Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

The French Doctor , a light comedy with an undertow of political satire, allowed him to display his comic gifts to the full. As the eponymous hero, Rupert Kitely gave a performance that was full of fire, pathos and hilarious mime. His timing was faultless. Even in rehearsal, he gave of his very best. Unbeknown to him, he had an appreciative audience. A pair of gloved hands applauded him from the lower gallery. Kitely looked up to see their patron, Viscount Havelock, beating his palms enthusiastically together. The French doctor replied with a low bow.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said, ‘but the real performance will take place this afternoon.’

‘I will be there, Rupert.’

‘You honour us.’

‘And you honour the name of Havelock’s Men.’

Kitely bowed again. ‘Your humble servant, my lord.’

‘I crave a word with you.’

‘I will join you presently.’

Dismissing the company, Kitely quickly made his way to the steps which led to the gallery. Viscount Havelock was a rare visitor at a rehearsal. Only a matter of some importance could have brought him there and Kitely was eager to know what it was. The patron’s broad smile heralded good news.

Charles, Viscount Havelock was an elegant man of medium height in his thirties with a long, shining, open face which gave him an almost boyish appearance, an impression reinforced by the youthful vigour which he exuded. He was completely free from the signs of dissipation which betrayed Lord Westfield and, to a much larger extent, the Earl of Banbury, his two major rivals as patrons of the theatrical arts. The Viscount rose from his seat when the actor came up the steps.

‘This French doctor will have the whole audience laughing until they weep with joy,’ he said approvingly.

‘That is our intention, my lord.’

‘It is one of your finest roles.’

‘I strive to make it so.’

‘Strive but give no sense of having striven.’

‘True art consists in concealing the huge efforts which lie behind it,’ said Kitely. ‘With a poor player, all that you see are the panting preliminaries.’

‘This morning I witnessed genuine talent.’

‘Above all else, my lord, we aim to please our patron.’

‘You do, Rupert.’ He waved an arm to take in the whole theatre. ‘Do you like The Rose?’

‘I adore the place.’

‘You are happy that the company took up residence here?’

‘Extremely happy, my lord.’

‘Have you no regrets?’

‘None of consequence.’

‘Good. It is a worthy venue for your art.’

The two of them gazed around the theatre with a pride which was buttressed by possessiveness. The Rose was their chosen home. In the time they had been there, Havelock’s Men had earned a considerable reputation for themselves and they almost always played before full audiences. Constructed on the site of a rose garden to the east of Rose Alley in the Liberty of the Clink, it was a striking new playhouse which brought spectators from all over London to Bankside. It was built around a timber frame on a brick foundation with outer walls of lath and plaster, and a thatched roof. Over the stage was a decorated canopy, supported by high pillars and surmounted by a hut, containing the winching apparatus which made possible all manner of spectacular effects.

Viscount Havelock inhaled deeply and beamed.

‘I never come here without feeling inspired.’

‘We are eternally grateful to you,’ said Kitely.

‘Would you not rather be treading the boards in one of the Shoreditch playhouses? The Curtain, perhaps?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘The Theatre?’

‘It is no match for The Rose.’

‘What of the inn yard venues?’ asked the other, turning to face him. ‘I first saw you at the Bel Savage Inn. And your company was at the Cross Keys for a while.’

‘Those days are past. This is perfection.’

‘Is it, Rupert?’

‘My lord?’

‘Even perfection can be improved a little.’

‘In what way?’

‘I was hoping that you would teach me. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you could add anything or anybody to The Rose, who or what would it be.’

Kitely did not hesitate. ‘Barnaby Gill.’

‘The clown with Westfield’s Men?’

‘He has no equal and his antics would enrich our fare immeasurably. Barnaby Gill is the finest comic talent in the whole of London.’

‘After a certain Rupert Kitely.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said the actor with a modest smile, ‘but even I could not dance a jig like Master Gill. Put him in Havelock’s Men and we would reach new heights.’

‘Whom else do you covet?’

‘Edmund Hoode.’

‘We have plays enough of our own.’

‘But they lack the quality of his best work,’ returned the other. ‘Whether writing a new play or cobbling an old one, he is a virtual master with a sure touch. Even when he turns his hand to tragedy, he does not falter. I hear disturbingly good reports of The Insatiate Duke .’

‘You were not misled by your informers.’

‘The praise has reached your ears, my lord?’

‘Ears, eyes and every other part about me, Rupert. I was in the gallery at the Queen’s Head yesterday afternoon. It is an extraordinary play, I must concede. A collaboration between Edmund Hoode and a clever young playwright from Oxford. They will go far together.’

‘Would that we had them both.’

‘Hoode and his apprentice?’

‘Do not forget Barnaby Gill.’

‘Would you poach anyone else from Westfield’s Men?’

‘Only their book keeper.’

‘Why him?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell is their secret weapon,’ said Kitely with grudging admiration. ‘It is he who holds the company together and raises the standard of what they offer. If I could choose but one of the names I have mentioned, I think I would first take Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Take the others as well,’ said the Viscount casually.

‘The others?’

‘All three of them and this book keeper.’

‘That could only happen in the realms of fantasy.’

‘We may well enter them before too long.’

Kitely tried to read his enigmatic smile. Unlike other patrons, Viscount Havelock took a direct interest in the affairs of his theatre company, attending every new play without fail and proffering advice on a whole range of matters. Rupert Kitely had come to respect this advice. What he at first took for his patron’s unwarranted interference was almost invariably sage counsel. He sensed that the Viscount was there to pass on more valuable advice.

‘Do you ever go fishing, Rupert?’ asked the patron.

‘Fishing?’

‘In the river.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘I think that you should.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you may catch exactly what you seek,’ said the other with a quiet chuckle. ‘Bait your hook well, my friend, then cast your line into the Thames and leave it there awhile. Who knows? When you pull it out again, you may have landed all four of the men you value so highly.’

‘How, my lord?’

‘That is what I have come to tell you.’

Lawrence Firethorn spent the morning brooding on the subject.

‘Sylvester is lying,’ he decided.

‘I think not,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.

‘He is the obvious candidate here.’

‘That is what I rushed to believe at first but I was woefully wrong. Sylvester Pryde is no saint. He is the first to confess that. But I am certain that he did not lay a finger on Rose Marwood.’

‘A finger is not the appendage in question, Nick.’

They were standing in the yard at the Queen’s Head at the end of an erratic rehearsal of Mirth and Madness , a staple comedy from their repertoire and a complete contrast to the tragedy which preceded it. Knowing that they were only allowed in the inn yard on sufferance, the company had been preoccupied and lacklustre, stumbling over their lines, missing their entrances and generally turning a lively romp into something akin to a funeral march. Lawrence Firethorn, surprisingly, had been the chief offender which was why he did not castigate his company, trusting instead that the presence of an audience would serve to unite the players with the play.