Nicholas Bracewell was as much interested in her manner as her appearance. She was composed and watchful. Though her fiancé 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 Emilia 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.
At the Queen’s Head later that day, Firethorn wisely restricted himself to a cup of Canary wine. It soothed his swollen gum and calmed his throbbing tooth. Owen Elias was on hand to activate the pain in both once more.
‘A lighted candle,’ he recalled.
‘Candle?’ repeated Firethorn.
‘He held the palm of my hand over it.’
‘Who did?’
‘The surgeon.’
‘Why?’
‘So that he burned my skin.’
‘You went to a surgeon to be set alight?’
‘No, Lawrence,’ said the Welshman with a chuckle. ‘I needed to have a bad tooth pulled. That rogue of a surgeon distracted my attention. I was so taken up with the injury to my hand that I hardly noticed him pulling out the tooth until it was too late. One sharp pain disguised another.’
Firethorn’s mouth felt as if a hundred candles had just been lit inside it to be carried in procession by a choir of chanting surgeons. A sip of Canary wine only seemed to make the flames burn brighter. It was at this point, when the actor-manager most needed sympathy and succour, that Barnaby Gill
joined his colleagues at their table in the taproom. Lowering himself on to the settle, he dispensed with the civilities and came straight to the point.
‘I will not act in this lunatic venture,’ he said.
‘We do not expect you to act, Barnaby,’ teased Owen Elias. ‘Simply stand there as usual and say what few lines you can remember. We act in the play—you merely appear.’
‘Cease this levity. I speak in earnest.’
‘Lower your voice, man.’
‘Why?’
‘Out of respect for the dead.’
Gill started. ‘Another of our company has died?’
‘Lawrence’s tooth. It will pass away any minute.’
‘Not if you keep prodding at it, you torturer!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘We are here to discuss business, not to talk of surgeons with lighted candles. God’s blood! If my tooth were sound, I’d use it to bite off your mocking face! No more of it, Owen. Let us hear Barnaby out before we answer him.’
‘You have heard all,’ said Gill. ‘I say nay.’
‘When you have not even read the play?’
‘I do not need to, Lawrence. It spells disaster.’
‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘For our rivals. If The Roaring Boy is but half the success it deserves to be, Westfield’s Men will rise head and shoulders above the other companies.’
‘We already do that,’ argued Firethorn.
‘This play will let us eclipse them completely.’
‘It is the road to Bedlam,’ said Gill. ‘When I consider its subject, every part about me quivers.’
‘That is only fitting,’ said Firethorn. ‘It should make you quiver with excitement, Barnaby.’
‘I shake with fear.’
‘You should glow with pride.’
‘I shudder with disgust.’
‘This play is the sword of justice.’
‘It will cut down the lot of us.’
‘Not if we wield it ourselves,’ said Owen Elias. ‘Westfield’s Men will hold the slicing edge of death.’
Lawrence Firethorn did not regret taking the Welshman into their confidence. The attack on Nicholas Bracewell was a grim warning. Apart from the book holder himself, nobody had such skill in arms as Owen Elias. His belligerence could be trying at times but it was a source of comfort now. The victor in a score of tavern brawls, he lent strength as well as experience to Westfield’s Men. For this reason, it was wise to keep him informed of every development relating to The Roaring Boy. Like the actor-manager, Elias was outraged by the injuries sustained by his beloved friend and longed for the opportunity to avenge each blow struck at Nicholas. He would be a most effective guard dog.
Barnaby Gill, by contrast, had no stomach for a fight.
‘We court unnecessary peril,’ he bleated.
‘Think of the prize that awaits us,’ said Firethorn.
‘Violent assault.’
‘Righting a grave wrong.’
‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘Bringing a villain to the scaffold. Publishing his wickedness to the whole world.’
‘He will not stand idly by while we do that.’
‘Of course not,’ conceded Firethorn. ‘We will be hounded and harrassed at every turn but we must not give in. Our safety lies in our unity. Hold fast together and we can withstand the onslaught of the Devil himself.’
‘I want nothing whatsoever to do with the play,’ said Gill impetuously. ‘I wash my hands of it forthwith.’
‘A Pontius Pilate in our ranks!’
Owen Elias grunted. ‘A Judas, more like!’
‘Very well,’ said Firethorn with uncharacteristic calm. ‘Withdraw into your ivory tower, Barnaby. Shun your fellows. Spurn this heaven-sent chance to turn Westfield’s Men into agents of the law. You can be spared, sir. Indeed, your decision brings relief. If truth be told, I was not certain in my mind that you were equal to the task before us.’
‘I am equal to anything!’ retorted the other.
‘This role was beyond even your scope, Barnaby.’
‘Falsehood! Every part is within my compass.’
‘Even that of a hapless mathematician, who is foully murdered by hired villains? No, it is too heavy a load for you to bear. Stay with your clowning and your comical jigs. They place no great strain on your art.’
