The Malevolent Comedy Page 7

  ‘Both are equally hateful,’ said Anne without equivocation.

  ‘The problem is that I have to go on working with Saul Hibbert, for we’ll stage his play again and again. We are yoke-fellows.’

  ‘What will happen next?’

  Nicholas gave a shrug. ‘That depends on him.’

  Lawrence Firethorn gave him plenty of time to calm down but, after a few hours, Saul Hibbert was still simmering with rage. They met in the author’s room at the Queen’s Head and shared a bottle of sack. A haunting aroma of perfume hung in the air but it was clear to Firethorn that even time spent in the arms of a woman had failed to dispel the playwright’s sense of grievance. He continued to brood.

  ‘I’ll not let this pass, Lawrence,’ he warned.

  ‘Be ruled by me. Try to forget the whole incident.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Because that’s what Nick Bracewell is prepared to do.’

  ‘The devil take him!’

  ‘Be reasonable, Saul.’

  ‘Was that ruffian book holder of yours reasonable when he took be by the throat? No!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do not waste your time by appealing to my reason, Lawrence. I’m beyond that.’

  ‘All may seem different in the morning.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Hibbert seemed more indignant than ever and more vengeful. Two cups of sack did nothing to still his anger. Over a third, Firethorn tried once again to placate him.

  ‘Circumstance was against you both,’ he said. ‘After your play was such a triumph, you were rightly on fire with joy. By the same token, Nick Bracewell – after the death of Hal Bridger – was also profoundly stirred. Blood was up when the two of you met.’

  ‘Mine still is.’

  ‘Nick is mildness itself now. He accepts that he acted on impulse.’

  ‘I knew that you’d take his side.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m doing.’

  ‘It’s the thing that annoys me most,’ said Hibbert, tossing back his long, wavy hair. ‘You listen to a hired man before an author. You prise a lackey above someone who’s just delivered you the best success you’ve enjoyed all season.’

  ‘Nick is no lackey,’ rejoined Firethorn, hotly.

  ‘What else is the fellow? He’s a servant, a slave, a hireling, a nothing man, a minion, a menial, a faceless creature, who holds a book at a performance. Ha!’ he snorted with distaste. ‘Cancel his contract and you could replace him in five minutes.’

  ‘Five years would not be enough to replace Nick Bracewell.’

  ‘And how many years would it take to find another Saul Hibbert?’

  He almost spat the challenge at Firethorn and the actor had to bite back his initial reply. Having come to pacify the man, he did not wish to alienate him further by having an argument with him. In two bare hours that afternoon, Hibbert had proved his worth. His was a talent that had to be kept, nurtured, developed, refined and, at all costs, put beyond the reach of rivals such as Banbury’s Men. In The Malevolent Comedy, as in no other new play, Firethorn had something able to hold its own against Lamberto, the pride of the Curtain. However contentious he was, however intemperate his language, Hibbert had to be wooed.

  ‘And I’ve another complaint,’ said the playwright, returning to the fray. ‘I’m told that you play some mouldy old tragedy tomorrow.’

  ‘Black Antonio is popular with our audiences.’

  ‘But staged so often as to be threadbare.’

  ‘It was always our intent to offer it again tomorrow.’

  ‘But only if my play disappointed. Instead of which, it dazzled like the sun and left an audience begging to feel its warmth again. Why fall back on Black Antonio when you have a wonderful new play to offer?’

  ‘It was not felt proper, Saul.’

  ‘By whom? Barnaby felt it proper. He told me so. He believes that The Malevolent Comedy could occupy the stage for a fortnight.’

  ‘And maybe it will,’ said Firethorn, exasperated by the mention of Barnaby Gill, ‘but the final decision about tomorrow lies with me, and, in deference to the company’s feelings, we’ll rest your play awhile.’

  ‘The company’s feelings? What on earth are they, Lawrence?’

  ‘I can see you are not well-versed in the ways of the theatre. Actors are ever at the mercy of superstition. If something goes awry during a performance, it plants a fear in their mind. And there cannot be a more worrying mishap onstage than the death of a member of the cast.’

