The Roaring Boy nb-7 Page 11

  At the Queen’s Head later that day, Firethorn wisely restricted himself to a cup of Canary wine. It soothed his swollen gum and calmed his throbbing tooth. Owen Elias was on hand to activate the pain in both once more.

  ‘A lighted candle,’ he recalled.

  ‘Candle?’ repeated Firethorn.

  ‘He held the palm of my hand over it.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The surgeon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that he burned my skin.’

  ‘You went to a surgeon to be set alight?’

  ‘No, Lawrence,’ said the Welshman with a chuckle. ‘I needed to have a bad tooth pulled. That rogue of a surgeon distracted my attention. I was so taken up with the injury to my hand that I hardly noticed him pulling out the tooth until it was too late. One sharp pain disguised another.’

  Firethorn’s mouth felt as if a hundred candles had just been lit inside it to be carried in procession by a choir of chanting surgeons. A sip of Canary wine only seemed to make the flames burn brighter. It was at this point, when the actor-manager most needed sympathy and succour, that Barnaby Gill joined his colleagues at their table in the taproom. Lowering himself on to the settle, he dispensed with the civilities and came straight to the point.

  ‘I will not act in this lunatic venture,’ he said.

  ‘We do not expect you to act, Barnaby,’ teased Owen Elias. ‘Simply stand there as usual and say what few lines you can remember. We act in the play-you merely appear.’

  ‘Cease this levity. I speak in earnest.’

  ‘Lower your voice, man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Out of respect for the dead.’

  Gill started. ‘Another of our company has died?’

  ‘Lawrence’s tooth. It will pass away any minute.’

  ‘Not if you keep prodding at it, you torturer!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘We are here to discuss business, not to talk of surgeons with lighted candles. God’s blood! If my tooth were sound, I’d use it to bite off your mocking face! No more of it, Owen. Let us hear Barnaby out before we answer him.’

  ‘You have heard all,’ said Gill. ‘I say nay.’

  ‘When you have not even read the play?’

  ‘I do not need to, Lawrence. It spells disaster.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘For our rivals. If The Roaring Boy is but half the success it deserves to be, Westfield’s Men will rise head and shoulders above the other companies.’

  ‘We already do that,’ argued Firethorn.

  ‘This play will let us eclipse them completely.’

  ‘It is the road to Bedlam,’ said Gill. ‘When I consider its subject, every part about me quivers.’

  ‘That is only fitting,’ said Firethorn. ‘It should make you quiver with excitement, Barnaby.’

  ‘I shake with fear.’

  ‘You should glow with pride.’

  ‘I shudder with disgust.’

  ‘This play is the sword of justice.’

  ‘It will cut down the lot of us.’

  ‘Not if we wield it ourselves,’ said Owen Elias. ‘Westfield’s Men will hold the slicing edge of death.’

  Lawrence Firethorn did not regret taking the Welshman into their confidence. The attack on Nicholas Bracewell was a grim warning. Apart from the book holder himself, nobody had such skill in arms as Owen Elias. His belligerence could be trying at times but it was a source of comfort now. The victor in a score of tavern brawls, he lent strength as well as experience to Westfield’s Men. For this reason, it was wise to keep him informed of every development relating to The Roaring Boy. Like the actor-manager, Elias was outraged by the injuries sustained by his beloved friend and longed for the opportunity to avenge each blow struck at Nicholas. He would be a most effective guard dog.

  Barnaby Gill, by contrast, had no stomach for a fight.

  ‘We court unnecessary peril,’ he bleated.

  ‘Think of the prize that awaits us,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Violent assault.’

  ‘Righting a grave wrong.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘Bringing a villain to the scaffold. Publishing his wickedness to the whole world.’

  ‘He will not stand idly by while we do that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ conceded Firethorn. ‘We will be hounded and harrassed at every turn but we must not give in. Our safety lies in our unity. Hold fast together and we can withstand the onslaught of the Devil himself.’

