‘Thank you.’
Hibbert was still mystified. He looked at his companion and tried to work out why the man had been so eager to meet him. Cyrus Hame smiled back at him. He was a tall, slim, well-featured man in his thirties, wearing a doublet and hose that were striking without being gaudy, and sporting a pearl earring. Hame had an engaging manner.
‘Let me be honest with you, Master Hibbert,’ he said, stroking his fair beard and displaying a perfect set of teeth. ‘I think that your future as a playwright lies with Banbury’s Men.’
Chapter Five
During the performance of Black Antonio, the inn yard of the Queen’s Head had been turned into a rudimentary playhouse. The stage was erected on trestles, benches put into the lower and upper galleries, and the yard itself used as a pit in which those who could only afford a penny stood shoulder to shoulder in the cloying heat. Secure within the world of the play, the audience could shut out the tumult of Gracechurch Street nearby and ignore the other intrusive sounds of a typical afternoon in the capital. Once a performance was over, however, and the spectators had gone, the playhouse was swiftly converted back to its more normal use as an inn. The stage was taken down, the benches removed and the place made fit to receive horses and coaches once more.
Most of the work was done by the lesser lights of Westfield’s Men under the control of Nicholas Bracewell. The only job that was left to one of Alexander Marwood’s servants was the onerous one of sweeping a yard that could accumulate the most amazing amount of litter in the course of an afternoon. The man to whom the task was allotted was a hulking giant in a tattered shirt, a pair of ancient breeches and a leather apron. As he swept away with his broom, he sent up a blizzard of dust.
‘Hold there, Leonard!’ said Nicholas. ‘A word with you, please.’
‘Any time you wish,’ replied the other, grateful for the opportunity to break off. ‘The play went well this afternoon.’
‘Did you watch it?’
‘Bits of it. I always cry at the end of Black Antonio.’
‘That’s a tribute to the actors.’
‘I snatched a few minutes here and there, when the landlord was not looking. He hates to see me resting.’
‘You wouldn’t know how to rest.’
Nicholas and Leonard were old friends. They had met in the unlikely venue of a prison, where Nicholas was falsely incarcerated and where Leonard was facing execution because he had accidentally broken the back of a wrestler who challenged all-comers at a fair. Rescued from his fate, Leonard had been unable to return to his old job at a brewery so Nicholas had found him employment at the Queen’s Head. Sweeping the yard, heaving barrels of beer about, cleaning the stables, carrying out simple repairs, helping in the garden and holding horses were only a few of the duties that came his way on a daily basis. Being able to talk to friends like Nicholas Bracewell made such toil more than worthwhile.
‘You’ve heard about Hal Bridger no doubt,’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes, I felt for the lad. He loved Westfield’s Men.’
‘His stay with us was all too short, Leonard. What we need to do is to find the man who killed him, and I’m hoping that you can help.’
‘How?’
‘The fellow was a stranger to the city — that much I know — so he would need to feel his way around the Queen’s Head to learn how we stage our plays. Nobody in the company was approached,’ Nicholas went on, ‘because I asked them. But you are here all the time and you keep your wits about you.’
Leonard grinned. ‘What few wits I have, that is.’
‘You’ve a quicker mind than some might think. A stranger could easily make that mistake, accosting you because you’d not suspect them of anything. Think, Leonard. Did anyone talk to you about us?’
‘Lots of people pass remarks about Westfield’s Men.’
‘This was a tall, lean, well-favoured man with a fair beard. Around my own age, I’m told, and dressed like a gentleman. Does that description jog your memory at all?’
‘I believe that it does,’ said Leonard, furrowing his brow and running a huge palm across his chin. ‘There was such a man, Nicholas. He spoke to me as I was carrying a pail of milk across the yard.’
‘When was this?’
‘Three or four days ago.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked about The Malevolent Comedy and where it was like to be performed. He was much as you describe, a pleasant man, easy to talk to and interested in your work.’
‘But he only asked about one particular play?’
‘Yes, Nicholas. He wanted to know where the actors waited until they took their roles onstage. And so I showed him.’
‘You let him see into the tiring-house?’
‘Only for a second,’ said Leonard, fearing disapproval. ‘And none of your property was there. I saw no harm in it.’
‘Did you recognise the man’s voice?’
‘Too soft to be a Londoner, yet not as soft and sweet as yours.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas, proud of his West Country burr. ‘But a soft voice hid a cold heart in the case of this man. I think that he may well have poisoned Hal Bridger.’
Leonard flushed with guilt. ‘Do you mean that I helped a killer?’
‘Not deliberately.’
‘I’d have knocked him down, if I’d know that was his ambition.’
‘He was here to stop the play for some reason, Leonard, and he chose the most effective method of doing so — he poisoned a member of the cast. I fear he may return.’
‘Then I’ll look out for him,’ said Leonard, grimly. ‘He tricked me into helping him murder Hal. That makes me so angry.’
‘Control your anger,’ advised Nicholas, ‘and, when you do see the man again, apprehend him and bring him straight to me. He may, of course, be quite innocent of the charge, but I’d rather take no chances.’
‘Nor me.’
They parted company and Leonard went off into the kitchen. Nicholas was about to join the others in the taproom when he saw a woman, hovering at the entrance to the yard. One of the servingmen from the inn was pointing at Nicholas. The man vanished but the woman plucked up the courage to beckon to the book holder. He strode across to her. Nicholas saw the distress in her face when he was ten yards away and guessed who she might be.
‘Are you Hal’s mother?’ he enquired.
‘Yes,’ she replied in a tremulous voice. ‘I want to speak to the man who came to our shop yesterday, one Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘That’s me, Mrs Bridger. Your husband turned me away.’
‘He was too hasty in doing so. Hal was our son.’
‘I’m glad that one of his parents acknowledges that. But if you wish to talk with me,’ said Nicholas, gently, ‘step inside and we’ll find some privacy.’
‘I’ll not come into a tavern,’ she said, shrinking back a foot or two. ‘Especially one that’s used as a playhouse. It’s against everything we believe. This place is a sink of immorality.’
‘Then we’ll move away from it,’ volunteered Nicholas, keen to respect her principles. ‘If we go into the lane opposite, we might get away from the worst of the din.’
Alice Bridger nodded. A thin woman of middle height, she was wearing a simple black dress with a white collar. Under the brim of her hat was a face that had lost its youthful prettiness without acquiring the hardness that distinguished her husband. Nicholas put her ten years younger than Terence Bridger, and sensed a kinder, more sensitive and more generous person. As they waited for a coach to rumble past before crossing the road, she glanced around nervously.
‘Your husband does not know that you’re here,’ decided Nicholas.
‘I came against his will,’ she said, apologetically. ‘It’s the first time I’ve disobeyed him but I had to know the truth.’
‘It will be painful, I fear.’
Nicholas helped her across the road and into the lane. When they found a doorway, they paused beside it to face each other. He was struck by the resemblance that Hal Bridger had shown to his mother. For her part, she seemed surprised that someone who worked in the theatre could be so polite and agreeable. Nicholas smiled.