The Malevolent Comedy

by Edward Marston

  Apart from Nicholas, the lad’s closest friends in the company had been George Dart and Richard Honeydew. They had spent many pleasant hours together. Cast adrift by his father, it had meant so much to Bridger to be accepted by his new family. He had repaid them with his love and dedication. Nicholas felt the sharp stab of bereavement. It made him even more determined to find the killer. Until that happened, Hal Bridger could never fully rest in peace. Closing his eyes, Nicholas offered up a prayer. He then put on his cap and turned to walk away, realising, for the first time, that he had been watched. A woman was standing by the church porch, so still and silent that she might have been a marble statue. It was Alice Bridger.

  There was a long and very awkward pause. Nicholas was made to feel like an interloper, guilty of trespass, intruding upon private grief. He did not know whether to stay or leave. In the event, it was the woman who made the first move, walking slowly towards him and looking much more frail and vulnerable than at their first meeting. Clearing his throat, Nicholas held his ground and prepared his apology. Alice Bridger needed a moment to find her voice.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, softly.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Showing that you cared.’

  ‘We all cared about Hal.’

  ‘Yes, but yours was the name he mentioned most.’

  He glanced down at the grave. ‘We kept away from the funeral.’

  ‘I was grateful for that.’

  ‘What about Mr Bridger?’

  ‘My husband will give you no thanks, sir,’ she said, brusquely. ‘He believes that we lost our son twice. Hal died when he left us, then he was murdered because of you.’

  ‘Simply because he joined a theatre troupe?’

  ‘It’s an ungodly profession.’

  ‘Then why are we not all struck down, Mrs Bridger?’ asked Nicholas, gently. ‘If our sin is so unforgivable, how have we and the other theatre companies in the city escaped retribution?’

  ‘You are trying to mock me again.’

  ‘No, I respect anyone who lives by the tenets of their faith.’

  ‘Even though you do not have a faith yourself?’

  Nicholas hunched his shoulders. ‘It was wrong of me to come so soon,’ he said, ‘and I apologise for that. I should have let more time elapse so that feelings were not so fresh and raw. Think what you wish of us, Mrs Bridger, but be sure of one thing. The prayer I said over Hal’s grave came with Christian humility. God save his soul!’

  ‘Wait!’ she said, touching his arm as he turned to go.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You told me how Hal died but you did not tell me in what pain he must have been. The coroner was more honest.’

  ‘I wanted to spare you such details.’

  ‘I understand that now. It was a kindness on your part.’ Her lips began to quiver. ‘Will they catch the man who poisoned him?’

  ‘That’s a task we’ve set ourselves, Mrs Bridger.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Much more than any officers,’ he replied. ‘I’ve already found the apothecary who sold the poison. The customer he described was seen at the Queen’s Head, talking to one of the servants. If he dares to come again, he’s certain to be recognised.’

  ‘He’ll not return, surely.’

  ‘He already has, I fear.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On Saturday last. He paid a boy to set loose his dog during our performance so that it would harry the actors. And yesterday,’ said Nicholas, patting his satchel, ‘the same man – or his confederate – stole our prompt book.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘To stop the play being staged.’

  ‘I do not understand how.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve never ventured into a playhouse, Mrs Bridger. There’s only one complete copy of any play and it’s used to prompt the actors if they lose their lines. It’s also the only way that the book holder can follow the progress of a performance.’ He patted his satchel again. ‘I’ve a new copy of our play right here.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Malevolent Comedy.’

  ‘Was that not the play that cost Hal his life?’

  ‘Unhappily, it was.’

  She was rueful. ‘So his murder was part of a comedy?’

  ‘His murder was part of an attempt to stop this play from being seen. It’s happened three times in a row now. Someone had such a violent grudge against the piece that he’s determined to sweep it forever from the stage.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ she cried, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bridger. I did not mean to upset you.’

  ‘It’s so cruel, so very cruel!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You say that this man wants to wipe a play from the stage?’

