Alms for Oblivion (17 page)

“Wake up, Nick!”

I’d only been asleep for five minutes, it seemed. Yet here was a little daylight squeezing itself through my pinched window, and here was my friend Jack Wilson come again, this time not to
clap me reassuringly on the shoulder but to give me an urgent shaking up. Had he stayed in my room all night?

“Wake up!”

“I am awake. What do you want?”

My voice sounded queerly disembodied. My mouth tasted like the bottom of the bear-pit.

I made to sit up. The bed swayed slightly. I was a stranger to myself. My head felt as though it was balanced precariously on my body, like a heavy ball of stone on a crumbling pillar. I lay
down again. The bed lurched. I closed my eyes, and hoped that Jack would go away.

“Nick, you must listen.”

“Why?”

“Richard Milford is dead.”

Now I opened my eyes and sat up. The next instant I’d stumbled out of bed and, clinging to the wall, was attempting to stand upright.

“What?”

“He has been foully murdered. We must go.”

Jack was standing in the doorway.

“But I saw him yesterday at the play,” I said.

“We all saw him yesterday at the play, Nick,” said Jack. “Now you must come to the playhouse. Dick Burbage has summoned all of us.”

“Who murdered Richard Milford?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Come on.”

“The murderer knows,” I said.

“Eh? Hurry up, Nick.”

I remembered Lucy Milford’s words,
There was a man murdered.

“Lucy Milford is not harmed, is she?”

“She found him.”

“She knew too,” I said.

My sight was fuddled but, even so, I was aware of Jack looking at me oddly.

“She is a delicate lady,” he said.

I was fumbling to take off the shirt I’d fallen asleep in. I was ashamed to see that it was heavily stained with last night’s revel. I couldn’t go to work like this. Even my
blunted sense of smell informed against me. I scrabbled in my chest for my spare shirt, hauled it on and, hastily flinging on some outer garments, clattered downstairs after Jack and out into the
street.

The morning was dank and foggy, as usual. When would these blindfold days be over?

I was still half-numbed from last night’s drinking. The surprise and horror of Richard Milford’s murder had yet to sink in.

As we paced quickly through the streets towards the Globe, Jack told me what was known of Richard’s death. It wasn’t much. The Milfords had recently moved to lodgings on the north
side of the river, in Thames Street. Though not a grand thoroughfare it was more respectable than most of the places on our side of the water. Obviously Richard and his wife were on their way up in
the world. At the end of the previous evening they’d left Middle Temple in company with their patrons, Lord Robert Venner and his sister. These noble siblings had in turn left the Milfords at
the door of their lodgings in order to return to their town-house which, Jack believed, lay somewhere in Whitefriars.

It wasn’t clear precisely what had happened after that. Either Lucy Milford had gone to their part of the house alone while her husband remained in the lobby for some reason, or both had
retired to their chambers until Richard was summoned back to the lobby by a knocking at the front door. In any event, Richard Milford had opened the door and been violently attacked, probably with a
knife. His wife was drawn out by the sounds of struggle and by shouting and discovered her husband dying in a pool of his own blood. The door to the street was open. No weapon was to be seen. The
headborough, a more capable man than Doggett of Southwark, was alerted and had rapidly established the bare bones of the story, even down to the hour. The murder had taken place some time after
after one o’clock, as called by the watchman on his rounds.

I thought of the watchman’s refrain.

For Richard Milford it had been the bellman’s fatal goodnight.

Then I thought of Lucy Milford.

Look how he dies! Look how his wounds do bleed at many vents!

She had surely foreseen her husband’s death, just as Cassandra glanced into the future and there witnessed the ruin of Hector. I said nothing of this to Jack Wilson of course. The merest
suspicion brushed past me that, if Lucy had foreseen Richard’s death, then she might also have caused it. But she was meek and gentle, she did not look like a murderer. What did a murderer look
like? Not like her, for sure . . . or like me either.

