The Roaring Boy nb-7 Read online

  Gill turned to Firethorn. ‘What is he talking about?’

  ‘Nick will tell you himself. It is his tale.’

  ‘I hope it be shorter than the vicar’s narrative.’

  ‘Hear him, Barnaby.’

  Nicholas cleared his throat and gave a brief account of how The Roaring Boy had come into his hands. He found it exhilarating and gave it to Edmund Hoode. The playwright thought it inspiring and passed it on to Lawrence Firethorn. The actor-manager considered it immensely promising as it had a powerful role for him. All three were keen to give the work the accolade of a performance by Westfield’s Men.

  Gill flew at once into a state of apostasy.

  ‘I refuse to countenance this folly!’

  ‘But you have not even seen the play,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘That is exactly why I object to it. Since when have I been forced to take my turn behind a book holder and a poet? I should have been the first to study any new work.’

  ‘After me, that is,’ reminded Firethorn.

  ‘Does it matter in what order it is read?’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘I gave it to Edmund Hoode because the play needs him to give it shape and direction. Without his help, we would not be able to proceed.’

  ‘Could not the author improve it himself?’ said Gill.

  ‘We do not know who he is.’

  ‘An anonymous play?’

  ‘The author has a reason for concealing his name.’

  ‘Is he then ashamed of his work?’

  ‘He has every right to be proud.’

  ‘It is a somewhat makeshift affair at the moment,’ said Firethorn, ‘but the faults lie only in construction. Those are soon mended. The piece has great spirit, Barnaby. If we can make it work, Westfield’s Men will take London by storm.’

  Gill remained sceptical but he agreed to let Nicholas Bracewell outline the plot of The Roaring Boy. It was a domestic drama based on a murder case whose reverberations were still being felt in the capital. Thomas Brinklow was a highly successful mathematician and marine engineer from Greenwich. When he married a young wife, Cecily, he did not realise that she was still in love with the steward of her former household, Walter Dunne. Wife and lover conspired to have Brinklow murdered in order that they could be together and inherit his wealth.

  Two villains, Maggs and Freshwell, were engaged to do the deed. When Thomas Brinklow was butchered to death, the plot was uncovered and three of the malefactors were arrested. Freshwell went to the gallows with Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. The other killer, Maggs, eluded capture and was still at large. So brutal was the actual slaughter that it even shocked a city where murder was a daily event. London was still buzzing about the grotesque treatment accorded to Brinklow of Greenwich.

  ‘I remember the case well,’ said Gill airily. ‘Who does not? But there is no call to show this heinous crime upon a stage. The murder was solved and the guilty hanged.’

  ‘But they may not have been guilty,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Aye,’ noted Firethorn. ‘There’s the rub.’

  ‘Not guilty!’ Gill laughed derisively. ‘Why, that scheming steward was actually taken in flagrante with the slippery wife. What more proof of guilt do you need?’

  ‘That only confirms their adultery,’ said Nicholas. ‘They admitted that in court. Complicity in the murder was denied. They protested their innocence to the end.’

  Gill was unconvinced. ‘Which murderer does not? The wretches tried to throw all the blame on to their two accomplices. Did not this Freshwell confess all? They paid him and his vile comrade to hack poor Brinklow to death.’

  ‘Supposing that they did not?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Is that what the play suggests?’

  ‘Suggests and proves, in my estimation,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Roaring Boy is about a miscarriage of justice. If its argument be true-and we will take pains to verify that-then we have something which will do more than merely entertain our spectators. It will have a moral purpose.’

  ‘It will clear the name of innocent people,’ added Firethorn with an expansive gesture. ‘The whole city will flock to see us. Murder is always good business but we offer intrigue and wrongful arrest as well. Westfield’s Men do not just have a duty to stage the play. It must be our mission!’