  ‘Do you mean that the actors refuse to play it again?’

  ‘No,’ said Firethorn, choosing his words carefully, ‘they will do as they are told, but they’d prefer to leave your comedy aside tomorrow. They are not in a mood to do it justice and believe, in any case, that we should rest your play as a mark of respect to Hal Bridger.’

  ‘An assistant stagekeeper?’ scoffed Hibbert.

  ‘Nick Bracewell agreed.’

  ‘Who manages Westfield’s Men – you or him?’

  ‘I do,’ said Firethorn, straightening his shoulders.

  ‘Then why bother with the riffraff of the company, for that is all they are. Assistant stagekeepers and book holders!’ He gave a derisive laugh. ‘Any fool could do such an office. It’s work for trash, for rabble, for scum, for the sweepings of the streets.’

  ‘It’s work that has to be done well,’ said Firethorn with passion, ‘or playwrights like you and actors like me are made to look ridiculous. Never condemn those behind the scenes, Saul. Our success rests on them as much as on our own abilities.’

  ‘I dispute that.’

  ‘Then we must agree to differ.’ Firethorn rose from his chair. ‘I’ll bid you good night and hope that wiser counsels prevail on the morrow, and that you come to see Nick Bracewell in a fairer light.’ Hibbert stifled a retort. ‘It’s another reason why Black Antonio holds the stage in your place, Saul. It will keep you and Nick apart.’

  ‘We’ll meet again ere long, I assure you.’

  ‘Then do so as fellows in the same company. Are we agreed?’

  Hibbert gave a reluctant nod but his eyes were smouldering.

  It took Nicholas Bracewell the best part of the morning to track down the man. Simeon Howker’s name was the last on the list and Nicholas had to work his way through the others before he finally trudged off in the direction of Clerkenwell. The shop was in a narrow lane that twisted between rows of filthy tenements. Few in such a poverty-stricken area of the city could afford a doctor or a surgeon, none could aspire to the services of a physician. The vast majority therefore fell back on their local apothecary, hoping that his herbal remedies would cure the vast range of diseases and disabilities that they took to his door. Nicholas was easily the healthiest man ever to step over the threshold.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ asked the apothecary.

  ‘Simeon Howker?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘I’m a friend of Doctor Mordrake,’ said Nicholas, barely able to see the man in the dark interior of his shop, ‘and I’m hoping that you may be able to help me.’

  ‘If you have dealings with Mordrake, you’ll not be needing me. He knows of herbs that I’ve never even heard of, and can cure anything from smallpox to the standing of the yard.’ He stepped out of the shadows. ‘Do you have trouble with the standing of your yard,’ he said with a crude cackle. ‘’Tis a common problem among men. It either stands when you would have it flaccid, or lies dormant when it needs to rise and bid welcome to a lady. Is that your ailment, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I only came for information.’

  ‘Even that has a charge on it.’

  Simeon Howker was a short, stringy man in his forties with a lean face that was fringed by a wispy ginger beard. Wearing a black gown and a black skullcap, he peered at his visitor over a pair of glasses. The shop was small, cluttered and musty. Around its shelves, Nicholas could see endless bottles of herbs. Howker named them at speed.

  ‘Aconite, buckthorn, buttercup, c
inquefoil, wild cherry, darnel, hellebore, hemlock, laburnum, larkspur, lobelia, mandrake and many more besides,’ he said. ‘Most are harmless unless mixed with other herbs. Several that are poisonous can yet be used as remedies if sold in the right compounds.’

  ‘And you know how to make those compounds, I daresay.’

  ‘Of course, good sir. I am part apothecary and part magician.’

  ‘You may also be an accessory to a murder.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said the other, so startled that he retreated into the shadows. ‘I’ll hear no wild accusations in my shop, sir. I’m a law-abiding man, as any of my customers will witness.’