  ‘By any means.’

  ‘Then I find myself in sympathy with him, for I’d stop every play from being performed and spreading its corruption. Can you not see the awful cruelty of that?’ she went on, tears still flowing. ‘I am at one with the man who murdered my only child?’

  There was no rehearsal that morning. After three recent performances, it was felt that the cast were sufficiently confident to need no extra time spent on their lines. In any case, the hasty conference that had taken place at Lawrence Firethorn’s house the previous day had involved all the leading actors and been in the nature of an intensive rehearsal. They now knew The Malevolent Comedy better than ever before. Instead of working on the play again, therefore, they were deployed to search the premises to make sure that no danger was lurking at the Queen’s Head. Keeping the satchel with him, Nicholas Bracewell took care that he never once lost sight of the prompt book.

  Richard Honeydew was curious. When the actors were starting to gather in the tiring-house that afternoon, he went over to Nicholas.

  ‘Where did you keep the book last night?’ he asked.

  ‘Under lock and key.’

  ‘How many plays do you have in your chest?’

  ‘Fifty or sixty at least, Dick.’

  ‘What would happen if they were all stolen?’

  ‘Do not even conceive of such a tragedy,’ said Nicholas. ‘We would be bereft. There’s no way that we could rebuild each play, brick by brick, as we did with Master Hibbert’s comedy. Most would be lost forever. The company would wither for lack of anything to play.’

  ‘I’d hate to lose The Loyal Subject.’

  ‘Is that your favourite?’

  ‘Along with The Merchant of Calais.’

  ‘Both plays by Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘Hal Bridger thought our best play was Cupid’s Folly.’

  ‘That will please Barnaby for he steals all the laughs in it.’

  ‘Hal giggled whenever he thought of the play.’ Honeydew’s face darkened. ‘He’ll not see it ever again, Nick.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘When they buried him yesterday, I wanted to be there.’

  ‘So did we all,’ said Nicholas. ‘Hal’s stay with us was short but he made many friends among Westfield’s Men. The pity of it is that his parents bear us such ill will.’

  ‘He rarely spoke of them. They cast him out.’

  ‘Yet they grieve for him now, Dick – at least, his mother does.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I met her in the churchyard this morning when I went to pay my respects at the grave. Mrs Bridger was there.’

  ‘Does she still blame us for what happened?’

  ‘She blames the whole notion of theatre. It’s abhorrent to her.’

  ‘We do no harm,’ said Honeydew, innocently.

  ‘We do, in her eyes, Dick, and you are one of the chief culprits.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Boys dressing up as women, painting their faces, flaunting themselves on stage. Making lewd gestures and exciting improper feelings in the spectators. That’s how Hal’s parents view us,’ said Nicholas, sadly. ‘We are purveyors of sin.’

  ‘All
that we strive to do is to entertain people.’

  ‘Puritans do not believe in entertainment, Dick.’

  ‘Then I’m glad we do not have any of them in our audiences,’ said the boy. ‘But, since the church is so close, I’ll try to say a prayer for Hal myself as I go past.’

  ‘Do that.’

  Honeydew went off to put on his costume and Nicholas cajoled two of the other apprentices who had arrived late. There was a distinct tension in the tiring-house. Superstition had taken its hold. About to embark on a fourth performance of a play, the actors all felt in their hearts that it would be prey to some mishap again. The general unease was even shared by Lawrence Firethorn.

  ‘Is all well, Nick?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so. We’ve taken every precaution.’

  ‘We did that last time.’

  ‘The book will not go astray this afternoon, I warrant you.’

  ‘There are other ways to damage us.’

  ‘We’ll be ready for them, whatever they are,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I hope so. Margery is in the audience today.’

  ‘After last night, I’d have thought she’d heard enough of The Malevolent Comedy. It invaded your house for hours.’

  ‘That only served to increase her interest,’ said Firethorn. ‘For her sake, I want the performance to go well. If we get safely through the play today, it may even cheer Saul up.’

