The Vagabond Clown Page 2

  ‘This is the worst day in our history, Nick,’ he decided. ‘It will take us an eternity to recover from this. Barnaby injured, our scenery destroyed, our performance ruined and our audience put to flight. Truly, this is our Armageddon.’

  ‘Did the doctor arrive?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘He came and went. As soon as he set the leg in splints, I helped him to convey Barnaby to his lodging. We had to move him with great care.’

  ‘How is he now?’

  ‘Cursing his fate and trying to dull the pain with some Canary wine.’

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘The break was clean and it should heal in time.’

  ‘How long will that be?’

  ‘Months and months.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Nicholas, ‘we have lost his services.’

  Firethorn heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, Nick,’ he agreed. ‘I never thought to hear myself admitting this but we shall miss him mightily. Lawrence Firethorn may be the shooting star of Westfield’s Men but Barnaby Gill can light up the heavens as well.’ His gaze shifted to the litter-strewn yard. ‘Why did this have to happen? What on earth was it about A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady that set them off?’

  ‘The play was not to blame.’

  ‘Then what was? Did Barnaby’s jig cause such offence?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Whatever play we performed today was already doomed. This was no random act of malice. The brawl was planned.’

  Firethorn blinked. ‘You think that someone set out to spoil the performance?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. Only two of them jumped up onto the stage at first but I fancy they had confederates in various parts of the yard. That’s why the fighting spread so quickly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think they were paid to bring us down.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘But for what possible reason?’

  ‘That’s what we have to find out.’ Nicholas cocked an eye upward to the gallery. ‘We also have to determine why someone was stabbed to death here this afternoon.’

  ‘That creeping insect of a landlord would have been killed as well if I could have got my hands on him!’

  ‘Forget Alexander Marwood. We have worries enough to vex us.’

  ‘Too true, Nick,’ said Firethorn, running a hand through his beard. ‘Murder takes priority here. It behoves me to give the poor man the tribute of a passing sigh. Do we know who the victim was?’

  ‘Not yet. But I trust that our patron will furnish us with a name.’

  ‘It’s a pity that he cannot furnish us with some money for we shall certainly need it. Much of what was damaged is beyond repair. And our reputation is badly besmirched. Come,’ he urged, walking into the middle of the yard, ‘let’s help our fellows move the rest of this trash. The sooner we get away from this accursed inn, the better.’

  ‘We need to stay away for a time until tempers cool.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘The landlord is upset.’

  ‘That ghoul is always upset.’

  ‘He’s resolved to terminate our contract.’

  Firethorn glowered. ‘Let him try. I’ll terminate the villain’s miserable life!’

  ‘He owns the Queen’s Head,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘If we are ever to play here again, we must win him over somehow.’

  ‘Then that’s an embassy I leave to you, Nick. I can’t treat with the rogue.’

  ‘He needs time apart from us.’

  ‘But this is our playhouse.’

  ‘We’ll not perform here again for some while.’

  ‘But we must or our occupation dies.’

  ‘I’ve a notion that might solve that problem.’

  ‘Then let’s hear it, man.’

  ‘All in good time.’

  Nicholas scooped up the chair that had been hurled into the audience from the stage. Its back had been cracked and one of its legs was missing. He held it up to examine it. Firethorn shook his head sadly.

  ‘We can soon have a new leg put on that,’ he observed with bitterness. ‘It will not be quite so easy to repair Barnaby.’

  The injury not only caused Barnaby Gill extreme pain. It had inflicted a deep wound on his pride. During his long career on the stage, he had never failed to captivate an audience with one of his jigs and invariably earned an ovation at their conclusion. This time, it was different. His art had been insulted, his dance interrupted and his humiliation completed by a vicious attack. As he lay on the bed in his lodging with a half-empty cup of wine in his hand, he was in despair.

  ‘I am done for, Edmund!’ he groaned. ‘Barnaby Gill is no more.’

