The Malevolent Comedy Page 8

‘But I do mind,’ said Nicholas with suspicion. ‘I know Edmund. He needs to be handled with the greatest care.’

  ‘He will be – if Owen and I have our way. But that’s for another time. There’s room for more than one playwright in our stables, and I’m resolved that Saul Hibbert will join us.’

  ‘Then you may take it for granted.’

  ‘Not if you and he are at each other’s throats.’

  ‘I’m no impediment here,’ said Nicholas. ‘Master Hibbert is clever enough to use the evidence of his own eyes. He knows that Lord Westfield lends his name to the finest company in London.’

  ‘In the whole country!’

  ‘That’s why he offered the play to you first. You were Lord Loveless to the life. He must have been thrilled with your performance.’

  ‘And justly so,’ said Firethorn, beaming. ‘I was at my peak.’

  ‘That’s the reason a bond has been forged with Master Hibbert,’ said Nicholas. ‘You accepted his play and the company ensured his fame when we presented it here. There’s no way that Saul Hibbert would take his talent elsewhere.’

  Intrigued by the invitation, Saul Hibbert had made his way to the Green Man at the appointed time. Having sat alone at a table for some while, however, he was beginning to wonder if he was the victim of a hoax, lured there to satisfy someone’s warped sense of humour. After waiting another five minutes, he decided to leave, but, before he could rise from his seat, a voice rang out across the tavern.

  ‘Pray stay where you are, Master Hibbert,’ said the newcomer. ‘A thousand apologies for my lateness.’ He stood beside the table. ‘I can see that you that received my letter.’

  ‘It was unsigned. I did not know quite what to expect.’

  ‘Then I hope that you’re not disappointed. I like to think that I have a manly hand, so you would not have come here in expectation of meeting a female admirer. After the performance of The Malevolent Comedy that I was privileged to witness yesterday, you’ll have no shortage of adoring young ladies.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Hibbert.

  ‘A fellow playwright and friend,’ said the other, sitting down.

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘One that has attracted some renown. I am Cyrus Hame.’

  ‘The author of Lamberto?’

  ‘Co-author with esteemed partner, John Vavasor. He’ll be here soon to join in the discussion. John admired your play as much as me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Hibbert was still mystified. He looked at his companion and tried to work out why the man had been so eager to meet him. Cyrus Hame smiled back at him. He was a tall, slim, well-featured man in his thirties, wearing a doublet and hose that were striking without being gaudy, and sporting a pearl earring. Hame had an engaging manner.

  ‘Let me be honest with you, Master Hibbert,’ he said, stroking his fair beard and displaying a perfect set of teeth. ‘I think that your future as a playwright lies with Banbury’s Men.’

  Chapter Five

  During the performance of Black Antonio, the inn yard of the Queen’s Head had been turned into a rudimentary playhouse. The stage was erected on trestles, benches put into the lower and upper galleries, and the yard itself used as a pit in which those who could only afford a penny stood shoulder to shoulder in the cloying heat. Secure within the world of the play, the audience could shut out the tumult of Gracechurch Street nearby and ignore the other intrusive sounds of a typical afternoon in the capital. Once a performance was over, however, and the spectators had gone, the playhouse was swiftly converted back to its more normal use as an inn. The stage was taken down, the benches removed and the place made fit to receive horses and coaches once more.

  Most of the work was done by the lesser lights of Westfield’s Men under the control of Nicholas Bracewell. The only job that was left to one of Alexander Marwood’s servants was the onerous one of sweeping a yard that could accumulate the most amazing amount of litter in the course of an afternoon. The man to whom the task was allotted was a hulking giant in a tattered shirt, a pair of ancient breeches and a leather apron. As he swept away with his broom, he sent up a blizzard of dust.

  ‘Hold there, Leonard!’ said Nicholas. ‘A word with you, please.’

  ‘Any time you wish,’ replied the other, grateful for the opportunity to break off. ‘The play went well this afternoon.’

  ‘Did you watch it?’

  ‘Bits of it. I always cry at the end of Black Antonio.’