  ‘I want nothing whatsoever to do with the play,’ said Gill impetuously. ‘I wash my hands of it forthwith.’

  ‘A Pontius Pilate in our ranks!’

  Owen Elias grunted. ‘A Judas, more like!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Firethorn with uncharacteristic calm. ‘Withdraw into your ivory tower, Barnaby. Shun your fellows. Spurn this heaven-sent chance to turn Westfield’s Men into agents of the law. You can be spared, sir. Indeed, your decision brings relief. If truth be told, I was not certain in my mind that you were equal to the task before us.’

  ‘I am equal to anything!’ retorted the other.

  ‘This role was beyond even your scope, Barnaby.’

  ‘Falsehood! Every part is within my compass.’

  ‘Even that of a hapless mathematician, who is foully murdered by hired villains? No, it is too heavy a load for you to bear. Stay with your clowning and your comical jigs. They place no great strain on your art.’

  ‘What are you telling me, Lawrence?’

  ‘That you release us from vexation,’ said Firethorn. ‘Had you played in The Roaring Boy, the leading part would have fallen to you.’

  ‘Thomas Brinklow?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Would not you have seized upon the role?’

  ‘Indeed not. I am satisfied with Freshwell, the roaring boy himself. He lords it in the title of the play but Brinklow carries the piece. Edmund spoke strongly on your behalf but I was not minded to accept his judgement. You have rescued me from that dilemma. Stand aside.’

  ‘Not so fast, Lawrence.’

  ‘Does that mean I am Thomas Brinklow?’ asked Elias.

  ‘You were my choice at the start, Owen.’

  ‘The matter is not yet settled,’ said Gill quickly.

  ‘But you deserted us even now,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are frighted out of the project. I heard you say as much. So did Owen here.’ He gave the Welshman a sly wink to ensure his complicity. ‘What was it that he said?’

  ‘That he will not act in this lunatic venture.’

  ‘Nor will I,’ said Gill, folding his arms in a posture of indifference. After a moment’s reflection, however, he weakened visibly. ‘Unless certain conditions are met.’

  ‘You have surrendered the role,’ said Firethorn, working on the other’s pride. ‘It goes to Owen. He needs to impose no conditions on the company.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Had old Ben Skeat still been with us, I would have offered the part to him. Ben would have been a noble Thomas Brinklow.’

  ‘Why, so will I,’ asserted Gill.

  ‘He had the authority. The dignity.’

  ‘So do I, so do I.’

  ‘Ben Skeat would have anchored the play securely.’

  ‘He did not anchor The Corrupt Bargain securely,’ said Gill with a rueful glare. ‘Had we relied on him, we would have drifted on to the rocks. It was I who saved the day. I who proved my mettle. I who led the company. Where was Ben Skeat then? Beyond recall!’ He rose to his feet. ‘Thomas Brinklow must first be offered to me. I have all the qualities of the man. If Edmund can but find me a song or two in the role, I will consider it afresh. Good day, sirs. That is all the parlay that I will permit.’

  It was enough. Barnaby Gill was caught in their net. Owen Elias expressed token disappointment at the loss of a part he had never expected to play and Firethorn feigned reluctance but the two men had achieved their objective. Barnaby Gill would act in The Roaring Boy. When the comedian strutted out of the taproom, Lawrence Firethorn turned to his companion with a whoop of
delight.

  ‘It worked, Owen!’

  ‘We played him like a fish on a line.’

  ‘I talk of the lighted candle.’

  ‘When that surgeon burned my hand?’

  ‘One agony drove out another,’ said Firethorn. ‘The pain of dealing with Barnaby’s vanity has quite taken away my toothache. He was the flame that distracted me. It is a blessing. I am recovered to give my full attention to the challenge of The Roaring Boy.

  ‘All we need now is the play itself,’ said Owen.

