Plague (24 page)

The boy brought the two chair legs crashing down and stood. Then, instead of obeying his captain, he turned and ran.

“Dickon! Come here!” Coke bellowed. But the only reply to his command was the sound of the boy’s boots upon the stairs.

“Your idiot son does not heed his father,
sir
. Maybe not such an idiot after all.”

Coke would have stopped and perhaps had more than words with the fellow. A finger jabbed in the man’s one good eye would make him mind his “sir”s. But that could wait till after he had thrown the dice at Hazard one more time. And that would only happen if he caught the fleeing boy.

Derisive laughter accompanied him out the room and down the stairs. Reaching Lockett’s entrance, he looked left, then right, spotted the sheaf of wheaten hair bobbing at speed up the middle of Fleet Street, where all walked to avoid getting close to any walls. “Dickon!” he roared, his sword sheath clattering between his legs as he ran, near tripping him twice. For a time he seemed to be gaining—the boy had one gammy leg, after all—but the lad could still
move fast, his size letting him duck and dart through gaps in the crowds that Coke had to run around. When after fifty paces he’d made no real gain, the captain slowed, then stopped dead. He shook his head. The buzz that had beset him had diminished. In a short while, he would be free of it entirely.

“Dickon,” he said, with no hope of being heard. The boy had done exactly as ordered: kept the last coins they had from his captain. The rent on the rooms they’d taken near Lucy’s was paid for two months. They had an ample supply of various nuts. But they still must eat more and drink until something else arose.

Until something else—The very last of the buzzing left him, displaced by the nearby Bridewell’s bells. Noon on a Thursday. The playhouse doors were opening; yet he had no need to rush there, for Mrs. Chalker had someone holding a place on the pit’s benches for Pitman and him. He hoped that someone was big. Pitman in the pit? It seemed an apt place for the giant. A rare character, sure, with a nose like a beagle, proved when he was tracking through the reeking country of Alsatia in search of Maclean.

The only thing Coke regretted now about the Lockett’s episode—aside from the finger jab he still owed Sir Eye Patch—was the bumper of Rhenish he’d left beside the dicing table. He still had a thirst but now no coin to slake it. Dickon would avoid him till after the play. Perhaps Pitman would arrive early and stand him a jar.

“My lord! A pleasure to see you, as ever. Will you follow me?”

The attendant led him up the stairs, then along an ill-lit corridor. Three-quarters of the way down the man parted thick drapes, and what had been a dull murmur of voices changed to a loud buzz, borne on a waft of heated air. Garnthorpe did not enter. “This is not my usual box.”

“A thousand apologies, my lord. But there was such excitement to see Mr. Betterton attempt the Moor, and Mrs. Bracegirdle the tragic Desdemona, that every seat was fought over. A foolish colleague gave your customary box to the Earl of Sandwich before I could intervene.” The man cringed and gestured Garnthorpe in. “I hope this will do.”

“We shall see.” Garnthorpe entered. The box was farther from the stage than he liked. His eyesight was not what it once was and he wanted to see the player’s faces clearly. One especially. At least this box, like his customary one, had some depth, some shadows; it was also farther from the giant cut-glass chandelier that lit others so
well. In them sat those who liked to be observed, indeed attended for that purpose far more than to see the play.

Or the players.

“Tell me, Master Aitcheson,” he said, sitting without any further acknowledgement, “does Mrs. Chalker have a prominent role this night?”

“Indeed, my lord. She plays the maid. The villain’s wife.” The man darted a tongue over his thin lips. “Are you an admirer of hers?” When no reply came, he coughed and continued in a lower voice, “Would you care to have her visit you here after—or even during—the performance?”

“Is that possible?”

“Sir, she is an
actress
. And a widow now.”

The man’s tone irked. He obviously did not know of whom he spoke. “Do not presume, sirrah, to know what I may want until I inform you of it.”

The attendant swallowed. “Of course, my lord. May I fetch you some food? Oranges? Wine?”

“Bring me a quart of Canary. The best, mind you.” Garnthorpe pulled a gold coin from his doublet. “And you may keep what remains of this if you are attentive this night.”

