‘Tie him back on his throne and force a pen into his hand.’
‘It’s not as easy as that. Edmund has lost all appetite.’
‘He’s a creature of moods, Lawrence, as you well know. When his juices flow,’ said Elias, ‘he’ll write all day and night without a break. There’s not a playwright in London who has produced so much work of such high quality.’
‘You’d not say that if you read How to Choose a Good Wife.’
‘I did read it — the first act, anyway. I lacked the courage to go any further. It made my toes curl with embarrassment.’
‘I could not believe Edmund had put his name to it.’
‘Nor me,’ said Elias, pursing his lips. ‘It was not a new work at all but a collection of everything cut out of his earlier plays, strung untidily together like washing on a line.’
‘It contained a frightening message for me, Owen.’
‘Yes. Edmund is unwell.’
‘Worse — he’s fallen out of love with the theatre.’
‘You’ve hit the mark there. Except that it is not only the theatre that has made him jaded. Edmund is out of love. It’s as simple as that. Only when he’s pining for a pretty maid can he write from the heart. We’ve seen it before, Lawrence.’
‘Too many times.’
‘Edmund is happy in his work when he’s unhappy in love.’
‘Then there’s our solution,’ announced Firethorn, snapping his fingers. ‘We must find him a good woman.’
‘A bad one would have more chance of exciting his interest,’ said Elias with a grin. ‘She must have enough respectability to lure him and a touch of wickedness to close the trap.’
‘Let’s draw a portrait of her in our minds.’
‘She must be tall and slim.’
‘But not too tall,’ said Firethorn, warming to the task, ‘for she must appeal to Edmund’s protective instinct. And not too slim, either. He likes the bold curve of a breast as much as any of us.’
‘And a pair of shapely hips.’
‘What of her hair?’
‘Raven-black with eyebrows to match.’
‘He’s always had a weakness for fair-haired ladies before.’
‘Then we must wean him off it with a darker siren. Black hair, white cheeks, red lips and a pair of eyes to tempt a saint.’
‘I want her for myself!’ cried Firethorn, rubbing his hands gleefully together. ‘By all, this is wonderful! I see the lovely lady, forming before my eyes as we speak, Owen. We are co-authors, bringing her to life as readily as Edmund creates a beauty on the page.’
‘Is she rich or poor?’
‘Neither. We’ll have no wealthy widows or menial servants. Our lady must be young, of middling sort and independent.’
‘Yet not too forward. She must be schooled in that.’
‘How much shall we need to pay her?
‘Not a penny, Lawrence. This is no work for a hired enchantress.’
‘Then how do we find her?’
‘London is full of such comely creatures.’
‘And just as full of rampant satyrs to chase them.’
‘She is here somewhere,’ said Elias, thoughtfully, ‘and I believe I know the very woman. Yes, she would be ideal for Edmund Hoode. Pert, fetching and full of accomplishments.’
‘Not one of your discarded mistresses, I hope.’
‘No, no, this lady is not for me. She’s too refined and intelligent. I like redder meat in my bed. Edmund has subtler tastes. He’ll adore her.’
‘Who is this paragon?’
‘Buy me some more ale,’ said Elias, ‘and I’ll tell you her name. Just wait, Lawrence. Our worries will soon be over. One glance at her and Edmund will start writing as if his life depended on it.’
Chapter Four
Nicholas Bracewell had been to the house in Knightrider Street many times. It was a rambling edifice, whose half-timbered frontage bulged sharply outwards as if trying to break free of its foundations. Sagging heavily to the right as well, it was supported by the adjacent building, like a hopeless drunk being helped home by a considerate friend. With all its structural faults, it was an amiable place and Nicholas always enjoyed his visits there. He was not shown much amity on arrival. Had he not glanced upward in time, he would have been drenched by the pot of urine that was emptied through an open window into the street. As it was, he jumped nimbly out of the way of the downpour.
At least, he knew that Doctor John Mordrake was at home.
‘Come in, come in, Nicholas.’
‘I hope that I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Oh, no. Now that I’ve emptied my bladder, I’m at your service.’
‘Thank you, Doctor Mordrake.’
Nicholas was pleased to see him again. Mordrake was a big man whose contours had been cruelly reshaped by age so that he was bent almost double. Skeletal hands poked out from the sleeves of his shabby black gown. Out of the mass of wrinkles that was his face, two eyes shone with astonishing clarity, separated by an aquiline nose. Silver-grey hair fell to his shoulders and merged with his long, straggly beard. Around his neck, as usual, he wore a chain fit for a Lord Mayor of London, though no holder of that august office could ever equal his extraordinary range of achievements.
Detractors accused him of sorcery, but Doctor John Mordrake was a philosopher, mathematician, alchemist and astrologer of note and, on occasion, physician to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. He shuffled across to a chair and lifted a dead squirrel from it so that his guest could sit down. Filled with a compound of rich odours, the room was his laboratory and the huge, dust-covered, leather-bound tomes that lined the walls spoke of a lifetime’s study. Jars of herbs stood everywhere and on one table, in a series of large bottles, a number of small animals had been preserved in green liquid. In the fireplace, something was being heated in a small cauldron and giving off an acrid blue steam.
‘How can I help you, Nicholas?’ he asked.
‘I want a poison identified.’
‘That’s easily done.’
‘I’ll pay you for your time,’ said Nicholas.
Mordrake flapped a hand. ‘Keep your money in your purse, dear fellow. I would never charge a friend like you. My services are expensive to others but free to Nicholas Bracewell. I’ve not forgotten the favour you once did me when Westfield’s Men travelled to Bohemia to play before a Holy Roman Emperor.’
Nicholas remembered the visit to Prague only too well but had so many misgivings about the venture that he did not wish to revive any memories of it. Instead, he launched into a concise and lucid account of the tragic death of Hal Bridger. Listening intently throughout, Mordrake took especial interest in the symptoms displayed by the victim. He then asked to see the vessels that had contained the poison. Nicholas handed over the cup and phial, hoping that they retained at least some of the smell of the poison. Mordrake put both to his nose in turn. With so many competing aromas in the room, Nicholas feared that the old man would be unable to detect anything at all but he had reckoned without the sensitivity of the beak-like nose. It inhaled deeply through both nostrils.
‘Well?’ asked Nicholas.
‘It’s a fiendish compound.’
‘What can you detect?’
‘Monkshood, belladonna, henbane, even a hint of foxglove. And something more besides that I cannot quite name. A lethal dose for any man, however strong his constitution.’
‘Hal was young and delicate.’
‘Then the poison worked more swiftly on him.’
‘Could anyone mix the compound?’
‘No, Nicholas,’ said Mordrake, taking a last sniff of the phial. ‘This is the work of some corrupt apothecary, paid to dishonour his calling. You must check the phials more carefully if you stage the play again.’
‘We’ll not use any liquid at all next time,’ resolved Nicholas. ‘If the phial is held right inside the cup, nobody in the audience will be any the wiser. It was the author who insisted that the potion should be seen.’