Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

She was still sobbing when her husband eventually arrived.

Alexander Marwood was even more appalled than usual.

‘The doctor asked for his fee,’ he moaned. ‘Do you know how much the man charged me?’

‘It does not matter,’ she said.

‘It matters to me, Sybil. The fee was exorbitant.’

‘If he can save Rose, I would give him every penny we have,’ she said, crossing to the bed. ‘We have wronged her, Alexander. We treated her like a criminal instead of a daughter. I feel so ashamed of what you made me do.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes,’ she said, trying to shift some of the blame. ‘You badgered me, sir. You forced me to punish Rose.’

Marwood was dumbfounded. No husband was less capable of forcing a wife to do anything than him. Obsequious requests were his only means of influencing Sybil. He peered over her shoulder at the slumbering girl. He was sorry that Rose was so ill but his first thought was still of his own humiliation.

‘Has she lost the child?’ he said hopefully.

‘No, Alexander.’

‘But you told me that she would.’

Sybil’s words burnt into him like a branding iron.

‘I told you nothing of the kind. Do you understand?’

When Nicholas Bracewell finally reached the Queen’s Head, he found the company in a buoyant mood. The stage had been erected, properties had been set out and the actors were chatting happily in groups. Nicholas was given a mocking cheer when he appeared. Usually the first to arrive, he was now the straggler in the party. Lawrence Firethorn sought to rub the message home.

‘Ah, Nick!’ he said good-humouredly, ‘so you have risen from your bed at last, have you? You are unconscionably late, dear heart. It is not like you to put the caresses of a lady before the needs of your company. Why the delay?’

‘I will tell you in private.’

‘Secrets, eh? I long to hear them.’

Nicholas drew him aside to break the sad tidings. He explained that the delay was forced upon him. When the body of Sylvester Pryde was uncovered, constables were summoned and the crime reported. Nicholas supervised the transfer of the corpse to the morgue before giving a sworn statement to the coroner. It was only then that he was able to hurry to the Queen’s Head.

Firethorn was thunderstruck by the news.

‘God in heaven!’ he murmured. ‘This is a tragedy!’

‘We must decide what to do,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘My advice would be to cancel this morning’s rehearsal so that we may appraise the situation. Black Antonio needs little enough attention. We have performed the play so often that we could do so at a moment’s notice without any rehearsal.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘We need time to think.’

‘Let me speak to the company. They will have to be told sooner or later and I would rather they heard it from my lips. In any case,’ he added, ‘they will be able to help me.’

‘In what way?’

‘Someone must have seen Sylvester leave here last night. They can give me some idea of what time that was. I had already returned to Bankside so I have no knowledge of his movements. Sylvester Pryde was a good friend to us. I will track down his killer,’ he vowed, ‘and the trail starts here.’

‘We will all want to follow that trail, Nick,’ said the other vehemently. ‘The culprit must be made to pay for this hideous crime. He has not only murdered Sylvester. He has killed our new playhouse stone dead.’

‘That may not be so.’

‘But Sylvester was our intermediary.’

‘The loan is secured and the terms agreed.’

‘Might not our benefactor wish to withdraw the money?’ said Firethorn anxiously. ‘His only reason for helping us was his friendship with Sylvester. That can no longer exist.’

Nicholas was calm. ‘Let us not race to meet a problem that may not exist,’ he said. ‘Two things must be done as soon as possible. We must find this guardian angel of ours and acquaint him with this terrible event. My hope is that he will want the playhouse to be as much a theatre as a memorial to Sylvester Pryde. Our loan may still be safe.’

‘You spoke of two things, Nick.’

‘I did.’

‘What is the other?’

‘We must keep up the spirits of the company,’ said Nicholas. ‘These heavy tidings will tear at their hearts but we must not let them despair. Westfield’s Men are under surveillance. If our work suffers, our chances of survival grow small. The company must strive to its utmost.’

‘We will, Nick. For Sylvester’s sake as much as for our own. He would not want us to betray our art.’

‘I will impress that upon them.’

When they were herded into the tiring-house, Westfield’s Men knew that something was seriously amiss. The lateness of Nicholas Bracewell and the absence of Sylvester Pryde were worrying signs but none of them suspected how the two were conjoined. Nicholas broke the news to them as gently as he could but there was no way that he could lessen its impact. The whole company was rocked. Richard Honeydew fainted, two of the other apprentices burst into tears and George Dart had a fit of uncontrollable shivering. Edmund Hoode offered up a silent prayer for the soul of the departed. Owen Elias pulled out his dagger and swore to avenge the murder. Barnaby Gill retreated into a watchful silence.

‘We will not rehearse this morning,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We need time to make certain decisions and some of you, I know, will prefer to be alone with your thoughts. But remember this,’ he said over the murmur of agreement. ‘ Black Antonio must not suffer. Though we have lost a fellow, we still have a duty to our audience, our patron and ourselves. Mourn for Sylvester in your hearts. Do not take that sorrow onto the stage this afternoon.’

‘You will answer to me if you do,’ cautioned Firethorn. ‘ Black Antonio is a fine play which must be well-acted. Let us dedicate the performance to Sylvester Pryde and make it worthy of his name. Are we agreed?’

A rousing shout of affirmation went up. Firethorn tried to lift their morale before dismissing them. He and Nicholas stayed behind with Hoode and Gill. Seated on benches in the tiring-house, they attempted to evaluate the full effect of their colleague’s untimely death. Gill was despondent.

‘This has destroyed us,’ he concluded morosely.

‘Only if we let it do so,’ said Nicholas.

‘Sylvester was the moving spirit behind The Angel.’

‘He has gone to join the angels himself now, Barnaby,’ mused Hoode. ‘He may be looking down on us at this minute.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘looking down and urging us to go on with the building. One of our rivals is behind this murder. I feel it in my bones. If they cannot beat us by fair means, they will resort to foul deeds. Do we leave the field and let Banbury’s Men and Havelock’s Men strut in triumph? Never!’

Nicholas was circumspect. ‘We do not know that Sylvester was killed by one of our rivals,’ he said softly, ‘and we should not allot blame until we have learnt the true facts of the situation. The first thing I would like to know is what Sylvester was doing on that site.’

‘Dreaming,’ said Hoode. ‘What else?’

‘But when did he go there? Last night? This morning?’

‘Was he taken there by force?’ wondered Firethorn. ‘Or did he go of his own accord?’

‘And why kill him in such a brutal manner?’ asked Hoode. ‘Is there some significance in the manner of his death?’

‘Yes,’ decided Gill. ‘It put a curse on the site. But you are wasting your time asking all these questions about Sylvester when the most important one remains unanswered. He came out of nowhere to join us and bought his way into our affections. We do not know from whom he raised this loan or how to make contact with our benefactor. When Sylvester quit his lodging, he told nobody where he went. In short, he went out of his way to cover his tracks.’ He looked searchingly around the faces of the others. ‘What we should be asking ourselves is this. Who was Sylvester Pryde?’