‘Why?’
‘Out of respect for the dead.’
Gill started. ‘Another of our company has died?’
‘Lawrence’s tooth. It will pass away any minute.’
‘Not if you keep prodding at it, you torturer!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘We are here to discuss business, not to talk of surgeons with lighted candles. God’s blood! If my tooth were sound, I’d use it to bite off your mocking face! No more of it, Owen. Let us hear Barnaby out before we answer him.’
‘You have heard all,’ said Gill. ‘I say nay.’
‘When you have not even read the play?’
‘I do not need to, Lawrence. It spells disaster.’
‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘For our rivals. If The Roaring Boy is but half the success it deserves to be, Westfield’s Men will rise head and shoulders above the other companies.’
‘We already do that,’ argued Firethorn.
‘This play will let us eclipse them completely.’
‘It is the road to Bedlam,’ said Gill. ‘When I consider its subject, every part about me quivers.’
‘That is only fitting,’ said Firethorn. ‘It should make you quiver with excitement, Barnaby.’
‘I shake with fear.’
‘You should glow with pride.’
‘I shudder with disgust.’
‘This play is the sword of justice.’
‘It will cut down the lot of us.’
‘Not if we wield it ourselves,’ said Owen Elias. ‘Westfield’s Men will hold the slicing edge of death.’
Lawrence Firethorn did not regret taking the Welshman into their confidence. The attack on Nicholas Bracewell was a grim warning. Apart from the book holder himself, nobody had such skill in arms as Owen Elias. His belligerence could be trying at times but it was a source of comfort now. The victor in a score of tavern brawls, he lent strength as well as experience to Westfield’s Men. For this reason, it was wise to keep him informed of every development relating to The Roaring Boy. Like the actor-manager, Elias was outraged by the injuries sustained by his beloved friend and longed for the opportunity to avenge each blow struck at Nicholas. He would be a most effective guard dog.
Barnaby Gill, by contrast, had no stomach for a fight.
‘We court unnecessary peril,’ he bleated.
‘Think of the prize that awaits us,’ said Firethorn.
‘Violent assault.’
‘Righting a grave wrong.’
‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘Bringing a villain to the scaffold. Publishing his wickedness to the whole world.’
‘He will not stand idly by while we do that.’
‘Of course not,’ conceded Firethorn. ‘We will be hounded and harrassed at every turn but we must not give in. Our safety lies in our unity. Hold fast together and we can withstand the onslaught of the Devil himself.’
‘I want nothing whatsoever to do with the play,’ said Gill impetuously. ‘I wash my hands of it forthwith.’
‘A Pontius Pilate in our ranks!’
Owen Elias grunted. ‘A Judas, more like!’
‘Very well,’ said Firethorn with uncharacteristic calm. ‘Withdraw into your ivory tower, Barnaby. Shun your fellows. Spurn this heaven-sent chance to turn Westfield’s Men into agents of the law. You can be spared, sir. Indeed, your decision brings relief. If truth be told, I was not certain in my mind that you were equal to the task before us.’
‘I am equal to anything!’ retorted the other.
‘This role was beyond even your scope, Barnaby.’
‘Falsehood! Every part is within my compass.’
‘Even that of a hapless mathematician, who is foully murdered by hired villains? No, it is too heavy a load for you to bear. Stay with your clowning and your comical jigs. They place no great strain on your art.’
‘What are you telling me, Lawrence?’
‘That you release us from vexation,’ said Firethorn. ‘Had you played in The Roaring Boy, the leading part would have fallen to you.’
‘Thomas Brinklow?’
‘The same.’
‘Would not you have seized upon the role?’
‘Indeed not. I am satisfied with Freshwell, the roaring boy himself. He lords it in the title of the play but Brinklow carries the piece. Edmund spoke strongly on your behalf but I was not minded to accept his judgement. You have rescued me from that dilemma. Stand aside.’
‘Not so fast, Lawrence.’
‘Does that mean I am Thomas Brinklow?’ asked Elias.
‘You were my choice at the start, Owen.’
‘The matter is not yet settled,’ said Gill quickly.
‘But you deserted us even now,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are frighted out of the project. I heard you say as much. So did Owen here.’ He gave the Welshman a sly wink to ensure his complicity. ‘What was it that he said?’
‘That he will not act in this lunatic venture.’
‘Nor will I,’ said Gill, folding his arms in a posture of indifference. After a moment’s reflection, however, he weakened visibly. ‘Unless certain conditions are met.’
‘You have surrendered the role,’ said Firethorn, working on the other’s pride. ‘It goes to Owen. He needs to impose no conditions on the company.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Had old Ben Skeat still been with us, I would have offered the part to him. Ben would have been a noble Thomas Brinklow.’
‘Why, so will I,’ asserted Gill.
‘He had the authority. The dignity.’
‘So do I, so do I.’
‘Ben Skeat would have anchored the play securely.’
‘He did not anchor The Corrupt Bargain securely,’ said Gill with a rueful glare. ‘Had we relied on him, we would have drifted on to the rocks. It was I who saved the day. I who proved my mettle. I who led the company. Where was Ben Skeat then? Beyond recall!’ He rose to his feet. ‘Thomas Brinklow must first be offered to me. I have all the qualities of the man. If Edmund can but find me a song or two in the role, I will consider it afresh. Good day, sirs. That is all the parlay that I will permit.’
It was enough. Barnaby Gill was caught in their net. Owen Elias expressed token disappointment at the loss of a part he had never expected to play and Firethorn feigned reluctance but the two men had achieved their objective. Barnaby Gill would act in The Roaring Boy. When the comedian strutted out of the taproom, Lawrence Firethorn turned to his companion with a whoop of delight.
‘It worked, Owen!’
‘We played him like a fish on a line.’
‘I talk of the lighted candle.’
‘When that surgeon burned my hand?’
‘One agony drove out another,’ said Firethorn. ‘The pain of dealing with Barnaby’s vanity has quite taken away my toothache. He was the flame that distracted me. It is a blessing. I am recovered to give my full attention to the challenge of The Roaring Boy.
‘All we need now is the play itself,’ said Owen.
Firethorn emptied his cup. ‘Put trust in our fellows. Edmund Hoode is no inquisitor but Nick Bracewell will dig out the truth. Our book holder will not leave Greenwich until he has sifted every detail of this endeavour.’
***
Nicholas Bracewell became increasingly fascinated with Emilia Brinklow. His first impression of her was slowly ratified. The sedate figure on the bench opposite was patently still mourning the loss of her brother but she was not prostrated by grief. There was an air of cool detachment about her and she was evidently in control of her situation. When Agnes brought refreshment for the visitors, Emilia thanked the maidservant and gave her crisp new instructions. When the assistant gardeners strayed too close to the arbour, she despatched them with a glance. Thomas Brinklow had died but his sister was more than able to run the establishment in his stead. House and garden were being maintained in the way that he himself had designated.
Having exhausted enquiries about the play, and the facts underlying it, Edmund Hoode stared at her with open-mouthed infatuation. His commitment to the project was now complete. Two hours in the garden with Emilia Brinklow had turned The Roaring Boy into the most exhilarating work of his career. Simon Chaloner manoeuvred them around to more neutral topics, believing that he had safely brought her through what could have been a harrowing encounter for her. He was still congratulating himself on his adroit management of the interview when Emilia herself supplanted him.