  Firethorn emptied his cup. ‘Put trust in our fellows. Edmund Hoode is no inquisitor but Nick Bracewell will dig out the truth. Our book holder will not leave Greenwich until he has sifted every detail of this endeavour.’

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell became increasingly fascinated with Emilia Brinklow. His first impression of her was slowly ratified. The sedate figure on the bench opposite was patently still mourning the loss of her brother but she was not prostrated by grief. There was an air of cool detachment about her and she was evidently in control of her situation. When Agnes brought refreshment for the visitors, Emilia thanked the maidservant and gave her crisp new instructions. When the assistant gardeners strayed too close to the arbour, she despatched them with a glance. Thomas Brinklow had died but his sister was more than able to run the establishment in his stead. House and garden were being maintained in the way that he himself had designated.

  Having exhausted enquiries about the play, and the facts underlying it, Edmund Hoode stared at her with open-mouthed infatuation. His commitment to the project was now complete. Two hours in the garden with Emilia Brinklow had turned The Roaring Boy into the most exhilarating work of his career. Simon Chaloner manoeuvred them around to more neutral topics, believing that he had safely brought her through what could have been a harrowing encounter for her. He was still congratulating himself on his adroit management of the interview when Emilia herself supplanted him.

  She turned a searching gaze upon Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘You are not happy, I think.’

  ‘Our visit has been a most pleasant event,’ he said.

  ‘Yet it has left you feeling disappointed.’

  ‘No!’ said Hoode gallantly. ‘There is no disappointment on my side. I was never more content in my life.’

  Her eyes never left Nicholas. ‘Your friend does not share your contentment, I fear. Do you, sir?’

  Nicholas felt oddly discomfited by her inspection. He wished that his face were not so bruised and found himself wanting to appear before her at his best rather than in such a battered condition. At the same time, he noted an interest on her part that went beyond mere curiosity. She was sitting with one man who loved her and another who adored her on sight yet her attention was fixed solely on Nicholas.

  ‘Something is puzzling you, is it not?’ she said.

  ‘No, Emilia,’ said Chaloner, trying to seize the initiative once more. ‘We have been through every aspect of the case. There is nothing left to discuss. Let me show our visitors the spot where the hideous deed took place, then they can make their way back to London.’

  ‘Do not rush our guests away so fast, Simon.’

  ‘But Edmund is eager to resume work on the play.’

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ said Hoode willingly.

  ‘We must not detain them, Emilia.’

  ‘Something must first be resolved,’ she said, her gaze still on Nicholas. ‘I still await your answer.’

  ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Many things puzzle me.’

  ‘Tell me what they are.’ Her hand shot up as Chaloner sought to intervene. ‘Leave this to me, Simon. I do not need your protection. I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Why do you not appear in the play?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Because I was not involved in the murder.’

  ‘Indirectly, you were. Through Sir John Tarker.’

  ‘That was a distressing episode that I have tried to forget. My brother was not killed because of me. Other reasons prompted his death. If the play brings the real villain to light, we shall learn what those reasons were.’

  ‘Emilia Brinklow should still be a character in the action,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Thomas would then have someone in whom he could confide his worries about his wife. I am sure that Edmund could write some touching scenes between brother and sister.’

  ‘It would be an honour!’ said the playwright.

  ‘But it would also confuse the audience,’ rejoined Emilia. ‘Their sympathy must be wholly with Thomas. He must command the stage. If I am dragged into the story, I will draw away attention that rightly belongs to my brother. They will feel sorry for me when they should be saving all their pity and compassion for Thomas.’

  Hoode purred with admiration. ‘A sound reason!’

  ‘And one that I accept,’ said Nicholas graciously, not wishing to pursue an argument he could never win. ‘We will keep Emilia Brinklow in our minds but out of the play.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She got to her feet. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where are you going, Emilia?’ said Chaloner anxiously.

  ‘To show him something.’

  ‘I can conduct them both to the place.’

  ‘We will go alone. I wish for private conference.’

