The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (34 page)

Roper Blundell was dead.

N
icholas Bracewell bent over the body and examined it as best he could in the circumstances. He saw no wound, no blood, no mark of any kind. There was nothing at all to indicate the cause of death. A decision now had to be made. Did he take the corpse away or leave it where it was? Decency suggested the former but practicalities had to be taken into account. Nobody else knew about the death of Roper Blundell. To walk back up to the tiring-house with the little body in his arms would be to disseminate terror. The play itself was still running. That was the main thing. Nicholas could not risk bringing it to a premature halt by revealing that it had somehow brought about the demise of an assistant stagekeeper.

Roper Blundell was to remain where he was, lying in state in his echoing tomb, occupying a rectangle of solitude in the very midst of a huge crowd. He had lost his part
as well as his life. Realising that he could not chase two devils off the stage, Caleb Smythe, as the third foul fiend, had moved himself up in the order. He became the second devil and did everything in unison with George Dart. With Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill adapting instantly to the situation, the absence of Blundell was not noticed by the audience. Nicholas touched the old man beside him in a gesture of respect. The theatre could be a cruel place. It had just excised a human being from a drama as if the fellow had never existed.

A rumble of thunder made Nicholas look upward. Justice Wildboare did not miss the cue to work in some lines from another play.

After one last look at the prostrate form, the book holder went back up to the tiring-house and ran into a flurry of enquiries about Blundell. He announced that the old man was not well enough to take any further part in the play and that he would rest where he was. It was important that nobody disturbed him. To this end, Nicholas stationed the venerable Thomas Skillen at the top of the steps and told him to let no man pass. The stagekeeper was a willing guardian.

Westfield’s Men performed
The Merry Devils
with a zest and a commitment they would not have thought possible. Now that the danger zone had been safely passed
– as they thought – they could devote themselves to the finer points of their art. Roper Blundell was forgotten. Instead of wondering what lay beneath the stage, the actors were more concerned with what stretched above. The sky was now full of swollen clouds and the thunder rumbled ominously.

Nicholas resumed his post and took the book from Ned Rankin. A scene ended and Justice Wildboare came sweeping into the tiring-house. He made straight for the book holder.

‘Where’s Blundell?’

‘Indisposed.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He has retired hurt, master.’

‘I’ll retire the rogue, so help me! Get him here.’

‘He is too unwell to be moved,’ said Nicholas, signalling in his glance what lay behind the fiction. ‘Press on without him.’

‘We have no choice, sir.’ Firethorn understood but kept the secret well. More thunder was followed by a distant flash of lightning. ‘Hell’s teeth! This is all we need! Where’s your seamanship now, Nick? What must we do, what must we do?’

‘Run before the storm!’

‘Clap on full sail?’

‘That’s my advice, master.’

‘Will we do it?’

‘We can but try, sir.’

‘By Jove! This is good counsel.’

Firethorn made a graphic gesture with his hands and everyone in the vicinity understood. They were to speed things up. Their only hope lay in keeping ahead of the tempest that was bound to come. When Justice Wildboare made his next entrance, he did so with an alacrity that signalled a change of pace. Cues were picked up more quickly, speeches were dispatched more briskly, stage business was reduced to a minimum. Two small scenes were cut completely. The play scudded across the waves at a rate of several knots.

What made it all possible was the tacit bargain that was struck with the audience. They were in the same boat. Eager to watch the play, they did not want to get soaked while doing so. A shorter, sharper version was an acceptable compromise. The danger was that the play would gather so much momentum that it would get out of control, but Wildboare made sure that it did not. No matter how fast the playing, he was always in judicious command.

They reached Act Five with no more interruption than a few rumbles of thunder. Their luck then ran out. A deep-throated roar came from directly ahead of them and forked lightning flashed with dazzling force. Within seconds, torrential rain fell and drenched the pit. Those in the galleries were protected by the overhanging eaves and anyone upstage had the shelter of the portico but the rest were pelted without mercy.