  Barnaby Gill threw up a dozen serious objections to the idea but Nicholas Bracewell had a plausible answer for each one. The book holder admitted that there were still a few obstacles to overcome-not least the corroboration of the facts that lay at the heart of the drama-but he was certain that The Roaring Boy was a play that answered all requirements. It would cause great controversy, redeem Edmund Hoode from his depression, enhance the reputation of Westfield’s Men, tell a cautionary tale and help to right a terrible injustice.

  When he could find no more faults, Gill capitulated. High tragedy and rumbustious comedy were the hallmarks of Westfield’s Men and they had hitherto held aloof from the presentation of dramas based on such sensational material from the annals of crime. But The Roaring Boy was obviously a special case and it was perverse to miss an extraordinary opportunity. Similar plays had always had immense, if short-lived, popularity. There was an added bonus of topicality with The Roaring Boy. Its gory appeal was fresh in the public mind. Gill conceded all this. Only one question was now pertinent.

  ‘Does the play have a suitable part for me?’

  ***

  Orlando Reeve spread his bulk on a cushioned bench in the upper gallery and gazed down into the yard of the Queen’s Head with an amalgam of envy and disdain. He was impressed by the size of the audience that was filling every available inch of space but contemptuous of their manifest lack of quality. The one-penny standees included students, discharged soldiers, tradesmen of the lower sort, apprentices who had sneaked away from their work and rough countrymen in search of entertainment. The yard was also salted with wives, women and punks, bold thieves and sly pickpockets, and every manner of rogue and trickster. Orlando Reeve wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stink that rose up at him and inhaled the aromatic herbs in the silver pomander which hung from a chain around his neck.

  It was the day after Skeat’s funeral and Westfield’s Men were back in harness, but Reeve had not come to watch them in A New Way to Please a Woman. Its very title offended his sensibilities and its rustic humour could not even provoke the ghost of a smile from him. He was appalled at the ease with which the rest of spectators were amused. To his left was a tall silkweaver, who giggled inanely throughout: to his right, a merchant from Ulm released a series of long, low chuckles at all the wit and wordplay even though his grasp of English was so uncertain that he understood no more than one word in five. The gallants and their ladies loved A New Way to Please a Woman. Everyone seated in the galleries gave the piece their warmest approval. Attended by his usual fawning entourage, the company’s patron, Lord Westfield, was shaking with glee at the antics below him on the stage.

  Orlando Reeve closed his eyes and relied solely on his ears. He was at least able to savour something. No play at the Queen’s Head was complete without vocal and instrumental music. While the players’ histrionics only bored Reeve, their songs delighted him throughout. Voices were clear and true. The consort was well-balanced and rehearsed to a high standard but Reeve had expected no less from its leader. Peter Digby, conductor and musician, was an old friend of his and still as expert on the bass viol as he had always been. Orlando Reeve wallowed in the glorious sound that Digby and his consort were producing from their instruments, then he writhed in horror when the music was submerged beneath braying laughter at the latest piece of vulgarity onstage.

  When the play was over, and the yard cleared of what he regarded as its offal, Reeve made his way to the taproom of the Queen’s Head to renew his acquaintance with Peter Digby. The contrast between the two could not have been greater. Peter Digby was a thin, ascetic man whose grey hair was slowly migrating to the farthest reaches of his skull and whose forehead was striped by long years of anxie
ty. His shoulders were hunched, his legs bowed, his whole appearance suggesting decline and neglect.

  Sleek, fat and oozing self-importance, Orlando Reeve looked fifteen years younger than a man who was virtually the same age as himself. Pink, flabby cheeks wobbled in a round face into which a pair of twinkling eyes had been set close together. There was enough material in his expensive white satin doublet to make three whole suits for Peter Digby and still leave a remnant behind. The latter was at once pleased but embarrassed to meet Orlando Reeve again.

  ‘Well-met, Peter!’

  ‘I did not think to see you here.’

  ‘Even Court musicians are permitted some leisure.’

  ‘You were never wont to spend it at a play.’

  ‘I came to listen to you,’ said Reeve. His voice was a study in affectation and almost eunuchoid in its high pitch. ‘You are still the complete master of your instrument.’