“Good my lord! You are as generous as ever.”

The man withdrew, the drapes falling behind him. Garnthorpe leaned on the box’s railing and gazed down. There was indeed a throb in the playhouse today, a more than common excitement. In the pit, the orange and nut girls were competing more vociferously—and displaying more than a customary amount of breast. As for their clients, the well dressed moved among the benches or squeezed themselves upon them, while the even better dressed took their seats in the boxes above. The largest of those, closest to
the stage and with purple curtains lined in gold cloth, was empty; for now but not, he suspected, for long.

Then he felt it—someone regarding him with as keen an eye as he regarded. He looked into the pit and saw the man immediately. He would perhaps have noticed him sooner or later. Partly for his dress: the brown coat, the simple faun doublet, a sober contrast to the peacock gaudiness about him. Partly for his size: he was a head and a half taller than the next biggest man present. Mainly for the intensity of the stare, directed straight at him.

He sat sharply back. When Aitcheson returned with the wine, he said, “There is a fellow below. I would know his name.”

“If you point him out to me?”

The attendant leaned, then yelped as his lordship’s hand closed over his wrist and jerked him back. “You do not need to see him yet. I would not have him know I inquired. But you cannot miss him. He is a giant among pygmies, thick bearded, with a shaven head and the tallest man in the house, even when the king gets here.”

He released his grip, and the attendant backed out, rubbing his wrist. “I will find him out for you, my lord.”

Garnthorpe remained in the shadows, his gaze fixed on nothing across the auditorium. Soon enough there came the rustling of cloth behind him. “Well?”

“He was indeed easy to discover,” Aitcheson said, entering the box. “He is known in the City, though I have never seen him here. His name is Pitman. He is a constable in the parish of St. Leonard’s.”

“A constable?” Garnthorpe took a sip of wine. “Very well. You may go.”

The man hastily withdrew. Garnthorpe considered. Why did you stare at me so, Mr. Pitman? What make you here?

—

What make you here? thought Pitman, staring at the vacated rail of the box above.

He knew the man who’d looked down. Had seen him before; twenty years before, in a battle—or rather, in the aftermath of one. He had hoped never to see him again. He now discovered that twenty years had not diminished that hope one jot.

So lost was he, failing to dodge his memories, that it took him a while to note the persistent poking of his arm. His eyesight cleared and he glanced up into the familiar face of Captain Coke.

“I think you’d better insert yourself on the inside of the bench, sir,” Pitman said. “My size has already been much abused, and if I assume that position, we will be the target for orange peel throughout the performance.”

“I am hardly small myself, sir. And there is no space there.”

“Oh, but there is.” Pitman pushed hard sideways. Two people popped up farther down, and a yelp came from the far end of the bench.

Coke dropped into the small space, widening it with determined thrusts of his hips. “ ’Twill do,” he said, looking up at the bigger man. “I was tapping at you for a while. You seemed to be in a world you like none so well.” He took in the riot around, the cries of “Orange-orange-oh!” and “Fine ales!” and “Nuts! Nuts! Nuts!” rising from the cacophony of names called, insults traded, reunions noisily greeted. “Is this too much sin for one so godly?”

“Nay, Captain.” Pitman glanced again to the box above. “I have just seen a ghost.”

“Have you, by God. Whose?”

“Lord Garnthorpe’s.”

“I do not know him.”

“No? He was perhaps more notorious on our side of the wars than on yours. A colonel with the London Trained Bands, he had … a way of dealing with those who displeased him.”

“Harshly?”

“I once watched him whip three deserters to death. He wielded the whip until he tired, then had a corporal carry on, a brute, name of—” He squinted. “Nay, I forget his name. I had mercifully forgotten Garnthorpe’s too until just now.”

“Many terrible things were done. Many that I would forget and cannot.” Coke shook his head. “The best way I’ve found is to drink them away. What say you to a bottle of strong ale?”

“If you are buying.”

Coke placed thumb and forefinger and rubbed down either side of his moustache. “A slight problem. I have no money.”

