The Wanton Angel (15 page)

‘Why,’ he said, running a hand across his chin, ‘I bade him farewell less than twelve hours ago. Had I known I was sending him off to his grave, Nicholas, I would have held
him back with both hands. Dear Lord! What a case is this!’

Nicholas was curious. ‘You bade him farewell, you say?’

‘Yes. Last night.’

‘As he left the Queen’s Head?’

Leonard nodded. ‘I was here in the yard and called out to him as he passed. But I do not think he heard me for he made no reply and that was strange. I remarked on it to Martin.’

‘Who is Martin?’

‘You remember him,’ said the other. ‘He worked here as a drawer some months ago. As friendly a soul as you could meet. But Martin could not take the sharp edge of our landlord’s tongue and he left.’

‘What was he doing back here?’

‘He drops in from time to time if he is passing. I think he lodges nearby. I told him how odd it was that Sylvester did not return my farewell.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘Right, into Gracechurch Street.’

‘That confirms what I have already found out.’

Leonard frowned in dismay. ‘Could I have been the last person to see him alive, Nicholas? I would hate to think that.’

‘Sylvester took a boat across the river. I talked with the watermen who rowed him across. Besides,’ sighed Nicholas, ‘the last person who saw him alive was his killer.’

‘Who would want to murder such a kind gentleman?’

‘That is what I intend to find out.’

‘There is so much villainy in this world!’ said Leonard.
His eye travelled to the upper storey of the inn and his voice became a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Some of it has been taking place under this roof, Nicholas.’

‘Here?’

‘Mistress Rose. They have treated her wickedly.’

‘Her parents?’

‘Yes, and now she lies sick of a fever.’

‘What have they done to the poor girl?’

‘Locked her away like the vilest criminal. They even bolted her window so that she could not talk to anyone out of it. That was my fault, I fear.’

‘Yours, Leonard?’

‘I took her food and meant to toss it up to her. But someone caught her with the window open when I was below. One of the servingmen was ordered to fix a bolt on it.’

‘This is harsh behaviour for a parent.’

‘It is cruelty, Nicholas,’ he said, ‘and the saddest thing is that I cannot help Rose. She has been so good to me.’

‘And now she has a fever?’

‘I was sent to fetch a doctor.’

‘Then it must be serious.’

‘That is my fear.’ He became sombre. ‘The Queen’s Head is changing. I said so to Martin. It is not the place I have so enjoyed working in. Friends have drifted away. Rose is hidden from me. Master Marwood has grown bitter. And now,’ he said with a nod towards the makeshift stage, ‘I hear that we are to lose Westfield’s Men as well.’

‘Not through choice.’

‘I will miss you, Nicholas.’

‘We will be sorry to leave.’

‘Is there no hope that you will stay?’

‘None.’

Leonard’s head dropped to his chest and he emitted a long sigh of resignation. Nicholas was about to move away when a stray thought nudged him.

‘Where does he work now?’

‘Who?’ said Leonard.

‘Your friend, Martin?’

‘At the Brown Bear in Eastcheap. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Nicholas pensively.

Given the circumstances in which it took place, the performance of
Black Antonio
that afternoon was a small miracle. It was taut and dramatic, full of fire and deep meaning, and it kept the audience completely ensnared for the two and half hours of its duration. Since it was expressly dedicated to Sylvester Pryde, everyone in the company wanted to make an important personal contribution and it was left to Lawrence Firethorn, in the title role, to bring them all together into a unified whole. Such was their commitment that nobody would have guessed that it was a demoralised company in mourning for a dear friend.

Barnaby Gill was outstanding. In a play as dark and relentless as
Black Antonio
, the comic scenes took on an extra significance and Gill made the most of each one of them. He was as spry as ever during his jigs and his clownish antics brought welcome relief to an audience in
the grip of high tension. When the company left the stage at the end of the play, Firethorn paid him the rare compliment of embracing him and showering him with congratulations.

‘You were magnificent, Barnaby!’

‘I always am, Lawrence,’ said Gill tartly. ‘But you have only just noticed me.’

‘Sylvester would have delighted in your performance.’

‘He appreciated true art.’

‘So did our audience.’

Elation soon gave way to dejection again as the company remembered how Sylvester Pryde had been killed. They tumbled off to the taproom to celebrate the performance and to drown their sorrows. Drink was taken too quickly and a maudlin note soon dominated. Westfield’s Men began to exchange fond stories about their murdered colleague and to speculate on the identity of his killer.

Gill stayed with his colleagues until the majority of them were too drunk even to notice if he was there. When Owen Elias fell asleep beside him, he slipped surreptitiously away from the table and made for the door. Only Nicholas Bracewell saw him go. Once outside, Gill made sure that he was not followed, then set off. It was a long walk but his brisk stride ate up the distance and he reached his destination when there was still enough light for him to see the tavern clearly.

As he looked up at the building and heard the sounds of revelry from within, he wondered if it was wise to keep this particular tryst. He hesitated at the threshold until self-interest got the better of loyalty. When he entered the
taproom, he saw Henry Quine sitting alone at a table. Quine beckoned Gill over.

‘Hello, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘I hoped that you would come.’ He gestured for Gill to sit beside him. ‘There is someone who is very anxious to meet you.’

A tall figure came out of the shadows.

‘Welcome to Shoreditch!’ said Giles Randolph.

He gave a quiet smile of triumph.

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
Black 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.