  ‘That’s foolish talk,’ said Edmund Hoode, the resident playwright with the company. ‘You’re invincible, Barnaby. This is but a small mishap. A short and well-deserved rest from your labours on the boards.’

  Gill snorted. ‘Rest, do you say? How on earth do I rest when I am in agony?’ he asked, pointing to the leg that was in splints. ‘And well-deserved? Since when did I deserve to be set upon by two rogues who beat me black and blue?’

  ‘I was merely trying to make a virtue of necessity.’

  ‘Where’s the virtue in losing my one source of income?’

  ‘Your leg will heal in time.’

  ‘Not for ages.’

  ‘The doctor was full of optimism.’

  ‘I’d be full of optimism if he’d broken his leg,’ said Gill testily. ‘The old fool had no idea how long it would take to mend or whether I’d ever be able to dance on it again.’

  ‘Be patient, Barnaby.’

  ‘When I’m in such torment?’

  Gill drained his cup and tossed it aside. Hoode felt sorry for his friend. He could see the quiet terror in Gill’s eyes. It was as if the clown’s whole future had been broken in two along with his leg. There was no guarantee that his nimbleness would not be permanently impaired. He feared that he might go through life thereafter with a limp. Hoode felt a deep personal loss. Every play he had ever written contained a part that was tailored to Gill’s unique comic gifts. Performances of those works without him would be gravely weakened. Hoode was a kind man with a moon-shaped face that was now creased with concern. He bent solicitously over the bed.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you, Barnaby?’

  ‘Only a gravedigger to bury me.’

  ‘You are still very much alive.’

  ‘My art is dead and, without it, so am I.’

  ‘Away with such thoughts!’

  ‘Look at me, man,’ said Gill, grimacing. ‘You see a corpse before you.’

  ‘I see the finest clown in London,’ replied Hoode loyally. ‘You are a trifle battered by life at the moment, that is all.’

  It was true. In addition to the broken leg, Gill had sustained other injuries. His face was heavily bruised and one eye had been blackened. Having been trampled on by dozens of feet, his whole body was a mass of aches and twinges. He had aged visibly. Hoode had never seen him looking so haggard and miserable. It was very worrying. He did his best to cheer up his friend.

  ‘In a month’s time, all this will be forgotten,’ he said.

  ‘Never! This day is graven on my heart in perpetuity.’

  ‘New triumphs lie ahead of you, Barnaby.’

  ‘What use is a one-legged dancer?’

  ‘I foresee a complete recovery.’

  ‘Then you are a poor prophet, Edmund. How can I recover from such ignominy?’ he cried, tears beginning to roll. ‘It was torture out there on that stage today. I was in the middle of my jig when the rogues set upon me. In front of all those people, I was torn to shreds. When they had finished their sport, they tossed me into the pit like a child’s doll. The wonder is that I’ve lived to tell the tale.’

  ‘Nothing can keep you down, Barnaby.’

  ‘It can, it has, it will.’

  Gill wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and went off into a reverie. Hoode felt a surge of sympathy for him. The broken
leg would not simply interrupt a brilliant career on stage. It would have a disastrous effect on Gill’s private life. Most of the actors in the company seized their opportunity to impress and attract female admiration among the spectators. Following the example of Lawrence Firethorn, seasoned in that particular art, they learnt how to catch the eye and set a heart aflame. Gill, too, relied on his performances to excite an audience but, in his case, young men were the intended target. Alone among Westfield’s Men, he preferred male company and his performances were his chief means of winning new friends and gaining new conquests. Exiled from the stage while his broken leg slowly mended, he would hardly be in a fit state to seek consolation in certain discreet London taverns. He was also inordinately proud of his appearance, dressing in flamboyant attire and continuously preening himself. Such vanity was now superfluous. Gill would not dare even to look in a mirror.

  Hoode did not approve of his friend’s private life but that did not stop him from understanding how deprived he must feel. At a stroke, Gill had lost the two sources of pleasure in his life. He was cruelly separated both from his profession and his recreation. Hoode made one last attempt to offer him comfort.

