‘You saw qualities in him that eluded me.’
‘I may be wrong, James. I hope that I am.’
‘He spoke so warmly of Cyril Fulbeck,’ said Ingram, ‘and I can forgive a man most things if he does that. For what it is worth, my judgement is in his favour. I do not believe that Raphael Parsons was involved in this crime.’
‘I delay my verdict on that.’
‘He shook with grief when he talked of the murder.’
‘It is a grief that is not allowed to interfere with his business affairs,’ remarked Nicholas coolly. ‘He may mourn his partner but he has not suspended performances at the Blackfriars as a mark of respect. His company are due to perform again tomorrow, young actors who must themselves be consumed with their own grief and beset by terror. Master Parsons tempers his sorrow with an instinct for gain.’
‘That is strange behaviour.’
‘Strange and unfeeling. What was his profession before he became a theatre manager?’
‘He was a lawyer.’
‘That explains much.’
They finished their drinks, then Nicholas took his leave. He crossed to the table at which Owen Elias was sitting with other members of the company, trading impersonations of the luckless John Tallis. Nicholas waited for the laughter to subside. Crouching beside the Welshman, he plucked his sleeve and kept his voice low.
‘Will you undertake a special task for me?’
‘Willingly, Nick.’
‘Go about it privily.’
‘A secretive assignment? You arouse my curiosity at once. What is it?’
‘The rumour is that Jonas fought a duel.’
‘More than a rumour. I know it to be a fact.’
‘Find out who his opponent was.’
‘Why?’
‘Jonas was attacked last night as we walked home,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘The ambush may be linked in some way to the duel. We need to recognise the face of the enemy so that we may safeguard Jonas from him.’
‘He made no mention to me of any ambush.’
‘He denies it happened in the same way as he refuses to admit that he was involved in a duel. But I was there when a dagger was thrown at him. Jonas is one of us now. Though he may spurn it, he needs our help.’
‘This is work I’ll readily accept, Nick,’ said Elias with concern. ‘I am grateful you chose me for the task.’
‘You can get closer to him than me.’
‘That is because Jonas and I are birds of the same feather. Roisterers with red blood in our veins. Lovers of life and troubadours of the tavern. We were both born to carouse.’ Elias grinned. ‘I need him alive to buy his share of the ale. Besides, he’s asked me to teach him some Welsh songs. I’ll not let an assassin kill my fellow-chorister.’
‘Then we must find the man before he strikes again.’
‘I’ll about it straight.’ He looked around the taproom. ‘Jonas was here even now. Where is the fellow?’
‘Returned home.’
‘When danger lurks in the streets? He is too careless. Each time he goes abroad, he is at risk. Jonas needs protection.’
‘I arranged it,’ Nicholas assured him. ‘Have no fear. He had a companion on his journey. By now, he will be safely bestowed in his house.’
***
The Maids of Honour had amused Jonas Applegarth for a couple of hours that afternoon, but it also fed his arrogance. He regarded the play as vastly inferior to anything he had written and voiced that opinion loudly in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. Watching one comedy prompted him to work on another. After only one tankard of ale, therefore, he left the inn to waddle back to his house.
When Nathan Curtis fell in beside him, it never occurred to Applegarth that the carpenter had been assigned to act as his bodyguard. He was happy enough to have jocular company on the walk back home, not pausing to wonder for a moment why a man who lived in Bankside was walking in the opposite direction. The sturdy presence of Curtis kept any potential attacker at bay. Once Curtis saw the playwright enter his house, he turned his steps back towards the river. The duty which Nicholas Bracewell had given him was discharged.
Jonas Applegarth clambered up the stairs to the little room at the front of the house. He sat down before a table set under the window and covered in sheets of parchment. After sharpening his pen, he dipped it into the inkwell and wrote with a swift hand. The surge of creativity kept him bent over the table for an hour. Evening shadows obliged him to light a candle and he used its flame to read what he had written. Pleased with his progress, he took up his pen once more.
Hugh Naismith watched it all from the cover of a fetid lane opposite the house. While the actor stood in a stinking quagmire, the playwright sat in comfort in his window as he created a new theatrical gem to set before the playgoers of London. Naismith spat with disgust. The difference in their stations rankled. He was cast into the wilderness by a man whose career was now flourishing. It was unjust.
The sight of Jonas Applegarth made his rage smoulder. As he breathed in the foul air, he contemplated the various ways in which he could kill his enemy, dwelling longest on those which inflicted the greatest pain and humiliation.
***
Nicholas Bracewell approached the house from the far end of the street so that he did not have to walk past the premises owned by Ambrose Robinson. It irked him that since Anne Hendrik stepped back into his life, he had not yet managed to have a proper conversation alone with her.
When the servant opened the door to him, Nicholas heard voices within and feared that the truculent neighbour was already there, but the visitor was in fact a good friend.
‘It is wonderful to see you again, Master Bracewell!’
‘Thank you, Preben.’
‘We have missed you in Bankside.’
‘I lodge north of the river now.’
‘That is our loss.’
Preben van Loew was the senior hatmaker in the business which Anne Hendrik had inherited from her late husband and which she managed in the adjoining building. A spectral figure in a black skull-cap, the old Dutchman embraced Nicholas warmly before quitting the house. Anne herself waited until they were alone in the parlour before she gave him her welcome.
‘This is a lovely surprise, Nick!’
‘Do I call at an inconvenient hour?’
Her answer came in the form of a light kiss on the cheek. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, but she moved to a seat and gestured for him to sit opposite her. There was a long pause as they simply luxuriated in the pleasure of being together again. Nicholas let a tidal wave of fond memories wash over him. When it passed, he was left with a profound sense of loss and of waste. Why had he walked away from a house which had given him so much happiness?
‘What did you play this afternoon?’ she asked.
‘The Maids of Honour.’
‘I have seen the piece more than once.’
‘Not quite as it was performed today,’ he said wryly. ‘John Tallis came to grief at a most unfortunate moment. His voice broke as he was about to marry the Prince of Navarre.’
‘Poor boy!’
‘He is a man now.’
Nicholas recounted the incident in full and the two of them were soon sharing a chuckle. It was just like old times when the book holder would repair to his lodging and divert her with tales from the innyard of the Queen’s Head. Each day brought new adventures. A theatre company inhabited a world of extremes. Anne was a kind audience, interested and responsive, always rejoicing in the heady triumphs of Westfield’s Men while sympathising with their numerous disasters. Her bright-eyed curiosity in his work was one of the things that he missed most.
‘How goes it with you?’ he asked softly.
‘The business fares well.’
‘Good.’
‘We are to take on a new apprentice.’
‘Preben will teach him his trade.’
‘I have learnt much from him myself.’
Nicholas nodded. ‘And the house?’
‘What about it?’
‘Do you have a lodger here?’