‘It is Nick’s forgiveness you should seek, Ambrose. Not mine. He would never have ventured into Blackfriars except on an errand from you.’
‘True, true. I spoke out of turn. I crave his pardon.’
There was a bungling politeness about the man which made Nicholas wonder yet again how he had wormed his way into Anne’s affections, but the book holder had given his word in front of her and could not go back on that now.
‘This is bound to force a delay,’ he explained, ‘and it may be some time before I can secure an interview with Master Fulbeck’s assistant or with Raphael Parsons. When they have a murder on their hands, we cannot expect them to put the future of one chorister to the forefront of their minds.’
‘Philip is at the forefront of my mind always!’ said the father proudly. ‘We must rescue him. If there is a killer stalking the Blackfriars playhouse, my son must be brought back to the safety of his own home as soon as possible. His own life may be at risk.’
‘We must let Nick handle this,’ said Anne.
‘Of course, of course.’
‘He will judge when the time is right to go back.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Nicholas to the butcher, ‘you must temper your anger with a little patience. Your son may not be as ill-used as you fear. While at Blackfriars Theatre, we took the opportunity to speak with the porter there, one Geoffrey Bless, who has been involved with the choristers for many a year. He knows them all by name and spoke well of young Philip Robinson.’
‘What did he say?’ demanded the father.
‘Little beyond the fact that the lad always had a civil word for him and worked as hard as he was able. Your son is a diligent and talented chorister.’
‘That much is not in doubt.’
‘One thing still is,’ said Nicholas. ‘Philip is not the sole victim of Raphael Parsons. All the boys are swinged soundly if they do not attain the high standards which he sets them. Yet none of them is trying to leave the Chapel Children or writing home to entreat some intercession from a parent.’
Robinson’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Your son is the only apostate. Why is that?’
‘You read his letters. You could see his terror.’
‘His friends do not seem to share it.’
‘I do not care a fig for the others!’
‘Ambrose!’ reprimanded Anne.
‘My son is in pain. I must save him.’
‘Nicholas is working to that end.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the book holder, ‘and the more facts I have at my disposal, the better am I able to act on his behalf. That is why I would like to know why eleven choristers can tolerate a situation that one finds quite unendurable. I will look into it. Bear this in mind, however. Westfield’s Men have first claim on my time and my energy.’
‘I explained that,’ said Anne.
‘I want to hear that Master Robinson understands it.’
The butcher squirmed slightly in his seat before nodding his assent. His face moved slowly into a smile of appeasement, but Nicholas saw the muted resentment in his eyes. Ambrose Robinson was evidently a man who could shift from friendship to enmity with no intervening stages. He was no longer taking such obvious satisfaction from the demise of Cyril Fulbeck. He was dripping with envy. Accustomed to slaughtering animals with brutal efficiency, he felt cheated that the Master of the Chapel had escaped the even more horrific death that he would have inflicted upon him.
Nicholas also sensed danger of another kind, and it touched off his protective instinct again. Anne Hendrik had to be guarded from the man. The butcher would pursue his own ends with single-minded determination. Rescuing his son from the Chapel Children was the normal act of a concerned parent, but Nicholas now realised that it was only the first stage in Robinson’s domestic plans. Marriage to Anne Hendrik was his next target. In confiding his problem to her, he had both flattered her by showing such trust and activated all her maternal impulses. Anne was wholly committed to the rescue of Philip Robinson.
Annoyed at first to be inveigled into the situation in which he found himself, Nicholas was now almost grateful. It would not only introduce him to the Chapel Children and give him an insight into the way that his young theatrical rivals operated, it would enable him to keep a watchful eye on the amorous butcher.
‘When will you go back to Blackfriars?’ asked Robinson.
‘When time serves,’ said Nicholas.
‘Please inform me of everything that happens.’
‘I will get in touch with Anne.’
Her smile of gratitude was a rich reward for his pains.
***
Success was an ephemeral pleasure in the theatre. It soon evaporated and could never be taken for granted. The day after the Queen’s Head had reverberated to the cheers for The Misfortunes of Marriage, the troupe were back on the same makeshift stage to rehearse The History of King John. It was a staple drama from their repertoire and was beginning to look well worn. Edmund Hoode patched it assiduously each time it was played again, but even his art could not turn the piece into anything more than workmanlike chronicle. In the wake of Jonas Applegarth’s play, it was bound to look dull and uninspiring. Westfield’s Men would have to strive hard in order to lift King John to the level of a minor achievement. It could never emulate the triumph that was The Misfortunes of Marriage.
Lawrence Firethorn was all too conscious of this fact.
‘From a mountain peak,’ he said, striking a pose, ‘down to the foothills. From cold Sir Marcus to Bad King John.’
‘The play has served us well in the past,’ reminded Edmund Hoode. ‘You have Magna Carta-red your way through it fifty times without complaint.’
‘That was before we had Jonas Applegarth.’
Hoode recoiled visibly. He was less hurt by the blow to his pride than by the implications of Firethorn’s remark. The playwright had gritted his teeth to endure close proximity to Applegarth in the hope that the latter was a bird of passage. Was a more permanent relationship with the company now envisaged? Hoode was bound to wonder where that eventuality would leave its resident playwright.
‘No offence meant to you,’ said Firethorn hastily, when he saw the dismay on the other’s face. ‘And it will not affect your position among us in any way, Edmund.’
‘I am relieved to hear that.’
‘You will always be our leading author. You are the very foundation of Westfield’s Men. Take but you away and we all tumble into a bottomless pit.’
He went off for a few minutes into such a fulsome paean of praise that Hoode lowered his guard. They were standing in the innyard after the morning’s rehearsal. Five yards away was the stage on which most of Hoode’s plays had first come to life before an admiring audience. Firethorn’s eulogy bolstered his self-esteem and made him feel deeply heartened. It did not last. Reassurance soon changed to dread.
‘On the other hand,’ warned Firethorn, ‘we would be fools to spurn a dramatic jewel when it falls into our lap, and The Misfortunes of Marriage is unquestionably such a jewel. That is why we must stage it again.’
‘Again?’
‘Again and again and again.’
‘It is to be our sole offering, then?’
‘Of course not, Edmund. Every jewel needs a setting and we will surround it with baser material.’
‘My plays!’
‘No, not yours,’ said Firethorn, trying to placate him. ‘Well, not only yours. That does not mean your art is base or merely semi-precious. Far from it, man. You shower the stage with diamonds every time you pick up your pen and dazzle every eye. But Jonas has given us a much larger stone.’