‘What are you telling me, Lawrence?’
‘That you release us from vexation,’ said Firethorn. ‘Had you played in The Roaring Boy, the leading part would have fallen to you.’
‘Thomas Brinklow?’
‘The same.’
‘Would not you have seized upon the role?’
‘Indeed not. I am satisfied with Freshwell, the roaring boy himself. He lords it in the title of the play but Brinklow carries the piece. Edmund spoke strongly on your behalf but I was not minded to accept his judgement. You have rescued me from that dilemma. Stand aside.’
‘Not so fast, Lawrence.’
‘Does that mean I am Thomas Brinklow?’ asked Elias.
‘You were my choice at the start, Owen.’
‘The matter is not yet settled,’ said Gill quickly.
‘But you deserted us even now,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are frighted out of the project. I heard you say as much. So did Owen here.’ He gave the Welshman a sly wink to ensure his complicity. ‘What was it that he said?’
‘That he will not act in this lunatic venture.’
‘Nor will I,’ said Gill, folding his arms in a posture of indifference. After a moment’s reflection, however, he weakened visibly. ‘Unless certain conditions are met.’
‘You have surrendered the role,’ said Firethorn, working on the other’s pride. ‘It goes to Owen. He needs to impose no conditions on the company.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Had old Ben Skeat still been with us, I would have offered the part to him. Ben would have been a noble Thomas Brinklow.’
‘Why, so will I,’ asserted Gill.
‘He had the authority. The dignity.’
‘So do I, so do I.’
‘Ben Skeat would have anchored the play securely.’
‘He did not anchor The Corrupt Bargain securely,’ said Gill with a rueful glare. ‘Had we relied on him, we would have drifted on to the rocks. It was I who saved the day. I who proved my mettle. I who led the company. Where was Ben Skeat then? Beyond recall!’ He rose to his feet. ‘Thomas Brinklow must first be offered to me. I have all the qualities of the man. If Edmund can but find me a song or two in the role, I will consider it afresh. Good day, sirs. That is all the parlay that I will permit.’
It was enough. Barnaby Gill was caught in their net. Owen Elias expressed token disappointment at the loss of a part he had never expected to play and Firethorn feigned reluctance but the two men had achieved their objective. Barnaby Gill would act in The Roaring Boy. When the comedian strutted out of the taproom, Lawrence Firethorn turned to his companion with a whoop of delight.
‘It worked, Owen!’
‘We played him like a fish on a line.’
‘I talk of the lighted candle.’
‘When that surgeon burned my hand?’
‘One agony drove out another,’ said Firethorn. ‘The pain of dealing with Barnaby’s vanity has quite taken away my toothache. He was the flame that distracted me. It is a blessing. I am recovered to give my full attention to the challenge of The Roaring Boy.
‘All we need now is the play itself,’ said Owen.
Firethorn emptied his cup. ‘Put trust in our fellows. Edmund Hoode is no inquisitor but Nick Bracewell will dig out the truth. Our book holder will not leave Greenwich until he has sifted every detail of this endeavour.’
***
Nicholas Bracewell became increasingly fascinated with Emilia Brinklow. His first impression of her was slowly ratifie
d. The sedate figure on the bench opposite was patently still mourning the loss of her brother but she was not prostrated by grief. There was an air of cool detachment about her and she was evidently in control of her situation. When Agnes brought refreshment for the visitors, Emilia thanked the maidservant and gave her crisp new instructions. When the assistant gardeners strayed too close to the arbour, she despatched them with a glance. Thomas Brinklow had died but his sister was more than able to run the establishment in his stead. House and garden were being maintained in the way that he himself had designated.
Having exhausted enquiries about the play, and the facts underlying it, Edmund Hoode stared at her with open-mouthed infatuation. His commitment to the project was now complete. Two hours in the garden with Emilia Brinklow had turned The Roaring Boy into the most exhilarating work of his career. Simon Chaloner manoeuvred them around to more neutral topics, believing that he had safely brought her through what could have been a harrowing encounter for her. He was still congratulating himself on his adroit management of the interview when Emilia herself supplanted him.
She turned a searching gaze upon Nicholas Bracewell.
‘You are not happy, I think.’
‘Our visit has been a most pleasant event,’ he said.
‘Yet it has left you feeling disappointed.’
‘No!’ said Hoode gallantly. ‘There is no disappointment on my side. I was never more content in my life.’
Her eyes never left Nicholas. ‘Your friend does not share your contentment, I fear. Do you, sir?’
Nicholas felt oddly discomfited by her inspection. He wished that his face were not so bruised and found himself wanting to appear before her at his best rather than in such a battered condition. At the same time, he noted an interest on her part that went beyond mere curiosity. She was sitting with one man who loved her and another who adored her on sight yet her attention was fixed solely on Nicholas.
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