‘Master Gill was grossly abused. How does he fare?’
‘Not well, my lord. He suffered a broken leg.’
‘Poor fellow!’
‘It may be months before he is fully recovered. He’ll be unable to join us on our tour of Kent. That is the other thing I came to tell you, my lord,’ he added. ‘Since we have worn out our welcome in Gracechurch Street, we mean to leave London sooner than planned. I believe that you intended to be in Dover when we played there.’
‘Indeed, I do,’ said the other. ‘Lord Cobham is a friend of mine. I’ve promised him a stirring performance from Westfield’s Men. Let me know the dates of your stay in Dover and I’ll contrive to be there at the same time.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ replied Nicholas, trying to guide him back to the more important matter. ‘Before I do that, however, I would like whatever information you can give me about Master Hope. I asked if he had enemies.’
‘None that I know of. Fortunatus was such an amiable character.’
‘Someone had a grudge against him.’
‘Evidently.’
‘Where did he live in the city?’
‘I told you. He only recently befriended me.’
‘He must have a family. They need to be informed of this tragedy.’
‘Fortunatus hailed from Oxfordshire,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘It will take a louder voice than yours to reach the ears of his family. I doubt that even Lawrence Firethorn’s lungs would be equal to that task.’
‘Perhaps another member of your circle could give me an address,’ suggested Nicholas, annoyed that he was getting so little help and wishing that Lord Westfield would take the murder more seriously. ‘I need urgent assistance, my lord.’
‘Why? This is a matter for the law.’
‘It also concerns us. And I fancy that we may be able to make more headway than some local constables who were not present at the time. We were there, my lord.’
‘Do not remind me!’
‘There has to be a reason why Fortunatus Hope was killed at the Queen’s Head.’
‘More than one person drew a weapon to defend himself,’ remembered the older man. ‘Could not Fortunatus have been the victim of a chance dagger?’
Nicholas was firm. ‘No question of that, my lord.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I used my eyes.’
‘But the place was in uproar.’
‘That was the intention. The affray was started with the express purpose of distracting attention so that a man could be murdered. Cunning was at work, my lord,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Someone set out to strike against you, your company and your friend.’
‘Saints preserve us!’ gasped Lord Westfield, a flabby hand at his throat. ‘Do you tell me that I am in mortal danger as well?’
‘We have a common enemy, my lord,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we need to unmask him with all speed. Every detail I can glean about Fortunatus Hope is vital. Otherwise, the person or persons who have shown such ill will towards Westfield’s Men may soon strike again.’
Chapter Three
The meeting took place in Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch, a sprawling, half-timbered dwelling with a thatched roof in need of repair. Situated in Old Street, the house was presided over by Firethorn’s wife, Margery, a formidable woman with a homely appearance that belied her strength of character and her iron determination. Not only did she cope with a husband whose roving instincts were a continual threat to marital harmony, she brought the children up on true Christian principles, provided bed and board for the company’s apprentices and ruled the roost over her servants. The place was never less than clean, the food never less than delicious and the hospitality never less than warm. When the first guest, Edmund Hoode, arrived, Margery gave him a cordial welcome and wanted to hear all about his visit to the ailing Barnaby Gill. The second person to knock on her door was Owen Elias, the spirited Welsh actor, and she accepted his kiss with a girlish laugh. But it was for Nicholas Bracewell that she reserved her most affectionate reception, wrapping him in a tight embrace and chortling happily. Firethorn had to call his wife to order.
‘Let the fellow in, Margery,’ he scolded, ‘before you squeeze all the breath out of him. You have three thirsty guests in the house and your husband’s throat is also dry.’
‘Say no more, Lawrence,’ she replied, bustling off to the kitchen.
Nicholas went into the parlour to be greeted by the others. Ordinarily, Barnaby Gill would have been present at such a gathering. There were other sharers in the company but he, Firethorn and Hoode made all the major decisions, assisted usually by Nicholas, who, as the book holder, was only a hired man but who was included in discussions about future policy because of his cool head and resourcefulness. Gill always objected strongly to his presence at such meetings but he was overruled each time by Firethorn, the leading actor and manager of Westfield’s Men. Nicholas was pleased to see that Elias had replaced Gill at the table. Unlike the troupe’s clown, the Welshman was a firm friend. He was also a person with firm opinions that were expressed with characteristic honesty. There would be none of the petty bickering that Gill invariably brought to any exchange of views.
Taking the seat to which Firethorn waved him, Nicholas turned to Hoode.
‘How is he, Edmund?’ he asked.
‘Barnaby is wallowing in self-pity,’ said Hoode.
‘No novelty there,’ observed Firethorn tartly.
‘Show some sympathy, Lawrence,’ chided Hoode, shooting him a look of reproof. ‘He’s in great discomfort. The doctor gave him some medicine to ease his pain but it has no effect. Barnaby suffers dreadfully. The pain is not confined to his leg, I fear. It is seated in his heart and his brain as well.’
‘He does not have a heart.’
‘Shame on you! At such a time as this, Barnaby needs our support.’
‘Then let us drink to his health,’ said Firethorn as Margery entered with a tray that bore four cups of wine and a platter of cakes on it. ‘Thank you, my angel,’ he added, patting her on the rump as she passed. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Find someone else to wait on you, hand, foot and finger,’ she retorted before handing out the refreshments. ‘Is there anything else you need, Lawrence?’
‘Only peace and quiet, my dove.’
‘I’ll make sure that the children don’t interrupt you.’
After distributing a smile among the three guests, she sailed out again and left the men to raise their cups to the absent Gill. Firethorn was anxious to begin the discussion.
‘Well, Nick,’ he said, taking a first sip of wine, ‘did you see Lord Westfield?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘Eventually.’
‘What did he say about this afternoon’s disorder?’
‘He was shocked and disgusted. Fearing injury to himself and his friends, he hustled them out so quickly that he was quite unaware of the fact that one of them was in no position to leave.’
‘Did he identify the dead man?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name was Fortunatus Hope.’
‘I think he should have been called Misfortunatus,’ said Elias with a grim chuckle, ‘for he chanced on no luck at the Queen’s Head. Who could have wanted to kill the fellow?’
‘Lord Westfield could throw no light on that, Owen. Nor could he even tell me where the man lived. Master Hope, it seems, only recently came into his circle and was still much of an unknown quantity. What our patron has promised to do,’ said Nicholas, ‘is to make enquiry among his other friends to see if any of them were better acquainted with the fellow. At the very least, we should write to his family to tell them of the tragedy that has befallen them.’
‘That office should surely fall to Lord Westfield,’ said Firethorn.
‘I fancy that we might perform it more readily.’
‘Are our patron’s feathers so completely ruffled, Nick?’
‘His plumage is in danger of falling out. Because of what happened today, he thinks that his own life may now be in jeopardy. By the time I left him, he was shaking like a leaf.’