  ‘All is not lost, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘Though you may no longer prance about a stage, you can still earn money with your songs. You can still raise a laugh.’

  Gill was sour. ‘Yes, everyone will laugh at me now.’

  ‘You have given song recitals before.’

  ‘Only when I wanted to sing, Edmund. The case is altered. All that I wish to do now is to curl up in a corner and die of shame. How do you think I will feel when the rest of you strut boldly at the Queen’s Head while I suffer here?’

  ‘We shall never know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’ll be no strutting at the Queen’s Head for a long while,’ explained Hoode. ‘It was badly damaged during the affray and renovations will be needed. But our main enemy, as ever, is that morose landlord of ours. Alexander Marwood vows that we’ll never set foot across his threshold again.’

  ‘Hold him to his contract.’

  ‘He claims that it was revoked by what happened today.’

  ‘What does Lawrence say?’ asked Gill.

  Hoode gave a wry smile. ‘If it was left to Lawrence, the landlord would be hanged from the roof of his inn and set alight until he burnt to a cinder. Fortunately, wiser counsels have prevailed. Nick Bracewell has come to our rescue yet again.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘As you know,’ Hoode went on, ‘we were due to quit the city in ten days’ time on a tour of Kent. Nick has suggested that we leave almost immediately. It will have the virtue of keeping us employed and putting distance between us and the landlord of the Queen’s Head. The hope is that he will soften towards us while we are away and be more subject to reason by the time that we return.’ Hoode saw the other’s face darken. ‘Is this not the solution to our predicament?’

  ‘No,’ growled Gill.

  ‘But it’s our salvation.’

  ‘And what about me? At a time when I most need my fellows, they will be cavorting around Kent without me. How can you desert a friend like this?’

  ‘It’s not desertion, Barnaby. It’s a means of survival.’

  ‘Your survival – not mine.’

  ‘The company takes precedence over any individual.’

  ‘Even when I suffered grievously on its behalf?’ urged Gill. ‘I was the one who was attacked. I was the one who was flung to the ground and stamped on. It was an ordeal. Show me one person who endured more than I did.’

  ‘I will,’ said Hoode softly, ‘though I have no name to put to him.’

  ‘No name?’

  ‘In the heat of the affray this afternoon, a man was stabbed to death in the gallery. He came to see a play and forfeited his life. We all regret your injuries, Barnaby, but we must reserve some sympathy for a murder victim.’

  Gill was cowed. ‘Who was the man?’ he murmured.

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  Nicholas Bracewell finally tracked down Lord Westfield early that evening. Their patron was about to leave his house on his way to visit friends. Nicholas caught him as he was in the act of stepping into his carriage. Lord Westfield was still shaken by the events of the afternoon and he was even more disturbed when he heard of the murder that had taken place at the Queen’s Head. He gave an involuntary shiver.

  ‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed. ‘And he was sitting so close to me. That dagger could have finished up in any of our backs. Even mine!’

  ‘Happily, my lord,’ said Nicholas, ‘that was not the case.’

  ‘This is disgraceful. A play is supposed to provide pleasure, not endanger life.’

  ‘It was a most unusual occurrence.’

  ‘So I should hope.’

  ‘But I’m surprised that this is the first you heard of it, my lord,’ said Nicholas. ‘The man was in your party. Were you not aware of his absence when you fled?’

  ‘No,’ replied the other with irritation. ‘We were trying to escape an affray. In those circumstances, you do not pause to count heads. Once outside the inn, we went our several ways. I assumed that Fortunatus was safe.’

  ‘Fortunatus?’

  ‘That is his name. Fortunatus Hope. An ill-favoured christening, if ever there was one, for the fellow had appalling fortune and but little hope.’ He stepped down from his carriage. ‘Yes, from what you tell me about his appearance, it has to be Fortunatus.’

