Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

‘Where may I find them?’

‘About their business even now, sir.’

Nicholas thanked him and took his leave. Deeply shocked by the murder and its implications for the company, he was also disturbed by his ignorance of the dead man’s private life. There might be a family somewhere with a right to know of his demise. There might be dependants for whom the tragic turn of events would be a catastrophe. The sooner Nicholas identified and contacted these people, the more considerate it would be. Instead of touring Clerkenwell in search of the two watchmen, therefore, he hastened across to the Shoreditch lodging of Sebastian Carrick. It was a small, sagging, ugly dwelling in a narrow lane but the landlady was a tidy housewife. She heard his tale with motherly concern, and then she ushered him upstairs to a cramped but exceptionally clean room whose oak beams and floorboards gave off a cosy sheen. Carrick’s possessions extended largely to items of clothing and to a few tattered playbills advertising past performances by Westfield’s Men. As he perused everything with care, Nicholas questioned the landlady about her lodger but she could furnish little beyond the confidence that he had been a charming guest whom she would miss greatly. When she began to sob, her visitor was glad that he had suppressed the grisly details of the murder. In the short time he had been there, the actor had clearly gained the affections of his stout hostess.

‘Is this all you can tell me?’ said Nicholas.

‘Except that he was tardy with his rent,’ she said with mock scolding. ‘But he always gave such a pretty excuse that I did not truly mind.’

‘Did he have many callers?’

‘None, sir, to my knowledge.’

‘Can you name his tailor? His barber? His friends?’

‘We saw but little of him.’ A memory surfaced. ‘His chest may give some answers, sir. I forgot his chest.’

Nicholas rallied. ‘Where did he keep it?’

‘Even here, sir. I will find it this instant.’

She flung herself onto her knees and groped beneath the bed to pull out an empty chamber pot. Behind it she found a small wooden chest with iron bands around it. When she handed it to Nicholas, he saw there was a key in the lock and rightly gauged that it contained nothing of value. He opened the lid and examined the contents, his hopes all but shattered when he discovered only trinkets and unpaid bills. Then his interest quickened again. At the bottom of the chest was a letter that had been delivered only days before and it provided invaluable clues about its recipient. It was a missive from his father, one Andrew Carrick, whose elegant hand and stylish turn of phrase proclaimed a gentleman.

The father patently disapproved of his son’s choice of profession but he nevertheless made solicitous enquiries about the latter’s progress. But it was the buoyant tone of the letter which astonished Nicholas. Given the situation, the father was entitled to complaint if not to self-pity yet there was no hint of it. Optimism somehow shone through. It was quite remarkable, for Andrew Carrick was not writing from the comfort and freedom of his own home in Suffolk.

He was imprisoned in the Tower of London.

Lawrence Firethorn rode slowly home to Shoreditch in an uncharacteristically jaded mood. Performances in front of an adoring public usually increased his normal ebullience and turned him into a gushing fountain of affability and good will. He would then conduct a post mortem on the play with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode, striving always to improve and refine each offering so that it would be even better the next time around. Firethorn also took care to seek the opinion of Nicholas Bracewell which was invariably sound, objective, honest and completely free from the tiresome prejudices of the fellow sharers. Business done, the actor-manager could turn to pleasure. Applause still rang in his ears to keep him happy and exhilarated. Firethorn would therefore take the edge off his excitement by dining in style with friends or pursuing his latest dalliance with a female admirer. Life was seductively rich and bountiful.

Tonight, however, it seemed poor and niggardly. As he let his horse trot homeward, Firethorn heaved a sigh of deep desolation. Marriage and Mischief had been as well received as ever but its leading man had not been allowed to enjoy the occasion. Shaken by the apparent desertion of Sebastian Carrick, he was in two minds about the latter’s untried deputy, hoping that Owen Elias would somehow come through unscathed and yet fearing that the Welshman might steal some of his personal thunder. The post mortem had been deadly. In place of the customary praise and self-congratulation, he had to endure the bitter mockery of Barnaby Gill who kept asking Firethorn why he had nominated as their new sharer a man who had committed the ultimate sin against the company. Edmund Hoode rubbed salt into professional wounds by suggesting that Owen Elias should retain his new role in the play and that it should be enlarged to give his talents more scope.

There was no evening feast to soften the impact of all these blows, no indulgence from Lord Westfield himself, no fair lady waiting for him at an appointed place. Firethorn was despondent. When he reached home, there would be the torments of a scolding wife to greet him. He had to steel himself before crossing his own hearth.

‘Welcome home, my prince!’

‘Margery …’

‘Your honour was but lately on my tongue.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’

‘Then come from tongue to lips.’

The kiss was as enjoyable as it was unexpected. Margery Firethorn enfolded her husband in her arms, plucked him to her capacious bosom and kissed away a day’s absence. His spirits were rekindled at once.

‘What means this salutation?’ he said when he had enough breath back to get the question out. ‘What does it betoken, my angel?’

‘Is your memory so short, sir?’

‘Jog it a little, Margery.’

‘Cambridge.’

‘A pretty town. I played Pompey the Great there once.’

‘Does it hold no other meaning for you?’

‘Why yes,’ he said with a roguish smile that was suppressed instantly as wifely suspicion stirred. Firethorn continued quickly. ‘Cambridge is dear to me because of your dear sister. Mistress Agnes Jarrold. The very copy of your portrait, yet neither so comely nor so enchanting.’

‘I travel to Cambridge in the morning.’

‘Your husband had not forgot,’ he lied. ‘Why else would I have returned so early to your warm greeting?’

‘Come on in and take your ease, sir,’ she said as she conducted him to a chair. ‘I have wine ready for you and supper stays in the kitchen. Tell me your news before I stop your mouth with more kisses. How did Westfield’s Men fare?’

‘Do not ask, sweet wife. Do not ask.’

‘Why so?’

Margery Firethorn was the only woman who could have survived domestic life with the wayward genius she had married. Handsome, well proportioned and outspoken, she had a bellicose charm which could still ensnare him. A proud housewife and a caring mother, she was also — even after all these years — his true love and that fact impressed itself upon him now. Instead of bustling about the place in her usual working attire, Margery was wearing her best dress and her most appealing expression. Whenever they were to part for a while, the couple always took a fond farewell of each other the night before. Firethorn was the more regular traveller but it was his wife’s turn to ride off now. Her younger sister, Agnes, married to a Cambridge bookseller, was due to have a baby in the near future. Since she had lost her two previous children within hours of their birth, she had requested Margery’s help and support during the third ordeal. It was an entreaty that could not be denied.