Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Lucius Kindell was learning what a handicap his diffidence could be. When he worked alongside the mild-mannered Edmund Hoode, he had no problems. Hoode treated him like an equal and encouraged him to express himself freely. Rupert Kitely came from a very different mould. Though he could be quiet and persuasive when the need arose, he could also be stern and authoritative and the young playwright found it difficult to talk to him, still less to contradict him. Consumed with anxieties, he was too shy even to voice them in Kiteley’s hearing. It was a situation which had to change.

As he sat in the lower gallery of The Rose and watched Havelock’s Men in rehearsal, he was afflicted yet again with guilt. Westfield’s Men had launched his writing career at a time when their rivals viewed his work with less enthusiasm. Under the aegis of Hoode, he could feel his talent developing but his confidence in that talent was now waning. Had he been engaged by Rupert Kitely because the latter really believed that he would write wonderful dramas or was he simply being used as a stick with which to beat Westfield’s Men? Kindell decided that it was time to find out and he screwed up his courage to do so.

His opportunity came during a break in rehearsal. Rupert Kitely beckoned him down with a lordly wave. There was an air of condescension about the actor now. When Kindell joined him, he was deliberately kept waiting for few minutes. His resolve began to melt away. Kitely eventually turned to him.

‘Well, Lucius?’ he said. ‘Do you like what you see?’

‘Very much, sir.’

‘A competent piece but we will make it look a much more accomplished drama. That is our art, Lucius. To take base metal and turn it into gold.’ He saw the distress on the other’s face and laughed. ‘That was no reflection on your work, my young friend. Lucius Kindell will give us gold which we will merely have to burnish. How fares the new play?’

‘Slowly.’

‘Why so?’

‘I find it difficult to work alone.’

‘You will soon grow accustomed to that.’

‘Will I?’ said Kindell meekly. ‘I am not so certain. I have been deprived of my master and I miss him.’

‘You have outgrown Edmund Hoode,’ said Kitely with a reassuring smile. ‘He has taught you all he can, Lucius. From now on, you will not have to work in his shadow. You will forge a play of your own and take full praise for its excellence.’

‘That excellence has eluded me so far.’

‘I will help you. Have no fear.’

Kitely broke off to distribute some orders among other members of the company. His authority was unquestioned and they treated him with the utmost respect. That only served to put Kindell even more in awe of him. That same awe had also been engendered by Lawrence Firethorn but it had been less of a problem. Though a much more flamboyant character, Firethorn was somehow approachable in a way that Kitely was not. The playwright found it hard to believe that he was with the man who had shown him such warm friendship at the Devil tavern.

After a few more commands, Kitely came back to him.

‘You catch me at a busy time, Lucius.’

‘I did not mean to disturb you.’

‘No, no,’ exhorted the other. ‘Come as often as you like. Actors are the tools with which you work. The more you come to know about us, the better you will deploy us. Besides, you are one of Havelock’s Men now.’

‘Am I?’

‘We have commissioned a new play, have we not?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Kindell, ‘and I am grateful.’

‘Then no more regrets about the Queen’s Head. In this profession, survival is everything. We will still be here at The Rose when Westfield’s Men are no more than a dim memory.’

‘ I will always remember them.’

‘And so you should, Lucius. But they head for extinction.’

‘Do they?’

‘I told you what the Privy Council intends.’

‘Yet I heard a rumour that they are building their own playhouse here in Bankside.’

Kitely was dismissive. ‘Pay no attention to that.’

‘Is it not true?’

‘It is true that they hope to build a playhouse. They have even had the gall to christen it. But their Angel Theatre will be torn down before it is ever used.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because the Privy Council has decreed that there will only be one playhouse south of the river. And I am in a position to tell you, Lucius,’ he said with conviction, ‘that you are at present standing in it.’

Nicholas Bracewell spent the rest of the morning trying to establish some details about Sylvester Pryde’s movements. Several members of the company remembered his leaving the Queen’s Head on the previous night and there was rough agreement on the approximate time of his departure. Assuming that he had headed for the river, Nicholas retraced his steps and pushed his way through the crowded Gracechurch Street. He followed his instincts and swung right into Thames Street then sharp left. He was soon standing on the riverbank, listening to the gulls and watching the dark water lapping at the wharves.

Boats were coming and going all the time as watermen delivered or collected passengers. Those who gave a tip to their ferrymen were rewarded with courteous thanks while those who failed to reward them suffered a torrent of abuse from the vociferous watermen. Nicholas began a painstaking search for a boat which might have taken Sylvester Pryde across the river. Since he often used that mode of transport himself, he was well known to the boatmen and called many by name but none was able to help him. Most had gone off to a tavern or home to bed at the time when Nicholas’s friend might have wished to be rowed across the river. The book holder gradually came round to the conclusion that Sylvester must have walked over London Bridge.

He was just about to leave the riverbank when another boat pulled into the wharf. Two passengers paid their fare and alighted. Nicholas strolled over to the boatmen and put to them the questions he had already put to dozens of their colleagues. The two men in the boat traded a glance. There was such a close resemblance between them that they had to be father and son. The older one acted as spokesman.

‘How much is it worth?’ he asked.

‘The fare across the river,’ offered Nicholas.

‘Why do you want to know about this man?’

‘He was a good friend of mine.’

‘Any other reason?’

‘Someone murdered him.’

‘Then we will help you all we can, sir,’ said the boatman apologetically, ‘and we do so at no cost. We did pick up a gentleman last night. Around the time you say and looking much as you describe. We saw him clear by the light of the torch. Apparelled in red and black with a black hat that bore an ostrich feather. Is that him, sir?’

‘Yes!’ said Nicholas. ‘What happened?’

‘We rowed him across and dropped him by the old boathouse. He was very generous, as my son will confirm. When we went ashore, we drank to his health at a tavern.’

‘Did he speak to you as you rowed across?’

‘Not a word, sir.’

‘Did you see where he went?’

‘To that old boatyard. It was burnt down.’

‘Was there anyone else there?’

‘We saw nobody, sir, but it was growing dark. There may have been someone in the shadows.’

‘Did anyone follow you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Follow us?’

‘Across the river.’

‘Two or three boats, sir. We paid no heed to them.’

‘Did any of them land near the boatyard?’

‘Who knows? We left as soon as we were paid.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘Nothing beyond the fact that he was a gentleman, sir,’ said the other. ‘But you know that. A fine, well-spoken man. When we picked him up here, he was staring across the river at something over by the boatyard. Is that any help?’