  ‘Is he still surly?’

  ‘Surly and critical. He’s not forgiven me for making him accept you as book holder again. That festers with him.’

  ‘Did he thank you for our efforts to rewrite his play?’

  ‘No, Nick. He still wants George Dart dismissed for losing it.’

  ‘Since when can a playwright pick and choose hired men?’

  ‘I made that point to him.’

  ‘Good. Master Hibbert is still very new to the playhouse.’

  ‘His novelty is wearing off for me,’ confided Firethorn. ‘When he first appeared, I thought he’d come to lead us to the Promised Land. I did not realise that it would be beset with cups of poison and renegade dogs. I’m not so ready to commission a second play from Saul Hibbert now.’

  Nicholas was relieved but he said nothing. Time was running out and, from the commotion he could hear in the yard, it sounded as if another large audience was waiting for them. The flag had been hoisted above the Queen’s Head to show that a play would be performed and the musicians had taken up their places in the gallery above the stage. Owen Elias, in a black cloak, was running a tongue over his lips as he rehearsed the opening lines of the Prologue. Everything was ready. The strain on the actors was almost tangible. Nicholas tried to lift it.

  After warning everyone in the tiring-house with a wave, he sent a signal up to the musicians. When the trumpets blared and the drum boomed, an anticipatory hush fell on the audience. On a cue from the book holder, Owen Elias strode out onstage to deliver the Prologue.

  Malevolence, my friends, is here to stay.

  It works with spite and cunning every day

  And night to gain its ends. Employ it well

  When you would seek to wed and only sell

  Your precious freedom at the highest price,

  Or live in sad regret. Take my advice.

  A man can marry anyone he choose

  But women know a marriage bed can bruise.

  So, ladies, stalk your prey behind a smile,

  And bring him down with malice and with guile.

  It was not so much the lines as his vivid gestures that garnered the first laughs. The Welshman gesticulated to such comic effect that he received a round of applause at the end of his speech. It was all that the other actors needed. Approval was their life-blood. They went in search of it with a confidence that had seemed impossible minutes ago. No sooner did Lord Loveless appear in his ridiculously garish apparel than he got a rousing cheer and the Clown, too, was given a special welcome. Firethorn and Gill were known and admired by all. Moved by the warmth of their reception, the two of them blossomed and gave performances that were somehow enhanced in every particular. The loveless lord was more absurd than ever and the Clown’s antics were more hilarious. In one short opening scene, the audience was conquered.

  Nicholas was enthralled. It was a new play. With everyone bringing an extra vigour and subtlety to their performance, the nuances and shades of colour in The Malevolent Comedy were brought out clearly for the first time. Richard Honeydew was renowned for his portrayal of noble queens and beautiful princesses, but he revelled in a different role now, finding a deeper malevolence in his character than had ever been there before. It was almost as if he were trying to prove what Nicholas had observed when they met to recreate the play from memory.

  Mistress Malevole was a cunning serpent, subjecting the other three women to repeated humiliation so that she could entwine herself around Lord Loveless and lick him with her forked tongue. Rosamund, Chloe and Eleanor were not mere characters in a play. They sounded like real women, voicing real complaints, stripped of any dignity and derided in public to satisfy the author’s malice. All that the audience saw was a riotous comedy that bowled along with effortless speed. What the book holder heard, however, was a wicked satire on the weaker sex. In front of howling spectators, the women were really suffering.

  While not losing his concentration, Nicholas kept one ear pricked for the sound of any impending attack. The rest of the company had clearly forgotten that the piece was synonymous with misfortune, and that it had taken the life of Hal Bridger less than a week earlier. Shaking off their fears, they played with a zest that gave a sharper edge to the comedy. The laughter and applause throughout was so generous that it added several minutes to the performance. When they saw that the play was over, there was a massive sigh of disappointment, followed by an explosion of clapping hands, stamping feet and deafening cheers.