Another aspect of this dreadful business was, in its way, to my benefit, since it dispelled some of the suspicion which hung over me for Peter Agate’s death. I wasn’t so heartless or
cold as to think of this while Jack and I were hastening towards the Globe playhouse for Burbage’s meeting (of which I shall say something in a moment). But these ideas occurred later, when I
came to mull them over, sitting by myself in the Goat & Monkey ale-house. It was the evening of the same day. I wanted no one’s company. I was still experiencing the effects of the
previous night. Someone in the Company who prided himself on being able to hold his liquor told me that the best cure for crapulousness was to take yet more ale. This remedy he called ‘the
hair of the same wolf’. It didn’t seem to be working with me since I was still queasy and out of sorts, although that might have as much to do with the events of the last few days as it
did with the drink. Anyway I might as well feel sick in a tavern as sitting solitary in my room. So, sipping slowly at Master Bly’s ale, I considered the unsatisfactory state of my life and
my connection with the sudden deaths of two men.

The circumstances of Richard Milford’s death were similar to Peter Agate’s. Both men had apparently been taken by surprise in the lobby of their lodgings, both had been stabbed. The
assailant had fled under cover of night or fog, leaving no weapon behind. In neither case was there an easily discernible motive for these men’s deaths. Peter was newly arrived in London, a
would-be player and – in my judgement – an offence to no one. Richard Milford was a rising playwright and generally popular, although he had the knack of rubbing people (like me) up the
wrong way sometimes. However, it was hard to maintain dislike for him for long. There was something open about his vanity and self-concern. And there was no doubting that as a budding poet and
playwright he had promise. Had had promise . . .

Here I paused in sipping my ale, and came over cold as I thought of Richard’s death. And Peter’s. I wiped at a moistened eye, uncertain who this little water was in aid of, and then
tried to bring my thoughts to order once more.

What had linked these two men? Nothing as far as I could see, apart from the fact that they’d had connections to the Chamberlain’s and also that I’d been a friend to each of
them. However, the details of this second violent death in Thames Street so paralleled the first in Dead Man’s Place as to suggest that a single individual might have been responsible for both
Must, surely, have been responsible for both. Now, the finger of suspicion was pointing at me for Peter’s murder. But it would have to point elsewhere for Richard’s. If he’d been
killed around one o’clock in the morning or shortly afterwards then I could prove that I was elsewhere at the time. Exactly where I couldn’t have said, being drunk and incapable at the
time. But I was somewhere in transit between the Devil Tavern and Master Benwell’s lodgings, supported by my good friend Jack Wilson. Jack could testify to my helpless condition. Or –
if I had arrived back home (home, ha!) before that time – then I was safely wrapped up in a drunken stupor. Any number of people would be able to vouch for my perplexed state during that
evening. I couldn’t have lifted a pint pot in the latter part of it, let alone a knife.

I prepared my defence in these terms, just in case I was questioned by Alan Talbot or another coroner, you understand. And naturally my thoughts turned to the question of who had actually done
the killings and whether it was indeed one individual or whether the murders were unconnected. One thing was indisputable. The two deaths had cast a pall over our Company.

The mood at the meeting in the Globe tire-house that morning was sombre and subdued. Dick Burbage looked unusually grave. He was famous for his tragic parts and was good at looking grave, but
this was no act. At least, I don’t think it was. He expressed our collective grief over the death of Richard Milford, talking of the tragedy of a promising life so brutally terminated.
Burbage addressed us standing on the platform from where he oversaw the chamber practices. Standing beside him was Thomas Pope, another of the shareholders. Our thoughts, said Burbage, were with
Richard’s widow, Lucy. (Mine certainly were, from time to time.) He went on to say that some of us might be examined by the authorities in the matter of Richard’s death. This was
because the playwright had been, in a manner, one of the Chamberlain’s Men. We’d been among the last people he’d talked with. Then Burbage paused, and I sensed that whatever he
was about to say was the real reason we’d been called together.

“Gentlemen, I have heard it whispered that there was bad feeling between Richard Milford and the shareholders. The story has got about that we turned down his last play, that we rejected
him. The truth is that we had not yet decided whether to stage this piece. And he knew it. Richard knew also that, even if we chose not to stage this particular play at this particular time, then
we would still look with favour on his work. Why, almost everybody here remembers his
Venetian Whore
comedy. More in that vein would have been very welcome.”