  ‘That’s a tribute to the actors.’

  ‘I snatched a few minutes here and there, when the landlord was not looking. He hates to see me resting.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know how to rest.’

  Nicholas and Leonard were old friends. They had met in the unlikely venue of a prison, where Nicholas was falsely incarcerated and where Leonard was facing execution because he had accidentally broken the back of a wrestler who challenged all-comers at a fair. Rescued from his fate, Leonard had been unable to return to his old job at a brewery so Nicholas had found him employment at the Queen’s Head. Sweeping the yard, heaving barrels of beer about, cleaning the stables, carrying out simple repairs, helping in the garden and holding horses were only a few of the duties that came his way on a daily basis. Being able to talk to friends like Nicholas Bracewell made such toil more than worthwhile.

  ‘You’ve heard about Hal Bridger no doubt,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Yes, I felt for the lad. He loved Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘His stay with us was all too short, Leonard. What we need to do is to find the man who killed him, and I’m hoping that you can help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The fellow was a stranger to the city – that much I know – so he would need to feel his way around the Queen’s Head to learn how we stage our plays. Nobody in the company was approached,’ Nicholas went on, ‘because I asked them. But you are here all the time and you keep your wits about you.’

  Leonard grinned. ‘What few wits I have, that is.’

  ‘You’ve a quicker mind than some might think. A stranger could easily make that mistake, accosting you because you’d not suspect them of anything. Think, Leonard. Did anyone talk to you about us?’

  ‘Lots of people pass remarks about Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘This was a tall, lean, well-favoured man with a fair beard. Around my own age, I’m told, and dressed like a gentleman. Does that description jog your memory at all?’

  ‘I believe that it does,’ said Leonard, furrowing his brow and running a huge palm across his chin. ‘There was such a man, Nicholas. He spoke to me as I was carrying a pail of milk across the yard.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Three or four days ago.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked about The Malevolent Comedy and where it was like to be performed. He was much as you describe, a pleasant man, easy to talk to and interested in your work.’

  ‘But he only asked about one particular play?’

  ‘Yes, Nicholas. He wanted to know where the actors waited until they took their roles onstage. And so I showed him.’

  ‘You let him see into the tiring-house?’

  ‘Only for a second,’ said Leonard, fearing disapproval. ‘And none of your property was there. I saw no harm in it.’

  ‘Did you recognise the man’s voice?’

  ‘Too soft to be a Londoner, yet not as soft and sweet as yours.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas, proud of his West Country burr. ‘But a soft voice hid a cold heart in the case of this man. I think that he may well have poisoned Hal Bridger.’

  Leonard flushed with guilt. ‘Do you mean that I helped a killer?’

  ‘Not deliberately.’

  ‘I’d have knocked him down, if I’d know that was his ambition.’

  ‘He was here to stop the play for some reason, Leonard, and he chose the most effective method of doing so – he poisoned a member of the cast. I fear he may return.’

  �
��Then I’ll look out for him,’ said Leonard, grimly. ‘He tricked me into helping him murder Hal. That makes me so angry.’

  ‘Control your anger,’ advised Nicholas, ‘and, when you do see the man again, apprehend him and bring him straight to me. He may, of course, be quite innocent of the charge, but I’d rather take no chances.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  They parted company and Leonard went off into the kitchen. Nicholas was about to join the others in the taproom when he saw a woman, hovering at the entrance to the yard. One of the servingmen from the inn was pointing at Nicholas. The man vanished but the woman plucked up the courage to beckon to the book holder. He strode across to her. Nicholas saw the distress in her face when he was ten yards away and guessed who she might be.

  ‘Are you Hal’s mother?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied in a tremulous voice. ‘I want to speak to the man who came to our shop yesterday, one Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘That’s me, Mrs Bridger. Your husband turned me away.’

  ‘He was too hasty in doing so. Hal was our son.’

  ‘I’m glad that one of his parents acknowledges that. But if you wish to talk with me,’ said Nicholas, gently, ‘step inside and we’ll find some privacy.’