  It was by far their best performance of the play and it augured well for any revival. Nicholas was relieved. All the precautions that he had set in place seemed to have worked. While the actors took their bows in the reverberating cauldron of noise, he was simply grateful that they had come through without assault or interruption. The play’s curse had been lifted. They had finally been spared.

  Even the sceptical Francis Quilter was impressed. Coming off stage with the others, he tapped the prompt book in Nicholas’s hands.

  ‘It’s a better play than I thought,’ he admitted.

  ‘You were always too censorious, Frank.’

  ‘I let my dislike of the author obscure my judgement.’

  ‘So you admire the play now?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Yes, but I hate Saul Hibbert even more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His work exceeded all expectations today,’ replied Quilter. ‘That means Lawrence will bind him hand and foot by contract, and we’ll have him writing more comedies for us.’

  ‘Why, so I will!’ said Firethorn, joining them. ‘Did you hear that happy pandemonium out there, Nick? We were supreme. And as for Saul, I’ll chain him to a desk and make him write for us forever.’

  ‘Make no hurried decisions,’ urged Nicholas.

  ‘We need him.’

  ‘It’s what he needs that concerns me.’

  ‘Your place is safe, Nick. He’ll not shift you again.’

  ‘I care not for myself. My anxiety is for others.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Master Hibbert treats most of them as if they were mere servants to his genius. After this afternoon, I fear that he’ll be worse than ever.’

  ‘He’ll learn to love us all in time.’

  ‘Not unless he has the power he craves,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Leave off,’ said Firethorn, genially. ‘This is a time for celebration rather than anxiety. We’ve set fire to an audience as never before this year and we should warm our hands at the blaze. Be happy for us, Nick.’

  ‘I am – truly delighted.’

  ‘Then come and join us in
the taproom. I was worried, I confess. In view of what happened before with this play, I was as nervous as a kitten when I was waiting to go onstage. Once there, I knew that my fears were groundless. I felt the triumph coming,’ said Firethorn, putting a hand to his heart. ‘Nothing can take the pleasure of it away, Nick. We gave them a magnificent play this afternoon and nobody tried to stop us.’

  Richard Honeydew was troubled. Old enough to play the part of Mistress Malevole extremely well, he was still too young to appreciate the full import of the character. Though the performance had been his best yet, it had left him confused and apprehensive. There were times when he lost all control, when he felt that Mistress Malevole took him over and made him explore aspects of her character that he did not even know were there. He had been forced to be more savage, more ruthless, more calculating. The audience might have loved his portrayal but it almost frightened him. When he came to take off his wig and dress, his fingers were trembling.

  Amid the swirl of bodies and the noise of banter, nobody paid any attention to him in the tiring-house. That suited Honeydew. He had a sudden desire to be alone. Living at Firethorn’s house, he would be returning there with the other apprentices in time but there was no hurry. They would have to wait for Margery, who would surely want to celebrate with her husband before she took them back home. Honeydew had plenty of leeway. Changing quickly into his own clothing, therefore, he gave his costume to the tireman and darted out of the room.

  His footsteps took him in the direction of Bishopsgate. When he reached the corner of Threadneedle Street, he realised why. Something was impelling him to visit Hal Bridger’s grave. He was humbled. Instead of thinking of himself, he should be paying his respects to someone who was no longer able to act upon a stage. Honeydew had to make his own small act of remembrance. He went into the churchyard and searched for the grave. Like Nicholas, he soon found it and smacked his palms together to scare away the two ravens who had perched on the mound of earth. Richard Honeydew removed his cap and stood in silence.

  His own cares seem to float away and he went into a kind of trance. He felt close to Hal Bridger. He could almost hear his laughter and see the excitement in his face. Honeydew tried to talk to him but got no reply. When he reached out to touch him, the boy was not there. Yet he was still nearby and grateful for the visit of a friend. Honeydew could sense his gratitude. There was contact.