  ‘Praise indeed, coming from you!’

  ‘Your music made the play bearable.’

  ‘Did you not care for A New Way to Please a Woman?’

  ‘Its theme was tiresome.’ He exposed tiny, pointed teeth in a razor grin. ‘I have no time for women. Still less for strutting men. Music and musicians fill my world. Who needs anything more?’

  ‘On that argument, we may readily agree.’ He remembered something and clutched at his purse. ‘Let me offer you a cup of wine, Orlando. This chance meeting calls for celebration.’

  ‘Unhappily, I may not stay. We play this evening.’

  ‘At Whitehall?’

  ‘Yes. Her Majesty has returned from Greenwich. We have been there this past month, filling its corridors with song and gracing its banquets with dance. I received the personal commendation of no less than three visiting ambassadors.’

  ‘It was deserved,’ said Digby.

  Orlando Reeve had his faults but nobody could question his musicianship. He was one of the finest keyboard-players in London, equally adept on virginals, clavichord and chamber organ. His recitals took place before royalty or in packed cathedrals. Peter Digby, once a colleague of his, performed in the humbler arena of the Queen’s Head, stationed in a part of the balcony above the stage that had been curtained off to give the consort some protection from the wind. Court musicians had countless prerogatives but, as he looked up into the beaming self-satisfaction of his friend, Digby was strangely relieved that he had chosen another path.

  ‘How much of the music did you compose?’ said Reeve.

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘Even the songs?’

  ‘We have to work for our wage in the theatre, Orlando.’

  ‘I am pleased to see you so busy.’

  ‘There is no rest for me when Westfield’s Men take to the stage.’ He gave a shrug. ‘And far too much rest when the plague drives them out of London. We perform on occasion at the Inns of Court and elsewhere, but the theatre is our lifeblood. Take that away and we wilt.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Reeve, running a censorious eye over him and observing the tear in his sleeve and the stain on his ruff. ‘You are like to have a good season this year if the weather is kind to you. Have you any new plays to lift your company above its rivals?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘May I know what they are?’

  ‘I do not even have their names myself, Orlando.’

  ‘Come, come. You are part-author of everything that Westfield’s Men perform. Your music gives beauty to even the most beastly drama, and there has been a plentiful supply of that in this innyard, from what I hear.’

  Digby became defensive. ‘We are still without compare.’

  ‘Only if the plays reach the standard of your music.’

  ‘Our repertoire is acclaimed.’

  ‘But old and musty. You must bake fresh bread.’

  ‘We do,’ said Digby. ‘We will please every palate.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Our next new offering.’

  ‘And that is?’ He raised his pomander to his nostrils and sniffed hard to ward off the dark odours of the taproom. ‘You may tell me, Peter,’ he continued as he released the chain again. ‘We are good friends, are we not? I will not betray you. The secret will be locked securely between the tongue and the lips. Nobody will ever know.’

  ‘I am bound by my loyalty to the company.’

  ‘Do I ask you to break it?’

  ‘Our rivals lurk on every side to bring us down.’

  ‘They will get no help from me.’ He put a podgy hand on Digby’s shoulder and massaged it. ‘Your new play?’

  ‘It is only a rumour.’

  ‘Tell me and it dies inside my ear.’

  ‘Master Firethorn warned me he would need many songs.’

  ‘In what, Peter?’

  ‘And music low and sombre, if we proceed with it.’

  ‘With what?’

  Peter Digby weakened. He was feeling completely overawed by a companion who was prospering so well in the higher reaches of his calling. Orlando Reeve was a visible boast of success. Something was needed to match that boast and to elevate Digby’s drooping self-esteem.

  ‘The play could be the most popular we ever staged,’ he said. ‘I was given no details and can tell you little beyond the terms of the plot but that alone will fire the imagination.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It is a play about a most lamentable murder.’

  ‘We have enough of those to vex us,’ said Reeve.

  ‘This one puts most of them to shame.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Brinklow of Greenwich. You remember the case?’

