Jarrold laughed. ‘That proves my point. They were like twins. Michael and Stephen did everything together. Their minds coalesced into one.’
‘In what sense, Master Jarrold?’
‘Look at the title of this new play.’
‘The Siege of Troy?’
‘I saw a play by Stephen Wragby performed at Cambridge only a few years ago. It was on exactly the same subject,’ said Jarrold. ‘Except that it was written in Greek.’
Ralph Olgrave would never have identified the man on the slab at the morgue if it had not been for the damage to his skull. He moved some yards away from the stink of decay to speak to the coroner.
‘And they gave his name as Hywel Rees?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Master Olgrave.’
‘Did they give you their names as well?’
‘I insisted on it,’ said the coroner, fussily. ‘I do not admit strangers to the morgue to view the cadavers. That’s a ghoulish occupation and I’ll not allow it.’
‘So who were they? Was one of them called Nicholas Bracewell?’
‘Yes, I believe that he was.’
‘And the other?’
‘A sturdy Welshman by the name of Owen Elias.’
‘A Welshman?’
Olgrave was unhappy to hear that. It suggested that the dead man had a relative or friend who was searching for him, someone who would feel obliged to join the hunt for the killer of Hywel Rees. That was worrying. Nicholas Bracewell had an assistant.
‘How would I find these gentlemen?’ said Olgrave.
‘They left no address with me, sir.’
‘Have you any idea where they might have come from?’
‘I cannot answer for the one,’ said the old man, ‘but I could hazard a guess about the other. The Welshman is an actor. There was something about the way he dressed and spoke and held himself. Owen Elias belongs on a stage. If you wish to find him, search the playhouses for that is where he’ll be.’
‘I fancy that Nicholas Bracewell might be there as well,’ said Olgrave to himself, as he remembered their earlier encounter. ‘For he is no mean actor.’
Adversity usually brought out the best in Westfield’s Men but that was not the case with Love and Fortune. Dressed in assorted costumes that were visibly the wrong size, shape and colour, the actors were inexplicably tentative in a play that they had performed many times. Entrances were missed, lines forgotten or gabbled too quickly, and properties knocked clumsily over. None of the actors rose above competence. Lawrence Firethorn was uninspired, Barnaby Gill lacklustre and Owen Elias strangely out of sorts. Even the reliable Richard Honeydew, taking the role of the heroine in a wig and a borrowed costume, was unable to lift the play. The audience grew restive.
Some of the unintended humour worked to their advantage. Spectators who were unfamiliar with the play, shook with glee when James Ingram inadvertently dropped a chalice to the floor or when Frank Quilter came onstage too soon and collided with the departing George Dart, sublimely unsuited to all three of the small parts allotted to him. Those who had seen the comedy before, however, found it disappointing fare and several began to drift away long before the performance ended. A tepid round of applause told the company what it already knew. They had failed.
Firethorn was relieved to escape into the safety of the tiring-house. Flinging himself down on a bench, he put his head in his hands. Nicholas came over to him.
‘It might have been worse,’ he observed.
‘Yes,’ moaned Firethorn, ‘Lord Westfield might have been here to witness our shame.’
‘You redeemed yourselves in the last act.’
‘That was fear and not redemption, Nick. We had to get something right or they’d have started throwing things at us. As it was, the insults were beginning to fly.’
‘We’ll make amends tomorrow.’
‘How? By playing The Knights of Malta in these borrowed costumes?’ He plucked at his doublet. ‘Whoever heard of a proud knight in remnants such as these?’
Elias heard him. ‘Do you mind, Lawrence?’ he said, indignantly. ‘You happen to be wearing my finest apparel.’
‘It was certainly not tailored to fit me, Owen. It ruined my performance.’
‘It’s a poor actor who blames his costume.’
‘And a poor judge of taste who chooses this as his best doublet?’
‘I’ll not be insulted,’ warned Elias, pugnaciously.
‘Stand off, Owen,’ said Nicholas, easing him away. ‘He does not mean to upset you. The fault lies not in our wardrobe but in the effect that our losses have had upon us. To lose Edmund was bad enough. To have our takings stolen and our wardrobe plundered has put a strain on all of us. We’ll vindicate our reputation tomorrow.’
‘Our reputation as what?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Fools and imbeciles? Did you see what happened out there today? We were all blundering about the stage like so many demented George Darts.’
‘I did my best, Master Firethorn,’ said Dart, meekly.
Nicholas gave him a kind smile. ‘You always do, George. Thank you.’
‘That was the idiot you designated to hold the book today,’ remarked Firethorn. ‘Imagine how much worse it would have been if that had happened. Fire and brimstone! They’d have skinned us alive for our mistakes.’
‘Tomorrow, we’ll improve,’ said Nicholas. ‘Crying over our mistakes achieves nothing. We must strive to put them right.’
‘How can we do that, if our book holder wants to leave us?’
‘I’ll be here. I give you my word.’
‘That’s some relief at least.’
‘You’ll gain some more, if you go home early this evening,’ advised Nicholas, quietly. ‘Master Jarrold told me how late you returned last night. I think we both know the reason why.’ Firethorn looked guiltily up at him. ‘How can you condemn others for going astray when you take the same path yourself?’
‘But I came so close to winning,’ said Firethorn in a whisper.
‘Would that have made it right to set such an example to the others?’
‘No, Nick. I’m justly reproached. The lure of gain blinded me to all else. Margery must never find out, or she’ll ban me from her bed in perpetuity.’
‘She’ll hear nothing from me.’
‘Nor me.’ He pursed his lips in recrimination. ‘Oh, I rue the day that Philomen Lavery came to stay at the Queen’s Head. He corrupted all our judgements.’
‘Put him and his pack of cards behind you. He’ll soon be gone.’
‘So will Margery’s brother-in-law, thank heaven. Dear God! Why did Jonathan have to visit us now when we are at our wits’ end? He’s one more burden on my back. Let him go back to Cambridge and stay there.’
‘I was pleased to meet him at last.’
‘Jonathan Jarrold? The man is tedium made manifest.’
‘Not so,’ said Nicholas, recalling what he had been told about Cambridge. ‘I found his conversation very illuminating.’
He broke away to supervise the dismantling of the stage and the storing of costumes and properties. Since so many garments had been borrowed, he asked Wegges to take particular care of them. Nicholas was following an established routine but he was impatient, tied to his duties at the Queen’s Head when he wanted to be investigating a murder. While he laboured for Westfield’s Men, his mind was on Bridewell.
Joseph Beechcroft was still perturbed. He and his partner were in the room at Bridewell that they used as an office. Beechcroft drummed his fingers nervously on the table.
‘How do we even know that the fellow was an actor?’ he said. ‘That was only the coroner’s guess. Owen Elias could just as easily have been a weaver or a tailor.’
‘No,’ said Olgrave. ‘Have faith in the coroner. His whole life is spent in making judgements of character. He’ll weigh a man up, whether he be alive or dead. If he picked this one out as an actor, then I trust his word.’
‘But we sent someone to enquire at The Rose and they came back empty-handed. It was so at the two playhouses in Shoreditch. Owen Elias was not there.’