‘It was uncalled for, Ambrose.’
‘You are right to chide me.’
‘I will not tolerate another outburst like that,’ she warned him. ‘Master your anger or my door will be barred to you. Wild accusation has no part in friendship.’
‘I know, I know. My rudeness is only exceeded by my gross stupidity. I love my son and would move Heaven and Earth to get him back. Yet what do I do? Carp and cavil. Malign the one man who may help me.’
‘The one man?’
‘Let us be frank,’ he said with rancour. ‘The law fails me. Were Philip the son of a gentleman, the case could go to court with some chance of success. Since he is only the child of a butcher, he is beyond salvation. That deed of impressment is a set of chains.’ He took a step towards her. ‘That is why we must work by other means. We must trust Nick Bracewell to insinuate himself into Blackfriars and use persuasion to set Philip free. Why did I dare to censure him? Nick is our only hope.’
Anne was in a quandary. She wanted Philip Robinson released from the Chapel Royal, partly because she believed that father and son should be together and partly because she felt that the boy’s return would liberate her from the now irksome attentions of the butcher. A new factor had come into her calculations. Should she remain silent or should she confront Ambrose Robinson with it?
His earnest enquiry forced her to make a decision.
‘Has there been further word from Nick?’ he asked.
‘I spoke with him at length.’
‘And?’
‘He visited Blackfriars this afternoon,’ she said, ‘and watched a play there. Philip was in the cast.’
‘Dressed up as a woman, no doubt! Wearing a wig and daubing his face with powder! Strutting around the stage like a Bankside harlot for any man to ogle!’ He scowled at her. ‘I want my son to grow into a man. They do him wrong to force him into female attire. Philip detests it.’
‘That was not Nick’s impression.’
‘He despises every moment of it.’
‘Yet he gave a fine performance, it seems.’
‘Under duress.’
‘Of his own volition.’
‘Never!’
‘Nick loves the theatre. He spends every waking moment in the company of actors. When he admires a performance, he knows what lies behind it. I trust his judgement.’ She inhaled deeply before confronting him. ‘Your son enjoys working in the theatre. Nick says he has decided flair.’
‘Blackfriars is a torture chamber for Philip.’
‘That may not be so.’
‘It is so. I know my son.’
‘Nick has seen him on the stage-you have not.’
‘The shame would be too much for me!’
‘Philip was a most willing actor this afternoon.’
‘Then why does he beg me to rescue him!’ said Robinson with mounting rage. ‘Why does he plead so in every letter that he sends me? You saw his pain, Anne, you saw his misery. Were those the letters of a boy who is happy?’
‘No, Ambrose.’
‘Then why did he write them? Let Nick answer that.’
‘He has,’ she said levelly. ‘He does not believe that Philip sent those letters at all. They were written by someone else. Is that not so?’
Ambrose Robinson fell silent. He looked deeply hurt and betrayed. His fists bunched, his body tensed, and he began to breathe stertorously through his nose. Eyes narrowing, he glared at her with a mixture of animosity and wounded affection. Anne took a step backwards. She was suddenly afraid of him.
***
Nicholas Bracewell returned to the Queen’s Head once more. As he turned into the yard, he heard the familiar voice of Owen Elias.
‘So I told Barnaby that I’d translate Cupid’s Folly into Welsh for him so that he could take it on a tour of the Principality and play to an audience of sheep!’
Appreciative guffaws came from the knot of actors around the speaker. When Nicholas came up, he saw with a shock that it was not Elias at all. James Ingram had been diverting his fellows with an impersonation of their Welsh colleague. It was the accuracy of his mimicry which had produced the laughter.
The mirth faded when they saw Nicholas. Actors who should have been mourning the death of Jonas Applegarth looked a little shamefaced at being caught at their most raucous. They slunk quietly away, leaving Ingram alone to talk with the book holder.
‘You are a cunning mimic,’ said Nicholas.
‘Harmless fun, Nick. Nothing more.’
‘Does Owen know that he has a twin brother?’
‘He’d slaughter me if he did,’ said Ingram. ‘It was an affectionate portrait of him, but Owen would not thank the artist.’ He became remorseful. ‘But I am glad that we meet again. I was brusque and unmannerly at Blackfriars. You deserved better from me. I have no excuse.’
‘Let it pass, James.’
‘It will not happen again.’
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Nicholas. ‘But you have still not told me what brought you to the Queen’s Head so early this morning.’
‘Eagerness. Nothing more.’
‘It does not often get you here ahead of your fellows.’
‘It did today.’
‘Why did you come into the storeroom?’
‘The door of the tiring-house was open. I wondered who was here. Nathan Curtis was in the storeroom with the body. I got there only seconds before you returned.’
Ingram spoke with his usual open-faced honesty and Nicholas had no reason to doubt him. The tension between the two of them had gone completely. The book holder was glad. Fond of the actor, he did not want a rift between them.
‘Let’s into the taproom,’ he suggested.
‘Not me, Nick,’ said the other pleasantly. ‘It is too full of reminiscence about Jonas Applegarth for me. You know my feelings there. I would be out of place.’
They exchanged farewells and Ingram left the innyard.
The atmosphere in the taproom had lightened considerably. Members of the company sat in a corner and traded maudlin memories of the dead man, but most of the customers were only there to drink and gamble. Laughter echoed around the room once more and the serving-men were kept busy. Alexander Marwood could never be expected to smile, but his despair was noticeably less fervent than before.
Nicholas joined the table at which Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias sat. Both had been drinking steadily. They called for an extra tankard and poured the newcomer some ale from their jug.
‘Thank heaven you’ve come, Nick!’ said Elias.
‘Yes,’ added Firethorn. ‘We are in such a morass of self-pity that we need you to pull us out. Marwood still swears we have performed our last play in his yard.’
‘He has done that often before,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we always return to confound his prediction. Tomorrow is Sunday and our stage would in any case stand empty. That will make our landlord think again. Two days without a penny taken in his yard! His purse will speak up for Westfield’s Men.’
‘I hope so,’ said Firethorn. ‘The last twenty-four hours have been a nightmare. One author turns my marital couch into a bed of nails, another gets himself hanged and my occupation rests on the whim of an imbecile landlord! I might as well become a holy anchorite and live on herbs. There’s no future for me here.’
He drank deep. Elias saw the chance to impart his news.
‘I found Naismith,’ he said. ‘The dog admitted that he had been shadowing Jonas through the streets.’
‘Did he throw that dagger?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Unhappily, no. I’d have welcomed the excuse to carve him up and send him back to Banbury’s Men in a meat-pie. Hugh Naismith is too weak to throw anything, Nick. He is not our man.’
‘Then we must look elsewhere.’
‘What have you learned?’
‘Much of interest but little that ties the name of the murderer to Jonas Applegarth.’
‘Choose from any of a hundred names,’ said Firethorn. ‘Jonas spread his net widely. Enemies all over London.’
‘That was not the case with Cyril Fulbeck,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘Few would pick a quarrel with him. That cuts our list right down. We look for a rare man, one with motive to kill both the Master of the Chapel and Jonas Applegarth.’ A new thought made him sit up. ‘Unless I am mistaken.’