‘Why does the fool not shut up?’ asked Firethorn.
‘He is almost done,’ said Nicholas.
‘I’ll have none of this dribbling vicar when I die.’
‘He speaks well of Ben.’
‘We come to mourn, not to hear an hour’s sermon.’
Seated in the church beside his employer, Nicholas Bracewell was more tolerant. Traditionally, the parson of St Leonard’s was always the archdeacon of London but the mundane round of baptisms, services of holy matrimony and funerals was left to the vicar. Advanced in age himself, the vicar had known Skeat for decades and took his congregation through an accumulation of pleasant memories. Firethorn grew weary of the address but his wife, Margery, seated on the other side of him, was moved to tears. Nicholas was held by the well-meaning benevolence of the vicar’s words.
They adjourned to the churchyard for the burial. A sad occasion was made more depressing by a steady drizzle. Skeat had only a few distant relatives to witness his descent into the good earth. The acting fraternity dominated and one or two of them used the occasion to attract undue attention. Barnaby Gill was the most blatant offender, attired in black and given to sudden fits of weeping over a man to whom he had never been more than polite in the past. Firethorn gave a snort of disapproval at the performance but was powerless to prevent it. In any case, he had to mollify his colleague rather than take him to task.
‘Stay, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘A word in your ear.’
‘My thoughts lie in the coffin with Ben Skeat.’
‘He is beyond our help now.’
‘You were not beside him when he died-I was.’
The funeral was over and the congregation dispersed. As no performance was scheduled for that afternoon, most of the company headed in the direction of Bishopsgate so that they could ease their sorrows at the Queen’s Head and exchange reminiscences of the dear departed. Lawrence Firethorn had another funeral to attend. He somehow had to bury the violent quarrel he had in his house with Barnaby Gill.
Since that moment of conflict, the two had hardly spoken a word to each other. Firethorn’s toothache had faded to a dull ache that allowed him to give an adequate-if rather muted-account of the title role in Vincentio’s Revenge on the previous afternoon. Gill had played opposite him with his customary brio but sulked in silence when he came offstage. The rift in the lute had to be mended.
Nicholas Bracewell undertook to begin the repairs.
‘We need your advice on a most pressing matter.’
‘Can I not be left to mourn in peace?’ said Gill.
‘You will not be detained long.’
‘Save it until the morrow.’
‘It may be too late, Master Gill.’
‘For what?’
‘The decision.’
‘Lawrence makes all the decisions. Talk to him.’
‘This one requires your approval, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn with an appeasing smile. ‘Return to my house with us and partake of some refreshment.’
‘You wish to feed me this time before you evict me?’
‘I mean to apologise to you.’
Gill thawed visibly at the mention of an apology and Nicholas stepped in again to secure an advantage. By alternately praising Gill’s work with the company and emphasizing the importance of his opinion, the book holder managed to escort him all the way to the house in Old Street before the actor really noticed. When he took stock of his surroundings again, Gill found himself in the very house from which he had been expelled so rudely on Saturday.
Margery Firethorn had been schooled in her part.
‘Welcome, Barnaby!’ she said with open arms. ‘It is a joy to have you beneath our humble roof once more. But I intrude here. Woman’s work is in the kitchen.’ She beamed at the three men. ‘I will leave you alone, sirs.’
She went out of the parlour and shut the latch door behind her. Before Gill could pass any comment, his host thrust a cup of Canary wine into his hand and passed another to Nicholas Bracewell. All three drank a toast to the memory of Ben Skeat, then settled down on upright chairs.
Barnaby Gill was still morose and defensive.
‘I was outraged on my last visit to this house.’
‘It will not happen again,’ Firethorn assured him.
‘Toothache sometimes has bad manners,’ said Nicholas.
‘Those, I accept,’ said Gill. ‘Violence, I abhor.’
Firethorn grasped the nettle. ‘I apologise, Barnaby.’
‘You admit you were in the wrong?’
‘There were faults on both sides.’
‘I was unjustly set upon!’
‘Through a misunderstanding,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let us put that aside and turn to the matter in hand. It is a cause for mild celebration though it is not without its qualms.’
Gill turned to Firethorn. ‘What is he talking about?’
‘Nick will tell you himself. It is his tale.’
‘I hope it be shorter than the vicar’s narrative.’
‘Hear him, Barnaby.’
Nicholas cleared his throat and gave a brief account of how The Roaring Boy had come into his hands. He found it exhilarating and gave it to Edmund Hoode. The playwright thought it inspiring and passed it on to Lawrence Firethorn. The actor-manager considered it immensely promising as it had a powerful role for him. All three were keen to give the work the accolade of a performance by Westfield’s Men.
Gill flew at once into a state of apostasy.
‘I refuse to countenance this folly!’
‘But you have not even seen the play,’ said Nicholas.
‘That is exactly why I object to it. Since when have I been forced to take my turn behind a book holder and a poet? I should have been the first to study any new work.’
‘After me, that is,’ reminded Firethorn.
‘Does it matter in what order it is read?’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘I gave it to Edmund Hoode because the play needs him to give it shape and direction. Without his help, we would not be able to proceed.’
‘Could not the author improve it himself?’ said Gill.
‘We do not know who he is.’
‘An anonymous play?’
‘The author has a reason for concealing his name.’
‘Is he then ashamed of his work?’
‘He has every right to be proud.’
‘It is a somewhat makeshift affair at the moment,’ said Firethorn, ‘but the faults lie only in construction. Those are soon mended. The piece has great spirit, Barnaby. If we can make it work, Westfield’s Men will take London by storm.’
Gill remained sceptical but he agreed to let Nicholas Bracewell outline the plot of The Roaring Boy. It was a domestic drama based on a murder case whose reverberations were still being felt in the capital. Thomas Brinklow was a highly successful mathematician and marine engineer from Greenwich. When he married a young wife, Cecily, he did not realise that she was still in love with the steward of her former household, Walter Dunne. Wife and lover conspired to have Brinklow murdered in order that they could be together and inherit his wealth.
Two villains, Maggs and Freshwell, were engaged to do the deed. When Thomas Brinklow was butchered to death, the plot was uncovered and three of the malefactors were arrested. Freshwell went to the gallows with Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. The other killer, Maggs, eluded capture and was still at large. So brutal was the actual slaughter that it even shocked a city where murder was a daily event. London was still buzzing about the grotesque treatment accorded to Brinklow of Greenwich.
‘I remember the case well,’ said Gill airily. ‘Who does not? But there is no call to show this heinous crime upon a stage. The murder was solved and the guilty hanged.’