  ‘I’ll not come into a tavern,’ she said, shrinking back a foot or two. ‘Especially one that’s used as a playhouse. It’s against everything we believe. This place is a sink of immorality.’

  ‘Then we’ll move away from it,’ volunteered Nicholas, keen to respect her principles. ‘If we go into the lane opposite, we might get away from the worst of the din.’

  Alice Bridger nodded. A thin woman of middle height, she was wearing a simple black dress with a white collar. Under the brim of her hat was a face that had lost its youthful prettiness without acquiring the hardness that distinguished her husband. Nicholas put her ten years younger than Terence Bridger, and sensed a kinder, more sensitive and more generous person. As they waited for a coach to rumble past before crossing the road, she glanced around nervously.

  ‘Your husband does not know that you’re here,’ decided Nicholas.

  ‘I came against his will,’ she said, apologetically. ‘It’s the first time I’ve disobeyed him but I had to know the truth.’

  ‘It will be painful, I fear.’

  Nicholas helped her across the road and into the lane. When they found a doorway, they paused beside it to face each other. He was struck by the resemblance that Hal Bridger had shown to his mother. For her part, she seemed surprised that someone who worked in the theatre could be so polite and agreeable. Nicholas smiled.

  ‘We none of us have cloven feet and forked tails, Mrs Bridger.’

  ‘Do not mock me, sir.’

  ‘I was not doing so,’ said Nicholas, seriously. ‘Before we go any further, let me say that Hal was a credit to the company. I know that you despise the playhouse, but your son was at home with us. He soon made many friends.’

  ‘And you were one of them. Hal told us so.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘No,’ she explained. ‘After he left, my husband would not have him in the house, but Hal wrote to us. His letters were torn up and thrown away before I could read them. But I was curious.’

  ‘So you pieced them together again?’

  ‘They were addressed to both of us.’

  ‘And how did they make you feel?’

  ‘Sad. Very, very sad.’

  ‘For your son?’

  ‘For all of us,’ she confessed. ‘We were married for over twenty years before we were blessed with a child. That’s a long time to wait, a long time to pray. When my son was born, it seemed like a small miracle. We were such a happy family.’

  ‘I’m sorry if that happiness was destroyed. Hal went his own way, as sons are apt to do. I did the same myself at his age. But you did not come to hear about me, Mrs Bridger,’ he added quickly, with a self-effacing smile. ‘You want to know about your son.’

  She clasped her hands tight. ‘Tell me what happened, please.’

  Nicholas could think of few worse places to pass on sad tidings than a narrow lane only twenty yards away from a busy market, and he wished that she had been sitting down when he spoke. She looked frail and likely to faint but her religion gave her an inner strength that helped her through the ordeal. He tried to make it as swift and painless as possible, suppressing the details about the agony that her son had suffered, and emphasising the many good qualities in the boy’s character. All that Alice Bridger had been told was that her son was dead. The news that he had been poisoned made her shudder, but she somehow regained her composure.

  ‘I understand your feelings, Mrs Bridger,’ said Nicholas when he had finished. ‘Your husband left me in no doubt about your attitude to Hal. I regret it deeply, but I accept it. We’ll take full responsibility for his funeral. He’ll be buried in his parish church with his many friends there to mourn him.’

  ‘No,’ she said, breaking her silence. ‘I brought him into the world and I’ll see him out of it. We’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘Will your husband agree to that, Mrs Bridger?’

  ‘That’s our business. As for these friends you talk of,’ she went on, fixing him with a stare, ‘I’d rather that they stayed away.’

  ‘We’d like to show our respect.’

  ‘Then do so at a later date. You’re not wanted at the funeral. Visit his grave, if you must. We cannot stop you doing that.’

  ‘I’ll pass that message on,’ said Nicholas, quietly. ‘And before you go, I wish to do something that your husband prevented me from doing. Hal was a delightful lad and I miss him already. I’d like to offer my sincere condolences.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If there is anything that we can do …’

  ‘No,’ she said interrupting him with a wave of her hand. ‘There’s nothing, sir. You’ve done more than enough already.’