  Chaloner was bewildered by her decision but he did not contest it further. Seeing his distress, she put a consoling hand on his shoulder before leading Nicholas up the garden in the direction of the house.

  ‘Simon watches over me too closely,’ she explained.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He fears for my safety.’ She turned to look up into his face. ‘You have seen for yourself how dangerous is our situation. I am truly sorry that you suffered a beating.’ Her voice faltered slightly. ‘You have such a kind face. It reminds me of Thomas. I hate to see such injuries on it.’

  ‘You know of the attack, then?’

  ‘Simon tells me everything. He has spoken well of you and holds you in high esteem. That is a compliment.’

  ‘I am duly flattered by it,’ said Nicholas, ‘and even more so by your trust in me. Master Chaloner is indeed fortunate to be betrothed to such a lady.’

  She gave him an enigmatic smile, then led him along the path through the trees. They came around the angle of a hawthorn hedge and were confronted by the rear of the house. Nicholas stopped in surprise when he saw the fire damage.

  ‘What was that building?’

  ‘My brother’s laboratory and workshop. Thomas virtually lived there. There never was a man so wedded to his work.’

  ‘When was it burned down?’

  ‘The same night that he was killed.’

  ‘Who started the fire?’

  ‘We do not know,’ she said. ‘The villains who murdered him, we believe. His life’s work was in that laboratory. It was destroyed as cruelly as he himself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They were vindictive men.’

  ‘Then why not burn down the whole house?’

  ‘We can only guess.’

  Nicholas looked down at her and inhaled her fragrance. Seated in the arbour, she was handsome and composed. Seen in close proximity, however, her beauty was far more striking. He felt a distant envy of Simon Chaloner. There was something about Emilia Brinklow which set her apart from the common run and he could not quite decide what it was. All he knew was that it made her infinitely appealing. When he had parted company with his beloved Anne Hendrik, he feared that he would never meet her like again yet Emilia Brinklow had many of Anne’s qualities, allied to features that were all her own. Both of them, he reflected, had been devastated by the loss of a loved one and forced to rebuild their lives. It gave Emilia the same subdued but steely resolve.

  Determination made her eyes glint and her jaw tighten.

  ‘This play gives purpose to my life,’ she said. ‘Simon is a dear man but he is only involved because of his devotion to me. I am the moving spirit here. The Roaring Boy has become my obsession. Can y
ou understand that?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Her voice took on a new intensity. ‘I lost a brother and a sister-in-law in this business. One was murdered by hired killers, the other by judicial process. Cecily was no saint, it is true, but neither was she a murderer. In her own way, I believe, she cared for Thomas.’

  ‘But it was an unhappy marriage.’

  ‘They were simply not suited.’

  ‘Why, then, did they wed?’

  Emilia shrugged. ‘It seemed the natural thing to do. Cecily was fond of him and Thomas had great respect for her. Other people kept saying that they were an ideal couple.’

  ‘Marriage needs more than fondness and respect.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said sadly. ‘You have a wife yourself?’

  ‘Alas, no.’

  ‘Thomas was a kind husband but Cecily loved another.’

  ‘Walter Dunne. They paid dearly for their passion.’ He looked at the debris in front of him. ‘What sort of work did your brother do in his laboratory?’

  ‘Anything and everything,’ she said proudly. ‘Thomas loved all the sciences but his abiding interest was in mathematics. That workshop was his private sanctum. His finest inventions were conceived within those walls.’

  ‘Inventions?’

  ‘Thomas had a questing mind. He was always looking for new solutions to old problems. When he was retained by the royal dockyards at Deptford, he designed a compass that was far more reliable than any of its predecessors. An astrolabe, too, if you know what that is.’

  ‘Most certainly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I sailed with Drake around the world, so I learned all there is to learn about navigation. An astrolabe is an instrument for measuring the altitude of heavenly bodies, from which latitude and time may be calculated. Your brother invented one, you say?’