Edward Marston - The Vagabond Clown

‘His name was Fortunatus Hope,’ he said.

‘Whose name?’ grunted Gill.

‘The man who was stabbed to death at the Queen’s Head. Nick spoke to our patron about him though he got precious little help. Lord Westfield showed scant sympathy for his friend. He was more concerned about his own skin.’

‘Be fair, Lawrence,’ said Elias. ‘Master Hope was a newcomer to his circle. Lord Westfield did promise to find out more about the fellow. Nick is due to see our patron again to learn what information has come to light.’

Gill curled a lip. ‘Nick Bracewell has been busy,’ he sneered. ‘Searching the prisons of London for Giddy Mussett and poking his nose into a murder that is of no concern at all to him.’

‘It’s of concern to him and to all of us,’ asserted Firethorn.

‘I’ll not lose sleep over it.’

‘You should, Barnaby.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you were directly involved in the crime.’

‘How could I be, Lawrence? I was myself a victim.’

‘We all were,’ said Firethorn. ‘I did not realise it until Nick Bracewell pointed it out to me. The affray was not simply a means of wrecking our performance. It caused a commotion that served to hide a foul murder. The villain who killed Fortunatus Hope was in league with the devils who ruined our play.’

‘Ruined our play,’ repeated Gill morosely, ‘and broke my leg.’

‘Master Hope’s fate was far worse than yours,’ said Elias. ‘Remember that. Which would you prefer — a broken leg or a dagger in your back?’

‘Oh, I’d choose the dagger every time, Owen. At least, it would have saved me from the indignities you pile upon me. To be replaced by Giddy Mussett is a living death. Give me oblivion instead,’ declared Gill. ‘I’d suffer no pain and disgrace in the grave.’

Anne Hendrik was not looking forward to the morning. A night of shared tenderness in the arms of Nicholas Bracewell had left her feeling vulnerable. She always missed him sorely when he was away from London and this time his absence promised to be longer than usual. Knowing that he would only be in Kent, she had toyed with the notion of travelling to the county herself to watch one or more of the performances but the demands of her work were too pressing. Anne was the widow of a Dutch hatmaker, who developed a business in Southwark because the guilds prevented him, along with other immigrants, from operating within the city boundaries. When Jacob Hendrik died, his English wife not only took over from him, she discovered skills that she did not know she possessed. In the early stages, however, before her prudent management led to increased prosperity, she took in a lodger to defray expenses. Nicholas Bracewell soon became much more than a man who slept under her own roof yet he never threatened her independence or forfeited his own. It was an ideal relationship for both of them.

‘Will you be sorry to leave?’ she asked him.

‘I’m always sad to leave you, Anne,’ he replied, slipping an arm around her, ‘but there’s no remedy for it. The Queen’s Head is closed to us and we have no other playhouse in London. We are fortunate to have invitations that take us to Kent.’

She snuggled up against him. ‘You have an invitation here as well.’

‘True, but I could hardly share that with the whole company.’ Anne laughed and he kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘There is, I confess, another reason that makes me want to tarry.’

‘Am I not reason enough?’ she said with mock annoyance.

‘You are the best reason I ever met in my life, Anne.’

‘Then I’m content to let you go.’

Nicholas became serious. ‘What irks me as well is that I’ll be unable to look more closely into the murder that took place. For the sake of Westfield’s Men, it’s a crime I would dearly love to solve.’

‘But the victim has no link with the company.’

‘Master Hope was a friend of our patron.’

‘From what you told me, he sounds more like an acquaintance. Someone who was on the very fringe of Lord’s Westfield’s entourage.’

‘It matters not,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was murdered during our performance.’

‘That does not mean you have to be involved in finding the killer, Nick.’

‘I believe that it does. We are implicated here. I’m certain that the riot and the murder were linked,’ he went on, sitting up in bed. ‘A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady was not merely interrupted to provide cover for a sly murder. It was stopped with a purpose. Someone wanted to inflict harm on us as well as on Fortunatus Hope.’

‘How do you reach that conclusion?’

‘Look at the situation, Anne,’ he suggested. ‘Master Hope is singled out an enemy who means to kill him. Why choose to do the deed in broad daylight at the Queen’s Head? It would have been so much easier to dispatch him quietly in some dark alley or while he slept at night. Do you follow my reasoning?’

‘I think so.’

‘Why go to the trouble of setting up that array? Those lads who started it were no doubt paid well for their work. Why take on such an expense unless there was a double intent?’

‘To strike at Westfield’s Men as well.’

‘They struck with cruel accuracy,’ noted Nicholas. ‘Our performance was abandoned, our property damaged, our actors injured. Hundreds of spectators were demanding their money back. And to add to our woes, the landlord expelled us from his inn and vowed that we’d never play there again.’

‘He has done that before, Nick, on more than one occasion.’

‘My argument holds. Someone was definitely trying to wound us.’

‘A rival, perhaps?’

‘We shall never know until we find the motive behind Master Hope’s death.’

‘I thought that Lord Westfield offered to help you there.’

‘He did,’ said Nicholas. ‘He undertook to speak to someone who might give us more detail about the dead man. But all he learnt was that Fortunatus Hope had a wife and family in Oxford, whom he neglected shamefully in order to pursue his pleasures in London. Master Hope, it seems, was a pleasant individual, popular with friends and agreeable to strangers. Since he went out of his way to avoid an argument, it’s difficult to see how he could have upset someone enough to make them contemplate murder.’ Church bells nearby began to chime the hour. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Six o’clock in the morning and all I can talk about is the stabbing of a playgoer. What kind of conversation is that with which to depart?’

‘You do not have to go just yet, Nick.’

‘I’ll not stay abed much longer.’

‘Long enough to answer me this,’ said Anne with a smile. ‘Remind me of the play that was so brutally foreshortened. I have forgotten its title.’

‘A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady.’

‘Do you know of such a trick?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘Why? Is there a chaste lady at hand?’

‘That’s for you to find out.’

‘The play is a comedy.’

‘I’ll not object to laughter.’

‘What will you object to, Anne?’ he asked, taking her in his arms.

‘Only your departure.’

And she kissed him on the lips as evidence of her sincerity.

On previous occasions when they were about to quit the city, Westfield’s Men assembled as a rule at the Queen’s Head but that was an inappropriate meeting place this time. Evicted from their home in Gracechurch Street, they instead gathered across the river in Southwark, choosing the White Hart as their point of departure. Wives, children, friends, relatives, mistresses and, in some cases, even parents, came to send them off. Three wagons had been hired to transport the company and some, like Lawrence Firethorn, brought their own horses. The fine weather over the preceding week meant that they could expect hard, dry, rutted roads that would bruise a few buttocks as they rumbled along, but which was far preferable to being at the mercy of driving rain on muddy tracks. The omens were good.