‘My debt has been fully repaid,’ she continued. ‘I owe Ambrose nothing now. What I do for him, I do out of simple friendship for I would see him reunited with his son.’
‘That may prove difficult.’
‘You have looked further into it?’
‘The deed of impressment has the might of the law behind it. Philip Robinson belongs to the Chapel Royal.’
‘Can he not be released by any means?’
‘It seems not.’
‘Have you spoken again to Raphael Parsons?’
‘He is not the stumbling block,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor was he responsible for having the boy impressed. That was Cyril Fulbeck’s doing. He is now dead and the lad is answerable to the Assistant Master of the Chapel.’
‘But Master Parsons is the real tyrant here.’
‘Not so.’
‘He is the one who makes Philip’s life such an ordeal. He shouts at the boy, beats him and forces him to act upon the stage. He makes the whole company work from dawn till dusk without respite. It is cruel. Complain to him. Exert pressure there. Raphael Parsons is the problem.’
‘One problem, perhaps. But there is a bigger one.’
‘What is that?’
‘Philip Robinson himself.’
‘In what way?’
‘He enjoys being one of the Chapel Children.’
‘There is nothing he loathes more.’
‘I have seen the boy, Anne,’ Nick argued. ‘I watched him play in Alexander the Great this afternoon. He was a delight to behold. He acted well and sang beautifully, all with true zest. I tell you this. I would make Philip Robinson an apprentice with Westfield’s Men without a qualm. We will need a replacement for John Tallis now his voice has deepened into manhood. If he were not already ensconced at Blackfriars, the lad would be ideal.’
‘I find this hard to believe. Philip enjoys it?’
‘He has found his true profession.’
‘Then why are his letters so full of misery? Why does he rail at Raphael Parsons so? Why does Philip beg his father to come and rescue him from his imprisonment?’
‘He does none of these things, Anne.’
‘He does. I read his tales of woe and so did you.’
‘What we read were letters given to us by the father,’ said Nicholas. ‘We only have his word that they were written by his son. Ambrose Robinson has been a good neighbour to you and I respect him for that, but I beg leave to doubt his honesty. I believe that we have been misled.’
***
It was an unsatisfactory confessional box. The lane beside the Elephant in Shoreditch was too public for Owen Elias’s liking. Revellers kept arriving at the inn or tumbling out of it. Grabbing his quarry by the neck, therefore, Elias marched him through a maze of back streets until they found a small house which had collapsed in upon itself. The Welshman kicked Hugh Naismith into the ruins and made him sit on a pile of rubble.
‘Peace at last!’ said Elias. ‘Now-talk!’
‘I’ve done nothing to you,’ bleated Naismith.
‘You offend my sight. Apart from that, you have the stink of Banbury’s Men about you and that’s even more revolting. Tell me about Jonas Applegarth.’
A slow smile spread. ‘He’s dead. That’s why I went to the Elephant. To drink to his departure.’
‘Take care I do not drink to yours!’ warned Elias, still brandishing his dagger. ‘Jonas was a friend. Remember that if you wish to stay alive.’
‘He was no friend of mine.’
‘So I hear. You fought a duel. He bested you.’
‘Only by chance.’
‘He should have run you through like the dog you are.’
‘He gave me this,’ said Naismith, holding up the sling. ‘Banbury’s Men had no work for an actor with only one arm.’
‘Is that why you sought to kill Jonas?’
‘No!’
‘Is that why you threw a dagger at his back?’
‘I never did that!’
‘Do not lie to me or I’ll cut your mangy carcass to pieces and feed it to the crows. You stalked him, did you not?’
‘That I do admit,’ grunted Naismith.
‘You followed him home last night and ran away when I saw you. Do you admit that as well?’
‘Yes. It was me.’
‘Hoping for a chance to throw another dagger.’
‘No! That would have been too merciful a death. Jonas Applegarth deserved to be roasted slowly over a hot fire with an apple in his mouth like any other pig.’
‘Enough!’
Elias slapped him hard across the face and the man keeled over onto the ground. The Welshman knelt beside him.
‘Insult his memory again and you will join him.’
‘Stay, sir!’ pleased Naismith.
‘Then tell me the truth.’
‘I have done so. I despised Jonas Applegarth. I wanted him dead but lacked the opportunity to kill him.’
‘You mean, you hurled a dagger and it missed.’
‘How could I?’
Naismith help up his free hand. The bandage was now removed but the hand was still badly swollen and a livid gash ran from the wrist to the back of the forefinger.
‘I can hardly lift a tankard,’ he said bitterly. ‘How could I hope to throw a dagger? It was not me!’
Elias saw the truth of his denial. Naismith was not their would-be assassin. He had been watching Applegarth in order to feed his hatred of the man, waiting until his wounds healed enough for him strike back at his enemy.
‘Why did you fight the duel?’ asked Elias.
‘He challenged me.’
‘Something you said?’
‘And something I did not say,’ explained Naismith. ‘We played Friar Francis at The Curtain. It was a clever comedy but full of such sourness and savagery that it was not fit for the stage. I said as much and he took me to task. I hated the play. It bubbled like a witch’s brew. He cursed the whole world in it. Then came the performance itself.’
‘What happened?’
‘We were all at odds with Applegarth by then. He made Friar Francis a descent into Hell for us. Everyone swore to hit back at him but I alone had the courage.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I changed his lines.’
‘Jonas would not have liked that.’
‘Why speak such slander against mankind when it stuck so in my throat? I wrote my own speeches instead. They had less wit but far more sweetness.’
‘No wonder he wanted to cut your heart out!’
‘Jonas Applegarth put words in my mouth I simply could not say. What else could I do?’
But Elias was not listening. Convinced that Naismith did not throw the dagger at his friend’s back, he was already asking himself a question.
Who did?
***
Edmund Hoode ascended the staircase at the Unicorn with far more alacrity this time. Summoned that evening by another sketch of the fabled beast, he responded immediately. A day of mourning might yet be redeemed. Bereavement was dragging him down with his fellows. He had sighed enough for Jonas Applegarth. Sighs of a different order were now in prospect.
Only when he reached the landing did he stop to consider how little he really knew of Cecily Gilbourne. Was she married? A lady of her age and beauty was unlikely to have remained single. Was she widowed? Divorced even? And where did she live? In London or beyond? Alone or with her family? He winced slightly. Did she have children?
‘My mistress is ready for you, sir.’
The maidservant was holding the door of the chamber open for him. All his doubts melted away. Cecily Gilbourne was sublime. Her age, her marital status, her place of abode and her familial situation were irrelevant. It mattered not if she had three husbands, four houses and five children. She was evidently a lady of wealth and social position. More to the point, she was a woman of keen discernment where drama was concerned. One feature set her above every other member of her sex. Cecily Gilbourne was his.