‘Very strange.’
‘How did he know where to find you?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that, sir, though I do have a reputation.’
‘I can see that you live up to it in this sewer of a shop,’ said Nicolas, glancing around. ‘Did it never occur to you, when you mixed that poison, that you were serving a man with murder on his mind?’
Howker shook his head. ‘I gave him what he asked for. He paid.’
‘Did he say where he was staying?’
‘Not a word.’
‘What about his voice? Low or high?’
‘Somewhere in between.’
‘Was he a Londoner?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Howker, confidently. ‘He was a visitor to the city. I’ve heard the tongue before but could not place it. There was a whisper of the country about it yet he did not seem to be a countryman. That’s all I can tell you, sir,’ he bleated. ‘If I’d known that the poison was to kill someone, I’d never have sold it to him.’
‘You’d sell anything for money, you rogue.’
‘I’ve a wife and children to support. They come first. Do not blame me, please. I only seek to make my living here.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘as a purveyor of death.’
Resisting an impulse to attack the man, he stormed out of the shop and slammed the door behind him. It had been a long morning but he had finally made some progress. It was a start.
Black Antonio was a tragedy of revenge and thwarted love, written in soaring verse and offering Lawrence Firethorn a title role that allowed him to explore the outer limits of his talent. In his full-blooded portrayal of the ill-starred Antonio, there was not even a tiniest vestige of Lord Loveless, who had tripped across the same boards so entertainingly on the previous afternoon. Firethorn was a different man entirely, a noble savage, honest, upright, fearless in battle yet gentle in his wooing, a tragic hero brought low by the one flaw in his character.
Since the play was a staple part of their repertoire, Nicholas Bracewell felt able to miss the rehearsal that morning so that he could conduct his search among the apothecaries. George Dart had held the book in his stead, yielding it up for the performance itself. With the death of Hal Bridger still at the forefront of their minds, the actors began with some trepidation but they soon hit their stride. A sizeable audience came to watch them in the bright sunshine. The company gave a sterling account of the play and it went off without incident.
When he had taken as many bows as he felt able to, Firethorn led his troupe gratefully into the tiring-house. Pulling off his helmet, he stared into a mirror and used a cloth to wipe the black pigment from his sweat-covered face. Nicholas went across to him.
‘It was like a furnace out there,’ said Firethorn. ‘I started to melt. Another half-hour in that sunshine and my last bit of blackness would have trickled away. I’d have been White Antonio.’
‘That would have made for a very different play.’
‘Today I was black on the outside and white on the inside.’
‘Master Hibbert is quite the opposite,’ remarked Nicholas, quietly. ‘A handsome face disguises a very ugly man.’
Most of the actors were so relieved to come through the performance unscathed that they changed quickly out of their costumes and scampered off to the taproom. Firethorn waited until he and Nicholas were alone before he took up the book holder’s comment.
‘Saul is no villain,’ he said, easily. ‘He’s a proud man with a right to take pride in his talents. I know that it makes for vanity but we all suffer from that disease.’ He rubbed the last speck of black from his hands. ‘I spoke to him last night, Nick.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He’ll not relent.’
‘Neither will I.’
‘It’s not like you to be so stubborn.’
‘I have my pride as well, Lawrence.’
‘In the past, you’ve always put the good of the company first.’
‘And I did so again yesterday,’ said Nicholas, ‘when I clashed with Master Hibbert. During the rehearsals for his play, he sneered and snarled at almost everyone but you and Barnaby. And he had no more concern for Hal’s death than he might for a squashed fly.’
‘That was shameful of him.’
‘I tried to persuade him of that.’
‘A little too roughly, it seems. Saul is adamant. He feels aggrieved, Nick. Only an apology from you can mend this rift.’
‘Then he’ll wait for it in vain.’
Firethorn was worried. ‘Do you want to drive him away?’
‘No, he’s a true dramatist.’
‘Well, that’s what will happen if this argument between the two of you is not resolved.’ He moved in closer. ‘I ask you as a friend, Nick. Bend a little, for my sake. Admit to Saul that you were too upset by Hal Bridger’s death to know what you were doing.’
‘I knew exactly what I was doing,’ said Nicholas.
‘This wound needs a balm. You’ve always been the healer among Westfield’s Men. Act as our apothecary once again.’
‘After recent events, I’ve lost a little faith in apothecaries. They can kill as easily as cure. I did not look for this quarrel, Lawrence. I was provoked beyond measure — and so would you have been. Instead of caring about a playwright we might employ in future,’ suggested Nicholas, ‘look to the one we already have. Edmund has given us a whole sequence of wonderful comedies but he does not feel obliged to preen himself as a result. Yet, on the strength of one play, Master Hibbert has swaggered like a petty tyrant. We should work to resurrect Edmund. He’s a true member of the company.’
‘Forget about him,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have a plan for Edmund.’
‘What sort of plan?’
‘Never mind.’
‘But I do mind,’ said Nicholas with suspicion. ‘I know Edmund. He needs to be handled with the greatest care.’
‘He will be — if Owen and I have our way. But that’s for another time. There’s room for more than one playwright in our stables, and I’m resolved that Saul Hibbert will join us.’
‘Then you may take it for granted.’
‘Not if you and he are at each other’s throats.’
‘I’m no impediment here,’ said Nicholas. ‘Master Hibbert is clever enough to use the evidence of his own eyes. He knows that Lord Westfield lends his name to the finest company in London.’
‘In the whole country!’
‘That’s why he offered the play to you first. You were Lord Loveless to the life. He must have been thrilled with your performance.’
‘And justly so,’ said Firethorn, beaming. ‘I was at my peak.’
‘That’s the reason a bond has been forged with Master Hibbert,’ said Nicholas. ‘You accepted his play and the company ensured his fame when we presented it here. There’s no way that Saul Hibbert would take his talent elsewhere.’
Intrigued by the invitation, Saul Hibbert had made his way to the Green Man at the appointed time. Having sat alone at a table for some while, however, he was beginning to wonder if he was the victim of a hoax, lured there to satisfy someone’s warped sense of humour. After waiting another five minutes, he decided to leave, but, before he could rise from his seat, a voice rang out across the tavern.
‘Pray stay where you are, Master Hibbert,’ said the newcomer. ‘A thousand apologies for my lateness.’ He stood beside the table. ‘I can see that you that received my letter.’
‘It was unsigned. I did not know quite what to expect.’
‘Then I hope that you’re not disappointed. I like to think that I have a manly hand, so you would not have come here in expectation of meeting a female admirer. After the performance of The Malevolent Comedy that I was privileged to witness yesterday, you’ll have no shortage of adoring young ladies.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Hibbert.
‘A fellow playwright and friend,’ said the other, sitting down.
‘Do you have a name?’
‘One that has attracted some renown. I am Cyrus Hame.’
‘The author of Lamberto?’
‘Co-author with esteemed partner, John Vavasor. He’ll be here soon to join in the discussion. John admired your play as much as me.’