Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

Who did it?

Giles Randolph was not as yet the most outstanding actor in London but he intended to win that accolade at all costs. As the resident star of Banbury’s Men, he chose his parts with the utmost care and played them with great panache. Large audiences flocked to see him and his company was feted but Randolph was not satisfied. Amid the loudest cheers, he could still hear whispers of doubt about his art. He had yet to prove and sustain his superiority over Lawrence Firethorn, a man for whom he reserved a grudging respect that was all but smothered beneath an implacable hatred. Since Banbury’s Men had found a permanent home at The Curtain — one of the few custom-built theatres in London — they held the whiphand over their rivals at the Queen’s Head but they could not always make that advantage tell. Whenever the ambitious Giles Randolph created a new role with which to dazzle his public, Lawrence Firethorn somehow found a means to outshine him once more. That state of affairs could not be allowed to continue. The company’s illustrious patron was disturbed.

‘The rogue does have a modicum of talent,’ said the earl with casual disgust. ‘But not enough to account for their success. Wherein lies their secret?’

‘Outrageous good fortune, my lord.’

‘There is more behind it than that.’

‘Edmund Hoode is a tolerable playwright.’

‘His work holds the stage better than our dramas.’

‘Barnaby Gill can always scrape a few laughs.’

‘He is as popular a clown as any in London,’ said the earl contemptuously. ‘But these explanations still fall short of the full truth. Firethorn, Hoode and Gill are not in themselves sufficient cause for the damnable fame of Lord Westfield’s damnable company.’

They were in a private room at the Bull and Butcher, the sprawling inn that stood near The Curtain in Shoreditch. It was early evening and they had repaired to the hostelry after yet another stirring performance by Banbury’s Men at their theatre. Giles Randolph was a tall, thin, stately man with an Italianate cast of feature that gave him a faintly sinister air. His voice was a superb instrument for poetry but he was too aware of this fact. Even in conversation he tended to pose and project. In the company of his patron, he knew how to fawn and flatter. The Earl of Banbury was a lascivious old man with a goatee beard that he continually scratched with ring-laden fingers. Though he had a sincere and long-standing interest in the promotion of the arts, he wanted more than his due reward of gratitude. His theatre company was there to advance his own interests and to help him eclipse the rising sun of Westfield’s Men.

A venal, corseted dandy untouched by finer feeling, the Earl of Banbury detested Lord Westfield as much as Giles Randolph detested Lawrence Firethorn. With the two contending patrons, however, there was a political dimension. In a court that was rife with intrigue and aspiration, the two men wore their companies around their necks like chains of office. What happened on a stage at The Curtain or the Queen’s Head thus had a bearing on an aristocratic duel which had been fought out for many years now.

The earl drained his silver goblet of wine.

‘Banbury’s Men must take first place forthwith.’

‘They shall, my lord,’ said Randolph deferentially. ‘We will blaze across the heavens like a comet.’

‘I would have you wipe the name of Westfield from the sky. It offends my sight.’

‘Plans have been already set in motion.’

‘Show no mercy to the wretches.’

Giles Randolph sat back and gave a thin smile.

‘They will be wounded where they hurt most.’

By the time he inspected the corpse, the caked blood had been washed off the face but it was still impossible to recognise the man. The axe which split open his skull had rearranged his features into a gruesome mockery of their former good looks. Nicholas Bracewell identified his friend more by instinct than by any facial characteristics. The apparel and effects of the deceased served to confirm beyond reasonable doubt that it was indeed Sebastian Carrick. A proud actor had made an ignoble exit but there was faint consolation for Nicholas in his grief. Carrick’s death had been instantaneous. The crude butchery of his murder left no room for prolonged pain or suffering. Final agonies had been spared.

As Nicholas gazed down at the slaughtered figure on its cold stone slab, his grief soon gave way to a surge of anger. A dear colleague had been cruelly cut down in his prime. On the verge of promotion from the ranks of hired men, Sebastian Carrick had been separated for ever from the world of theatre that he loved and adorned. The sense of waste and injustice made Nicholas seethe with indignation. He turned away from the body, fighting hard to contain his impotent rage and direct it to more useful purpose. Westfield’s Men forged a brotherly concord between the two friends. Nicholas wanted vengeance on behalf of the whole family.

The keeper of the mortuary was a wraith-like individual with a voice like rustling leaves. He nudged his visitor.

‘There was good sport in his last hour,’ he said.

‘What say you?’

‘Look, sir.’ The keeper pulled the body over onto its side to reveal the red channels down its back. ‘Behold the work of a woman! That’s the sign of a leaping house.’

He let out a harsh cackle. Nicholas studied the long parallel scratches on the white flesh, then gently lay the body on its back before covering it with the shroud. Though the mortuary was perfumed with herbs, the prevailing stink of death could still attack the nostrils and throat. When Nicholas began to cough and retch, he knew it was time to leave. He offered up a silent prayer, then went swiftly after the salvation of fresh air. A grim duty had become an excruciating ordeal.

His worst fears were now realised. The mortuary had been his first port of call. Convinced that only death could make Sebastian Carrick miss an entrance onstage, he went to review the latest crop of cadavers to be harvested from the dark suburbs. The actor was amongst them, his face tormented by the manner of his death and his eyes still glassy with appalled surprise. Others had met violent ends that night but none could match him for stark horror.

Nicholas hurried immediately to the coroner to make formal identification of the deceased but he was embarrassed to find that that was virtually all the information he could supply. The coroner pressed him for details that he simply did not have. Beyond the man’s name and employment, Nicholas knew almost nothing of Sebastian Carrick, taking him on trust in a profession where talent was the only real currency and where the life of the company was all. Actors talked mainly about acting. Carrick seemed to spend most of his spare time drinking, gambling, wenching and borrowing money to support these interests.

‘What of his family?’ said the coroner.

‘He never spoke of it,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Was the deceased born and raised in London?’

‘No mention was made.’

‘Can you tell me nothing of his circumstances?’

‘I fear not, sir.’

‘But he was your fellow.’

‘And fondly remembered.’

‘Master Bracewell,’ said the coroner, a plump old man with heavy jowls and drooping eyelids, ‘you have harboured a stranger in your midst. Can you call a man a friend when he is so secretive about his condition?’

‘Doubtless he had good reason.’

‘We shall never divine its nature. My verdict is a stale one. Murder by person or persons unknown.’

‘Who found the body?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Two officers of the Watch. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather. Sound fellows both who know their duty.’