‘But they may not have been guilty,’ said Nicholas.
‘Aye,’ noted Firethorn. ‘There’s the rub.’
‘Not guilty!’ Gill laughed derisively. ‘Why, that scheming steward was actually taken in flagrante with the slippery wife. What more proof of guilt do you need?’
‘That only confirms their adultery,’ said Nicholas. ‘They admitted that in court. Complicity in the murder was denied. They protested their innocence to the end.’
Gill was unconvinced. ‘Which murderer does not? The wretches tried to throw all the blame on to their two accomplices. Did not this Freshwell confess all? They paid him and his vile comrade to hack poor Brinklow to death.’
‘Supposing that they did not?’ said Firethorn.
‘Is that what the play suggests?’
‘Suggests and proves, in my estimation,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Roaring Boy is about a miscarriage of justice. If its argument be true-and we will take pains to verify that-then we have something which will do more than merely entertain our spectators. It will have a moral purpose.’
‘It will clear the name of innocent people,’ added Firethorn with an expansive gesture. ‘The whole city will flock to see us. Murder is always good business but we offer intrigue and wrongful arrest as well. Westfield’s Men do not just have a duty to stage the play. It must be our mission!’
Barnaby Gill threw up a dozen serious objections to the idea but Nicholas Bracewell had a plausible answer for each one. The book holder admitted that there were still a few obstacles to overcome-not least the corroboration of the facts that lay at the heart of the drama-but he was certain that The Roaring Boy was a play that answered all requirements. It would cause great controversy, redeem Edmund Hoode from his depression, enhance the reputation of Westfield’s Men, tell a cautionary tale and help to right a terrible injustice.
When he could find no more faults, Gill capitulated. High tragedy and rumbustious comedy were the hallmarks of Westfield’s Men and they had hitherto held aloof from the presentation of dramas based on such sensational material from the annals of crime. But The Roaring Boy was obviously a special case and it was perverse to miss an extraordinary opportunity. Similar plays had always had immense, if short-lived, popularity. There was an added bonus of topicality with The Roaring Boy. Its gory appeal was fresh in the public mind. Gill conceded all this. Only one question was now pertinent.
‘Does the play have a suitable part for me?’
***
Orlando Reeve spread his bulk on a cushioned bench in the upper gallery and gazed down into the yard of the Queen’s Head with an amalgam of envy and disdain. He was impressed by the size of the audience that was filling every available inch of space but contemptuous of their manifest lack of quality. The one-penny standees included students, discharged soldiers, tradesmen of the lower sort, apprentices who had sneaked away from their work and rough countrymen in search of entertainment. The yard was also salted with wives, women and punks, bold thieves and sly pickpockets, and every manner of rogue and trickster. Orlando Reeve wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stink that rose up at him and inhaled the aromatic herbs in the silver pomander which hung from a chain around his neck.
It was the day after Skeat’s funeral and Westfield’s Men were back in harness, but Reeve had not come to watch them in A New Way to Please a Woman. Its very title offended his sensibilities and its rustic humour could not even provoke the ghost of a smile from him. He was appalled at the ease with which the rest of spectators were amused. To his left was a tall silkweaver, who giggled inanely throughout: to his right, a merchant from Ulm released a series of long, low chuckles at all the wit and wordplay even though his grasp of English was so uncertain that he understood no more than one word in five. The gallants and their ladies loved A New Way to Please a Woman. Everyone seated in the galleries gave the piece their warmest approval. Attended by his usual fawning entourage, the company’s patron, Lord Westfield, was shaking with glee at the antics below him on the stage.
Orlando Reeve closed his eyes and relied solely on his ears. He was at least able to savour something. No play at the Queen’s Head was complete without vocal and instrumental music. While the players’ histrionics only bored Reeve, their songs delighted him throughout. Voices were clear and true. The consort was well-balanced and rehearsed to a high standard but Reeve had expected no less from its leader. Peter Digby, conductor and musician, was an old friend of his and still as expert on the bass viol as he had always been. Orlando Reeve wallowed in the glorious sound that Digby and his consort were producing from their instruments, then he writhed in horror when the music was submerged beneath braying laughter at the latest piece of vulgarity onstage.
When the play was over, and the yard cleared of what he regarded as its offal, Reeve made his way to the taproom of the Queen’s Head to renew his acquaintance with Peter Digby. The contrast between the two could not have been greater. Peter Digby was a thin, ascetic man whose grey hair was slowly migrating to the farthest reaches of his skull and whose forehead was striped by long years of anxiety. His shoulders were hunched, his legs bowed, his whole appearance suggesting decline and neglect.
Sleek, fat and oozing self-importance, Orlando Reeve looked fifteen years younger than a man who was virtually the same age as himself. Pink, flabby cheeks wobbled in a round face into which a pair of twinkling eyes had been set close together. There was enough material in his expensive white satin doublet to make three whole suits for Peter Digby and still leave a remnant behind. The latter was at once pleased but embarrassed to meet Orlando Reeve again.
‘Well-met, Peter!’
‘I did not think to see you here.’
‘Even Court musicians are permitted some leisure.’
‘You were never wont to spend it at a play.’
‘I came to listen to you,’ said Reeve. His voice was a study in affectation and almost eunuchoid in its high pitch. ‘You are still the complete master of your instrument.’
‘Praise indeed, coming from you!’
‘Your music made the play bearable.’
‘Did you not care for A New Way to Please a Woman?’
‘Its theme was tiresome.’ He exposed tiny, pointed teeth in a razor grin. ‘I have no time for women. Still less for strutting men. Music and musicians fill my world. Who needs anything more?’
‘On that argument, we may readily agree.’ He remembered something and clutched at his purse. ‘Let me offer you a cup of wine, Orlando. This chance meeting calls for celebration.’
‘Unhappily, I may not stay. We play this evening.’
‘At Whitehall?’
‘Yes. Her Majesty has returned from Greenwich. We have been there this past month, filling its corridors with song and gracing its banquets with dance. I received the personal commendation of no less than three visiting ambassadors.’
‘It was deserved,’ said Digby.
Orlando Reeve had his faults but nobody could question his musicianship. He was one of the finest keyboard-players in London, equally adept on virginals, clavichord and chamber organ. His recitals took place before royalty or in packed cathedrals. Peter Digby, once a colleague of his, performed in the humbler arena of the Queen’s Head, stationed in a part of the balcony above the stage that had been curtained off to give the consort some protection from the wind. Court musicians had countless prerogatives but, as he looked up into the beaming self-satisfaction of his friend, Digby was strangely relieved that he had chosen another path.
‘How much of the music did you compose?’ said Reeve.
‘All of it.’
‘Even the songs?’
‘We have to work for our wage in the theatre, Orlando.’