  ‘Hal came to us of his own accord, Mrs Bridger.’

  ‘And look what happened to him as a result.’

  ‘It was a tragic accident. It could have happened to anybody.’

  ‘You are wrong. What happened to our son was deliberate. It was a judgement from heaven on the sinful life he was leading,’ she asserted. ‘Hal was punished for his transgression.’

  By the time that John Vavasor joined them, Saul Hibbert and Cyrus Hame had drunk the best part of a bottle of wine between them. The two playwrights had got on well, finding much in common and talking about their ambitions in the theatre. Vavasor was delighted to find them in such high spirits. Hame had been instructed to befriend Hibbert and win his confidence. It was John Vavasor, a plump, grinning, red-faced man in his forties, who was primed to offer the bait.

  ‘More wine here, I think,’ he said, lowering his bulk onto a seat at the table. A flick of the fingers brought a serving wench. Vavasor tapped the bottle on the table. ‘The same again, please, and another cup.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said and bobbed away.

  ‘So – this is the celebrated Saul Hibbert, is it?’ said the newcomer, eyeing him. ‘So young, so handsome and so supremely talented.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hibbert.

  ‘I envy you, sir. I am old, unsightly and only half-talented.’

  ‘I make up the other half,’ said Hame, gaily. ‘Apart, we struggle for recognition, but, together we can produce a play worthy of the name.’

  ‘Lamberto is far more than worthy,’ said Hibbert. ‘I’m honoured to share a table with its authors.’

  ‘The honour is entirely ours,’ insisted Vavasor.

  A new bottle and a cup soon arrived. After pouring the last of the old bottle into his cup, Vavasor added some wine from the other bottle. Then he lifted his cup in a gesture of congratulation before sipping his drink. Hibbert took a moment to weigh him up. The older man presented a sharp contrast to his friend. While the latter hailed from Lincoln, Vavasor was a Londoner. His suit was expensive but du
ll, his face decidedly ugly and his voice coarsened by too much tobacco. He looked more like a debauched country lawyer than an eminent playwright. Cyrus Hame poured more wine into Hibbert’s cup and his own.

  ‘I told Saul that he would be better off with Banbury’s Men.’

  ‘Substantially better,’ said Vavasor.

  ‘How much did they pay you?’ asked Hame.

  ‘Four pounds,’ replied Hibbert, ‘with the promise of another pound if the play has more than ten performances within a month.’

  ‘We were paid five pounds for Lamberto.’

  ‘But that’s divided between the two of you.’

  ‘Cyrus took most of it,’ said Vavasor, genially, ‘because he has to pay his tailor and his wine merchant. I had the sense to marry wealth so money is immaterial to me. I write for rewards of the heart.’

  ‘Banbury’s Men will give us six pounds for our next play,’ boasted Hame, ‘and they’ve never paid that much before to anyone. We’ve set a standard where you could follow, Saul.’

  ‘Are you not afraid that I’d compete with you?’ said Hibbert.

  ‘Not at all. The stage at the Curtain will accommodate all three of us with ease. Besides, you write comedies whereas John and I are born tragedians.’

  ‘How do you get on with Lawrence Firethorn?’ wondered Vavasor.

  ‘Well enough,’ replied Hibbert.

  ‘Then you fared much better than me. When I took a play of mine to him, he sent me away with a flea in my ear. I’d never heard such foul language,’ he recalled, grimacing. ‘Firethorn threw the play back at me as if it gave off a nasty smell. I’d not work for that monster if the Queen herself commanded it.’

  ‘Yet he’s a magnificent actor.’

  ‘In certain roles.’

  ‘I wrote Lord Loveless with him in mind.’

  ‘And he played it well enough,’ agreed Hame, ‘but I fancy that Giles Randolph could have played it better.’

  ‘Does he have a gift for comedy?’

  ‘For comedy, tragedy, history or any combination of the three,’ said Vavasor. ‘More to the point, he knows how to nourish new talent like ours – and like yours, Saul.’