  ‘It’s one of those customers I came to talk to you about,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Someone recently asked you to make a lethal compound for him that would kill as soon as it was swallowed.’

  ‘Rat poison is all that I sell.’

  ‘This poison was bought by a rat and I’m anxious to catch him. The compound that you mixed for him sent a young friend of mine to an early grave. I want his killer brought to justice.’

  ‘I had no truck with him. Why come to me?’

  ‘Because your name was on the list that Doctor Mordrake gave to me, a list of five apothecaries, who’d sell their souls rather than earn an honest living.’ Howker started to bluster. ‘Save your breath to tell me what I came to find out and do not try to deceive me,’ warned Nicholas, fingering his dagger, ‘or I’ll cut the truth out of your miserable carcass.’

  ‘I made no poison, sir. It was one of the others.’

  ‘They didn’t dare to lie to me and neither must you. Monkshood, belladonna, henbane, a pinch of foxglove and something else to make it more deadly still – those were the ingredients.’ He moved forward to confront the apothecary. ‘And you mixed them, did you not?’

  ‘No, no,’ cried the other. ‘I swear that I refused to do it.’

  ‘Then someone did come in search of the poison?’

  ‘Came and went away. I practise no witchcraft. I would never make such an evil potion.’

  ‘You’re a craven coward who cannot admit the ugly truth,’ said Nicholas, whipping out his dagger and holding it at the man’s throat. ‘I’ll ask you one more time. Lie to me again and I’ll send you off to join my friend on a cold slab.’ Howker started to quiver. ‘Now – who instructed you to make that poison?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  The dagger pricked his throat and made him yell. ‘Who?’ said Nicholas, knowing that he was at last on the right trail.

  ‘He did not give a name.’

  ‘When did he come?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘Alone or with someone else?’

  ‘On his own,’ said Howker. ‘If you please, sir, could you put that dagger away before it hurts me? I’ll tell you what I know, I promise you.’

  Nicholas sheathed his weapon. ‘What did the man ask for?’

  ‘A deadly poison. He said his farm was overrun with rats.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Not for a moment, sir. He was no farmer. And he bought too little of the compound to deal with a plague of vermin. But he paid me well,’ he remembered, ‘and stood over me while I mixed the compound.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘It’s very gloomy in here.’

  ‘Describe the man,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘You saw him well enough to realise that he was not a farmer, and if you work in this light every day, you must be used to it. How tall was he?’

  ‘About your height, sir.’

  ‘His build?’

  ‘Much slimmer than you.’

  ‘What of his age?’

  ‘Thirty or more, perhaps.’

  ‘Well-favoured?’

  ‘And well-dressed in doublet and hose. A proper gentleman.’

  ‘No gentleman buys poison with intent to murder,’ said Nicholas, tartly. ‘What else can you tell me about the fellow?’

  ‘Nothing, except that he wore a beard and a jewelled earring.’

  ‘What colour was the beard?’

  ‘As fair as yours and neatly trimmed.’

  ‘A strange customer to come into a shop like yours, then.’

  ‘Very strange.’

  ‘How did he know where to find you?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him that, sir, though I do have a reputation.’

  ‘I can see that you live up to it in this sewer of a shop,’ said Nicolas, glancing around. ‘Did it never occur to you, when you mixed that poison, that you were serving a man with murder on his mind?’

  Howker shook his head. ‘I gave him what he asked for. He paid.’

  ‘Did he say where he was staying?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘What about his voice? Low or high?’

  ‘Somewhere in between.’

  ‘Was he a Londoner?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Howker, confidently. ‘He was a visitor to the city. I’ve heard the tongue before but could not place it. There was a whisper of the country about it yet he did not seem to be a countryman. That’s all I can tell you, sir,’ he bleated. ‘If I’d known that the poison was to kill someone, I’d never have sold it to him.’

  ‘You’d sell anything for money, you rogue.’

  ‘I’ve a wife and children to support. They come first. Do not blame me, please. I only seek to make my living here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘as a purveyor of death.’