The groundlings complained bitterly and some ran for cover, but most stuck it out so that they could see the end of the play. Sodden themselves, they gained much amusement
from other victims of the downpour. Lucy Hembrow’s wig was plastered to her face, the merry devils’ tails were limp rags between their legs, Doctor Castrato talked about the scorching heat while splashing around in inches of water; Droopwell slipped and fell into a puddle, and the indomitable Youngthrust, shorn of his sighing by the dictates of speed, had to stand in the middle of the stage while the rain cascaded down from his codpiece as if it were the mouth of a drainpipe.

The miracle occurred at the start of the final scene.

As if a tap had just been turned off, the rain suddenly stopped. Clouds drifted apart and the sun burst through to turn everything into liquid gold. The marriage of Lucy Hembrow and Youngthrust took place in a positive blaze of glory. To the sound of stately music, the interior of a church – superbly made and cleverly painted – was winched down from above to act as a backdrop. It was a fitting climax to a play that had been supremely entertaining and intermittently moving and applause rang out for several minutes.

Roper Blundell was unable to take his bow.

Having bottled up the spectators for two hours, The Rose now squeezed them out in a steady jet. Some dispersed with laughter, others lingered to talk, others again loitered to thieve and cozen.
The Merry Devils
had been exhilarating and more than one man was looking for a way to take the edge off his excitement. ‘Good afternoon, ladies!’

Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry curtseyed politely.

‘Did you enjoy the play this afternoon?’

They both nodded behind their veils.

‘Would not you like the pleasure to continue?’ said the man, beaming at them as he tried to work out which was the more attractive. ‘I can offer the comfort of my carriage to one or both of you.’

The two of them fought to hide their embarrassment.

‘Come, ladies,’ said the man persuasively. ‘London is full of delights and you shall see them all. Will you not sup with me tonight? I promise you shall not lack for anything.’

He shared a flabby leer between the two of them.

Henry Drewry had forgotten how enjoyable an afternoon at the playhouse could be. Having bought a plentiful supply of ale from the vendors, he was further intoxicated by what happened on stage and came reeling out of the building in a state of euphoria. The urge for female company was powerful and he had spoken to a dozen women before he stopped Grace and Isobel. Rejection did not deflate him. He propositioned each new target with unassailable buoyancy.

‘Will you see the sights of Bankside with me, ladies?’ he said with pompous lechery. ‘Or shall we ride back into the city to find our pleasures there? I can judge your quality and will treat you both accordingly.’

Isobel Drewry was profoundly shocked. It was amazing to find her own father at The Rose, but to be accosted by him was mortifying. She had always seen him before as a tiresome self-important man who lived for his work and his Aldermanic ambition. Since he ignored both her and her mother, she never suspected him of the slightest interest
in the opposite sex. But Henry Drewry did have passions. Behind that fat over-ripe tomato of a face and that round ridiculous body was a creature of flesh and blood with sensual needs. As she saw him now in his true colours, shock gave way to disgust then was mortified by something else. Sheer amusement. The absurdity of the situation took her close to a giggle.

‘What do you say to my kind offer, ladies?’ he pressed, quite unaware of their identity. ‘I am a man of some estate, I warrant you.’

Grace Napier decided that action spoke louder than words. It would also have the vital advantage of preserving their anonymity. Lifting her chin in disdain, she took Isobel by the arm and led her purposefully away. They were soon swallowed up in the departing crowd. Henry Drewry was unabashed: he looked around for new game to hunt and soon found it.

‘Well met, good sir.’

‘How now, dear lady?’

‘Was not that the most excellent play in Creation?’

‘I have never seen the like.’

‘It has left me in such a mood for pleasure.’

The courtesan was a shapely young woman of middle height in a tight red bodice with patterning in gold thread, an ornate ruff that was decorated with cut-work embroidery and edged with lace, and a French wheel farthingale with the skirt gathered in folds. She was no punk from the stews of Bankside. She plied her trade in the upper echelons and had picked Drewry out as a man
of substance. They were soon standing arm in arm and exchanging banter.

The relationship lasted only a few minutes.

‘What brings you to this hideous place, Henry?’

