‘And you?’
‘I must to the Coroner to sign a sworn statement of how the body of Jonas Applegarth came to be discovered. Nathan Curtis waits for me there. Then I’ll to the playhouse.’
‘The Curtain? The Theatre? The Rose?’
‘Blackfriars,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is where this riddle first started and where it will finally be solved.’
***
As the finger of guilt pointed at him once more, Edmund Hoode shut his eyes against its silent accusation. He only half-heard the argument that was raging nearby. Barnaby Gill and Lawrence Firethorn were sitting with him in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. Inflamed with drink, they locked horns.
‘Why was the performance canceled?’ demanded Gill.
‘Out of respect for the dead,’ said Firethorn.
‘I was not consulted.’
‘The decision was taken for us, Barnaby. Even you must see that. We could not stage a play in the yard while Jonas Applegarth was dangling from a beam in the storeroom.’
‘He was cut down and carted away hours ago.’
‘His memory remains.’
‘I believe that you did this out of spite, Lawrence.’
‘Spite?’
‘Yes!’ screamed Gill, working himself up into a full tantrum. ‘Cupid’s Folly should have been played today. A piece tailored to my genius. Audiences clamour for it time and again. You tore it off the stage to spite me.’
‘That is madness!’
‘You know how I rule the roost in Cupid’s Folly. They adore me. They love to see my performance as Rigormortis.’
‘Why, so do I!’ said Firethorn with sarcasm. ‘I would give anything to look upon your rigor mortis.’
‘Spite!’
‘Go rot!’
‘The play was cancelled out of spite.’
‘Is that why Jonas Applegarth got himself hanged? In order to spite you? “Pray, good sir, put that noose around my neck so that I may aggravate Barnaby Gill.” Think of someone else for a change, man. Sigh for the loss of a friend. That is what Edmund does.’ He nudged the playwright hard. ‘Do you not?’
Hoode opened his eyes. ‘What’s that you say?’
‘You are in mourning for Jonas, are you not?’
‘Yes, Lawrence. I mourn and I repent. As God is my witness, I must speak honestly. I writhe with guilt.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wished the poor fellow dead.’
‘So did I and so did every man,’ said Gill. ‘Why deny it? We hated him. Jonas Applegarth was an earthquake in our midst. See how we shake at his passing.’
‘I would rather remember how the audience shook at his play,’ said Firethorn proudly. ‘They trembled with amazement at the sorcery of his imagination and shook with laughter at the sharpness of his wit. What use is theatre if it be not a two-hour earthquake? Why do the spectators come if not to feel the ground move beneath their feet?’
‘Lawrence is right,’ admitted Hoode. ‘Jonas Applegarth had the power to move mountains.’
‘Yes,’ snapped Gill. ‘He did that every time he opened his bowels. His buttocks were mountains indeed.’
‘Do not speak ill of the dead!’ chided Firethorn.
‘It is unjust,’ said Hoode. ‘In a moment of envy, I may have wished for his death, but I regret his passing now. He brought much to Westfield’s Men. Mark it well. A great value has gone out of our lives.’
‘He had whispers of genius,’ said Gill grudgingly. ‘I give him that. But he might have chosen another day to die. Cupid’s Folly is an appalling loss. I have seventeen magical moments in the play and he has robbed me of every one of them!’ He rose to his feet. ‘“Cruel death hath stolen my Rigormortis from me.”’
Quoting his lines from the play, he flounced off. Hoode poured them both more wine from the jug. Alexander Marwood came buzzing around them with his woes.
‘What am I to do? Where am I to go?’
‘As far out of my sight as you can,’ said Firethorn.
‘Murder was committed on my premises. Guests have fled. Spectators have stayed away. My serving-men and ostlers are too frightened to do their offices. My wife is distraught. My daughter had taken to her bed. I am dead, sirs.’
‘We’ll sing lustily at your funeral.’
‘I blame you, Master Firethorn.’
‘For what?’
‘Bringing that heathen among us,’ said the landlord. ‘His play all but caused an affray in my yard. Jonas Applegarth dared to mock God and the Almighty has given His reply. You should not have let that heathen befoul my yard with his irreverence!’
‘Let him rest in peace,’ said Hoode. ‘He is gone.’
‘And taken my livelihood with it!’
Marwood’s twitch suddenly broke out around his mouth and both lips trembled so dramatically that they looked like a pair of fluttering wings. His words were distorted into grunts and whines. It rescued them from further persecution and the landlord stole away, holding his mouth in both hands lest it take flight.
‘Which is worse?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Marwood with his twitch or Barnaby with his rigor mortis?’ He lifted his cup of wine. ‘Let’s drink to Jonas!’
‘I’ll say Amen to that!’ added Hoode.
‘We have lost a playwright but his play lives on. The Misfortunes of Marriage must be staged again in tribute.’
‘But not at The Rose next week.’
‘Are we to have that argument all over again?’
‘No, Lawrence,’ said Hoode, becoming more assertive. ‘The matter is settled. My new play will grace The Rose, as you promised. Choose another time for the tribute to Jonas Applegarth. I’ll not forfeit my right.’
There was a glint in his eye which forbade any further debate. Hoode was reaffirming his position in the company. Firethorn gave a nod of agreement, then leaned in close.
‘What is her name, Edmund?’
‘Whose name?’
‘This fairy princess who has waved a wand over you.’
‘I know of no fairies or wands.’
‘Come, sir. You talk to a master of the sport. I am a denizen of dark bedchambers. I know how a woman can make your blood race. Love has put this vigour into you. Some enchantress has stroked your manhood upright at last.’ He slipped an arm around Hoode. ‘Who is she?’
‘An invention of your mind.’
‘Am I never to meet this goddess?’
‘What goddess?’
‘Share her wonder with me.’
‘How can I?’ said Hoode, coolly. ‘She does not exist.’
‘Someone has put this new spirit into you.’
But Edmund Hoode would not be drawn. Cecily Gilbourne was a secret he would share with no-one. She had enlarged his mind and captured his soul. With her in his life, he felt, he could achieve anything. He recalled the one omission in her catalogue of his work.
‘When do we play Pompey again?’ he asked.
‘It has fallen out of our repertoire.’
‘Insert it back in, Lawrence.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I tell you. I, too, can make the earth quake on occasion, nowhere more so than in my tale of Pompey. See him put upon the stage once more. Those who remember him will welcome him back and he is sure to win fresh hearts.’
He thought of Cecily Gilbourne and smiled serenely.
***
Blackfriars Theatre brought a steady flow of spectators into the precinct. The reputation of the Chapel Children grew with each performance and the murder of their Master seemed to encourage interest rather than to deter it. Some came out of love for Cyril Fulbeck and others out of morbid curiosity, but the result was that the whole precinct was soon swarming with playgoers. Where the Dominican Order once held sway, Alexander the Great would now march in triumph.
Nicholas Bracewell arrived well before the performance was due to begin and loitered in the Great Yard to study the composition of the milling crowd. The audience differed markedly from that normally seen at the Queen’s Head. Westfield’s Men played to patrons drawn from every rank of society. Aristocrats, artisans and apprentices would share the same space as lawyers, landowners and local politicians. Merchants and mathematicians sat in the balcony while punks and pickpockets mingled with the standees in the pit.