The Queen's Head

Firethorn now gave the command and the cannon went off, not one as in the earlier play, but four in ascending order of volume. Even this effect was topped. As the booming echoed and reverberated around the playhouse, the figure of a small man in black climbed on to the balcony of the second gallery and launched himself off with a wild cry of despair.

Misjudging his leap, he landed in the folds of the sail, which broke his fall before hurtling him to the stage with sufficient force to knock him unconscious. It was a breathtaking moment and the audience had never seen anything like it. Neither had Lawrence Firethorn but he coped with the situation magnificently. Everyone believed it was part of the play and he did not break faith with them. With two extempore lines, he ordered his men to gather up the body of the Spanish dog and throw it overboard. Roger Bartholomew was lowered unceremoniously through the trap door.

In trying to ruin the play and achieve immortality by his public act of suicide, the tormented poet had enhanced the drama and simply given himself a worse headache.

Martin Yeo came on to knight her faithful sea dog then the piece ended to sustained applause and cheering. The whole company had been superb and overcome all their problems.

Nobody noticed that Bartholomew missed his bow.

*

Lady Rosamund Varley waited with friends in a private room and marvelled afresh at the remarkable stunt they had seen. Gloriana Triumphant was well-named. It had consigned God Speed the Fleet to a watery grave. Edmund Hoode's play would rule the waves.

Refreshments were served while the chat continued, then Lord Westfield brought in Lawrence Firethorn. He began with an elegant bow to Lady Rosamund and her radiant smile shone for him alone. Though he was introduced to the others in the room, he hardly heard their names. Only one person existed for him.

She extended a gloved hand for him to kiss.

'You were superb, Master Firethorn,' she congratulated.

'I was inspired by your presence, Lady Varley.'

'You know how to flatter, sir.'

'Truth needs no embellishment.'

Her brittle laugh rang out then she moved in closer.

'What is your next play to be?' she asked.

'Whatever you wish, Lady Varley.'

'Me, sir?'

'We have a large repertory. How would you care to see me?'

'As Hector.'

Their eyes were conversing freely and they talked with a pleasing directness. Firethorn was entranced by her coquettish manner and she was fascinated by his boldness.

'When would you have me play, Lady Varley?'

'As soon as it may suit you, sir.'

'The performance will be dedicated to you.'

'I would regard that as a signal honour, Master Firethorn '

'Shall I send word when a date has been set?'

'I will be mortified if you do not.'

'Then it will be soon, that I can promise you.'

'Good,' she said evenly. 'I'll hold you to that, sir.'

'And I will hold you, Lady Varley.'

The assignation was made. In a crowded room, and at the first time of meeting, they had agreed to a tryst. He was quite transported. The afternoon had blessed him. It is not given to many men to defeat the Spanish Armada and conquer Lady Rosamund Varley within the space of a few hours.

*

Benjamin Creech left the playhouse with some of his fellows but he soon left them to head off on his own. Like the rest of the company, he had enjoyed the exhilaration of performance and it had left him with the same feeling of release. In his case, however, that feeling was tempered by something else. A man with divided loyalties finds it difficult to rejoice.

Nobody knew the taverns of London as intimately and as comprehensively as he did, so he had no difficulty in finding the one to which he had been summoned. A stroll along Eastcheap, a left turn, then a right, and he was there. At the sign of the Beetle and Wedge. Feeling his thirst deepen, he went in through the door and ducked beneath the low beam.

'Hello, Ben. Thank you for coming.'

'Aye.'

'Let me buy you a drink, old fellow. Wine or beer?'

'Beer.'

'You haven't changed, I see. Come and sit down.'

'Aye.'

Creech lowered himself into a chair opposite his host and looked up into the dark, satanic features. When the drinks were served, they raised their cups and clinked them together.

'To the future!' said his companion.

'That's as maybe, sir.'

'You are in a position to help us a great deal, Ben.'

'Aye.'

'We are grateful.'

Creech watched him carefully and waited for him to make the first move. They had known each other for some years now. The man was clever, persuasive and resourceful with a dark streak in his nature that commended him to Creech. It gave the two of them something in common.

He liked Giles Randolph.

*

Anne Hendrik was dining at home with her lodger and hearing about the extraordinary events at The Curtain that afternoon. She put her cutlery aside in astonishment when she heard about the dive that Roger Bartholomew had made from the second gallery.

'Was he badly hurt?' she said with concern.

'The surgeon recovered him,' explained Nicholas. 'He was taken back to his lodging to rest.'

'Why on earth did he do such a thing?'

'As a means of revenge against the company.'

'Because you rejected his play?'

'Master Bartholomew could not live with the disappointment. It preyed on his mind until his wits turned. The theatre can drive people to extremes at times, Anne.'

'I know that,' she said meaningfully.

'He was greatly vexed that his suicide jump failed,' Nicholas went on. 'Nothing he has done in a theatre has succeeded.'

'Poor fellow!' He has been sorely tried.'

'Yes, Anne. But he did solve one mystery for us.'

'Mystery?'

'Those playbills that George Dart put up for us.'

'Master Bartholomew tore them down?' she said in amazement.

'Desperate men are pushed into desperate actions.'

Anne sighed and picked up her cutlery again. Then her eye went back to the bloodstained bandage around Nicholas's head.

Her worries converged upon him once more. How is your own wound, Nick?' she said.

'My head is still attached to my body,' he joked lightly

'Did you ask the surgeon to examine it?'

'Do not distress yourself about it, Anne. I am in good health now.' He raised a finger to touch the bandage. 'I wear this simply to excite your sympathy.'

'What of that man with the red beard?'

His manner changed at once and he became much more earnest

'I have even more cause to find the rogue now,' he said with his jaw tightening. 'Redbeard and his accomplice have a lot to answer for and I mean to bring them to account.'

'But how?' she asked. 'In a city of over a hundred thousand people two men can easily stay hidden. How will you seek them out, Nick?'

'I may not have to do that,' he suggested.

'What do you mean?'

'Instead of going after them, I can wait till they come to me. For they will surely strike again.'

'Oh, Nick!' she sighed, fearing for him once more.

'I am not their intended victim,' he assured her. 'They had their chance to dispose of me last night and they did not take it. No, Anne, they are working to some complex plan.'

'I do not follow you.'

'It all started with the death of Will Fowler.'

'But that was an accident,' she argued. 'He lost his temper and was drawn into a quarrel. It was a random brawl.'

'That is what I thought,' he admitted, 'but I have grave doubts now. I believe that Will was deliberately murdered and that everything else which has happened--including the theft of our prompt book--is linked together.'