Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘By whom?’ said Hoode anxiously.

‘By Banbury’s Men, by Havelock’s Men or by one of the other companies. Does it matter? All that need concern us is that he is their chosen target.’

‘How do you know, Lawrence?’

‘He has been strangely silent of late.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and, alone of our fellows, he has shown scant enthusiasm for The Angel. It is almost as if he believes that he will never play there.’

‘But he must,’ insisted Hoode. ‘He is one of us.’

‘And will remain so,’ said Firethorn. ‘Barnaby and I have our differences but I am all too aware of his contribution to our work. We would be impoverished by his absence. Keep a close eye on him, Nick.’

‘That is what I have been doing,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘I saw how uncomfortable he was at this table. He kept glancing up as if expecting to meet someone else here. I think that he has doubts about The Angel. Even if it is built, we may still find ourselves without an occupation.’

‘In London, perhaps,’ conceded Firethorn, ‘but we need not vanish into thin air. Westfield’s Men can still tour.’

‘Not with Barnaby,’ said Hoode gloomily. ‘You know how much he loathes life on the road. If he had to choose between a tour with us and a London playhouse, our hopes of keeping him would be slim.’

Firethorn sighed. ‘What is the remedy, Nick?’

‘We have to convince him that his interests are best served by Westfield’s Men,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have to build The Angel and turn it into the most exciting playhouse in London. Then he will never even think of leaving us.’

Sylvester Pryde remained at the Queen’s Head for most of the evening, moving from table to table to receive congratulations from all his fellows, carousing until the wine began to make him feel slightly drowsy. Pleading the need of some fresh air, he waved a general farewell then came out into Gracechurch Street and swung right towards the river. Pryde sauntered along in the cool night air with a grin of satisfaction on his face. He was not only accepted by his colleagues now. He was positively feted.

When London Bridge loomed up ahead of him, he walked on until he reached Thames Street then turned right. His legs were taking him where his heart wanted them to go. Minutes later he was standing at the river’s edge, staring out across the broad stretch of water at the site of The Angel theatre. Pryde could see it rising boldly on the opposite bank, soaring above the buildings around it and advertising itself by its very ascendancy. He was immensely proud to have been able to instigate the building of the new playhouse and took an almost paternal joy in it.

‘Boat, sir?’ called a hoarse voice.

‘What’s that?’ said Pryde, coming out of his reverie.

‘Do you want to cross the river?’

‘Why, yes,’ he decided impulsively. ‘Take me over, good sir. I want to view a property on the other side.’

‘Come aboard.’

There were two watermen in the little vessel and they rowed with an easy rhythm. Pryde sat in the stern, his eyes fixed on the abandoned boatyard that would soon disappear beneath the foundations of his theatre, his mind filled with imagined triumphs for the company. It never occurred to him that he was being followed by someone in a second boat.

When he reached the other bank, he tipped the watermen handsomely and went ashore. He was soon picking his way in the half-dark around the site of The Angel. It was still largely covered with debris and there was little progress to note but Pryde still felt exhilarated by the experience. As he stood in the centre of the property, he could almost see the many sides of the theatre rising up around him and hear the applause that reverberated around its walls.

Huge timbers stood upright against a wall, waiting to take their place in the new structure. Pryde ran his hand against one of them, feeling its rough-hewn surface and estimating its immense weight. When he heard a noise behind him, he tried to turn round but something hard and broad struck him viciously across the back of the head. He collapsed in a heap on the ground with blood gushing out of the wound. Still half-conscious, he opened his mouth to cry for help but no words emerged. The last thing he ever saw was the timber, which he had so lovingly caressed, descending murderously towards him.

Nicholas Bracewell set off early next morning on the long walk to the Queen’s Head. Instead of following his customary route to London Bridge, however, he took the opportunity to visit the site of The Angel to speak with the builder. Thomas Bradd was already there when Nicholas arrived, supervising some men who were clearing the site of its accumulated debris. Bradd was a short, sturdy man in his forties with a sense of power in his compact frame and the kind of weather-beaten face which suggested some years at sea. He gave Nicholas a lop-sided grin of welcome.

‘We should make more progress today,’ he said gruffly.

‘Good.’

‘There is no wind to worry about so we can burn all this rubbish without danger. By this afternoon, we will be able to start digging the foundations.’

‘Some of us will join you when our play is done.’

‘It will be hard work,’ warned Bradd. ‘It is not like standing on a scaffold and spouting fine words into the air.’

‘We know that. We expect to sweat.’

‘Sweat, bleed and swear oaths aplenty.’

‘Whatever it takes,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘This playhouse means everything to us. We will put strong arms and willing hearts at your disposal.’

‘I will use them mercilessly.’ Bradd gave a dark chuckle then pointed at the pile of timbers which lay on the site. ‘It is a pity that your actors are not here now. We could do with some of those strong arms to shift that timber. It stood upright yesterday but somehow it has tumbled in the night.’

‘That seems strange.’

‘It does. We stacked it with great care. A howling gale could not have blown it over.’

‘Then why does it now lie on the ground?’

Nicholas watched two of the men begin to move the fallen timbers, slipping a rope around the end of the first one before dragging it clear of the pile then using a shorter plank to lever the timber back into an upright position. He could see the effort that it was costing them. Nicholas was no stranger to physical labour but some of his fellows had led a softer life. They would have a rude shock when they worked for Thomas Bradd on the site of The Angel.

‘I wish that we did not have to build so close to the bank,’ observed Nicholas. ‘The water runs high at this point.’

‘We will take account of that,’ said Bradd.

‘This would not be the only property to be flooded.’

The builder tensed. ‘Do not tell me how to build, sir. I have had twenty years in the trade and know what precautions to take against flood and other perils. Besides,’ he said, waving an arm, ‘we have no choice. The site is not big enough for us to set the playhouse back from the river.’

‘You are right and we have faith in your judgement.’

‘I would not continue otherwise.’

Nicholas soothed him before taking his leave. He did not get far. When he was less than a dozen yards away, a cry of fear made him turn back again. One of the men who had been shifting the timbers was now pointing at something which protruded from the base of the pile. It was a human hand. Nicholas broke into a run and overtook the builder as the latter waddled towards the gruesome discovery. Only a man’s left hand was visible but it bore a distinctive ring which Nicholas had seen many times before. His temples pounded and his mouth went dry as he identified Sylvester Pryde.