‘Oh!’

‘I did not expect to find you here, sir.’

Isaac Pollard stood in front of the Alderman and the four supplementary Puritans surrounded him. He was ringed by religion and shook off his new acquaintance as if she were diseased.

‘It was your playbill that fetched me here, Isaac,’ he said.

‘Indeed?’

‘That and the holy fire of your sermon.’

‘You have read it?’

‘Twice,’ lied Drewry who had not struggled beyond the first paragraph. ‘It is an inspiration to us all. I intend to read it to my wife and daughter this very evening. Isobel is a good girl but a trifle wayward at times. I shudder at the thought of her frequenting such a vile establishment as this.’

‘My brethren here were astounded by what they saw.’

‘So was I, sir. I came hither to judge for myself and I am now totally of your opinion. The Rose is a flower of indecency.’

‘Tear the place down, Henry.’

‘Alas, we cannot. It lies outside the city boundary.’

‘Then close the Queen’s Head,’ insisted Pollard. ‘Plays demean the human soul and players are men who prostitute their art. Let us begin in Gracechurch Street.’

‘I will look diligently into the matter.’

‘We shall discuss it on our journey. You have your coach here?’

‘It is at hand, Isaac.’

‘My brethren and I will gladly accept your transport,’ said Pollard. ‘We all have views that we would impress upon you.’

Drewry gazed wistfully across at the courtesan who had now transferred her attentions to an elderly nobleman who leaned upon a stick. In place of her charms, the Alderman had to settle for five earnest Puritans. Pollard observed the woman as well and his eyebrow rippled quizzically. Drewry threw in a hasty explanation.

‘A widowed lady who dwells in my ward,’ he said. ‘She seeks advice about her husband’s estate. An Alderman must help such stricken wives.’

Flanked by the five, he turned his back on pleasure.

Roper Blundell lay on the table in the private room to which Nicholas Bracewell carried him. The corpse was covered in a piece of hessian, a rough but not inappropriate shroud. Small in life, the body looked even smaller in death, the shrunken relic of a man who had served the theatre in his lowly capacity for many years. Word of Blundell’s demise had now been released to the company and there was a whirlwind of panic. Nicholas stood guard over the body to ensure it some privacy. Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill were his agitated companions.

‘Why was I not
told
?’ said Gill angrily. ‘I would have not acted with a dead man beneath my very feet.’

‘That is why I withheld the intelligence,’ said Nicholas.

‘You were right,’ decided Hoode.

‘I am a sharer in this company and should know everything that happens when it happens!’ Gill went stamping around the room. ‘Lawrence was informed and so should I have been!’

Nicholas glanced meaningfully at the corpse. Gill accepted the reproof and showed his respect by reducing his voice to a hiss. Not surprisingly, he saw the incident entirely from his own point of view.

‘This is aimed at me, sirs.’

‘How can you think that?’ said Hoode.

‘It is as plain as a pikestaff.’

‘Not to us, master,’ said Nicholas quietly.

‘At the Queen’s Head, I summon up a devil and Hell itself answers my call. During
Cupid’s Folly
, I climb up a pole and some fiend contrives my downfall. Here at The Rose, I sprinkle my magic powder and one of my devils is killed. Can you not see the connections? In every case, it is I who stand at the centre of the action.’

‘The wish was father to the thought,’ observed Hoode.

‘Do not mock me, Edmund!’

‘Then do not invite mockery.’

‘I remind you of my rank in this company!’

‘Will you ever let us forget it, sir?’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Nicholas, indicating the shrouded figure. ‘Roper had little enough respect from us when he was here. Let us give the poor fellow his due amount now that he has gone.’

They mumbled an apology. Gill drifted over to the window.

‘Where is Lawrence?’

‘Lord Westfield sent for him,’ said Nicholas.

‘He should be here.’

‘His lordship was insistent.’

‘
I
could have dealt with our patron,’ said Gill airily. ‘Lawrence’s place is in this room.’

He stared out of the window and brooded on what had happened and how it affected him. Hoode had a whispered conversation with the book holder.