‘None but Lawrence and Owen.’
‘Did either of them have designs on these young ladies?’
‘No,’ said Hoode, ‘they stayed their hands for once. Owen was keen that I should meet his two friends, and I thank him from my heart.’
‘I thought Lawrence bought your supper because he repented of the unkind things he said about your last play.’
‘They were not unkind, Nick, they were all too accurate. And your own objections to it were also just. How to Choose a Good Wife was a feeble comedy and I knew it when I was writing it.’
‘Your inspiration will soon return,’ Nicholas promised. ‘We burden you with high expectation, Edmund. All that you need is a long rest.’
‘Not any more.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve had enough of lying fallow,’ said Hoode, joyously. ‘When I met Ursula Opie, my creative urge was suddenly fired again. As soon as I got back to my lodging, I started work on a new play.’
Gracechurch Street was even more crowded than usual that afternoon but it was not solely because of the market. So many people converged on the Queen’s Head to see the play that, eventually, the gatherers had to turn some away. Every seat was taken in the galleries, every square inch in the yard. Even generous bribes could not get gallants past the door. Disappointed spectators refused to leave until they had been given a guarantee that The Malevolent Comedy would be performed again soon. Westfield’s Men were the victims of their own success. Their inn yard playhouse was too small to satisfy the demands of their public.
Lawrence Firethorn was cheered by the news that so many people had been eager to see the play. On some of the cast, however, it had a different effect. Like Nicholas, many actors were worried that there might be a second attempt to bring their performance to a halt. It made them nervous and unhappy. Francis Quilter even went so far as to suggest that the play had a curse on it and there were several murmurs of agreement. Firethorn stamped heavily on the dissenters.
‘Listen to them, Nick,’ he said as they gathered in readiness. ‘They have excellent roles in an outstanding play that has brought in the biggest audience we’ve had all season. This is an actor’s dream yet they behave as if it were a kind of nightmare.’
‘Their minds are still on Hal Bridger.’
‘Well, they should be on The Malevolent Comedy.’
‘They will be, once we start,’ said Nicholas, looking around the tiring-house. ‘I understand their qualms. It was only two days ago that Hal lay dead upon that table there. George suffers most. Now that Hal has gone, he has to play the part of the servant himself. I fear that George will collapse before the poisoned cup is offered to him.’
‘He’d better not,’ growled Firethorn, ‘or I’ll kick him into oblivion.’
Pushing two actors aside, he checked his appearance in the mirror. Nicholas, meanwhile, flicked a glance at George Dart. Eyes closed, the little assistant stagekeeper was obviously praying. Nicholas could guess what entreaties were winging their way up to heaven. While he did not want the performance ruined, the book holder was nevertheless hoping that the killer would show his hand somehow. Nicholas had already warned Leonard to be vigilant and to look for the fair-haired man who had enquired so closely about the company. Anne Hendrik was another spy in the crowd, accompanied by Preben van Loew, her chief hatmaker, a dour, middle-aged Dutchman who was acting as her chaperone against his will. Alone in the yard, he was a reluctant spectator.
There was no rallying speech from Firethorn this time. Instead, he subjected his company to a withering stare. It was a signal for them to shake off their uneasiness and give their best. They responded at once. A minute later, The Malevolent Comedy was under way again. It began well and built up a steady momentum, soon turning the inn yard into a veritable sea of laughter. Lord Loveless was pre-eminent yet again, the Clown even more hilarious, and Mistress Malevole a winning blend of impishness and spite. In the role of a comic priest, Edmund Hoode’s facial expressions were a source of delight in themselves and nobody realised, when he looked up at the galleries, that he did so in the hope that Ursula Opie might be watching him.
For the first three acts, the play gathered pace and left a trail of uninhibited pleasure in its wake. Notwithstanding the reservations some of them felt, Westfield’s Men had somehow improved on their earlier performance, finding a greater conviction and new veins of humour to explore. Nicholas dared to believe that they might come through the afternoon without anything untoward happening. His hopes were soon dashed. During a feast that was held at Lord Loveless’s house, the table was laden with wine and food. Lively music was played. There was a mood of merriment. The Clown then somersaulted onto the stage and danced such a spirited jig that the audience clapped him throughout.
Barnaby Gill relished the applause until he discovered that he had a dancing partner. From out of nowhere, a small dog suddenly appeared and jumped up on the boards beside him, doing its best to nip the Clown’s heels. Gill was terrified. Unable to kick the animal away, he leapt up on the table, only to be followed by the yapping dog. Between them, they knocked every dish, vessel, candle and piece of fruit from the table, sending it cascading across the stage. Lord Loveless roared with fury, the Clown howled in fright, Mistress Malevole fled into the tiring-house and the comical priest tried in vain to catch the dog.
Thinking that it was all part of the play, the spectators cheered on the animal. Since the women had been turned into a cat, an owl and a monkey, respectively, the arrival of a real animal gave the play additional spice. The dog possessed an actor’s instinct. The more they encouraged him, the more chaos he created, eluding the priest, tripping up Lord Loveless and sinking his teeth into the protruding buttocks of the Clown. The Malevolent Comedy was suddenly a play about a dog.
Nicholas Bracewell reacted swiftly to the emergency. Grabbing a cloak, he ran onstage and managed to throw it over the dog, snatching it up and holding it tight as it barked and wriggled in his arms. He went through the tiring-house into a passageway that led to a store-room. Dog and cloak were tossed inside without ceremony and the door quickly locked. Nicholas hurried back to his station behind the scenes to take up the book, hoping that the play could be salvaged. He was in time to hear Lord Loveless deliver a line extempore as he looked around for the absent Mistress Malevole.
‘Where has that scheming little bitch gone to now?’
The gale of laughter gave the actors the opportunity to regain their poise. Nicholas pushed Mistress Malevole back onstage and sent Dart with her to pick up all the items that had been knocked from the table. By pretending that the canine interruption had been rehearsed, Lord Loveless and the priest were able to turn it to their advantage, inventing fresh lines to cover the hiatus and finding immense humour in an improvised inspection of the Clown’s wounded posterior. In the background, the dog continued to yelp in its new kennel but it went unheard.
Having come safely through the crisis, the actors picked up their speed again and sailed on with renewed confidence. Though they kept one eye open for further unheralded interventions, none came. What the audience heard from that point on came exclusively from the pages of Saul Hibbert’s play. If it had been a success at its first performance, it was now a monumental triumph. The spectators whooped, whistled and clapped until the noise was deafening.
Lawrence Firethorn beamed at all and sundry, bowing low to the acclaim then blowing kisses up to the dozens of women who were calling out his name. Lord Loveless was yet one more memorable character to join his already large collection. After giving a final bow, he surged into the tiring-house and tore off his costume in a rage.