  ‘Clearly, Peter. The poor fool of a mathematician wed a young wife whose affections were placed elsewhere. She and her lover-Dunne, was he called? — plotted to kill her husband. The pair of them were hanged for the crime.’

  ‘They were hanged certainly but were they guilty?’

  ‘What does your play decide?’

  Peter Digby shook his head. He knew nothing more. The oily smile on Orlando Reeve’s face congealed to a frosty grimace. He had heard what he had been sent to find out. Patting Digby on the shoulder in farewell, he waddled out of the taproom and headed for the stables. It had been a long and trying afternoon for him but it had yielded its bounty.

  He would earn his reward.

  ***

  The transformation in Edmund Hoode’s attitude and appearance was remarkable. Gone was the melancholy poet who was ready to lay down his pen for good. In his place was an eager and dedicated craftsman, who wanted to spend every waking hour at his table. The Roaring Boy imbued him with an elation he had not known since the night when he had climbed into bed with Mistress Jane Diamond during her husband’s convenient absence. That joy had, in fact, stopped short of consummation but this latest one would not. Written entirely in prose, the play was pitted with the faults of the novice and strung together too loosely to have full impact. But its passion was overwhelming. It was a cry from the heart that Hoode could not resist.

  The faults could easily be remedied, the construction just as swiftly improved. What the playwright had been given was something far more precious even than Jane Diamond’s virtue. The Roaring Boy was a dramatic gem that needed to be cut, polished and placed in the correct setting. When that was done, the play would out-dazzle anything on the London stage.

  ‘Let me come with you, Nick,’ he begged.

  ‘The message was sent to me alone.’

  ‘But I must meet this Simon Chaloner. How else can I rewrite the play unless I have the true facts at my fingers? He and I must work jointly on the venture.’

  ‘You have made progress enough without him so far,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, glancing down at sheets of parchment on the table. ‘This play obsesses you night and day. We had to drag you away to bear your part in this afternoon’s performance. Stay here in your lodgings and work on, Edmund.’

  ‘I need more help.’

  ‘You will get it through me.’

  ‘Why does the
fellow behave so strangely?’

  ‘I hope to find out.’

  ‘Where did he get all this evidence of duplicity?’

  ‘That subject, too, will be pursued.’

  It was evening and the friends were back at Silver Street. The chamber was now clean, tidy and a fit place in which a playwright could labour for long hours. Fresh rushes had taken away the stench. Nicholas had called to tell his friend that word had at last come from the roaring boy who had first burst into their life at the Queen’s Head. A letter summoned the book holder to a tavern in Eastcheap. He had been warned to come alone.

  Hoode was persistent. ‘Why do I not go with you and stand privily where I may overhear the conversation?’

  ‘He has expressly forbidden your presence.’

  ‘But I am slaving over his play!’

  ‘Not his, Edmund. Not anyone’s as yet. Simon Chaloner has set the rules and we must play by them.’ Hoode was crestfallen. ‘Take heart,’ said Nicholas. ‘I will hasten straight back here to report to you.’

  ‘Be quick or I’ll have torn the manuscript to shreds!’

  ‘Then you’d throw away a pearl out of spite.’

  Hoode nodded and tried to contain his frustration. He was still shamed by the fact that he slept drunkenly through his first meeting with Simon Chaloner, and hoped that a second encounter would give him the chance to make amends for his conduct. It was not to be. Nicholas Bracewell was the chosen interlocutor. He must be left to divine the reason why the young man courted the shadows.

  Nicholas took his leave. He was sorry to disappoint his friend but certain that he would elicit more from Simon Chaloner on his own. Having read the play, he understood why it had been given to them in such a covert way. If its allegations were true, it would cause tremors in legal circles and uproar among the common people. It might also help to bring the real malefactor to justice. The imperative was to establish the play’s authorship. Edmund Hoode felt that it was the work of one man but Nicholas wondered if it might not be the product of many hands. One of them, he suspected, belonged to Simon Chaloner.