’
‘It is too late for that.’
‘I know that you must feel let down.’
‘I feel betrayed, Lucius. Cruelly betrayed.’
‘That was not my intention.’
‘You have cut Westfield’s Men to the quick.’
‘It is the last thing in the world that I wanted to do,’ said Kindell, close to tears. ‘I have been troubled by guilt ever since. But I had no future with the company.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘No new play was commissioned from me.’
‘It would have been. In time.’
‘Only if Westfield’s Men survived.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Hoode. ‘We come to that, do we?’
‘It is something I have to consider,’ said the other defensively. ‘Master Kitely explained it to me. He told me that I had to find another company to stage my plays and convinced me that that company was Havelock’s Men. They are safe from the Privy Council’s threat.’
‘Do not be so sure, Lucius.’
‘Viscount Havelock has influence at Court.’
‘So does Lord Westfield,’ retorted Hoode. ‘But the crucial factor will be the quality of performance and we take all the laurels there. Rupert Kitely should look to his own survival. When The Angel theatre is built, it will put The Rose in the shade and turn it into a sorry flower that sheds its petals.’
‘That is not what Master Kitely thinks.’
‘I am not interested in him.’
‘He gave me a solemn assurance that your playhouse will never be completed. When I asked him why he was so certain, he would not say but he was adamant, Edmund. You will fail.’
‘We, too, are adamant.’
‘That is what I always admired about Westfield’s Men.’
‘Indeed,’ said Hoode with uncharacteristic irony. ‘It is a pity that your admiration did not induce a degree of loyalty in your ungrateful breast. Once thrown away so callously, friendship can never be regained.’
‘That is why I came to your lodging,’ admitted Kindell. ‘I was too ashamed to seek you at the Queen’s Head. Too ashamed and far too afraid.’
‘With good cause. Lawrence Firethorn would have eaten you alive, Lucius. He has no time for traitors.’
‘Do not call me that.’
‘You are a renegade, Lucius.’
‘No!’
‘A deserter, a rogue, a craven coward!’
‘It is not true!’ pleaded the other. ‘I hoped that you at least would understand my decision.’
‘All that I understood was the feel of the knife between my shoulder blades. You pushed it in so deep.’
Kindell burst into tears of contrition and it was some time before he recovered his composure. Hoode’s anger slowly mellowed. He could see the dilemma in which his apprentice was caught and he remembered the start of his own career in the theatre when he, too, was subjected to the pull of rival companies. But that did not excuse what Kindell had done.
‘I miss you, Edmund,’ he said with a hopeless shrug.
‘We are well rid of you.’
‘I miss you all. Master Firethorn, Master Gill, Nicholas Bracewell, Owen Elias, Sylvester Pryde and every last member of Westfield’s Men down to little George Dart. They will have a very low opinion of me now.’
‘And rightly so,’ said Hoode, ‘but you have clearly not heard the worst news. Sylvester is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Kindell was appalled. ‘Sylvester Pryde?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘This is hideous intelligence!’
‘I am surprised that you did not hear it from the mouth of Rupert Kitely.’
‘Master Kitely?’
‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘Perhaps that is why he told you that our playhouse would never be built. Because he knew that Sylvester had been crushed to death on the site of The Angel and thought that it would stop us. Well, you may give him a message from us. Every member of Westfield’s Men will have to be killed to stop our playhouse rising up in Bankside.’
Kindell was horrified. ‘Are you saying that Master Kitely was somehow implicated in the killing?’
‘Ask yourself this. Cui bono?’
‘But he would never stoop to murder.’
‘He would stoop to anything, Lucius. Mark him well.’
Hoode brushed past him and went into his lodging. Lucius Kindell stood outside in the street for a long time with his brain spinning uncomfortably.
She was a brave woman. The Countess of Dartford insisted on hearing details which would have unsettled more squeamish listeners but she did not flinch for a second. She remained calm and poised. Nicholas sensed her grief but saw no outward evidence of it. Her self-control was extraordinary.
‘Thank you,’ she said when he finished.
‘That is all I can tell you, my lady.’
‘It is enough for now, Nicholas.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘The only other thing I would like to hear is that his killer has been apprehended.’
‘He will be,’ promised Nicholas.
‘You are a good friend to him.’
‘He was our fellow.’
‘You spoke with such affection of him. Sylvester was a rare man. He knew how to win everyone’s good opinion. He made people love him.’ She suppressed a sigh. ‘What will happen now, Nicholas?’
‘Happen, my lady?’
‘To your playhouse?’
‘We will continue to build it,’ he affirmed. ‘That is what Sylvester would have wanted us to do. Members of the company worked on site this very day and I will take my turn there when time permits. No, my lady,’ he said, ‘as long as our loan is forthcoming, we will press on.’
‘What if it were withdrawn?’
‘We have written promise, my lady.’
‘A promise may be revoked.’
‘True.’
‘Sylvester was your intermediary, was he not?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Without his persuasion, your benefactor would not have parted with a single penny. What reason does that benefactor have to pay the loan now that Sylvester is no longer involved with Westfield’s Men?’
‘But he is, m
y lady,’ said Nicholas with sudden passion. ‘He is part of our history. We will always revere his memory The Angel theatre will keep that memory alive in the most visible way. He died in its service. It must be built.’
‘You are almost as persuasive as he was.’
‘We need that loan, my lady.’
‘And if it vanishes?’
‘We would have to find the money elsewhere.’
‘That will not be easy,’ she pointed out. ‘People are superstitious. They would take a foul murder on the very site of the playhouse as a bad omen.’
‘We prefer to see it as a sign to carry on.’
‘I admire your courage.’
‘It will be needed in the weeks ahead, my lady.’
She sat back pensively in her chair and subjected him to a careful scrutiny. Nicholas was discomfited. She seemed to know a great deal about him and the company while yielding up little about herself. Sensing his uneasiness, she waved him to an oak bench against the opposite wall.
‘You have been standing too long, Nicholas.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said, sitting down.
‘But I was not quite sure if you would be staying,’ she explained. ‘I had to test you first. I think that you can be trusted. You were honest with me.’
‘I tried to be, my lady.’
‘Sylvester held you in high esteem.’
‘I am flattered.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘As well as anyone else in the company,’ he said, ‘but that is no large claim to make, my lady. The truth is that none us really knew Sylvester. We saw him as a friend and as a valuable member of the company but we had no notion where he came from or what career he had pursued until he joined Westfield’s Men. He talked little about himself, nor did we press him on the subject. It is not unusual, my lady.’
‘Unusual?’
‘Actors are strange creatures. It is not only vanity which makes them strut upon a stage. Many other motives impel them. Sylvester Pryde was not alone in using the theatre as a kind of refuge, a place where he could hide his true self and be someone else for an afternoon.’
‘And what was that true self, Nicholas?’
The Wanton Angel Page 15