  Resisting an impulse to attack the man, he stormed out of the shop and slammed the door behind him. It had been a long morning but he had finally made some progress. It was a start.

  Black Antonio was a tragedy of revenge and thwarted love, written in soaring verse and offering Lawrence Firethorn a title role that allowed him to explore the outer limits of his talent. In his full-blooded portrayal of the ill-starred Antonio, there was not even a tiniest vestige of Lord Loveless, who had tripped across the same boards so entertainingly on the previous afternoon. Firethorn was a different man entirely, a noble savage, honest, upright, fearless in battle yet gentle in his wooing, a tragic hero brought low by the one flaw in his character.

  Since the play was a staple part of their repertoire, Nicholas Bracewell felt able to miss the rehearsal that morning so that he could conduct his search among the apothecaries. George Dart had held the book in his stead, yielding it up for the performance itself. With the death of Hal Bridger still at the forefront of their minds, the actors began with some trepidation but they soon hit their stride. A sizeable audience came to watch them in the bright sunshine. The company gave a sterling account of the play and it went off without incident.

  When he had taken as many bows as he felt able to, Firethorn led his troupe gratefully into the tiring-house. Pulling off his helmet, he stared into a mirror and used a cloth to wipe the black pigment from his sweat-covered face. Nicholas went across to him.

  ‘It was like a furnace out there,’ said Firethorn. ‘I started to melt. Another half-hour in that sunshine and my last bit of blackness would have trickled away. I’d have been White Antonio.’

  ‘That would have made for a very different play.’

  ‘Today I was black on the outside and white on the inside.’

  ‘Master Hibbert is quite the opposite,’ remarked Nicholas, quietly. ‘A handsome face disguises a very ugly man.’

  Most of the actors were so relieved to come through the performance unscathed that they changed quickly out of their costumes and scampered off to the taproom. Firethorn waited until he and Nicholas were alone before he took up the book holder’s comment.

  ‘Saul is no villain,’ he said, easily. ‘He’s a proud man with a right to take pride in his talents. I know that it makes for vanity but we all suffer from that disease.’ He rubbed the last speck of black from his hands. ‘I spoke to him last night, Nick.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He’ll not relent.’

  ‘Neither will I.’

  ‘It’s not like you to be so st
ubborn.’

  ‘I have my pride as well, Lawrence.’

  ‘In the past, you’ve always put the good of the company first.’

  ‘And I did so again yesterday,’ said Nicholas, ‘when I clashed with Master Hibbert. During the rehearsals for his play, he sneered and snarled at almost everyone but you and Barnaby. And he had no more concern for Hal’s death than he might for a squashed fly.’

  ‘That was shameful of him.’

  ‘I tried to persuade him of that.’

  ‘A little too roughly, it seems. Saul is adamant. He feels aggrieved, Nick. Only an apology from you can mend this rift.’

  ‘Then he’ll wait for it in vain.’

  Firethorn was worried. ‘Do you want to drive him away?’

  ‘No, he’s a true dramatist.’

  ‘Well, that’s what will happen if this argument between the two of you is not resolved.’ He moved in closer. ‘I ask you as a friend, Nick. Bend a little, for my sake. Admit to Saul that you were too upset by Hal Bridger’s death to know what you were doing.’

  ‘I knew exactly what I was doing,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘This wound needs a balm. You’ve always been the healer among Westfield’s Men. Act as our apothecary once again.’

  ‘After recent events, I’ve lost a little faith in apothecaries. They can kill as easily as cure. I did not look for this quarrel, Lawrence. I was provoked beyond measure – and so would you have been. Instead of caring about a playwright we might employ in future,’ suggested Nicholas, ‘look to the one we already have. Edmund has given us a whole sequence of wonderful comedies but he does not feel obliged to preen himself as a result. Yet, on the strength of one play, Master Hibbert has swaggered like a petty tyrant. We should work to resurrect Edmund. He’s a true member of the company.’

  ‘Forget about him,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have a plan for Edmund.’

  ‘What sort of plan?’

  ‘Never mind.’