‘Will you be in danger tomorrow?’ she said.
‘I hope not.’
‘Every time you’ve played the piece, there’s been misfortune.’
‘The actors are all too aware of that, Anne. Most of them would love to see the back of The Malevolent Comedy. They think it brings bad luck. Frank Quilter said that it has the mark of the devil upon it.’
‘What do you think?’
‘That the mark is more likely to be upon the author.’
‘Then more trouble lies ahead.’
‘We’ll be ready for it.’
‘Good.’ She pulled him close. ‘At least, you’ll be back where you belong. What brought Lawrence to his senses?’
‘Necessity.’
‘He deserved to be severely scolded for what he did.’
‘Margery took on that task,’ he said, smiling. ‘She’s more skilled in the black arts of torture than Master Topcliffe at the Tower. I’ve her to thank for putting her husband on the rack. Margery defended me.’
‘She should not have needed to do so.’
‘I’ll waste no sleep, worrying on that score,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long day. Tomorrow, we face another trial.’
‘Would you like my eyes in the gallery again?’
‘No thank you. I can spare you this time. Besides, it would be cruelty to make Preben sit through a second performance.’
‘He’s not recovered from the first visit yet.’
‘Are all Dutchman so gloomy and severe?’
‘Jacob was not,’ she replied, ‘or I’d never have married him. He could be very jolly at times. Preben is more serious. He’s been in England for years yet still bears the stigma of being a stranger. But,’ she added, ‘I did not stay awake simply to talk about him. I want to hear the gossip.’
‘There’s little enough of that, Anne.’
‘No quarrels, no scandal among the actors?’
‘All I can tell you is that Edmund is in love.’
‘That’s to say the Thames is full of water. Give me news.’
‘This is news,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had it from Owen. He brought two sisters to sup with Edmund and one of them enchanted him. Our lovelorn poet is already writing a sonnet to her.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Good for us but bad for Edmund.’
‘Bad for him?’
‘According to Owen, he’s fallen in love with the wrong sister. Her name is Ursula and she’s no interest in men unless they compose religious music. Edmund is doomed to worship from afar.’
‘You said that it was good for Westfield’s Men.’
‘Very good, Anne.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s made him start writing again.’
Edmund Hoode lay on his bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling. Enough moonlight was spilling in through the shutters to dapple the walls. Tired but unable to sleep, he wrestled with the fourteen lines he hoped would win the heart of Ursula Opie, arranging and rearranging them constantly in his mind until he reached a degree of satisfaction. There was a secondary problem to be addressed. Did he send the poem to her anonymously or disclose his identity? If she was touched by it, then she should be told the name of its author. If, on the other hand, she was offended in some way, it was better that she should not know its origin or grave embarrassment could ensue.
After long cogitation, he settled on a compromise. Hoode decided to append the letter ‘E’ to his sonnet, both admitting and denying that it was his work. ‘E’ could just as well stand for Edward, Eustace, Edgar or a number of other names, allowing him to disclaim authorship if any discomfort threatened. To a woman susceptible to noble sentiments expressed in high-flown language, however, it could represent only one poet and she would respond accordingly. Hoode had recovered from the disappointment of the concert. Shy in public, Ursula had not lingered in the hall. Like him, she was a private person, a creature of thought and deep feeling, a young woman, as the concert had shown, with a strong spiritual dimension to her life. Bernice had sung her songs prettily but Ursula had played with a commitment that revealed how much more the music meant to her. Hoode yearned for her.
With the sonnet bursting to come out of him, he leapt off the bed, lit a candle and reached for his quill. There was no hesitation. The words over which he had pondered so long now came streaming out of his brain in the perfect order. After reading the poem through, he felt a surge of creative power. It needed no correction. Instead, he set it aside, pulled another sheet of parchment in front of him and started to work again on his play. Sustained by the knowledge that it had been inspired by Ursula Opie, he laboured long into the night. When the first cock began to crow, Hoode, impervious to fatigue, was still crouched low over his table.
Nicholas Bracewell set out very early the next morning with the prompt copy of The Malevolent Comedy in a satchel slung over his shoulder. By the time he had crossed the bridge and entered Gracechurch Street, the market was already under way, its booths, stalls and carts narrowing the thoroughfare, its customers thronging noisily, its vendors extolling the virtues of their produce aloud and its poultry squawking rebelliously in their wooden cages. Nicholas’s broad shoulders soon found a way through the press but he did not turn in to the Queen’s Head. Walking past it, he went on to the parish church of St Martin Outwich on the corner of Bishopsgate and Threadneedle Street. Built over a century earlier, the church stood beside a well that was served in earlier times by a device that allowed one bucket to descend the shaft as the other was pulled up. A pump had now been installed and, when Nicholas went past, housewives were queuing with buckets to draw water.
The funeral of Hal Bridger had taken place the previous day. Out of deference to the wishes of the parents, Nicholas and the others had stayed away but he wanted to pay his respects to his young friend. It did not take him long to find the grave in the churchyard. A fresh mound of earth rose up through the grass, a simple cross was standing over it. Nicholas came forward and removed his cap. Looking down at the grave, he tried to recall happier times in the boy’s short life. He remembered the smile of astonished joy on Bridger’s face when he first hired him to work for Westfield’s Men, and the fierce pride he took in performing even the most menial duties for them.
Apart from Nicholas, the lad’s closest friends in the company had been George Dart and Richard Honeydew. They had spent many pleasant hours together. Cast adrift by his father, it had meant so much to Bridger to be accepted by his new family. He had repaid them with his love and dedication. Nicholas felt the sharp stab of bereavement. It made him even more determined to find the killer. Until that happened, Hal Bridger could never fully rest in peace. Closing his eyes, Nicholas offered up a prayer. He then put on his cap and turned to walk away, realising, for the first time, that he had been watched. A woman was standing by the church porch, so still and silent that she might have been a marble statue. It was Alice Bridger.
There was a long and very awkward pause. Nicholas was made to feel like an interloper, guilty of trespass, intruding upon private grief. He did not know whether to stay or leave. In the event, it was the woman who made the first move, walking slowly towards him and looking much more frail and vulnerable than at their first meeting. Clearing his throat, Nicholas held his ground and prepared his apology. Alice Bridger needed a moment to find her voice.
‘Thank you,’ she said, softly.
‘For what?’
‘Showing that you cared.’
‘We all cared about Hal.’
‘Yes, but yours was the name he mentioned most.’