‘Saul’s only compulsion is to boast about what he will write,’ said Hame, ‘but there’s little evidence of any serious labour. He had the nerve to ask for money in advance when the play is still locked in his brain.’
‘Giles Randolph would never countenance that.’
‘I told him so.’
‘Let him sink or swim as a playwright,’ said Vavasor, callously. ‘I care not. All that I wish to do is to drag him away from the Queen’s Head and give Firethorn a slap in the face.’
‘We’ll give him far more than a slap, John.’
‘God willing!’
‘Oh, there’s nothing godly about it. It relies solely on the malevolence that Saul describes so well in his comedy.’
‘I do not follow you, Cyrus.’
‘We have to be malign and merciless,’ said Hame, icily. ‘We have to shake Westfield’s Men to the very core by stealing their new playwright. Let me turn prophet and make this one prediction. By the end of the week, Saul Hibbert will be ours.’ He smirked. ‘Whether we keep him or not, of course, is another matter.’
The disappearance of Richard Honeydew did not come to light for an hour. It was Margery Firethorn who first noticed that he was not there. When she rounded up the other apprentices to take them back home with her, they had no idea where Honeydew had gone. The alarm was raised and Nicholas Bracewell instituted an immediate search. It was fruitless. Nicholas was disturbed. Had it been one of the other boys missing, he would not have worried so much. Inclined to waywardness, they had been known to wander off or play games in odd corners of the inn. Honeydew, by contrast, always stayed close to the adult members of the company. He was far too responsible to get lost.
Leonard was rolling an empty barrel across the yard with practised ease. When he saw his friend, Nicholas rushed over to him.
‘Dick Honeydew has vanished,’ he said.
‘Is he not back, then?’
‘Back from where?’
‘Wherever he went,’ said Leonard. ‘I saw him leave.’
‘When was this?’
‘Earlier on — when I was sweeping the yard.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Yes, Nicholas.’
‘Which way did he go?’
‘Straight out through the gate and into Gracechurch Street.’
‘But why?’ asked Nicholas. ‘He should have stayed here.’
‘He was in a dream.’
‘A dream?’
‘Yes,’ said Leonard. ‘When I called out to him, he did not even wave back. He could not have heard me. The lad was miles away.’
‘Did you see which way he turned?’
‘Left, towards Bishopsgate.’
‘Bishopsgate? Surely he did not intend to walk back to Shoreditch on his own.’ The answer dawned on Nicholas. ‘The church!’
‘What church?’
‘St Martin Outwich. It’s where Hal Bridger was buried.’
Leonard was relieved. ‘Ah, that’s where he is, then. No need to trouble ourselves any more.’
‘Except that he should have got back by now. Thanks, Leonard,’ said the book holder, moving away. ‘I’ll go in search of him.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘No, just tell the others where I’ve gone. I’ll not be long.’
Nicholas went out into Gracechurch Street and swung left, striding purposefully through the crowd and keeping his eyes peeled for a sign of Honeydew. Reassured by the thought that he might have gone to pay his respects to his friend, Nicholas was also quietly alarmed that he had not yet returned. London was a dangerous place for anyone. A small, trusting, defenceless boy like Honeydew was especially vulnerable. He could have been the victim of a footpad or been set on for fun by one of the gangs of ragged children who inhabited the area. Nicholas quickened his pace. The boy might be in need of help.
When he approached the churchyard, he caught a glimpse of a figure near one of the graves and thought for a moment that it was Honeydew. It was only when he got closer that he realised it was an old man, standing in silence beside a gravestone with his hat in his hands. There was nobody else in the churchyard. Nicholas went into the church but it, too, was empty. He took the opportunity to drop to his knees before the altar in order to pray for the boy’s safe return.
Going back outside, he intended to speak to the old man but he was no longer there. The churchyard was deserted. He began to wonder if Honeydew had, in fact, been there at all yet he could think of no other destination. It seemed unlikely that he would have gone to Bridger’s home to offer his condolences to the parents. Had he done so, he would have been ejected without ceremony by the leather-seller. If that had been the case, Honeydew would have been back at the Queen’s Head a half an hour ago.
Nicholas was distressed. The apprentice was a special friend of his, looking to the book holder for protection against the repeated teasing of the other boys. Because he was the most talented of them, Honeydew was always given the leading female roles and this aroused great envy. The others invariably tried to play tricks on him and, most of the time, they were thwarted by Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder took the disappearance personally. It hurt him almost as much as the death of Hal Bridger. He had a duty of care to both boys and he had failed them.
Richard Honeydew, hopefully, was still alive and it was imperative that he was found quickly. The problem for Nicholas was that he had no idea where to start. Vexed and preoccupied, he walked slowly towards the gate. Before he got there, he saw Alice Bridger enter the churchyard. She blinked in surprise.
‘What are you doing here again?’ she asked.
‘Looking for one of the apprentices.’
‘Why?’
‘I believe that he came here to say a last farewell to Hal.’
‘When was this?’
‘Within the last hour.’
‘A small, slight, fair-haired boy with a red cap?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, eagerly. ‘Did you see him?’
‘I think so.’
‘When, Mrs Bridger? What did he do? Where did he go?’
‘I cannot say where they took him.’
‘They?’
‘There were two of them,’ she replied. ‘I was in the porch when the boy walked towards the church with the young lady. Then suddenly, a gentleman came up behind them. He threw a cloak over the boy and carried him off.’
‘Where?’ demanded Nicholas, anxiously. ‘In which direction?’
‘I did not see.’
‘Could you not have come and warned us?’
‘How did I know that the boy belonged to you?’ she said.
‘No,’ he conceded, ‘you could not have done. I see that now.’
‘In truth, even if I had realised who he was, I could never have entered that abominable tavern of yours.’
‘Why not?’
‘I would have felt unclean.’
‘You could have sent someone in for me.’
‘No, sir. I could not.’
‘A boy’s life may be at stake. Does that mean nothing to you?’
‘It means everything,’ she replied, looking helplessly towards her son’s grave. ‘Our son’s life was at stake in that dreadful place where you put on those plays. I hope that there’s not a second tragedy but evil must be punished, as it was in Hal’s case.’ She reached into her pocket and drew out a handkerchief. Turning back to Nicholas, she offered it to him. ‘The young lady dropped this.’
Saul Hibbert was in a more cheerful mood. The afternoon performance had been a revelation to him, showing just what the company could do when they were fully committed and reinforcing his belief in the supreme quality of his play. Congratulations flooded in from all sides. When the spectators had gone, he could still hear their paeans of praise and feel the endless pats of approval on his back. His self-esteem burgeoned even more. After a celebratory drink with Lawrence Firethorn in the taproom, he made his way back to his chamber to luxuriate in his increasing renown and to change his attire before he went out that evening.
He was on the point of departing when there was a knock on the door. Expecting it to be one of the servants, he opened the door and was instead confronted by a glowering Alexander Marwood. The landlord had a determined glint in his eye and a sheaf of bills in his hand.