‘It served him right, mistress.’
‘Many thought likewise, Hans. But his daughter was grief-stricken. She used her inheritance to found a convent and retreated into it. That convent became, in time, the Priory of St Mary Overy so his name lingers on.’
The apprentice had listened with interest and almost smiled at one point in the story. Anne had a fleeting sensation of making real contact with him at last, of breaking through the mental barrier which surrounded him. They went into the massive church and walked along the shiny-smooth flagstones of the nave beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. Breathtaking architecture and artistry enveloped them and it was impossible not to be touched by the scrupulous magnificence of it all.
They filed into a pew. As Anne knelt in prayer, she felt Hans Kippel drop down beside her and start to gabble in Dutch. She could hear the note of alarm in his voice and sense his trembling. Words that she could recognise finally slipped out of the boy.
‘Please, God … do not let them kill me …’
The Coroner’s Court was held early on Monday morning and among those charged to appear were Nicholas Bracewell and Abel Strudwick. The book holder was the first to give his testimony, speaking under oath and explaining exactly how and when he had found the dead body in the Thames. His friend made more of the opportunity that was offered. The waterman was not content with a simple recital of the facts of the case. He had transformed it into a dramatic event. Standing before the Coroner and the whole court, he responded to the presence of an audience with alacrity.
They never found out. With stern command, the Coroner ordered him to stop and give his evidence in a more seemly manner. Strudwick was truculent and had to be cowed into obedience by the sternest warnings. When he gave a straightforward account of the incident, it tallied in every respect with that of Nicholas Bracewell. Both were dismissed and hurried out.
The waterman was anxious for some praise at least.
‘What did you think of my music?’
‘Quite unlike anything I have ever heard, Abel.’
‘Will you commend me to Master Firethorn?’
‘I shall mention your name.’
‘Instruct him in my purpose.’
‘I must away. Rehearsal soon begins.’
Nicholas was glad of the chance to break away and race off to Gracechurch Street. Abel Strudwick could be entertaining enough as a versifying waterman. As a prospective member of the theatrical profession, he was a menace. The book holder was going to have to row very carefully with him through choppy waters.
He made up for his late arrival at the Queen’s Head by hurling himself into his work. The stage was set up on its trestles, the props, furniture and scenic devices made ready, and the costumes were brought into the room that was used as the tiring-house. Black Antonio was another tragedy of revenge with some powerful scenes and some unlikely but effective comedy from the Court Fool. It had been part of their repertoire for some time now and posed no serious problems. The rehearsal was rather flat but without any mishap. Lawrence Firethorn gave them only a touch of the whip before dismissing them from the stage.
Nicholas knew the cause of the general lethargy. The company took its cue from its acknowledged stars and both were jaded. Fear of ejection from the Queen’s Head had seeped into the performances of Black Antonio himself and of the Court Fool. They were still in costume as they accosted the book holder.
‘Keep that ghoul away from me, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Or I will slit his ungrateful throat and string up his polecat of a body for all to see.’
‘Master Marwood keeps his own counsel, sir.’
‘I spurn the ruffian!’
He went out with a swirl of his cloak and left the book holder alone with Barnaby Gill. The latter was no friend of Nicholas but adversity had taken the edge off his animosity. Dressed as the Fool, he advised wisdom.
‘Reason closely with the man, sir.’
‘I will, Master Gill.’
‘Do nothing to provoke this starchy landlord.’
‘We may win him around yet.’
‘Remind him of the magic of my art. I have reached the heights upon this stage to please the vulgar throng. Master Marwood owes it to me to let me continue. Let him know the full quality of my work.’
‘It speaks for itself,’ said Nicholas tactfully.
‘We count on you for our salvation.’
Barnaby Gill gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, an uncharacteristic gesture that showed how upset he was by the shadow hanging over them. As Gill sloped off to the tiring-house, another voice sought the book holder’s ear.
‘We must talk alone, Nick,’ said Edmund Hoode.
‘When I have finished here. Meet me in the taproom.’
‘It is the worst blow I have ever suffered.’
‘We are all still reeling from its force.’
‘How can I endure it?’
‘Try to put it out of your mind.’
‘It sits there like an ogre that will not shift.’
‘Master Marwood may be converted to common sense.’
‘What use is that?’ said Hoode peevishly. ‘I want Lawrence Firethorn converted to a eunuch. It is the only way to solve my plight. He compels me to write songs of love to his new doxy when I have a mistress of my own to woo. Come to my aid, Nick. I perish.’
It was hectic. In the short time between rehearsal and performance, Nicholas attended to all his duties, ate a meagre lunch, sympathised with Hoode’s predicament, fought off another sally from Owen Elias (‘Ramon was a disgrace to the theatre this morning. Let me take over’), managed an exchange of pleasantries with Alexander Marwood then went back to his post to watch the stage being swept and strewn with green rushes. When the audience swarmed in to take up their places in the yard or their seats in the galleries, everything was apparently under control.
The sense of order did not last. Black Antonio had never been given such a lacklustre performance. Lawrence Firethorn was strangely muted, Barnaby Gill was curiously dull and Edmund Hoode, who usually sparkled in the role of a duplicitous younger brother, was frankly appalling. The disease was infectious and the whole company was soon in its grip. They played without conviction and the mistakes began to multiply. But for the book holder’s consoling authority behind the scenes, Black Antonio might have become a fiasco. As it was, the audience felt so cheated by what it saw that it began to hoot and jeer with gathering displeasure. Only a minor recovery in the fifth act saved the actors from being booed ignominiously off the stage. Westfield’s Men had never taken their bows with such indifference.
Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling into the tiring-house to berate everyone in sight for their incompetence only to be told by Edmund Hoode that he himself was the chief offender. The row that developed between them was not only due to the insecurity they now felt at the Queen’s Head. There was a deeper reason and Nicholas had noted it from the beginning of the performance. Both men had gone out to act to one person in the packed audience.
Matilda Stanford was not there.
Not even the first hints of calamity could keep Walter Stanford away from home. Though he was still deeply concerned about the fate of his nephew, Michael, he did not interrupt his normal schedule to join in the search. That was now being led by his son who had so far come back empty-handed. Lieutenant Michael Delahaye had indeed disembarked on the previous Thursday but he was only one of hundreds of soldiers who had poured off the ship and into the welcoming bosom of London. Nothing further had been gleaned, not even a description of the wound he had collected in the Netherlands. Medical records had not been kept by the army and Michael was, in any case, no longer a member of it. Discharged into civilian life once again, he had contrived to vanish into thin air.