‘Your talent is still in good repair.’
‘This is folly, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘How can Barnaby perform with his leg in a splint? He is unable to walk, let alone dance a jig.’
‘Then we make a virtue of necessity, Edmund. You’ll see to that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Change a play to suit our circumstance,’ said Nicholas. ‘The wheelbarrow comes to our aid here. Our clown may not caper, but he can be moved at will about the stage. Much comedy can be gleaned from that.’
‘Why, yes,’ said Firethorn, latching on to the idea at once. ‘This may be the answer, Barnaby. When we first offered you the wheelbarrow, you turned up your nose at it because it would make you a figure of fun. That is what we wish you to be. A figure of fun upon the stage.’
Gill sniffed. ‘The notion offends my dignity.’
‘Think of your purse, man. Would you rather leave Faversham unpaid?’
‘Nick has hit the mark,’ said Hoode, seeing the possibilities. ‘I can easily write scenes that turn the broken leg into a source of rich comedy. Where Barnaby cannot dance, he shall sing instead. It could be done.’
‘But it will not be,’ said Gill, folding his arms defiantly.
‘With you in the cast, we could even play The Loyal Subject.’
‘I have another suggestion,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s put a tragedy aside and give them homespun humour instead. After the dark deed in the stables, our fellows need a comedy to lift their spirits. The Foolish Friar meets all objections. It’s a light piece on a serious subject. Our friar will look even more foolish if the only way that he can move about is in a wheelbarrow.’
‘The perfect play,’ said Hoode. ‘It lends itself to change and variation.’
‘Not on my account,’ affirmed Gill. ‘I am too unwell to act.’
‘Then we harp on that,’ said Nicholas. ‘Give the foolish friar a whole array of ailments, Edmund. To his broken leg, add a bad back, a diseased liver, a sore throat, a high fever and a choleric disposition.’
Firethorn laughed. ‘Barnaby already has that!’
‘I’ll not be a foolish friar,’ said Gill.
‘You’ll be a foolish friar, a wise virgin or a statue of Venus, if we ask it. You have a contract with us,’ said Firethorn, ‘and it obliges you to act what we decide. There is no mention of a broken leg anywhere in its terms. Were you stricken down with sleeping sickness, we could still enforce the contract.’
‘Besides,’ said Hoode, adopting a softer approach, ‘you would not let us suffer the humiliation of having to cancel a performance. Think how your fellows would welcome your return, Barnaby? They’d be eternally grateful to the man who came to our rescue. Our reputation is in your hands.’
‘One thing more,’ said Nicholas. ‘Giddy must be borne in mind. Though he was with us such a short time, he left his imprint on the company. For his sake, we must not abandon a performance. Giddy would have expected us to go on. It would be a way to honour his memory.’
Gill was weakening. ‘The Foolish Friar is a good play. I like it.’
‘Share that pleasure with an audience.’
‘Who would push me in the wheelbarrow?’
‘Anyone you choose. George Dart, perhaps?’
‘No, not on stage,’ said Gill. ‘He’s too weak and clumsy for that. I need someone strong enough to move me around without bumping into the scenery.’
‘Owen Elias, it shall be,’ said Nicholas. ‘Strong and sensible.’
Hoode’s mind was racing. ‘We’ll have a song that the pair of you can sing together,’ he said, ‘for Owen has the best voice of us all. And in place of your dance, he can spin you around the stage to music. That wheelbarrow is a godsend.’
‘Well, Barnaby,’ asked Firethorn. ‘What do you say now?’
‘It might work,’ said Gill pensively.
‘You’d become our hero.’
‘Which would you rather do?’ said Nicholas. ‘Sit on a bench to watch a play or ride in a wheelbarrow and take part in it?’
Gill smacked the table. ‘I’ll do it!’
The landlord of the inn was saddened by what had happened. Murder on his premises would leave its taint for a long time. Like the people he employed, he went about his chores with far less enthusiasm that evening. Most of them did not know Giddy Mussett well enough to grieve for him, but they felt the effects of his death. Some customers were drawn to the Blue Anchor by ghoulish curiosity but the murder frightened many regular patrons away. It was the actors who kept the cooks and the servingmen busy, eating to assuage their appetites and drinking to relieve their sorrow.
There was one person who knew the deceased well. Kate Humble had a special place in her heart for Mussett. A friendship that had begun on his previous visit to the town had been revived instantly when she saw him, even though his face had been battered in a brawl. In their brief moments together, he had given her more pleasure and amusement than she had enjoyed in a whole year. Unlike the other kitchen maids, Kate could not simply work on as if nothing had happened. Pleading sickness, she withdrew to the tiny attic room that she shared at night with three others. There she could give free reign to her emotions, remembering the times she had enjoyed with Mussett and savouring some of the things he had said to her. Treasured memories made her smile through her tears. It pained her to think that she would never see him again.
Kate was still weeping copiously when there was a knock on the door. Fearing that it might be the landlord, she dried her tears with her apron. There was a second tap.
‘Come in,’ she said, biting her lip to hold back another fit of weeping.
The door opened and Nicholas Bracewell put his head around it.
‘I was told that you were ill,’ he said. ‘I came to see how you were.’
She was touched. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’
‘Giddy was a friend of mine. I know that you loved him, too.’
‘He was the best man in the world,’ she said as fresh tears flowed. ‘Forgive me, sir. I cannot help it. The thought of how he died distresses me so much.’
‘And me, Kate.’
‘Who but a madman could want to kill Giddy?’
‘I mean to find out,’ he assured her.
‘He spoke well of you,’ she said, wiping away her tears once more. ‘Nick Bracewell let me out of prison — that’s what he told me. I know that he did bad things sometimes, sir, but think well of him.’
‘I always will.’
She studied him through moist eyes as if trying to decide if she could trust him. Nicholas caught a whiff of guilt that was mingled with fear. He sensed that she had something to tell him but he did not rush her. He gave her a consoling smile.
‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, sir, You do not have to bother about me. I am just a kitchen maid.’
‘Giddy thought you much more than that.’
Her face brightened. ‘Yes, he did. That’s why I loved him.’
‘Were you surprised to see him back in Faversham again?’
‘No,’ she said proudly. ‘He promised me he’d come back to see me one day. Though he did not tell me that his face would be quite so bruised.’
‘Did he say how he came about his injuries?’
‘By falling down some steps when he was drunk.’ She laughed merrily. ‘Giddy was always too fond of his ale but I did not hold that against him.’ Kate brushed away a last tear with a knuckle then met his gaze. ‘Can I trust you, sir?’ she asked.
‘I hope so, Kate.’
‘If I tell you something, will you promise me I will not get into trouble?’
‘That depends what it is.’
‘Giddy made me do it.’
‘Do what, Kate?’
There was an awkward pause. ‘Lie for him,’ she confessed.
‘What sort of lie did you tell?’
‘You will be angry when you know, sir.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘If it concerns Giddy, I’ll not be angry. I know he had his vices, Kate, but they made him what he was. I’ll bear him no ill will.’ He took a step closer to her. ‘Tell me about this lie.’