  ‘Did you know him well, Lord Westfield?’

  ‘No,’ said the patron. ‘He was a newcomer to my circle, a lively fellow with a turn of phrase that amused me. I looked to become better acquainted with him but that, alas, it will not now be possible.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about him?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Did this Master Hope have any enemies?’

  Lord Westfield became pensive. He was a short, plump, red-faced man of middle years in a doublet of peach-coloured satin that was trimmed with gold lace. His tall green hat sported an ostrich feather that curled down mischievously over his right temple. Though Nicholas was unfailingly polite to their patron, he was more than aware of his shortcomings. Lord Westfield was an epicurean, a man whose whole life was devoted to idle pleasures, usually at someone else’s expense. His love of the theatre encouraged him to retain his own troupe but it existed as much to add lustre to his name as to achieve any success on its own account. Lord Westfield liked nothing better than to loll in his chair in the lower gallery at the Queen’s Head and bask in the praise of his hangers-on as he showed off his company to them. That joy had been taken summarily from him during the afternoon’s performance and the memory of it still made him bristle with disapproval.

  ‘It was an appalling scene,’ he recalled. ‘Utterly appalling!’

  ‘I agree, my lord.’

  ‘There were ladies in my party. They might have been injured.’

  ‘Luckily, they were not,’ said Nicholas. ‘Others did not escape, I fear. There were a number of casualties, Barnaby Gill among them.’

  ‘Master Gill was grossly abused. How does he fare?’

  ‘Not well, my lord. He suffered a broken leg.’

  ‘Poor fellow!’

  ‘It may be months before he is fully recovered. He’ll be unable to join us on our tour of Kent. That is the other thing I came to tell you, my lord,’ he added. ‘Since we have worn out our welcome in Gracechurch Street, we mean to leave London sooner than planned. I believe that you intended to be in Dover when we played there.’

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ said the other. ‘Lord Cobham is a friend of mine. I’ve promised him a stirring performance from Westfield’s Men. Let me know the dates of your stay in Dover and I’ll contrive to be there at the same time.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ replied Nicholas, trying to guide him back to the more important matter. ‘Before I do that, however, I would like whatever information you can give
me about Master Hope. I asked if he had enemies.’

  ‘None that I know of. Fortunatus was such an amiable character.’

  ‘Someone had a grudge against him.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘Where did he live in the city?’

  ‘I told you. He only recently befriended me.’

  ‘He must have a family. They need to be informed of this tragedy.’

  ‘Fortunatus hailed from Oxfordshire,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘It will take a louder voice than yours to reach the ears of his family. I doubt that even Lawrence Firethorn’s lungs would be equal to that task.’

  ‘Perhaps another member of your circle could give me an address,’ suggested Nicholas, annoyed that he was getting so little help and wishing that Lord Westfield would take the murder more seriously. ‘I need urgent assistance, my lord.’

  ‘Why? This is a matter for the law.’

  ‘It also concerns us. And I fancy that we may be able to make more headway than some local constables who were not present at the time. We were there, my lord.’

  ‘Do not remind me!’

  ‘There has to be a reason why Fortunatus Hope was killed at the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘More than one person drew a weapon to defend himself,’ remembered the older man. ‘Could not Fortunatus have been the victim of a chance dagger?’

  Nicholas was firm. ‘No question of that, my lord.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘I used my eyes.’

  ‘But the place was in uproar.’

  ‘That was the intention. The affray was started with the express purpose of distracting attention so that a man could be murdered. Cunning was at work, my lord,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Someone set out to strike against you, your company and your friend.’

  ‘Saints preserve us!’ gasped Lord Westfield, a flabby hand at his throat. ‘Do you tell me that I am in mortal danger as well?’

  ‘We have a common enemy, my lord,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we need to unmask him with all speed. Every detail I can glean about Fortunatus Hope is vital. Otherwise, the person or persons who have shown such ill will towards Westfield’s Men may soon strike again.’