The Malevolent Comedy (16 page)

‘You said that it was good for Westfield’s Men.’

‘Very good, Anne.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s made him start writing again.’

Edmund Hoode lay on his bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling. Enough moonlight was spilling in through the shutters to dapple the walls. Tired but unable to sleep, he wrestled with the fourteen lines he hoped would win the heart of Ursula Opie, arranging and rearranging them constantly in his mind until he reached a degree of satisfaction. There was a secondary problem to be addressed. Did he send the poem to her anonymously or disclose his identity? If she was touched by it, then she should be told the name of its author. If, on the other hand, she was offended in some way, it was better that she should not know its origin or grave embarrassment could ensue.

After long cogitation, he settled on a compromise. Hoode decided to append the letter ‘E’ to his sonnet, both admitting and denying that it was his work. ‘E’ could just as well stand for Edward, Eustace, Edgar or a number of other names, allowing him to disclaim authorship if any discomfort threatened. To a woman susceptible to noble sentiments expressed in high-flown language, however, it could represent only one poet and she would respond accordingly. Hoode had recovered from the disappointment of the concert. Shy in public, Ursula had not lingered in the hall. Like him, she was a private person, a creature of thought and deep feeling, a young woman, as the concert had shown, with a strong spiritual dimension to her life. Bernice had sung her songs prettily but Ursula had played with a commitment that revealed how much more the music meant to her. Hoode yearned for her.

With the sonnet bursting to come out of him, he leapt
off the bed, lit a candle and reached for his quill. There was no hesitation. The words over which he had pondered so long now came streaming out of his brain in the perfect order. After reading the poem through, he felt a surge of creative power. It needed no correction. Instead, he set it aside, pulled another sheet of parchment in front of him and started to work again on his play. Sustained by the knowledge that it had been inspired by Ursula Opie, he laboured long into the night. When the first cock began to crow, Hoode, impervious to fatigue, was still crouched low over his table.

Nicholas Bracewell set out very early the next morning with the prompt copy of
The Malevolent Comedy
in a satchel slung over his shoulder. By the time he had crossed the bridge and entered Gracechurch Street, the market was already under way, its booths, stalls and carts narrowing the thoroughfare, its customers thronging noisily, its vendors extolling the virtues of their produce aloud and its poultry squawking rebelliously in their wooden cages. Nicholas’s broad shoulders soon found a way through the press but he did not turn in to the Queen’s Head. Walking past it, he went on to the parish church of St Martin Outwich on the corner of Bishopsgate and Threadneedle Street. Built over a century earlier, the church stood beside a well that was served in earlier times by a device that allowed one bucket to descend the shaft as the other was pulled up. A pump had now been installed and, when Nicholas went past, housewives were queuing with buckets to draw water.

The funeral of Hal Bridger had taken place the previous day. Out of deference to the wishes of the parents, Nicholas and the others had stayed away but he wanted to pay his respects to his young friend. It did not take him long to find the grave in the churchyard. A fresh mound of earth rose up through the grass, a simple cross was standing over it. Nicholas came forward and removed his cap. Looking down at the grave, he tried to recall happier times in the boy’s short life. He remembered the smile of astonished joy on Bridger’s face when he first hired him to work for Westfield’s Men, and the fierce pride he took in performing even the most menial duties for them.

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.