There was something constrained, almost defensive, about Dick’s words. I didn’t quite believe him or the confirmatory nods which Thomas Pope was making on the platform next to him. I
was almost certain that Richard
had
been turned down over
The World’s Diseas’d
. Burbage’s comments about
A Venetian Whore
were pretty good evidence of the
kind of thing the shareholders would have liked from Richard Milford, light pieces which worked by suggestion rather than sensation. But why was Dick bothering to justify himself and the other
shareholders over the choice of plays, anyway? It wasn’t, strictly speaking, the business of the rank-and-file players. We had opinions, sometimes very strong opinions, but were content to
leave the selection to our seniors, trusting in their judgement and experience.

“These are difficult times, gentlemen,” Burbage continued. “Our patron Lord Hunsdon is . . . not well. [
Another series of nods from Thomas Pope.
] We face competition
from the Paul’s Children. We face the usual enemies of bad weather and creeping plague, and the displeasure of the Council if we overstep the mark. All of these things we can deal with singly.
But – as William has observed of sorrows – when troubles come, they come not single spies but in battalions.”

Burbage paused. There was a murmur of subdued recognition at his using Shakespeare’s expression. WS was nowhere in sight on this dank morning but the closeness between the principal player
and the principal writer of our Company was familiar to us.

“But you are aware of this,” he said carelessly. “I won’t weary your ears with more. I wish only to warn you against a certain individual named Gally, Thomas Gally. Some
of you have already encountered him. He is a kind of playhouse moth, drawn to us by our light and warmth. I know that he and Richard Milford had been . . . seen together. This Gally claims to be an
agent for Philip Henslowe of the Admiral’s. It may be true that he works for our rival in some capacity, I don’t know. But his real business is to interfere in matters that are none of
his business.

“Gally is eager to know our plans, to ascertain our patron’s health, to find out about our takings. Whether Master Henslowe has explicitly asked this dog to report to him on these
questions, or whether Gally simply brings to his master whatever scraps he can scavenge, I don’t know. Gally is not above doing a little dirty work on his own account, for example stirring up
the apprentices so as to drive down our trade. So I say, watch out for this man, don’t trust him. Don’t share a tavern bench with him. We in the Chamberlain’s are free and easy
fellows, we don’t watch our tongues or guard our secrets very close. We must not allow our generous natures to be abused.”

There was still something about Burbage’s words that puzzled me. That the Chamberlain’s had rivals who might stoop to underhand methods wasn’t exactly news. Yes, we players
might be relatively trusting, or careless in what we said and who we said it to, but we weren’t exactly born yesterday. And I couldn’t understand either the link which Burbage had made
between Richard Milford and Tom Gally. Was he trying to blacken Richard’s memory? I’d already suspected that Richard, most probably spurned by our seniors over his new play, was being
courted by Henslowe through Gally. If so, good fortune to him. Or rather – if he hadn’t been so shockingly murdered – it might have been his good fortune. The half question which
had formed in my mind was put in full by my friend and co-player Laurence Savage.

“Dick, two men connected to our Company have lately and violently died, first a friend of Nicholas here and then Richard Milford. And now you warn us against loose talk and dirty dealing.
Are you saying that there are worse things in store? Are you saying that Tom Gally, who is indeed known to most of us, is involved with what has happened?”

“I’m saying nothing of the kind,” said Burbage. “I will not slander any man so. But we have enemies, there is danger abroad, and two people have died violently – as
you say, Laurence. Every man should be on his guard.”

This warning concluded our Globe meeting, which broke up even more sober than it had begun. If Dick Burbage had intended to bring us together and imbue us with a spirit of one-ness, his closing
words had the opposite effect. What were we supposed to be on our guard against – each other? We cast watchful glances around. There was a forced quality to our jokes, and the tire-house was
not, for once, a place to loiter in. Fortunately we had no performance scheduled for that afternoon.