Chapter Two
It was almost an hour before Nicholas Bracewell was able to rejoin the others. Having summoned constables to report the murder of the anonymous playgoer, he helped them to carry the body to the waiting cart that would take it to the morgue. Nicholas then went off to give a sworn statement to a magistrate, describing the circumstances in which he had found the dead man but having, at this stage, no clue as to his identity beyond the fact that he was a friend of Lord Westfield’s. Word of the riot at the inn alarmed the magistrate and he hoped that culprits could be found and arraigned, but Nicholas had doubts. Once they had started the affray, none of the youths lingered in the yard for too long. They escaped while they could. Nicholas feared that their crime might well go unpunished.
When he returned to the Queen’s Head, he found that almost the entire company was helping to dismantle their stage and clear up the wreckage in the yard. There was a pervading air of sadness as they sifted through the remains of their property, acutely conscious of the severe blow dealt to their livelihood. Only two actors were missing. One of them, Lawrence Firethorn, soon came clattering into the yard on his horse. Reining in the animal, he dismounted and went over to Nicholas.
‘This is the worst day in our history, Nick,’ he decided. ‘It will take us an eternity to recover from this. Barnaby injured, our scenery destroyed, our performance ruined and our audience put to flight. Truly, this is our Armageddon.’
‘Did the doctor arrive?’ asked Nicholas.
‘He came and went. As soon as he set the leg in splints, I helped him to convey Barnaby to his lodging. We had to move him with great care.’
‘How is he now?’
‘Cursing his fate and trying to dull the pain with some Canary wine.’
‘What did the doctor say?’
‘The break was clean and it should heal in time.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘Months and months.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Nicholas, ‘we have lost his services.’
Firethorn heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, Nick,’ he agreed. ‘I never thought to hear myself admitting this but we shall miss him mightily. Lawrence Firethorn may be the shooting star of Westfield’s Men but Barnaby Gill can light up the heavens as well.’ His gaze shifted to the litter-strewn yard. ‘Why did this have to happen? What on earth was it about A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady that set them off?’
‘The play was not to blame.’
‘Then what was? Did Barnaby’s jig cause such offence?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Whatever play we performed today was already doomed. This was no random act of malice. The brawl was planned.’
Firethorn blinked. ‘You think that someone set out to spoil the performance?’
‘I’m certain of it. Only two of them jumped up onto the stage at first but I fancy they had confederates in various parts of the yard. That’s why the fighting spread so quickly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think they were paid to bring us down.’
‘By whom?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘But for what possible reason?’
‘That’s what we have to find out.’ Nicholas cocked an eye upward to the gallery. ‘We also have to determine why someone was stabbed to death here this afternoon.’
‘That creeping insect of a landlord would have been killed as well if I could have got my hands on him!’
‘Forget Alexander Marwood. We have worries enough to vex us.’
‘Too true, Nick,’ said Firethorn, running a hand through his beard. ‘Murder takes priority here. It behoves me to give the poor man the tribute of a passing sigh. Do we know who the victim was?’
‘Not yet. But I trust that our patron will furnish us with a name.’
‘It’s a pity that he cannot furnish us with some money for we shall certainly need it. Much of what was damaged is beyond repair. And our reputation is badly besmirched. Come,’ he urged, walking into the middle of the yard, ‘let’s help our fellows move the rest of this trash. The sooner we get away from this accursed inn, the better.’
‘We need to stay away for a time until tempers cool.’
‘Why so?’
‘The landlord is upset.’
‘That ghoul is always upset.’
‘He’s resolved to terminate our contract.’
Firethorn glowered. ‘Let him try. I’ll terminate the villain’s miserable life!’
‘He owns the Queen’s Head,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘If we are ever to play here again, we must win him over somehow.’
‘Then that’s an embassy I leave to you, Nick. I can’t treat with the rogue.’
‘He needs time apart from us.’
‘But this is our playhouse.’
‘We’ll not perform here again for some while.’
‘But we must or our occupation dies.’
‘I’ve a notion that might solve that problem.’
‘Then let’s hear it, man.’
‘All in good time.’
Nicholas scooped up the chair that had been hurled into the audience from the stage. Its back had been cracked and one of its legs was missing. He held it up to examine it. Firethorn shook his head sadly.
‘We can soon have a new leg put on that,’ he observed with bitterness. ‘It will not be quite so easy to repair Barnaby.’
The injury not only caused Barnaby Gill extreme pain. It had inflicted a deep wound on his pride. During his long career on the stage, he had never failed to captivate an audience with one of his jigs and invariably earned an ovation at their conclusion. This time, it was different. His art had been insulted, his dance interrupted and his humiliation completed by a vicious attack. As he lay on the bed in his lodging with a half-empty cup of wine in his hand, he was in despair.
‘I am done for, Edmund!’ he groaned. ‘Barnaby Gill is no more.’
‘That’s foolish talk,’ said Edmund Hoode, the resident playwright with the company. ‘You’re invincible, Barnaby. This is but a small mishap. A short and well-deserved rest from your labours on the boards.’
Gill snorted. ‘Rest, do you say? How on earth do I rest when I am in agony?’ he asked, pointing to the leg that was in splints. ‘And well-deserved? Since when did I deserve to be set upon by two rogues who beat me black and blue?’
‘I was merely trying to make a virtue of necessity.’
‘Where’s the virtue in losing my one source of income?’
‘Your leg will heal in time.’
‘Not for ages.’
‘The doctor was full of optimism.’
‘I’d be full of optimism if he’d broken his leg,’ said Gill testily. ‘The old fool had no idea how long it would take to mend or whether I’d ever be able to dance on it again.’
‘Be patient, Barnaby.’
‘When I’m in such torment?’
Gill drained his cup and tossed it aside. Hoode felt sorry for his friend. He could see the quiet terror in Gill’s eyes. It was as if the clown’s whole future had been broken in two along with his leg. There was no guarantee that his nimbleness would not be permanently impaired. He feared that he might go through life thereafter with a limp. Hoode felt a deep personal loss. Every play he had ever written contained a part that was tailored to Gill’s unique comic gifts. Performances of those works without him would be gravely weakened. Hoode was a kind man with a moon-shaped face that was now creased with concern. He bent solicitously over the bed.
‘Is there anything I can get you, Barnaby?’
‘Only a gravedigger to bury me.’
‘You are still very much alive.’
‘My art is dead and, without it, so am I.’
‘Away with such thoughts!’
‘Look at me, man,’ said Gill, grimacing. ‘You see a corpse before you.’
‘I see the finest clown in London,’ replied Hoode loyally. ‘You are a trifle battered by life at the moment, that is all.’
It was true. In addition to the broken leg, Gill had sustained other injuries. His face was heavily bruised and one eye had been blackened. Having been trampled on by dozens of feet, his whole body was a mass of aches and twinges. He had aged visibly. Hoode had never seen him looking so haggard and miserable. It was very worrying. He did his best to cheer up his friend.