“What happened to the forty you had of the Jew?”

“Gone.” Coke sighed. “Five was my hazard and I rolled my main.”

“Captain, tell me you did not lose forty guineas at dice?”

“Certainly not. A considerable portion went on a cock, Diavolo, whose name was the fiercest thing about it. Then there was a fighter named Glazier, whose jaw was also made of glass.” He clapped the other man on his shoulder. “So, Pitman of the Pit, it’s your round.”

“You will scarce be surprised how stale that joke already is. The alderman of my parish, who sits yonder and was most astonished to see me here, would not, like a dog that returneth to its own vomit, let the phrase alone. Still, it cost him, for the parish owed me three months’ wages and even that paltry little adds up.” He delved into a pocket, produced a florin. “Do not tell my wife. You fetch the beer while I hold this place.”

Coke took the coin, slid out. In a short while he was back with
two bottles. Both men forced their bungs out, then toasted each other.

“Now, sir,” Pitman said, wiping froth from his beard, “as to the hunt for our murderer, I have had some thoughts on how we should proceed.”

Yet before he could share them, there was an upsurge of twittering in the house. A man in crimson livery had appeared in the largest box. Now he bellowed, “All rise for the king!”

Charles entered, arms raised as he beamed at the acclamation, the huzzahs and the impromptu rendition of a popular song:

Charles bowed, then helped a lady to the seat beside him. She wore a mask, and behind fluttering fans the crowd speculated on whose face was beneath it. Most decided that the woman, wearing a pea-green dress cut to emphasize a sizable bosom and the slimmest of waists, was Frances Stuart, the new favourite of the king’s, rather than the older Barbara Castlemaine, whose figure was differently shaped, having already borne the king five bastards.

After Charles had helped her sit, and before he himself did, he took a long look around the house, with a smile of equal warmth for both ladies and orange girls, all curtsying revealingly low. He
acknowledged the occasional gentleman with a nod—and paused a fraction longer when he saw Coke, the slight dip of his head showing that he knew exactly who he was.

“He truly misses nothing,” the captain murmured, as first the king and then the audience settled, though the gossip was only suppressed by the clarion blast of a trumpet, followed by the subtler tones of viola, violin and flageolet. The ensemble played eight bars and then from behind one of the wings, on which was painted the Rialto bridge of Venice, stepped Thomas Betterton. His face and hands, as befitted the role he was about to perform, were painted a mahogany brown. Yet it was not in the character of Othello that he spoke now but as the leading actor of the Duke’s Company:

Coke had never liked these prologues, which appeared to offer modesty and crave forgiveness, when truly they puffed up both player and audience. “ ‘The play’s the thing,’ ” he murmured. “For mercy’s sake, let’s to it.”

“Do you know this piece?” whispered Pitman as Betterton concluded, people clapped and the small orchestra struck up again.

“No,” replied Coke, “and I confess I find Old Will dull. I’m for a comedy and a dance when all’s said. Why, last year at Drury Lane, I saw—”

He did not finish, for two players walked in from opposite entrances onto the forestage, acknowledged the applause with a
bow, turned their bodies square to the audience, their faces to each other and began to converse.

The play proceeded, though oranges were still sold, their sellers groped, and beer bottles popped explosively. “She does not have so much to do, Mrs. Chalker,” Pitman said at one scene’s end. “She is the villain’s wife, the mistress’s maid and nothing more?”

“She told me her main part is later. Now hush! For here comes Mrs. Absolute.”

Lucy entered and the crowd laughed. It was partly her gait. She played the role of Bianca, the courtesan, but not in the usual style of scheming vizard. This courtesan had paid a price for her lasciviousness: a belly swollen by it.

“She has it pat.” Pitman laughed. “My Bettina has been waddling so these two months.”

Coke did not laugh, knowing that the padding was not much and the walk near her natural gait. He glanced up at the boxes near the sovereign’s, inhabited by Charles’s closest cronies. But Rochester, the man responsible for the waddle, who had vowed to make amends, was not among them.